Chapter Text
40 BBY
Year Twenty-Two of the Huk War
Kaleela
The grand coastal metropolis of Kaleela fancied itself the heart of Kalee, and any traveler to the sparkling shores of the eastern continent would have a difficult time refuting these claims.
Where Urukishnugal boasted militant strength and stability, the people of Kaleela prided itself in beauty and courtly order, such ideologies as evident in the city’s aesthetically structured layout as in the serene atmosphere that pervaded its clean, sun-soaked streets. Polished shellstone dominated their architecture, and what wasn’t composed of that preponderant resource gleamed with reflective glazes painted atop firebrick in brilliant colors rarely seen outside of the larger cities. Bold pigments—reds like blood, greens so deep as to appear black, blues richer than the spirit flames of simsu resin—decorated every other street corner in Kaleela, jewel-bright and arranged to delineate and celebrate the different districts—the famous zaagmadal—and the principal clan living within. At one intersection a glazed shield on one wall faced a multicolored and impressively intricate loom on another, representing the Kal and Dae Clans, respectively. The zaagmadal did not divide the clans of the city as much as they provided a healthy outlet for rivalries that had once lasted for generations upon generations and resulted in gratuitous bloodshed; here in Kaleela, for centuries, now, clans coexisted peacefully but competed for superiority in other, less combative ways.
The largest and most preeminent zaagmade belonged to the San Clan, and all of the entrances from each neighboring district were appropriately festooned with night-blooming sandanul and rippling, silken banners embroidered with their clan sigil. All streets converged on the San zaagmade, and at the city’s center sat their palatial Khanagal, a structure even more wondrous and spectacular than the one in its sister city on the western continent. From there, the ruling clan conducted their affairs and poured their generous resources into the infrastructure of the city, as well as to the surprisingly large military presence that settled along the borders of Kaleela and protected its denizens—and a considerable swath of the continent—from the ever-looming threat of the Yam’rii. Those resources, however, had finally begun to dwindle over the last few years, despite the San Clan’s determination to carry on as if nothing had changed in a rather imperious effort to bolster the city’s morale.
Their best-received efforts involved entertainment—particularly, a form of entertainment the likes of which could only be hosted within the enormous amphitheater situated just outside of the city, for it was the only place capable of housing the thousands upon thousands of citizens who clamored for the spectacle. The Chieftain of Kaleela, though not personally fond of the sport in question, shrewdly made clear his public support of the annual competition, littering his various public appearances with rhetoric emphasizing the importance of maintaining Kaleelan traditions in the face of hardships. But he did not join the citizens at the arena to watch the competition. That was a responsibility best delegated to someone who not only enjoyed the sport, but who himself preferred the thrill of participation.
And there was no one better in the city at mumuu-fighting than Bentilais san Sk’ar.
The amphitheater was full to capacity, teeming with thousands of Kaleesh, a roaring sea of excited faces, raised fists and fiercely waving banners. All of their attention was focused on the arena below where the contest unfolded—a flat, dirt-packed expanse with no barriers or obstacles to break up the space or provide cover for the vramuuzabij, who himself was armed with two shoni spears and clad in a colorful, ornamental costume to better draw the myopic eye of the mumuu bull. The vramuuzabij, a hulking, mauve-skinned warrior whose extraordinary height dwarfed even the bony protrusions of the mumuu’s spine, was surprisingly light on his feet for his size, dodging out of the way of the enraged, charging bull with artful whirls of his spears and undulating movements of his trailing garments. As the mumuu narrowly missed gutting the vramuuzabij with a toss of its head and a swing of its sharp, curved horns, the Kaleesh swung around and, as the great beast barrelled past, thrust the point of one of his shoni spears deep into its thick hide, wedging the weapon between its ribs. With a spray of hot blood, the mumuu bellowed, and the spectators erupted in wild encouragement. Mumuu-fighting may have been a competitive sport, the success of each zaagmade’s respective representative measured by the speed with which they felled the mumuu they faced, but it was difficult to refrain from cheering on the San vramuuzabij. The people of Kaleela loved Bentilais san Sk’ar more than they loved mumuu-fighting.
And so, when the cheers of glee and excitement modulated into cries of horror, Bentilais quickly rounded on the mumuu bull in anticipation of a fresh charge, prepared to see a wall of bone and sinew fill his vision. But the mumuu was still staggering several meters away, shaking and bucking in an effort to rid itself of the spear lodged in its chest. Not an immediate threat. The cries of fear were not for him.
He looked up.
The vast underbelly of a Yam’rii gunship hung in the sky like a dark reflection of the landscape below, casting a slow, inevitable shadow over the amphitheater. Terrified spectators began to flee, clambering over one another in a panicked sea of clawing limbs toward the exits. In the center of the arena, Bentilais stood stock-still, jaw vised shut, eyes molten fury, glaring directly up at the gunship.
A crashing of hooves drew his attention back to his immediate surroundings in time to see the mumuu bull bearing down on him; it was far more interested in trampling the vexing vramuuzabij than in the spacecraft overhead. Stone-faced, Bentilais braced his heels in the dirt and flexed his fists around the shaft of his remaining shoni spear. The full weight of the mumuu slammed into him, its own momentum driving the sharp spearhead straight through the center of its skull as both Kaleesh and beast skidded several meters along the length of the arena, a billow of dust and blood erupting in their wake. At last, Bentilais stumbled aside, releasing the shaft of the spear as the mumuu crumpled dead at his feet. What ought to have been an astounding feat of strength passed unseen and unacknowledged by the retreating spectators—but Bentilais did not need the adulation of a roaring crowd to validate his worth, nay his supremacy as Kaleela’s greatest warrior.
He was their Khan, and he had not failed them yet.
Half a city away, a Kaleesh in exquisite regalia stood on the balcony of the Khanagal, staring up into the sky as his bedizened fingers hooked around the molded balustrade and squeezed. His face, currently pinched tight with displeasure, very much resembled that of Bentilais san Sk’ar, if considerably thinner and glittering with tusk rings and piercings. His wary yellow eyes never left the starships hanging like a gathering storm over his city, even as attendants and guards flitted fretfully around at his back.
“Chieftain Mazani.” A kneeling member of the Kaleela Guard finally managed to arrest his attention, having lifted his voice to an urgent shout. The chieftain whirled, long hair and resplendent cloak shivering with glass beads and pearlescent shells. “Chieftain Mazani,” repeated the guard at a more reasonable volume, “it is not a Yam’rii attack. Our spotters have detected Kaleesh clan sigils painted on these starships. It is believed to be a sigil belonging to a clan of the western continent, in the Ausez Steppes.”
Levantis san Mazani exhaled and pinched his brow. “So. He came.”
“Sir?”
Shaking his head, the Chieftain of Kaleela composed himself and spoke in a clipped voice, one that straightened spines and pricked ears upright. “I will require a substantial armed escort to accompany me to the city gates, where we will receive our visitors.” His glance cast out across the city briefly, toward the amphitheater, and his brow tightened. “And do send for my brother; make sure he’s appropriately attired. He can meet us there.”
“At once, Chieftain Mazani.”
The people of Kaleela held a collective breath as the gunship rolled over the city but did nothing more than hover ominously in the air (poising itself over an allotment of military fortifications; surely no accident). There it remained as more starships descended from the sky: three starfighters that circled like dravzu hawks and seemed to assess the situation below and then, once deemed safe, a shuttle with ochre-painted wings that eased down and landed outside of the city gates. The fighters and the gunship remained airborne, a blatant statement of power as much as a threat.
Gathered at the gates were the Chieftain of Kaleela and his entourage of personal guards, along with a modest force of soldiers armed with slugthrowers and blasters alike who ushered curious civilians out of the immediate line of sight of the shuttle. Levantis stood flanked by his escort, once again locking his focus so intently on the object of his interest—in this case the shuttle—that he failed to notice heads turning to take in the advent of a huge figure who moved along the outer walls. The figure waded through their formation, striding directly up to Chieftain Mazani, and came to a halt beside him. A large hand fell on the chieftain’s shoulder.
Levantis didn’t even flinch. “Bentilais,” he greeted with a glance of acknowledgement. “I see you’ve dressed properly for this.”
Bentilais, no longer in the costume of a vramuuzabij but clad in the dark leathers and colors of the San Clan, towered more than a solid foot over his brother, who was himself by no means short in stature. Few Kaleesh on the planet rivalled the Kaleela Khan in size. Claws like bone knives curled slightly into Levantis’ clan cloak as Bentilais squinted at the shuttle. “This is the one we’ve heard of, from the west?”
“Yes. Finally here on our doorstep—showing off his starships in an effort to impress, no less.”
Bentilais eyed Levantis askance. “And are you not impressed, brother?”
Levantis said nothing. He crossed his arms, eyes riveted on the shuttle in anticipation.
With a shuddering hiss, the boarding ramp at last extended, depositing an even number of warriors who distributed themselves on either side of the ramp. Hardly anyone in the welcome party budged a muscle as a final figure emerged from the darkness of the shuttle, a study in bone-white and blood-red. The western Khan had neither the sophisticated presence of Levantis nor the sheer mass of Bentilais, but between his striking leathers, his angular mask and his poise, he looked sharp, stark and dangerous.
Levantis honed in on the only thing he could perceive as a flaw in an effort to ease his worries. “I didn’t expect him to be so small,” he muttered to his brother.
“You are all small to me,” Bentilais said quietly. “Hush.”
One of the accompanying warriors lifted his tusks and intoned importantly, “Qymaen jai Sahuldeem, Khan of the Kolkpravis of the Allied Western Continent, requests an audience with the ruler of Kaleela.”
The brothers exchanged a wary glance, their violet-painted kakmusmal hiding their full expressions, but Bentilais didn’t need to see Levantis’ face to recognize his displeasure. Neither was certain if their visitor was simply unfamiliar with the organization of Kaleela’s leadership, or if it was a deliberate ploy to pit the brothers against one another. In the end, a terse Levantis addressed the foreign Khan first.
“I am the Chieftain of Kaleela, Levantis san Mazani. My brother, Bentilais san Sk’ar, is the Khan of our armed forces. Together we preside over Kaleela as corulers. If you would meet with Kaleela’s ruler, you would meet with both of us.” Then his clipped words relaxed, dripping into sardonicism. “Though I wonder, does Khan Sahuldeem speak for himself, or will this warrior discuss matters in his stead? Perhaps he expects his starships to do the talking for him? In that regard, he has already spoken volumes.”
At his side, Bentilais swallowed a sigh.
Qymaen jai Sahuldeem stepped forward, golden eyes piercing Levantis. “I will speak with both of you,” he uttered in a gruff voice, thick with the accent of the Ausez Steppes, “when you have taken me to your Khanagal.”
“We can speak here just as easily,” rejoined Levantis. “What is your business in Kaleela, Khan Sahuldeem?”
Those golden eyes narrowed behind his bonemask, the severe, carved brow already evocative of a glower. A growl grazed the edge of his response. “I’m recruiting, Chieftain Mazani. I’ve recruited the western continent. Now I am here for the east.”
His insinuation hung in the air as heavily as the gunship. Warriors on both sides shifted nervously and squeezed pale knuckles around their weapons. Levantis uncrossed his arms and jerked balled hands to his hips, but it was Bentilais who spoke next, interjecting before the situation escalated into something uglier than mere tension. “Khan Sahuldeem has traveled a long way to see us, brother. Let’s talk back at the Khanagal with some wine.”
Levantis drew a calming breath and unclenched his fists, shifting the motion into the smoothing of his tunic and artful little adjustments of his sleeves. Bentilais’ enduring composure—even in the face of such adversities as this little upstart—never ceased to amaze him, and he drew from it himself, reclaiming his usual wry confidence. “You’re right, of course. Where are my manners?” He turned to Qymaen, inclining his head, speaking with such excessive deference it bordered on derision. “I apologize if I have come across as unwelcoming, Khan Sahuldeem. These are troubled times, and strain does not lend itself to propriety. Please, allow us to escort you to our Khanagal.”
The other Khan’s glare persisted. “Your hospitality is appreciated, if overdue.”
The journey to the San Clan zaagmade passed in unhappy silence, at least between the trio of leaders. They were content to clip out orders for their underlings—Qymaen insisting that half his men remain behind with the shuttle, Levantis directing a few attendants ahead to the Khanagal to prepare their aperitif, Bentilais quietly pulling aside one of his lieutenants and sending him to the bordering military bases to prepare for the worst—but none of them deigned to address one another, neither to make polite small talk nor to antagonize with cool remarks. Before long, the three leaders situated themselves in a lush courtyard within the Khanagal, seated at a small table laden with a basket of fresh fruit and a wicker-sheathed carboy of red wine. A gentle shiver of greenery surrounded them, palm fronds forming a canopy overhead to dilute the subtropical sun, the dense garden effectively walling them off from the doorway where the Kaleela Guard stood opposite Qymaen’s warriors in dubious harmony that more resembled a stalemate. The San brothers removed their masks before pouring glasses for themselves, and, eying their actions with great mistrust but ultimately taking their cue, the foreign Khan followed suit, examining his exquisite glass quite closely before tipping out a small measure of wine.
While Bentilais palmed a nuurma in his huge hand and peeled its skin to get at its juicy center, Levantis studied Qymaen jai Sahuldeem’s face with unabashed interest. Young, though not as young as the rumors had indicated. An aloof expression that seemed more forced than earned, with too much tension gathered at his jaw. Eyes more hollow than they were fierce.
This little Khan, Levantis decided, is not as great as he pretends to be. He plucked up a piece of kurun and popped it in his mouth, pleased with his observations. “Now that we are speaking in confidence, would you care to elucidate the course of action you intend to take in this presumptuous conscription of our armed forces?”
Qymaen’s neutral expression faltered into a grimace. “Who are you impressing with those flowery words? There’s no need to talk like that.”
“Oh, he will talk like that whether you like it or not,” said Bentilais, knocking back a deep swig of his wine. “What do you want, Khan Sahuldeem?”
Qymaen turned his attention to Bentialais, whose manner he preferred. “If I’m to drive the Huk from our world, I need to mobilize more warriors. I am here to invite your army to join my forces.”
“Didn’t sound like an invitation back at the gate.”
“That was before I knew whether you were going to welcome me into your city. Now, I’m giving you a choice.”
“How charitable,” commented Levantis dryly.
“And what are our choices?” asked Bentilais.
Qymaen’s stare hardened. “Pledge your army to me. Rule Kaleela however you see fit, but when it comes to military matters, you answer to me.” He undercut his demand with a shrug of seeming nonchalance. “Or, I will conquer Kaleela and take your army myself.”
Levantis choked on his mouthful of wine and fruit and banged his glass down on the table. “You arrogant fool,” he snapped, meeting the foreign Khan’s glare with a flare of kuu-lir. “You would make such threats in our Khanagal? Here, where there is only one of you? Would you fight us both yourself?”
A scrape of wood on stone cut through his furious incredulity as Bentilais abruptly pushed out his chair and rose to his feet. Khan Sahuldeem mirrored his movements in an instant, as if he’d been waiting for the excuse to act. Levantis’ expression froze on his face, a rictus of horror as he realized matters may have already escalated beyond his control. Bentilais towered over Qymaen effortlessly, but the smaller Khan did not appear the slightest bit intimidated, flexing his fingers and brimming with eager anticipation. “I’ve heard stories about you, Sahuldeem,” rumbled Bentilais, voice quite calm. “The great and terrible Khan—who single-handedly brought down a Yam’rii gunship, who personally butchered the traitor Abvuul of Urukishnugal, who leaves death and ruin in the wake of his hordes. The best rifleman in the world, and a master of Lig combat.” He cracked his knuckles. “Do you want to fight me, great Khan?”
Qymaen bared his teeth in what could almost be described as a grin if a shred of happiness had registered in his eyes. His own flood of kuu-lir certainly indicated little more than aggression at the moment. “I’ve heard stories about you too, Khan Sk’ar. I’d rather see for myself.”
For all his derisive bluster, Levantis was not so easily driven to violent solutions for problems sooner resolved through words, and was not prepared to see a brawl break out between his giant of a brother and the infamous Sahuldeem in the middle of the Khanagal courtyard. He clambered to his feet and flung his hands aloft. “Stop, wait, both of you! Surely we can come to an accord.”
Qymaen rounded on the chieftain like a karabbac, a sharp, predatory motion. “I’ve told you your choices.”
It took everything in Levantis’ power not to flinch backward; perhaps he had underestimated the young Khan’s mettle. Nevertheless, there was too much kuu-lir swarming the semi-enclosed space for him to maintain as much self-control as he might have under calmer circumstances. Instead of recoiling, he leaned into Qymaen’s face, a snarl tangling its messy way through his words. “And we have heard them, young idiot! Now we will negotiate your terms instead of murdering each other where we stand like a trio of mindless barbarians!”
A hush descended, the flora around them trembling as if in the reverberations of his rebuke. The three leaders remained in their tableau for another moment or two, half-expecting their soldiers to charge into the courtyard (the guards and warriors stationed outside the door, in point of fact, had been instructed to only intervene should they receive one of three prearranged signals, independently given by their respective superiors). But no one shouted for aid. They stared at one another, Levantis and Qymaen holding a mutual, challenging glare as Bentilais peered down at both of them—the edges of his mouth beginning to curve upward in amusement.
“You should tread carefully around my little brother, Sahuldeem,” he remarked, breaking the fraught silence and folding his arms over his broad chest. “He calls himself a civilized man, but he is also a warrior—he talks to distract you, then stabs you in the back faster than your eye can follow. You may not hear stories about him, but that’s because he kills those who would tell them before they get the chance. Fortunately, I have more than enough honor for the both of us.”
“You aren’t helping, Bentilais,” Levantis hissed.
But that wasn’t necessarily true: Qymaen’s shoulders relaxed as he cocked his head up at Bentilais. He didn’t quite smile as he said, “I think I like you.”
“Perhaps enough to spare me, great Khan?” prompted Bentilais.
Qymaen didn’t answer, but returned his attention to Levantis, expression flattening to an icy, impenetrable wall. “Do you have another proposal?”
The Chieftain of Kaleela considered. He hadn’t quite thought that far ahead in the heat of the moment, but, now that the stink of their pheromones eased and gave way to sweet flowers and fruit once more, he could think clearly again. “My brother is as effective a leader as he is a warrior. If we are to combine forces, I see no reason why he should surrender the army of Kaleela to you. After all, he and I rule Kaleela together. Permit him to lead our army alongside yours as Khan, and we will join you.”
But Qymaen shook his head. “You are able to corule Kaleela because the two of you fill different roles. If he leads a division of the kolkpravis—which Kaleela’s army will become one way or another—he would no longer be Khan. Two Khans can’t head one army.”
“Only because you don’t allow it,” Levantis couldn’t help but scoff.
“Should I explain to the Chieftain of Kaleela how our military is structured where I come from?” said Qymaen with a withering scowl. “Over the last decade, I have formed a new kolkpravis—the largest force of warriors since the kolkpravis of legend—made up of thousands upon thousands of soldiers. A kamen is made up of no more than one hundred warriors, led by a blackarm; ten kamen are a horde, led by a Baatar; ten hordes form a brigade, led by a Tarkhan; and there are five Tarkhans, hand-picked by myself, my personal Izvoshra.” His hand pressed to his chest. “Every single one of these warriors follows the leader of their divisions, but in the end they serve me . The Khan of the kolkpravis. There is no other. Tell me, when has an army ever followed more than one Khan?”
Bentilais, who had been pensively listening all the while, spoke up. “I respect that you are a powerful Khan, to have rallied the entire continent. But I’m a Khan, as well, not a Tarkhan or anything less. Do you expect me to give up my rank without proving to you how I’ve earned it?”
“Others have.” Qymaen sized him up. “But you? No. I don’t expect you will.”
“Perhaps,” put in Levantis wryly, “a restructuring of your kolkpravis’ leadership is in order?”
To his surprise, the foreign Khan responded with a bare nod. “Perhaps so.” He finally reclaimed his seat, posture overly rigid, and took up his glass of wine. The others followed suit, Bentilais’ chair groaning under his bulk. “In title, if not in spirit.”
“A nominal change is hardly a change at all,” frowned Levantis.
“Isn’t it?” Qymaen paused for a sip of wine—his first yet since he’d poured his glass—and it was clear from his brief, transparent expression that he hadn’t tasted wine often (and assuredly nothing as fine as that which Kaleela produced). A split-second of vulnerability, a blink of pleasant surprise, all of which Levantis relished; for all the stories, for all of his posturing, Khan Sahuldeem was still only Kaleesh. But Qymaen recovered with a quick hem and his manner plunged back into icy, unreadable depths. “If, say, my Izvoshra are all referred to as Khans , then Khan Sk’ar could join their ranks and remain a Khan.”
“What does that make you?” asked Bentilais, instantly wary.
“You yourself called me ‘great Khan’. If that is what I am, I should make it my title, shouldn’t I? The High Khan. Supreme commander of the global kolkpravis. Khagan.”
“Giving yourself a new rank doesn’t solve anything,” bristled Levantis. “My brother would still serve under you.”
But Bentilais chewed on the idea, along with another fresh nuurma. “I would lead as a Khan.”
Levantis jabbed a finger at Qymaen. “He would lead!”
Qymaen glared at the rudely outstretched claw. “With our armies combined, the kolkpravis will expand greatly in size. We can create more divisions, larger than brigades. These would be armies in their own right. If you, Khan Sk’ar, were to join my Izvoshra, there would be six of you. Six Izvoshra, six Khans, six very large divisions.”
“I see,” murmured Bentilais.
“This isn’t what I meant when I suggested—”
“What you suggested, brother, was a compromise. Do you still wish to compromise, or do you intend to try and kill Sahuldeem before he tries to kill us?” Bentilais swallowed his mouthful of tart fruit and shrugged. “I would not mind the fight, but it seems a terrible waste for the war effort if any of us should die.”
Another smirk twisted the other Khan’s lips. “I would of course want to see you fight before you join my Izvoshra.”
“And I would ask that you extend your invitation to my brother. He’s a better warrior than he seems.”
One of Qymaen’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh?”
“I appreciate the backhanded accolade,” said Levantis with a roll of his eyes, “but what would become of Kaleela if we are both away gallivanting with his kolkpravis?”
Qymaen twisted to face Levantis with disparaging regard, an unrestrained sneer. “My Izvoshra are deeply loyal to me. It’s not a position I offer to just anyone, and if Chieftain Mazani has no interest in such a thing, I have no interest in him.”
“Of course,” said Bentilais a little too quickly. He rose to his feet again, this time with no confrontational intent, and swept his arm toward the door. “Would you mind waiting inside for a few minutes, Sahuldeem? I think my brother and I need to discuss your proposal in private.”
Levantis, though grateful for his brother’s suggestion, couldn’t imagine Khan Sahuldeem would respond favorably to their dithering, never mind the dismissal; had the request come from him instead of Bentilais, the foreign Khan would have surely grown hostile all over again. Instead, he simply scowled and swigged the last of his wine. “Yes, you do,” he said after a moment before delivering the empty glass with excessive force to the tabletop. He stood and swept his cloak out of his path as he stalked out of the courtyard with a clipped comment over his shoulder, a cool reminder lest the brothers forget how he had greeted them at their gates: “You have ten minutes before I hail my gunship.”
Once Levantis was sure Khan Sahuldeem had left the courtyard, he flew to his feet and rounded on Bentilais. “What in the ancestors’ names are you—”
He broke off with a choked splutter when claws hooked through fistfuls of his tunic and yanked his body clear off the ground. Bentilais glowered into his face, all pretenses of courteous deportment having left the courtyard on Sahuldeem’s heels. “You listen to me, Levantis.” He planted his stunned brother back on his feet and kept his grip firmly in place, speaking in a harsh whisper. “Do you really want to antagonize the most powerful Khan on Kalee? You would prefer to make enemies than to make friends?”
“Beni—”
A reeling, vigorous shake, a clatter of beads and shells. “No, shut up. Listen. If we were to kill him for his cocky threats—and, working together, I don’t doubt we could—then, fine, we keep our independence and our army for the time being. But he is not just a single man we must best, brother. You’ve heard the stories: they worship him on the other continent. What do you think the kolkpravis—never mind his loyal Izvoshra—would do to Kaleela when they find out what happened?”
“So we should grovel at his feet?” Levantis fumed as he finally grasped at his brother’s huge wrists, not nearly strong enough to dislodge his hold on his person, but rather a gesture of obvious protest. “First he wants our army—then he’ll take our food! The Yam’rii’s destruction of farmland is even worse in the west; where do you think he’ll turn to replace what they’ve lost? We can barely sustain ourselves as it is without that to worry about!”
“We need to support him however we can,” Bentilais said gruffly, “for now. It won’t be for long—just long enough to work together to drive the Yam’rii from Kalee. After they’re gone...well, we’ll see what will happen, then.”
There was a long, contemplative pause as Levantis began to settle. His hands relaxed and he peered up at his brother. “Ah. If...if both of us manage to join his Izvoshra...I see. Who knows what the state of the world will be when the Yam’rii have been ousted? Times change. Allegiances evolve. Accidents happen. Regimes fall.” A faint smile graced his lips. “Ingratiating ourselves with Sahuldeem in the meantime does sound like a prudent course of action.”
Bentilais released Levantis and patted the top of his head a bit condescendingly. “That took longer than it should have, little brother. You’re supposed to be the clever one.”
“Don’t sell yourself short.” Levantis glanced Bentilais up and down. “Stature notwithstanding. And is there any point in my asking you to refrain from calling me little brother, particularly in front of strangers? I’m told I left my tuudbaraa first.”
Bentilais persisted in patting his clutchmate’s head with a fond, impish smile. “No point.”
Levantis fended off his brother’s hand like he was swatting at a troublesome fly. “I thought as much. In any case,” he went on, tone dropping to a conspiratorial hush as his eyes darted to the courtyard entrance, “we’ll push this compromise. Ally ourselves with ‘Khagan’ Sahuldeem—join his kolkpravis—become a part of his Izvoshra—rid Kalee of the Yam’rii—and then, when all is said and done, we will see where the pieces fall. Or,” he added with a smirk of his own, “move them forcibly into place, if we must.”
“When the time is right,” Bentilais agreed. His hands became gentle, adjusting Levantis’ tunic as he smoothed out the wrinkles he himself had created. “How do you plan on convincing him to allow you into this elite force of his? You haven’t exactly made a good impression on him.”
“Mm, if he plans on evaluating our worth as warriors, he should like what he sees in both of us.”
“True enough. You’re faster than a musnaka.”
“And even though I already demonstrated a certain reluctance to join him, it shouldn’t be difficult to indicate that you convinced me otherwise. But I should offer him a token of goodwill, an apology of sorts to make up for my behavior.”
“A few cases of wine?” suggested Bentilais. “He seemed to like it, once he was sure we hadn’t poisoned him.”
Levantis rolled one of his tusk rings between his fingers, musing. “I imagined something a bit more permanent. You know, our cousin recently celebrated her twentieth year, and as far as I am aware, no one is currently courting her.”
Bentilais let out an incredulous grunt. “You’ve heard the stories; he doesn’t take wives.”
“I had thought so, as well, but I suppose you haven’t heard the latest, then? Apparently after one of his recent conquests—” Levantis waved a hand in no particular direction “—a large Huk colony, near the Kunbal—when it was over, the Chieftain of Agarmesh offered his eldest daughter to Sahuldeem in gratitude. He accepted. This wasn’t long ago. A couple of months at most.”
“Hmm.” Bentilais nodded, slowly. “If you’re sure about it, then good. We don’t want to insult him by offering a gift he has no interest in, and this way we are confirming our alliance in a way no one can deny.”
“And Vykalla will be delighted,” said Levantis with a wry smile. “Joining the harem of the great Khan Sahuldeem—sorry, Khagan Sahuldeem. It really is a vain title, isn’t it? But he can call himself whatever he likes as long as we remain in positions of significant power, and in his favor. We would be doing a disservice to Kalee should something happen to the Khagan and open up a power vacuum. Someone must fill that vacuum. We’re simply ensuring that two qualified leaders will be standing by in such a scenario.”
“I’m glad we had this talk, little brother.”
“Let’s call him back in.”
—
The next morning found a new gathering at the gates of Kaleela, this one far less strained and militant than the day prior, now that the gunship no longer blotted out the sun over the city. News of the alliance disseminated across Kaleela, prompting a cautiously optimistic crowd to form and observe the departure of the infamous Sahuldeem. Hundreds of Kaleelans stood by and watched as the San Clan brothers exchanged formal farewells with Sahuldeem on the manicured lawn between the outer gates and where his personal shuttle waited. Whispered rumors rippled across the onlookers as many recognized the young, prettily-dressed and veiled woman in deep purple silks with black, plaited hair, hands clasped in front of her, standing off to one side as she, too, surveyed the scene with near equal measures of excitement and uncertainty.
Bentilais was forced to hunch while he reached down to salute Qymaen, his immense hand easily but gently engulfing the smaller man’s forearm. Levantis followed, a much colder, rigid exchange wherein both leaders dug their claws a bit too tightly into each other’s gauntlets.
“The requested troops will begin sailing for the peninsula east of the primary Huk colony, as we discussed yesterday evening,” said Levantis curtly. “It may take a week to organize.”
“I must return to Urukishnugal for now, but I’ll send our gunship and several shuttles to help with the transfer of your warriors to the western continent,” replied Qymaen, “with either myself or one of my Izvoshra along to oversee matters.”
“If we are to be part of your Izvoshra, as well, then can’t we oversee ourselves?” Bentilais asked.
His kakmusme hid his face, but Qymaen’s narrowed eyes brimmed with disgruntlement. “Remember: your ranks are provisional, Khan Sk’ar. You will act in the same capacity as my Izvoshra so you can lead the new divisions of the kolkpravis, but the permanence of your titles are conditional on your success.”
Levantis sneered. He had a strong suspicion Sahuldeem had dressed up his vocabulary purposefully, either in an attempt to rival Levantis—or to mock him. “So eloquent, Sahuldeem. Quite, hmm, transpicuous.”
Qymaen blinked, then growled softly, too soft for anyone but the nearest encircling guards to hear. “Suub-ze gish nizu,” he uttered under his breath.
“We understand, Khagan Sahuldeem,” Bentilais jumped in before further unpleasant words could be exchanged, dipping his head in a bow that reflected none of his brother’s derision. “We’ll hear from you again soon, I’m sure, with a plan of action.”
Gold eyes snapped upward. “Yes. You have the holotransceiver and the portable generator I gifted you, with instructions for how to use them.”
“Yes, thank you. And for you.” Bentilais gestured to the wooden cases that a handful of warriors carted over to the shuttle to stack at the foot of its boarding ramp. “A sweet red wine made from black kurun, found only here in Kaleela—there’s no finer wine anywhere else in the world.”
“One could say the same of our dear cousin,” said Levantis glibly, extending one bedecked hand in her direction, eliciting a small start from the fidgeting young woman. After a moment’s hesitation, she stepped forward and twined her fingers in her cousin’s supportive grip, attention darting from each of the brothers to Qymaen in a restless, curious dance of expectation. Bentilais was the only one who returned any comfort, a hint of an encouraging smile visible in his eyes. Levantis guided her forward, assuming the role of her father for lack of a more suitable living relative, intoning the formalities the occasion required with little enthusiasm. “I present my cousin, Vykalla san Nisina, to you, Qymaen jai Sahuldeem, and I charge you with her care; may the clans of Jai and San be hereafter united by the bond you keep together.”
Where Levantis’ delivery was perfunctory, Qymaen met the rite with utter indifference. His expression was flat as he glanced Vykalla up and down and, with a flick of his fingers suggesting he’d rather dismiss her than beckon her forward, said no more than a cold, toneless, “Very well.” But his gesticulation must have held meaning to his underlings, because one warrior stepped forward and offered an arm to escort the young woman toward the shuttle. Qymaen regarded the two brothers with a final look of contempt and respective—though hardly respectful—nods of acknowledgment. “We’ll speak soon. Sk’ar. Mazani.”
Levantis mimicked him. “Sahuldeem.”
“Khagan,” emphasized Bentilais.
Soon, the shuttle lifted into the sky and set out over the Jenuwaa Sea, trailed by its escort of starfighters and the gunship. Kaleela seemed to release its breath in a collective sigh of relief as all of its denizens slowly, cautiously peeled their eyes away from the horizon and resumed their daily lives—all except for the two rulers of the city, planted side by side, watching the sky long after the daunting shape of the gunship had vanished into the coastal cloud cover.
Inside the shuttle, Vykalla san Nisina huddled in the bucket seat she’d been escorted to, her posture constricted and shoulders tight as she stared down at her tense-knuckled grip on her knees. She didn’t dare look up or through the thin viewport situated nearby, too dizzy and unsettled to trust that her composure might hold should she lift her head. Her world blurred. Voices resonated strangely in the artificial space, chatting comfortably, some so strongly accented as to be rendered unintelligible. Warriors bustled about, kicking storage lockers open to organize their weapons and belongings, more balanced with the acceleration of the ship than she could hope to be in her unfamiliarity. She swallowed a wave of nausea and closed her eyes, trying to will away the uncanny sensation of reeling aboard the deck of a ship.
“Vykalla, was it?”
With a startled jolt, she looked to her right and found Qymaen jai Sahuldeem had claimed the seat beside her. He had not yet unmasked, but she was surprised to see his gaze held more softness than it had thus far. “Vykalla, my Khan,” she confirmed before catching her mistake and attempting to fix it in the same breath. “Khagan; my Khagan. I’m sorry.”
“Worse than sailing, isn’t it?” he remarked after another moment, further perplexing and pleasing her. From his conduct down at the gates, she wouldn’t have predicted him to be attentive, let alone kind—not that there was much warmth to his voice now, but at least he sympathized with her discomfort and spoke softly. “I’m still not used to the feeling myself,” he went on, “and I’ve been flying for years. I find seshu root helps. We may still have some on hand, if you want it.”
Vykalla gave a shy nod. While he turned to flag down a nearby warrior, raising his voice to bark out orders, she kept her focus on the Khagan. Covered as he was in his colors and leathers, she couldn’t make out much of his appearance beyond his eyes (a pretty gold, but difficult to read) and his tusks (of an average size, and classically curved). Her cousins assured her he was more than a worthy suitor, in name and in breeding, though she wondered if he wasn’t a little too scrawny beneath all his regalia. Encouraged by his relatively pleasant attitude towards her, she spoke up again when he’d finished snapping at his warrior about the missing herb. “Is...is it true you control the entire western continent, Khagan Sahuldeem?”
He blinked at her question, his response puzzled yet guarded. “Except for the remaining Huk colonies, yes. You’ll be living in Urukishnugal, at my Khanagal.”
“How many wives have you taken before me?”
His posture grew stiff, voice thin. “You will be the second.”
Interpreting the shift in his bearing as a reflection of his own inexperience in such matters, she decided to bolster his confidence by speaking flirtatiously. “If you don’t mind my saying, I’m surprised a young, handsome and powerful ruler like yourself has such a small harem. I feel very special.”
At that, he blurted out a strangled laugh.
It didn’t last long: a brusque, entirely joyless sound, like a cough he couldn’t stifle. Vykalla's stomach dropped, and she flinched away when he abruptly moved. But all he did was stand, put his back to her and stalk across the shuttle, leaving her seated alone, her fingers digging into her skirt and her face hot with confusion and humiliation.
Qymaen crossed the length of the passenger cabin to a viewport on the opposite end, taking deep breaths to choke down the unbidden burst of hysteria. The forehead of his kakmusme clicked against the transparisteel, grounding him in a most paradoxical manner as he stared down at the wave-wrinkled surface of the Jenuwaa Sea far beneath the shuttle.
Special.
He didn’t look at Vykalla again during the rest of the flight.
Notes:
You may have noticed I take a few liberties with some established Kaleesh lore, like which continent is which and the structure of the kolkpravis; to that I say at the end of the day this is a fanfic and I will make little adjustments when I darn well please. :)
Thanks for reading! You can find more content (i.e. story art) over on my Tumblr.
Chapter 2
Notes:
Sorry this was a couple of days late! We should be back on track with biweekly Monday posts after this.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The afternoon sun bloomed low in the off-color skies of Urukishnugal, orange and hazy through a permanent veil of dust, and it gleamed off the metallic surfaces of Sahuldeem’s small fleet as it reentered the airspace over the city. The Shumiv’za river, normally swollen and brimming with fishing boats at this time of the rainy season, wound muddy, shallow and brown through homes and buildings still bearing scars from the aerial assault of the previous year.
While the Namireen descended on the outskirts of the city limits, too large to land anywhere within, the starfighters and shuttle aimed for the stretch of dirt-packed, open space between the riverbank and the front steps of the Khanagal. The ochre sigils painted on the wings of Qymaen jai Sahuldeem’s shuttle stood stark against the grey metal of its construction, a fresh application of pigment as befitting its new designation—the Lamaha no longer, renamed the Masdaría several months earlier. The boarding ramp landed in dry soil, shuddering as Qymaen strode down its length in as much of a hurry to reach solid ground as to leave behind his fellow passengers. A small squad of the Urukishnugal Guard awaited him at the stairs, headed by the new captain, who greeted him with a brief genuflection.
“Welcome back, my Khan. We’re glad to see you safely home.”
Qymaen wanted nothing more than to make a break for his quarters, but with the Captain of the Urukishnugal Guard kneeling in his way, he had no choice but to come to a reluctant halt. Like it or not, there were matters to address. “Captain Gazhdani,” he acknowledged briskly yet wearily. “It’s ‘Khagan’, now, not Khan, but we can discuss that later. A woman will be along behind me in a minute; she is Vykalla san Nisina, from Kaleela. Would you and your men see that she is escorted to the harem and cared for there? The Malga can perform our ceremony in the morning—and send for my Izvoshra to meet me after that. I’ll be in my room for the rest of the night,” he added, taking a step forward with an aim to part the nervous bustle of guards.
The captain’s stylized kakmusme left his lower face bare, and Qymaen could see his teeth sawing away at his lip. “Sir, your Izvoshra are already gathered in the war room.”
Of course they were.
Qymaen heaved a sigh and immediately fell into a frustrated coughing fit. Growing up in dusty Irikuum, he’d have hoped he could better tolerate the shift in air quality the Huk had wrought over the past months, but his breathing had never been quite the same after his nearly deadly brush with wet lung. The ash from the surrounding scorched farmlands irritated his throat and deeper; he certainly hadn’t missed this sensation over in coastal Kaleela. “Tell them I’ll be there in an hour,” he growled, mood deteriorating for every second his coughing persisted between words. “I’ve had a long journey and I need to rest. They can wait.”
“Yes, my...Khagan,” the captain said hesitantly, trying out the title. “I’ll inform them at once.”
Sullenly hemming and clearing his throat, Qymaen swept inside the Khanagal and retreated to his quarters, passing through the heavy wooden door that had once borne the Sun Clan sigil. It all belonged to the Jai Clan now, and the decor in Qymaen’s bedchamber reflected the remnants of a vainglorious past and a more practical future, bringing in both rustic touches from the Ausez Steppes and scavenged amenities from Huk colonies to mostly supplant the luxurious silks and gaudy mantlepiece treasures left behind by Abvuul years earlier. He hadn’t made it more than a few steps into the room before a cautious knock sounded behind him. He opened the door to find an attendant holding a tray laden with a pot of zigmash tea and a small stack of fresh-baked ninkagu. Swallowing his knee-jerk urge to slap the tray out of the attendant’s hands and slam the door shut in his face, Qymaen instead stood aside and directed him to place the refreshments on the nearest end table before sending him away and bolting the door behind him.
At last, solitude.
Unceremoniously casting his kakmusme to the floor, Qymaen stretched out on his bed and lay back, staring up at the patterned, vaulted ceiling.
He knew he should drink the tea and eat the bread. A quiet consideration in the back of his mind, the slightest of urgings reminding him he’d hardly stomached a morsel of food while breaking fast at Kaleela and had eaten nothing since, the discomfort in his throat and chest niggling at him for herbal reprieve—but all of these signals filtered through a cloud of malaise, too easily disregarded when it was just as satisfying to his weary mind to simply lie there and shut it all out.
Thoughts slipped through the cracks of poorly constructed walls in spite of his determination to count how many stripes filled the concentric circles of the overhead mosaic.
You laughed in her face.
Do you really trust the Kaleela brothers? Why did you agree to their terms?
The others are going to be upset you left without telling them.
Stupid, frivolous thing. Of course she isn’t special.
You should have killed them where they sat in their courtyard.
What are they going to do about it? Your Izvoshra won’t dare cross you.
You had to go. You had to do it. No choice.
You need all the help you can get. You’re too weak to handle this war on your own.
In one whole year you haven’t managed to even touch the primary colony.
It’s been one year.
Qymaen squeezed his eyes shut, as if the darkness would deliver him from his memories—but he should have known better.
One year since that day. One year since salt, blood and sand, since crashing waves and splitting agony. One year since the wild pitch of ocean swells carried him to the feet of the gods, to the blue glow of Abesmi and its hollow silence. One year, almost to the day. Perhaps that was why every last useless word spilling from the lips of allies and strangers alike rankled his threadbare nerves; why his appetite had plummeted from fair to negligible as food turned to tasteless ash in his mouth; why, as flashes of crimson cloaks and blue flames exploded like artillery beneath his eyelids, he found himself lurching from his bed, dizzy, shaking and breathless, staggering into the adjoining washroom to retch into the basin as if someone had seized his innards to twist them like a damp cloth, wringing him empty.
Empty.
Ancestors knew he’d tried what he could to counteract it; of course they knew, for they’d imposed it all upon him to begin with, ripping his soul in half and leaving him leaking until nothing remained. Sometimes he could almost trick himself into believing a sensation was worth the effort of seeking it out—so many mugs of beer as to render him giddy and foolish, or entwined and mating with his first wife in a torrent of heady kuu-lir—but they were merely sensations, fleeting and meaningless. There was only one thing he’d found that came close to filling the emptiness, and he cherished it, holding his hands over the warming flames of hatred until they burned.
As he hunched over the basin and took in his haggard reflection, it filled him anew, a low, simmering thrum that begged to boil over, to scald, to scorch.
He only needed an outlet, and, he thought darkly, he would have one soon enough. With the backing of Kaleela’s army, it was only a matter of swift organization and prompt action. Speak to his Izvoshra. Reach back out to Sk’ar and Mazani. Coordinate strikes on the Huk’s remaining colonies with hitherto unimaginable numbers on simultaneous fronts.
He would exterminate every last bug on Kalee, and maybe then he would feel again.
But he did feel, didn’t he? Too much. A conundrum. Feeling nothing and yet everything all at once. Perhaps he felt so much and so absolutely he could no longer parse the individual emotions. Perhaps he had grown so numb, felt so little that the slightest emotion overwhelmed him when it managed to reach him. Confusing. Maddening. Exhausting.
Wrong.
If there was one thing he understood about how he felt, it was this: nothing felt right.
Despite the sour taste coating his tongue and a residual squirm of his stomach, he knew he needed to eat something or run the risk of falling faint during the war council, and he refused to submit to such weakness. Weakness was just as intolerable as the emptiness, if not worse. He forced down all of the ninkagu, which sat like an unpleasant stone in his gut. Of the zigmash tea he took only a few sips, having long since grown averse to the flavor, never mind its effects. He’d swallowed an inordinate amount of the herb some months after that day , on a particularly harrowing night of insomnia and vivid reminiscence, seeking solace in a cradle of intoxication. All he’d managed to do was exacerbate the emptiness for too many benumbed, miserable hours. He hadn’t dared take more than the occasional cup of tea since that incident—though he still drank it when his weakened lungs troubled him.
Not weak, he halfheartedly attempted to convince himself. Powerful. Stronger than any other Kaleesh in the world. Doing what must be done. Surviving.
No one, neither friend nor foe, needed to know how difficult it was.
On the wall of the war room hung the skull of a large mumuu bull, another vestige of Abvuul’s clan and of his reign. It was otherwise a rather stark, practical chamber, housing a central table upon which a rough map of Kalee marked the largest cities and settlements belonging to both Kaleesh and Huk. Around the table stood Qymaen’s five Izvoshra, so identified by their matching white capes marked with the stylized sigil of the Jai Clan, now synonymous with Sahuldeem himself. None of them wore their bonemasks at the moment, this being a less formal affair than others, and they chatted quietly amongst themselves as they waited for their Khagan to make an appearance.
The first to notice Qymaen’s entrance were not any of his Izvoshra, but a small, white, winged form that flitted across the room to land on his shoulder. The tumu latched onto his cloak with tiny claws, opened its needle-lined beak and announced, “Starboard.”
Five heads snapped up at the squawking sound. An uncomfortable pause followed, a moment of uncertainty during which each of the Izvoshra independently decided whether they were happier to see that he had returned safely, or upset that he had taken it upon himself to carry out this mission without alerting the rest of them first.
“Qymaen,” greeted Jindra with a warm, genuine smile. “I’m glad to see you’re back safe and sound.”
“Hopefully with good news!” chimed in Amagi, seizing Jindra’s pleasant spirits and as ever amplifying them beyond what decorum called for. “How was Kaleela? How was the fruit? Did you bring back anything for the rest of us?”
“You can imagine we were a little concerned when we heard that the Namireen, the Masdaría and three starfighters had taken off yesterday before dawn,” said Zaebar, his heavy brow pinched, a knife’s edge to his words, “before any of us had woken up. You’d think we’d have been informed when the time came for this important mission. Somehow we slept through it. Imagine that.”
Asilal touched Zaebar’s arm, as if steadying him. “I’m sure he will explain to us in great detail his expedition to Kaleela. If he’s standing here before us, we know it wasn’t a complete failure.”
“Well, Jindra ought to have been there to fly the gunship, at least. We shouldn’t be allowing just any pilot to helm the Namireen. It’s too valuable.”
“I’m not the only capable pilot on Kalee, Zaebar,” Jindra pointed out with gentle insistence. “The gunship made it back, didn’t it? I’m sure it was fine.”
“Was it fine?” Zaebar asked accusingly. “Qymaen?”
The last member of the Izvoshra, a bald, short and well-built Kaleesh whose tooled leather eyepatch covered the deep scar that cut through the left side of his face, clicked his tongue and beckoned with one reproachful claw. “Babbar, leave him be. Get over here.”
The tumu looked its master square in the eye, chirped its defiance, then nuzzled its head against Qymaen’s sunken cheek.
Qymaen couldn’t begrudge the stupid creature for its odd preference; it had taken a liking to him from the start, from the moment he sprawled, waterlogged and half-conscious, on the deck of Dalibor lig Nemur’s ship. Leaving Abesmi had not gone as smoothly as the journey in, and hardly an hour into sailing through towering waves, thrashing winds and horizontal rain, the storm had thrown him from his splintering skiff and plunged him into the dark, frigid depths of the Jenuwaa Sea.
At the time, he had welcomed it.
But sailors on a passing ship had dredged him from the waves, hauling him soaked to the deck to clear his lungs of brine, and, when he finally regained his senses, he had awoken in a warm, dry cabin, stripped of his sodden tunic and leggings, bundled in woolen blankets, with a pure-white tumu burbling happily to itself as it curled in a tight ball over his abdomen. He had touched it wonderingly, and, thus roused, it lifted its long neck and greeted in distorted but impeccable Kaleesh, “Starboard.”
Dalibor himself had entered the cabin shortly thereafter to introduce himself, and it had taken everything in Qymaen’s power to refrain from revealing that he knew exactly who this man was. He had heard Ronderu’s tales of her pirating days several times over, accounts so thorough and evocative that he recognized her old captain and his talking tumu as if he’d already met them in person. Disoriented from his near-drowning and still raw from his experience at Abesmi, Qymaen kept this information quiet, as well as his own identity. He desperately sought rationalization for this fateful meeting—anything to suggest this wasn’t intervention from beyond the realm of the living, for any such interference at this point was surely made with cruel intent—and satisfied himself with Dalibor’s explanation that their usual route took them past the shores of Abesmi at regular intervals. This at least matched Ronderu’s claims that she’d seen the island before. An incredible coincidence, perhaps, but through no fault of the ancestors.
Conversely, all Dalibor knew of Qymaen was that he was a terrible sailor but that he seemed in need of a diversion, which he offered in the form of accompanying his crew to their next destination: the temple of Shrupak, where, he explained breezily, his crew had many times before slipped into the complex and appropriated valuable offerings from poorly-guarded tombs and shrines to trade away at larger cities.
Qymaen accepted and went ashore with Dalibor and his crew. He had promptly split from the group, sought out Malga Bolek and alerted the Ennuru.
It was not how he’d imagined reentering society after having vanished a solid month earlier, but if he was honest with himself, he hadn’t given it much thought at all. To his surprise, Shrupak possessed a holotransceiver node from which Urukishnugal could be contacted. Soon he stood speaking to the blue-tinged, projected likeness of Asilal, who, after greeting him with characteristic formality but obvious relief, assured Qymaen he would send along a shuttle shortly to collect him and bring him back to the Khanagal.
In the meantime, despite having directly contributed to the apprehension of Dalibor’s crew, Qymaen decided at the last moment to intercede on the captain’s behalf, stepping in as Khan and overriding the usual death penalty for temple thieves. In addition to being a masterful sailor and leader, he owed Dalibor his life and could not overlook their mutual history through Ronderu—although he still refused to believe the gods or fate had anything to do with it. Dalibor had been where Qymaen needed him to be, at exactly the right time. He wanted him to remain by his side a bit longer. Fortunately, the pirate took Qymaen’s initial betrayal in stride (even going so far as to compliment him for his treachery) and gladly pledged himself to the cause, though this was less due to any strong convictions about the Huk and more in gratitude that the Khagan had spared him. But, over time and many missions, Dalibor had grown to respect and admire him as well as any of his friends.
Friends.
Why did it have to feel so strange to call his Izvoshra his friends?
So much had changed.
Nothing felt right.
“Well, Qymaen?”
He emerged from his abstracted reflections to find all of his Izvoshra’s eyes fixed on him in anticipation—some filled with more concern than others—while Babbar continued to attempt to preen the scales on his cheek. Stepping forward, he kept his focus on the map of Kalee rather than on the faces of his...compatriots. Yes. That suited them; it suited him. He spoke, voice bland. “Chieftain Mazani and Khan Sk’ar have agreed to join forces.”
“Excellent!” declared Amagi.
Zaebar was less immediately pleased. “I bet it wasn’t as simple as that. What happened over there? What did you do?”
Qymaen heard the patent accusation in his cousin’s voice; Zaebar wouldn’t have had to ask such things if he’d been there at his side. He deliberately avoided his gaze as he swept his hand over the map of Kalee, taking up a handful of tokens from the eastern continent and depositing them on the western land mass. “They weren’t happy about the idea of surrendering control of their army to me, but I persuaded them in the end, on one condition: they wanted to join my Izvoshra, if only so they could be given divisions of the kolkpravis to lead.”
Asilal arched one brow. “They will be joining our ranks, my Khan?”
“Can we trust them?” Jindra interjected, worried.
Qymaen’s own doubts flickered through his mind, strobing striations of uncertainty and aggravation, dropping him in and out of the present and back to that courtyard in Kaleela. For a moment, he froze, caught between his conflicting thoughts.
They’re powerful allies.
Too powerful?
You should have killed them.
You need them.
Weak.
Instead of articulating any of this, he stuffed it back into place behind his mental walls and instead honed in on a far simpler issue to address. “With the addition of Kaleela’s army to our kolkpravis, I plan to mobilize forces like never before, and as such have decided on hierarchical changes. I’m no longer ‘Khan’. My new title is that of ‘Khagan’. You are all now Khans, and the newest division of the kolkpravis will be known as a khanate—made up of multiple brigades—led by each of you.” He at last lifted his eyes to meet those of his Izvoshra, catching brief exchanges of sideways glances and wrinkled brows, and a small flash of pique sparked in his tight chest. He didn’t need their apprehension to feed his. “Do we have a problem with this?” he couldn’t help but snap when uneasy silence continued to stretch too long after his pronouncement, and Babbar started, squawking and flapping back to its master.
“Oh, no problems at all,” said Dalibor with a grin, pushing good humor in the face of Qymaen’s flare of temper. “Just trying to wrap my head around it. Me, a Khan! Who could’ve seen this coming a year ago?”
“Port,” added Babbar.
“Khagan?” Zaebar repeated, squinting at his cousin. “That’s what you want us to call you?”
“A title well-earned,” Asilal interjected. “But—my Khagan—this is quite the responsibility. I’m sure the others will join me in saying that we’re humbled by your confidence in our capabilities. Even with the support of the eastern armies, and of Sk’ar and Mazani, I wonder if such a drastic restructuring is...” He seemed to roll the word around in his mouth before blurting it out. “Wise?”
Qymaen turned the full force of his glare on Asilal and Zaebar, but he couldn’t help but notice Jindra and Amagi standing behind them, conspicuous in their reticence, standing too close together to disguise the fact that they were holding a nonverbal conversation entirely of their own. Another flash, a pang of envy. It must have reached his face, because Jindra, noticing him, had the grace to look guilty as she introduced a gap between herself and Amagi.
They all doubt you.
They aren’t listening to you.
Do they even need you?
Pathetic.
Get this under control.
Remind them why they need you.
“Pay attention,” he growled in a tone that brooked no quarter, and even the tumu stopped fussing with Dalibor’s earrings and fell still and quiet. “I won’t repeat myself. With the addition of the Kaleela army and the hordes of the eastern continent that had previously been pledged to Khan Sk’ar, the kolkpravis will increase by nearly a third of its current size. That is three-hundred thousand soldiers. We must take advantage of these numbers.” He leaned over the map and began righting the spill of tokens, arranging them at all of the marked Huk settlements. “Before the next season, we will mobilize the majority of the kolkpravis against the Huk colonies—and we will attack all of them simultaneously. Our final push to remove them once and for all. This is it,” he stressed, a burst of ferocity escaping him as he slammed his hand on the map, mashing his palm over the nearest Huk colony. The tokens juddered and his Izvoshra flinched. “Kalee can no longer tolerate the Huk. The longer they remain, the more destruction comes to pass. They’ve had us on the defensive for far too long. While we spread the kolkpravis thin trying to combat their constant sacking of our cities and villages, the Huk spend far less energy destroying our forests and farmlands until nothing can grow. No more.”
He trembled with barely constrained rage as he saw it in his mind’s eye: the Huk starships sweeping low across what remained of the fertile landscape, raining down reckless, indiscriminate plasma fire, precious green giving way to smoldering black and ghostly grey. Even if any of the farmlands remained viable, the destruction had already inflicted damage to the atmosphere in the form of unpredictable weather cycles and a seemingly perpetual veneer of dust and ash painting the whole of the continent in suffocating sepia tones. The rivers and lakes dwindled. A third of the Kunbal had burned away. The Huk could rely on their own imported trade goods for survival, leaving the Kaleesh with little choice but to slowly exhaust their resources or turn to the Huk for aid. Kalee couldn’t afford to suffer the Huk’s presence any longer.
“We will strike all of them at once. One khanate at each of the smaller colonies, and our twelve starfighters and shuttles divided between them. Three brigades to a khanate—thirty thousand soldiers. We will keep a reserve of another khanate each at the western and eastern capitals, should the Huk try to organize a retaliation. That will be enough to protect them. The Huk won’t be able to afford to send too many troops away from their own colonies, given the scale of our assault. We will send two khanates and the Namireen to the primary Huk colony. We will tear through the deflector shield that protects the city center. This time, we will win.”
Jindra finally spoke up, her gentle words treading as if on tiptoe. Qymaen, particularly when he was in such a state as this, had become something of a karabbac trap in the past year: slamming violently shut on anything that disturbed him, even if it was a fellow hunter. For her delicate efforts, she’d thus far personally managed to avoid such a response, unlike the rest of her friends and companions. “Qymaen,” she said, drawing his sharp eye. “You know I don’t have your head for strategy. What do we do if the Huk send more gunships to Kalee to protect their colonies in the midst of our attack? We don’t know how many they have on standby.”
And, because she had presented it as a genuine question instead of with the combative edge Zaebar might have injected into the concern, Qymaen merely tilted his head as he listened and considered, drawing a few settling breaths.
“They would have sent them already if it were simple for them. And when the time comes, we won’t give them the chance to call for help,” he replied, a quiet, steely promise. His eyes moved from Jindra to cast a net over each of his Izvoshra, reeling them back in, encouraging them to remember why they’d pledged themselves to him in the first place. For how much he’d changed—how much he’d lost and gained, for better or for worse—they as warriors were still drawn to his power like insects to a flame in the blackest of nights. Yet, they were under no illusion that Qymaen approached the war as he once had as Sheelal. He’d taken a new name, reshaping his very soul. None of them were surprised to hear him continue, with slowly seething, building venom, “We will lay waste to every inch the Huk have claimed on our planet until there is nothing left for them to hold onto. We will leave no scrap of their settlements to salvage, in case they attempt to pry it back. And when they try to flee…”
His claws curled around the carved wooden disc representing the primary Huk colony, squeezing until splinters erupted and bit flesh.
“We will make sure they never return.”
—
They launched their brutal coordinated assault a few short months later.
It was as he said it would be.
The remaining Huk colonies ripped up like scabs from Kalee’s western continent as the kolkpravis rode in irrepressible numbers, and even the primary colony poured blood from gaping wounds under the wrath of two khanates and the ravaging bombardment of the Namireen . Kaleesh warriors swarmed the settlements, leaving corpse-littered streets and the molten bones of durasteel structures in their wake. Thick smoke choked the dusky orange sky, self-inflicted but necessary pollution in exchange for purging the planet of a far worse blight. Urukishnugal and Kaleela held vigil over the course of the brief campaign, watching for signs of retaliation that never manifested. The Huk, facing staggering losses and caving to certain political pressures none of the Kaleesh happened to be privy to, had no choice but to focus all of their efforts on a tactical retreat.
“There, Khagan. A ship is leaving the hangar.”
Qymaen jai Sahuldeem, standing on the bridge of the Namireen and soaking in the scouring glow from the primary colony below, lifted his eyes to the sky. A large shuttle broke through the curtain of black smoke, climbing desperately into the atmosphere.
He raised his arm. “Open fire.”
The Namireen’s laser cannons screamed; the Huk shuttle rocked, veering off its flight path, tilting precariously back toward the smoking settlement.
“Khagan?” The warrior seated at a nearby comm station spoke up again. “The ship is hailing us. I know enough Huk to understand they are asking to surrender.”
Qymaen watched the floundering shuttle another moment, then swung away from the viewport. “Hold your fire,” he barked. “Accept their transmission.” He stalked toward the bridge’s central holotransceiver node, stationing himself before the projector. His hands folded behind his back, nestled beneath the cascade of his white-and-crimson clan cloak, and his mask tilted up in cold expectation.
A blue-tinted Huk officer sputtered into sight, already babbling.
“What is it saying?”
“He’s surrendering. He wants to land so we can take prisoners. There are civilians aboard, not just soldiers.”
Qymaen said nothing for several seconds, jaw clenched beneath his mask as he glared up at the projected Huk. The very sight of the hateful creature stoked the fire in his chest, acrid disgust crawling up his throat and bursting forth in an exhalation of disgust, so visceral he half-imagined wispy fumes of ember-sparked smoke escaping alongside his breath. The flames starved for kindling, demanding to be fed.
“Sir? Orders?”
At last, he lifted his hand and gestured as he did before. “Keep the line open.”
A hesitation. “Khagan…?”
The Huk officer began repeating his message with renewed intensity.
Qymaen spat, “Now.”
Despite reservations from that particular warrior, everyone else on the bridge of the Namireen complied without question. The gunship shuddered slightly as it unleashed a new shower of laser cannon fire upon the Huk shuttle, and through the viewport the Kaleesh watched as the ship’s shields cracked like an egg and belched an inferno. Debris pinwheeled from the explosion, raining down on the settlement, the shoreline and the sea below.
But Qymaen was not looking outside. He stared up at the holotransceiver, watching as the Huk officer flung his arms up to shield himself from the inevitable, as flames swept briefly through the projected image in a wave of almost palpable heat and a chorus of horrified screams, as the holoscan dissolved and winked out with a crush of blue static.
And he felt.
Obsessive loathing sank into wretched satisfaction. It was triumph without joy; retribution without relief. It filled him as nothing else had in recent memory: not with anything as disarming or vulnerable as hope , but rather with the realization that—after all this time, after all he had given and all he had lost, after all he had claimed and all he had overcome—he had lived up to Ronderu’s words, the earnest pledge she had made as they embraced in a warm tent on the brink of a future they would not share.
This was his legacy. This was his strength.
Qymaen smiled bitterly beneath his kakmusme.
This was for her.
Notes:
Maybe you should talk to someone about this, Qy? :/
Chapter Text
Three Months Later
The shuttle Masdaría cruised low over the southernmost swells of the Jenuwaa Sea, passing over white-capped waves and an increasing number of icebergs and floes the closer the starship drew to the white, craggy shoreline of Grendaju. The continent’s snowy mountain vistas sprawled beyond the coast, though they were hardly visible for the heavy grey cloud cover that barred the way. A storm lay in the starship’s path, stretching for kilometers east and west along the shores.
Undeterred, and helmed by an optimistic pilot, the Masdaría did not correct her course.
Qymaen, meanwhile, noticed nothing out of the ordinary, having resigned himself to the unpleasant turbulence that rocked the shuttle and dropped the bottom out of his stomach. He kept his eyes closed in an effort to stave off the usual queasiness, even if it meant foregoing the chance to see their approach to the ice continent—his first time seeing Grendaju at all, and so far all he’d managed to make out was a blurry sliver of white against the blue-grey sea as he dared only peel open one eye and squint out the nearest viewport. He also chose to ignore the murmurs of the small crew of soldiers that had accompanied him on this expedition, knowing he could better steel himself against the effects of vertigo when he shut out the world entirely. He tuned them out, even as their voices began to lift in consternation and concern.
But there was no ignoring the massive lurch that tossed all of the passengers from their seats. Qymaen’s knees hit the metal floor, and another stomach-turning pitch of the starship rolled him sideways with an indignant shout into the row of bucket seats on the opposite end of the cabin. Scrambling furiously to his feet, he pushed past a flail of supportive hands and stumbled to the nearby comm panel, slamming it with his palm and demanding, “What’s going on?”
“A blizzard, my Khagan!” crackled the pilot’s harried voice. “It’s like trying to sail in a typhoon! We—we need to set down!”
“Íb-ku huul!” Qymaen snapped. “Then do it!”
“A-as soon as we reach land, we will try!”
A darted glance out the viewport told Qymaen little more than the confirmation that the shuttle was, indeed, immersed in a snowstorm so intense he could see only a wall of white. He couldn’t imagine the pilot fared better, and the winds buffeting their ship no doubt stymied any efforts to wrest the craft back under control. Another lurch staggered Qymaen and several warriors sideways as an alarm began to blare, piercing through shouts of panic.
He managed to right himself and cling to a bucket seat when a large, severe shape reared out of the snow-blind void and seemed to snatch at the shuttle. He had a split-second to realize that one of the Masdaría’s wings had clipped a craggy peak before the craft spun a sickening spiral, throwing all of her passengers off their feet and banging helplessly around the cabin. Qymaen himself felt the back of his head crack against a hard surface which turned out to be the ceiling, a shock that robbed him briefly of sound, sight and sensation until he crumpled against one of the viewports. There, he found cool transparisteel on his cheek—blinked a quivering blur from his vision—heard the terrible roar of impact—his hands flexed for purchase that wasn’t there—he opened his mouth to curse the ancestors for this ignoble end—
—he prayed he would see her again—
—before the world of white rushed in and plunged into black.
—
“You are awake, yes? I see you stirring. A great blessing this is!”
Qymaen’s eyes peeled open. He had enough time to take in the sight of a dome of white arcing overhead before a shiver wracked his body, his breath hitched and he wheezed.
A shadow loomed into his line of sight, and for a baffling, painful instant as Qymaen’s watering eyes traced the voluminous outline of wild waves of hair, he wondered if he wasn’t hallucinating—or perhaps he had been killed in the crash, and his spirit had passed on.
But the pain in his chest pinned him to the earth, grounding him in crushing reality, and the figure bent over him was not who he’d hoped it was. Despite his vulnerable position, Qymaen fought to sit up and get a better look at this stranger, desperate to maintain some semblance of control over his situation. He made out a scrambled portrait—a big, muscular Grendajuin, though not nearly as massive as Bentilais, cloaked in shaggy furs, with a mane that rivaled hers in character if not in length—before dizziness spun him flat on his back and blanked the edges of his vision as if he’d been skull-shocked. That was only half the problem. The large man might as well have been sitting on his chest. Qymaen flexed his claws deep into the hide blankets he lay upon, wrenching at fistfuls of fur as he struggled to suck air into his traitorous lungs.
“Ah!” exclaimed the stranger, and vanished. A moment later, however, Qymaen felt a hand tuck itself beneath his head and lift, while a wet, warm, botanical smell filled his nostrils. “Breathe this, my friend! And then you will drink it, or the air Grendaju will continue to steal from you.”
Qymaen recognized the stench in an instant, but he was hardly in a position to protest. The steam already began to clear the way to his lungs; he couldn’t deny its efficacy. He still spluttered and growled a bit when the other Kaleesh took the initiative and tipped far too much of the bitter tea down Qymaen’s throat. “Stop! You’ll drown me,” he spat.
“Pah, you are fine!” Now two hands gripped him by his leathers and yanked him too quickly into a seated position before, bracing his chest plate against one palm, the large Kaleesh pounded him on the back. Rattled, Qymaen could do no more than cough—once, twice, and on the third he finally expelled what had clogged his chest. “There! Now, drink more. You will be thanking me for it in a minute. You see,” he went on with a cheerful air that woozy Qymaen took in with sheer incredulity, “I have a daughter who has trouble breathing in the cold air, as well, and we learned long ago that the best remedy for such things is zigmash—a great deal of it, haha! Soon you will be feeling much better, my small friend.”
“I doubt it,” rejoined Qymaen curtly. But actively resenting his boisterous savior took more energy than he possessed—perhaps he was skull-shocked, after all—and, with a defeated slump, he folded his legs underneath him and settled in to sip at his zigmash tea. At least his tolerance for the vile herb was strong, after all he’d endured. It wasn’t likely to affect his faculties, certainly no more than his apparent injuries already had.
He finally studied his surroundings with more clarity, which revealed he had been brought to a small hut shaped quite similarly to those he’d grown up around in the Ausez Steppes. The chief differences were in its size and construction: packed ice and snow, rather than mudbrick, and yet the air inside the hut was not as frigid as he would have expected, insulation likely helped along by the central fire, not a hearth but a small, carefully contained campfire whose trickle of smoke fed through a small hole at the top of the domed ceiling. This did not appear to be a permanent residence, Qymaen supposed, taking note of the barren walls and the piles of furs, tools and fishing spears arranged in the corner; more likely a temporary shelter from the elements, used by hunters. He shifted his attention to the burly Kaleesh who now sat stoking the fire. He had hardly met any Grendajuin in his life, and it should have occurred to him that Ronderu, for all of her travels and worldly ways, may not have been the most authentic representation of the southern continent’s pedigree, intent as she was to distance herself from her past. He could see traces of her in the stocky brute’s appearance, namely in that mane of brown hair, but his peculiar speech patterns and lilting accent reminded Qymaen that the Kaleesh of Grendaju spoke their own dialect, one Ronderu had clearly taken pains to erase from her presentation.
Qymaen shuddered and closed his eyes. He had come here expecting to dredge up painful memories. He still wasn’t prepared for it.
“You are not warm enough?” the stranger asked, already reaching to draw his cloak off his shoulders—not a clan cloak, but rather a thick hunting pelt with no visible sigil.
Qymaen quickly waved away the offering and the focus. “I’m fine. Our shuttle. You found it?”
“We were fishing in the sea when we saw your starship fly overhead, so we came ashore in case we needed to return home to protect our city. We were happy to find you were Kaleesh and not Huk! There was damage to the starship, but you may yet be able to fly if you have what you need to repair her. To find you in the blizzard took some time; you lay covered in snow where you had crawled from your ship.”
Qymaen frowned. “I don’t remember doing anything between the crash and waking up here.”
“Well, you have the wound on your head to thank for that, I think!” laughed the other Kaleesh. “You must have been very determined when you were awake, because the trail of blood you left was long and so hot not even the snow could bury it. But true, you were unconscious by the time we found you. I carried you to my hut myself. Now, you are the leader of these men who crashed with you, yes? This I guessed from your dress.”
Qymaen hesitated, glancing the other Kaleesh up and down. It was a bit rude to forgo introductions, particularly given the hospitality of his host, but at this point neither of them had volunteered their names or titles, and so he chose to gloss over his own identity. “Yes, I am,” he said instead. “What happened to the rest of my warriors?”
The larger man bowed his head. “Many are injured, but most live. Three had already joined the ancestors by the time we found the wreckage. You I brought to my hut; the rest are being looked after elsewhere in these campgrounds.” Then, with an encouraging smile, he reached out and clapped a familiar hand on Qymaen’s shoulder. “You are feeling well now, I hope?”
Qymaen couldn’t help but flinch at the touch, though it was more from the presumption than from any pain. “Sore in places, but nothing broken. My head feels better.”
“Good! You see? The zigmash is already hard at work! But what sort of host would I be if I did not offer my guest a far better drink?” he went on with a wink, twisting to the side to pick up a waterskin and a clay cup from his pile of belongings. “Here—this will help warm you, and we can talk about why you in a starship have come down to Grendaju from the desert lands. Ahaha,” he chuckled at Qymaen’s expression, then rambled on before the Khagan could slip in a single word, “you are surprised I noticed this? Of course you are from the desert: who else would be so underdressed for the cold? But I would very much like to learn your name and your clan, my friend. The northern colors and sigils I do not know as well as I should.”
Qymaen drained his tea and exhaled, a somewhat irritable sigh that plumed in the relatively cold air. “Well, even if you don’t recognize my sigil, I’m sure you’ve heard of me. I am Khagan Qymaen jai Sahuldeem of the Allied Northern Continents. And,” he went on, not to be outdone by the other’s powers of observation, “you’re in a position of leadership as well, aren’t you? Only you’re dressed for hunting.”
A jovial laugh. “This is so! I am Khan of Umauna, and it is true, I had heard rumors that a powerful Khan to the north had chased the rest of the Huk from our world. But you are called Khagan? Greater than a Khan? An impressive title, Sahuldeem!” He thumped a hand to his broad chest. “It brings me great honor to meet you. I am Kashbaru xam Karabbur.”
“Khan of Umauna,” Qymaen repeated, vaguely recalling what he knew of southern geography, never mind the local clans. Uncertainty crept into his bones. “A strange coincidence that you were the one to find me.”
“Not at all,” declared Kashbaru. “Often the hunt I lead, and when I saw your clothes and learned you were leader of these other warriors I would let no one else care for you! It is no Khanagal,” he added with a sheepish laugh and a gesture to their stark surroundings, “but our fishing and hunting grounds are not so close to Umauna. I will be happy to take you and your people back to my city—when we have talked a little more about what brings you to our shores. Here, take, drink!”
Qymaen grudgingly accepted the new cup. “What I meant was that it’s strange we crashed so near the city of Umauna when…” He trailed off as strong fumes stung his nostrils. He blinked curiously down at his drink, wrinkling his nose. “Offworld alcohol?”
Kashbaru grinned. “Raided from the Huk colony, yes! Very strong! As good as fire for warming you on a hunt. It pleases me to share this with you.”
Quite certain Khan Karabbur had no ill intentions, Qymaen took a tentative sip and grimaced at the bitter burn. He had imbibed imported offworld spirits very few times before, and the flavor was rather akin to how he imagined oil must taste. But he couldn’t deny that it, like the zigmash, did what it was meant to do, warming him from his throat to the center of his stomach. “Thank you,” he finally said, and though discomfort still scratched at the back of his mind like a child tugging his sleeve, he brushed it aside. “There is a matter that brought me south which may involve you, Khan Karabbur. You see, I’m looking to expand my army.”
“And you have come to Grendaju—to do what, exactly?” For the first time, Kashbaru’s friendly face faltered. “I know we are smaller than the northern continents, but I hope you take us seriously. On our land there once was a Huk colony; it is no longer here. That was our doing alone. We fight to protect what is ours, Sahuldeem.”
“I didn’t come here to steal your warriors away,” Qymaen said, bristling at the insinuated accusation. “I’m offering an opportunity. I don’t need to commandeer your army when I already possess the largest army in the world. But,” he swept his hand toward the ceiling, toward the hole that opened up to the sky, “this isn’t the only world there is. There are other worlds, not so far from Kalee, and right now they belong to the Huk . They took those worlds as they tried to take Kalee from us.” He had to swallow his own disgust and compose himself as he spoke of them, a greater challenge than stomaching offworld spirits. “I intend to take those worlds from them.”
Kashbaru tilted his head, watching Qymaen closely as the Khagan stewed in his own emotions. “You mean to bring Kaleesh offworld and fight the Huk in the stars?”
“Our people aren’t safe as long as the Huk continue to live on planets so near Kalee. I have ships. I have resources. I have my kolkpravis—” he stopped to bare his teeth in a joyless grin “—but more warriors mean more dead Huk.”
The Khan returned the smile, though his reached his eyes. “A matter of protection, yes?”
“You could call it that.”
“I do. If protecting Kalee from the Huk means following them to the stars and killing them there, then I would be happy to pledge my warriors to your cause.” The grin spread. “My neighbors I am sure will do the same, especially when they hear who is asking them.”
Pleased by such a response, Qymaen relaxed a bit, sipping his drink. “Good. Good. Of course, we will need to retain a reserve here on Kalee in case the Huk try to bring the battle back to our planet. But the intent is to move as much of the kolkpravis offworld as possible, once we start taking their territories from them.”
“I look forward to joining them myself! To slay Huk in the stars would bring me no greater honor.” Kashbaru took a more practiced, easy swig from his waterskin and swept his inquisitive gaze up and down Qymaen, eventually halting on his face. “All of this makes sense to hear, Sahuldeem, but there is more you wish to say. What else has brought you to Grendaju?”
The mood shifted immediately. It was a struggle to keep himself from lashing out on reflex—but of course Kashbaru couldn’t have known he was prodding what amounted to an open wound. Qymaen instead funneled his focus into his cup, inhaling fumes until his eyes watered and squinted shut in protest. “Do you know of a village called Mir-Haz?” he managed to ask after a minute.
Even without looking at him, he could feel Kashbaru flinch in surprise. “Ah, yes? A famous village. Our neighbors to the south, some years ago. No more. The villagers there, they are all of them dead.”
Qymaen exhaled, not entirely surprised, but somehow still shaken. “The whole village?”
“Yes, all of them, in a single day. It is a ghost village; no one dares live there now, after what happened. How it came to pass, there are many rumors: snow falling from the mountains and burying them—the lake rising, drowning and freezing them in their homes—a rogue karabbac larger than any other we have seen. The most famous story says it was a single Kaleesh who killed them all. Some even say it was one of their own who did it; one who killed every member of their clan, as well.”
“The Kummar,” Qymaen muttered.
This time there was an audible gasp. “Oh! You have heard that story, all the way up in your desert? Such tales I would not think would travel so far outside of Grendaju.”
“Well, I have, and they did.”
A long pause met this soft, grim claim. Kashbaru inclined his head, staring hard at the Khagan, as if seeing something new, deeper than his inadequate leathers and aloof veneer. He spoke cautiously. “You know it is more than a story. You are too close to it. This is because...you...you have met the Kummar, have you not?”
Qymaen finally lifted his eyes. Half of him wanted to glare, to push it all away, to deny this stranger the satisfaction of learning how effortlessly he had reached inside of him and scooped out the raw, vulnerable truth despite Qymaen’s armor. The other half reminded him this was precisely why he had come to Grendaju. Unable to muster the words, knowing they would choke him, he nodded.
Steam coiled into the air as Kashbaru huffed an incredulous, troubled laugh. “No longer can you call our meeting a strange coincidence. You seek volunteers for your army, and you meet a Khan. You ask questions about Mir-Haz and the Kummar of Grendaju, and you meet the man who took her in when she fled her village.” He shook his head. “Not a coincidence at all, but the will of the ancestors. Surely they have blessed you. They brought you here .”
They abandoned me, so I abandoned them.
“I don’t want to talk about the ancestors,” Qymaen gritted out. “I want to talk about the Kummar. You claim to know her, so tell me about her.”
The disbelief slid smoothly into wonder the longer Kashbaru stared into Qymaen’s tense features. It was a look Qymaen had seen many times before, on the faces of warriors and civilians alike—the unmitigated awe of the ordinary confronting the extraordinary. “Of course, Sahuldeem. Gladly I will tell you what you ask. It was years ago when the Kummar came to Umauna. She was still young, barely of age, and I was twenty years old, the son of Umauna’s Khan and even then the leader of our hunts. While checking on a kralishi trap I found her stealing the dead creature from its snare, but I could not be upset with her. So desperate and hungry she looked that instead I took her back to Umauna to see her fed and rested. As the son of the Khan, I did as I pleased, and no one questioned me for bringing this stranger into my home despite how little she explained herself. I wondered if she would tell me anything about where she had come from—why so young a person would be traveling alone—but with these questions I did not bother her. The second morning, however, perhaps because I had not pressed her, she told me some of what had happened. She said she came from a southern village and, now that her clan kin were gone, there was nothing left for her on Grendaju. I tried to convince her to stay in Umauna, but she listened to no argument I made, and left the city by boat soon after.” He sighed and spread his hands. “I let her go. Why not? At the time I had no reason to think she had killed not only her clan kin but her entire village. Little of her did I think until weeks later, when news of Mir-Haz traveled north to our city and I learned the fate of its people. Then, I thought, ‘what sigil was it that this girl wore?’ I went to those who would know and drew what I remembered; they told me the sigil was Lij Clan, a clan who lived only to the south.”
“So she really was Lij Clan after all,” Qymaen mumbled.
“Sorry, you say what?”
“Nothing.” Qymaen pushed down any stirrings of emotions, not prepared to bare himself to essentially a stranger. “So you decided she had to be from Mir-Haz?”
“This was the rumor that then spread, yes. Anyone who crossed paths with that girl began to remember her as cold and frightening, not shivering and frightened. ‘This must be the one who murdered every villager in Mir-Haz,’ they said, and so right they felt when, more weeks later, we learned a hunting party from another village went to Mir-Haz and found the remains of many, many bodies, even a Malga—and several of them wore the colors of the Lij Clan. So, the Kummar she became, but so much time has passed with no sign of her that in Grendaju she is more like a spirit and a story. No one has since seen her on the ice continent.”
Qymaen stared quietly into the fire a minute before he spoke again. “Do you think she did it?”
Kashbaru leveled an appraising look at the Khagan. “I do not think; I know. But not because she is the nightmare they all call her. When I met her I saw a desperate person—and terrible things will a desperate person do if they think it will change their life for the better.” His gaze bore sharp as a knife. “ You claim to know her, Sahuldeem. Tell me, did that little girl’s life change for the better? What became of the Kummar?”
No. He wasn’t ready for this.
Qymaen swallowed a deep, burning swig of his drink, pulling more warmth into his shaken core and attempting to numb the unpleasant sensations that threatened to rise and supplant the usual emptiness within. This wasn’t what he wished to feel—the pain that sparked when he thought of her—of that day—always fresh as if he were losing her all over again.
It had seemed so simple, when he’d first planned the expedition. Travel to Grendaju, to where his sources said the remains of Mir-Haz crumbled. See what was left. Any evidence of her clan. Any shred of her . If anyone still lived there after all these years, anyone who could be linked to her life, he would treat them as they deserved. If new villagers had settled in their place, he would pay his respects and leave. If no one lived, he would burn Mir-Haz to ashes. He’d expected the easy catharsis of flames. He hadn’t expected to meet anyone who had known her well enough to ask after her.
The combined efforts of skull-shock, alcohol, zigmash and something else he wasn’t aware of made his head swim, something which must have outwardly affected him more than he realized as Kashbaru ventured a hand to catch and shake his shoulder.
“Sahuldeem? You are well?” Concern softened the Khan’s voice, treading with care, as if he were worried Qymaen might be too fragile to continue this discussion.
Too weak.
And now the anger returned, readily embraced as he landed back in the moment. Qymaen channeled it in an instant, with the practiced ease of a wronged man who had been pouring a lifetime’s worth of righteous hatred into his every motive and action for almost two years. It anchored him as well as Kashbaru’s strong grip, churning but solid and certain. A hand held to flame.
“First the Huk took her from me.” The caustic growl crackled deep in his chest. “And then the ancestors did the rest.”
Kashbaru’s fingers squeezed, and even when Qymaen shot a forbidding glare into his eyes, his solemn expression didn’t falter. “I see. I am sorry to hear this,” he intoned in as neutral a manner as could be mustered.
Qymaen relaxed his coiled muscles. He was secretly grateful for the banal turn of phrase and its delivery, rather than anything more cloying or pitying. He’d had enough of that from his companions to know he wouldn’t stand hearing it from a stranger. Though perhaps not a stranger for long, he thought, reflecting on the Khan’s willingness to support him in the upcoming offworld campaign—anything to deflect and move on from the wallowing, pathetic state this journey had so nearly plunged him to. “It’s not important,” he lied, mimicking Kashbaru’s bland tone, not quite able to physically shrug it off, but rather in a parody of insouciance. “My main reason for coming to Grendaju was to find recruits for the kolkpravis. I know I have an ally in you. Can you put me in contact with other chieftains?”
A pause, a calculating flicker. Then Kashbaru summoned a fierce grin and thumped Qymaen’s shoulder twice with resounding claps of his palm. “This I can do! When you are feeling better, I can arrange a meeting with my neighbors. And once we have traveled north to join this great army of yours, we will chase the Huk into the stars and pay them back dearly for what they have done to us, won’t we, Khagan Sahuldeem?”
Qymaen fell silent.
Twice now he had met Kaleesh who had known her, stumbling blindly into their midst without seeking them out, exactly when he had needed them. Twice these coincidences skirted on the edge of fate, bearing the fingerprints of meddling ancestors.
For all the times he’d claimed destiny was a joke, only the gods seemed to be laughing.
Notes:
Collect All Izvoshra = Achievement Unlocked
Chapter Text
In the two weeks it took for his men to restore the Masdaría’s comms to send word to Urukishnugal explaining what had happened, Khagan Sahuldeem managed to rally most of the major chieftains of Grendaju to join his global kolkpravis. They promised to sail north as soon as the waters warmed enough to reduce the worst of the icebergs and allow safe passage, a timeframe they claimed would take no more than a month. Thankfully, a second shuttle arrived in Umauna with supplies for repairing the Masdaría, and the Khagan was spared the possibility of enduring more weeks in the bleak, unbearable temperatures of the ice continent. He departed on the second ship the following morning. At his invitation, Kashbaru traveled with him, and the next several weeks were filled with cross-continental communications and introductions.
The Izvoshra did not dislike the Grendajuin Khan or speak against Qymaen’s insinuation that he, too, might soon join their ranks; nor did they question the haste with which their Khagan had begun organizing his offworld campaign. But, privately, some of them did begin to worry.
None of them may have spoken up at all were it not for the interruption to the plan: not quite a surprise but an inevitable disruption that nevertheless threw Qymaen’s agenda off its intended trajectory. The urgent message came while he was half a world away, meeting with the San brothers’ allies south of Kaleela to discuss transportation of their hordes. It took from sunup to nearly sundown for his shuttle to spirit him back to Urukishnugal—fortunately just in time.
She was earlier than expected.
Qymaen’s brisk stride carried him up the front steps of the Khanagal, so quickly the small escort that shadowed him had trouble keeping pace. He might have kicked the entry doors down had attendants not been stationed there to open them for him, and they ducked out of the way in a hurry as he barreled past them in a billow of his ivory-and-crimson cloak.
He didn’t slow his frantic steps until he rounded the corner and headed for the ornate door that led into his bedchamber. A dainty, veiled Kaleesh woman in the blacks of the kojmeda stood nervously in front of the door, hands folded at her waist, eyes locked with apprehension on his approach.
“Khagan Sahuldeem, welcome home,” she started to greet.
“Let me pass.” He did not mean to growl at her, but a warning rumbled in his voice regardless.
The kojmeda lifted her hands, gently imploring. “Please, my Khagan, she is still preparing for the birthing. You may enter when the Malga is ready to allow—”
“I will see my children born,” he snapped, even as he came to a halt before the tiny woman. Despite his rising temper, he wasn’t about to shove her aside as he might have a guard or warrior who stood in his path. “Why should the Malga be the first man to see my offspring?”
“We must not break tradition, my Khagan. It...it would bring ill fortune. The ancestors—”
He silenced her protestations with a brittle retort. “The ancestors turned a blind eye to my life a long time ago. They don’t care what I do.” He took a step forward and loomed over her. “Move aside, kojmeda.”
Reluctantly, she obeyed, and the moment the path to the doorway was clear Qymaen swept forward, his entourage wisely remaining behind as the door slammed shut behind their Khagan.
His bedchamber swarmed with activity. Several kojmeda and Laegar alike bustled between Qymaen’s large bed and the nearby table, assisting both his first wife, who had been brought out of the privacy of the harem to her husband’s chambers for birthing, and the Malga of Urukishnugal, standing by the table and preparing for the blessing and naming ceremonies. A wall of attending kojmeda blocked him off from approaching Zena—whose colorful vocabulary and raised voice suggested she had no interest in the company of anyone , let alone the one responsible for her labor—and so instead he stepped to where Malga Sarabdu and a number of Laegar folded woven, patterned blankets and lit simsu incense burners.
Malga Sarabdu looked up in surprise at his approach. “Khagan Sahuldeem? I’m pleased to see you made it home, but you haven’t yet been sent for.”
“And yet, somehow,” Qymaen shot back with irritable sarcasm, “here I am. Do you really think you’ll send me away now?”
The Malga sighed, already resigned. “Well, Khagan, in that case, I ask that you stand well aside and please try to remain quiet until the naming ceremony.”
Qymaen bristled slightly at the insinuation that he would behave in any other manner, but gave the holy man a curt nod and stepped away from the table, peering over the shoulders of the kojmeda with his arms winched across his chest.
Kaleesh did not lay eggs like tumu or musnaka, nor did they emerge from the womb stumbling but fully formed like their beasts of burden. Kaleesh pups were born in a fleshy, semi-translucent case, the tuudbaraa, which the birthing kojmeda would carefully cut open and remove, setting it aside to be burned in blue spirit flame during the ceremony. Qymaen watched intently as one of the kojmeda ducked lower than her sisters, out of his direct line of sight, and, after a wrenching cry from Zena, stood cradling a tuudbaraa in her hands. As she turned away to remove the case and step over to where the Malga waited, his pricked ears heard the soft carving of flesh followed by the gasp of tiny lungs—the first breath drawn by his pup.
Qymaen breathed, as well, realizing he’d been holding air in his lungs for a painful interim. He stifled a cough as he craned his neck, trying to peek around the kojmeda’s arms and into her hands.
All he saw was the billow of sleeves as she reached out to Malga Sarabdu, who stood waiting with one of the patterned blankets to swaddle the infant and bear it to the table for the blessing ceremony. Heads bowed and voices murmured in unison, but before Qymaen could gather his frankly dizzy focus and make out intelligible words, another cry from Zena heralded a second tuudbaraa.
While the first had been worryingly silent, the second pup emerged from its tuudbaraa squealing. Too many bustling bodies and a descending fog prevented Qymaen from following the flurry of motion, but somewhere an exchange was made and one of the women returned with the first infant, ducking over Zena and delivering it into its mother’s arms. Ignoring the Malga’s request, Qymaen found himself sidling close to the bed, and the sea of attendants parted for him.
Zena kal Nitzelka lifted her rose-pale face and rolled exhausted eyes up to her husband, expression falling into ambivalence once she recognized him. Her jaw tightened as if preparing to say something, but fell slack as instead her eyes slid shut and a sigh escaped her parted lips.
“No more?” Qymaen murmured, tilting his head for a better look. Two was considered low-average for a clutch size in the remote Ausez Steppes, where pups had a more difficult time surviving past infancy. At least as Khagan, here in Urukishnugal, despite the shortages they still faced, he knew his children would be well-provided-for.
One eye squinted back open, venomous. “Two was plenty .”
Before he could respond, another kojmeda appeared, holding the second pup. She began to offer it to its mother, but Zena shook her head and limply gestured toward Qymaen.
“He may hold that one.”
Negligible weight landed in his cupped palms, a gentle pressure that registered before his mind caught up and processed this new development. Sound followed, a piercing wail that pinned his ears back. Then kuu-lir wafted up, potent and somehow sweet, evoking such an abrupt, visceral response that he was forced to jam his tongue to the roof of his mouth and clamp his teeth shut to control himself.
It reminded him of his parents.
Finally, he blinked clarity into his glazed eyes and stared down at the patterned bundle he had instinctively tucked close to his chest. A face crumpled into fussy lines, tiny, toothless mouth open in deafening protest. Wisps of hair crowning its round skull. So small. Smaller than two fists. Soft and fragile, yet squalling a storm. As he gazed down at his crying pup with awed discombobulation, he realized the sound did not bother him as he’d expected it would.
This little one is strong, the screams told him.
And, for a fleeting spell, the heaviness lifted, leaving behind not the usual void, but a glimmer of something almost pleasant. An indulgent sensation he shied away from the moment he became aware of it, but it lingered, mingling with his child’s captivating kuu-lir.
Not love. He had known love; never again since losing her.
Not happiness, not exactly. That, too, eluded him.
It was sakigur, wasn’t it?
Pride of one’s heart; not pride of the self. The feeling shared by fathers and mothers, the bond between parent and child. A holy feeling, Malga liked to claim.
The corner of Qymaen’s mouth curved upward with miserable relish. He knew sakigur stood no chance against the weight of his sahuldeem.
A fist was already closing around his heart and squeezing.
A single flame swallowed by the darkness of the world.
Someone cleared their throat, snapping Qymaen out of his daze. Malga Sarabdu and his Laegar had encircled the bed, the holy man waiting patiently to progress. Receiving blank stares from both Qymaen and Zena, he moved around the bed and placed a thumb on the firstborn pup’s forehead, speaking with the appropriate pomp for a naming ceremony. “Is this your child, Qymaen jai Sahuldeem and Zena kal Nitzelka?”
“It is.”
“It is.”
“The firstborn child of Qymaen jai Sahuldeem and Zena kal Nitzelka is a boy. What name shall his parents give him?”
Qymaen flicked his eyes to Zena.
She did not look at him as she intoned, “He shall be named Kishar.”
Malga Sarabdu bowed his head, the Laegar echoing him. “We welcome you, Kishar of the Jai Clan.” Again he shuffled around the bed. “Is this your child, Qymaen jai Sahuldeem and Zena kal Nitzelka?”
Qymaen tried not to draw away from the Malga’s outstretched hand, but his stomach churned and his throat tightened when the thumb pressed itself to his second pup’s yielding head.
Too hard. Don’t harm it.
“It is.”
Harm it and I’ll kill you.
“I-it is.”
“The second-born child of Qymaen jai Sahuldeem and Zena kal Nitzelka is a girl. What name shall her parents give her?”
“Shahulla,” Qymaen blurted, speaking out of turn and not caring in the slightest.
Zena spared him a weary glance, sticking to the script. “She shall be named Shahulla.”
“We welcome you, Shahulla of the Jai Clan.”
No one will ever harm you, Shahulla.
—
Qymaen stood out in the crisp air on the balcony of the Khanagal, huddled over a mug of hot tea, contemplating the deepening sky over Urukishnugal. The whirl of activity that had overtaken his bedchamber like a siege was gone: Zena and the newborns had returned to the harem to rest with a number of kojmeda watching over them, and Malga Sarabdu had excused himself shortly thereafter, though not before prescribing Qymaen an infusion of ulekni and zigmash.
“Even fathers need rest,” the Malga had informed him sympathetically. “Oftentimes kojmeda neglect him while caring for the mother and the clutch. Though be grateful you need tend only to your nerves, and not her pain.”
Nerves, indeed.
Qymaen's hands still shook as he sipped his tea and remembered fragile Shahulla cupped in his palms. The soothing nature of the blend did little to dull his imagination, which all too easily conjured both of his children, still curled in their tuudbaraa, held in cruel, jagged, green-brown fingers that methodically sliced into the protective case and lifted the pups to quivering, dripping mandibles and—
He nearly lost his last meal over the side of the balcony, a sour swell that burned his throat before he could stifle it. As his hands sprang to his mouth, his mug dropped and cracked on the floor. Red sprayed over his feet, and he recoiled from it with a stumbling step.
A spurt of blood from a tiny body.
A crimson cloak, swirling in salt water.
Waves roared in his ears, pounding his limbs, drowning his screams for her.
“Khagan?”
Qymaen spun, grabbed the intruder by the front of his tunic, and slammed him against the wall with a snarl. The frightened attendant’s eyes showed white around yellow and a tiny gurgle of fear escaped his throat. It took several seconds for these things to register in Qymaen’s shuddering mind, and, at length, he opened his fists and released the attendant, who immediately scuttled backward a safe distance, trembling and straightening his tunic. “You startled me,” Qymaen growled, not quite an apology. His heart still raced at a sickening pace, and his breaths came dangerously short.
“I-I apologize, my Khagan. I came out because I thought I heard…” The attendant’s eyes darted to the floor of the balcony. “Would...would you like me to fetch you another cup of tea?”
Qymaen put his back to the servant, stepping away and returning his attention to the night air. “Yes. And…and don’t slither up on me like a musnaka.” His jaw locked against an unbidden shiver, and, in an effort to keep the attendant from spotting his violently shaking hands, he tucked them into his tunic as if crossing his arms. “Clean up that mess, while you’re at it.”
“Yes, my Khagan.”
He ignored the attendant as he mopped up the spilled tea and gathered up shards of broken clay, sucking in steady gulps of faintly dusted air that tickled his throat. Only when he heard footsteps depart and a door slide shut did he permit himself a strangled cough and, to his utter disgust, a series of uncontrolled sobs that he quickly directed into his stifling sleeve.
Stop it. Not again. Not now. Pull yourself together.
He hadn’t had a single dream since that day . No normal dreams; not his dreams. What now manifested during his waking hours reminded him of his dreams, but far worse—ugly flashes that thrust him violently into memories more vivid than reality itself, looping like a holofeed clip set on repeat, disorienting and nauseating when he plunged in and out of what had happened before and what was happening now. He told no one. No one needed to know these soul-choking moments frightened and infuriated him more than he could express, a horrific loss of control for which he found no blame but within his own treacherous mind.
Stupid.
These spells had an equal chance of leaving him drained of energy, brimming with despair, or fueled with blood-boiled rage as if in the midst of a battle rush. This time, the day’s events conspired to fatigue him, his wobbling knees carrying him over to collapse in a nearby wicker seat. There he waited for his new mug of tea, which he accepted without a word of acknowledgment from the nervous attendant, lest he betray his compromised state with his quavering voice.
Weak.
He drank his tea and tried not to think about anything.
Impossible, of course. The thoughts came in waves, breaking one after another, crashing against eroded walls.
What if she had borne your children?
What would they have been like?
Strong like their mother. They would have split their tuudbaraa themselves.
Stronger than you.
She wouldn’t have stayed home with the pups. She would have passed them off to a kojmeda so she could get back to the front and fight.
Would she have wanted children at all?
She would have loved them as much as she loves you.
Loved. Not loves.
Stop it.
It doesn’t matter. None of this matters.
No. Hold onto her. Every what if or would have. Don’t let her go.
She’s already gone.
Why do you keep doing this to yourself?
Gods, it hurts.
Don’t keep it to yourself.
This is all you have left of her.
Make them feel what she left for you.
Sahuldeem.
“Khagan Sahuldeem?”
A cleared throat and a voice startled him, and he spun, fist clamping over the arm of his chair with such force that he heard the woven reeds crack. A different attendant stood in the adjoining chamber. Good. Qymaen would have thrown his mug at the first attendant for startling him again.
“Khagan Sahuldeem, Amagi din Ku’liana and Jindra nal Kuuzu are here. Will you see them?”
Qymaen considered sending them away. He wasn’t certain he was prepared to carry on a conversation, let alone one charged with the exuberant precedent set by Amagi. But a part of him knew he shouldn’t be alone with his own thoughts this evening, so he stood and placed his mug aside on a small table. “Let them in.”
They met in the room alongside the balcony, Amagi striding forward with a wide grin to salute Qymaen with one hand and clasp the other on his shoulder. “Congratulations, Qy!” he beamed. “How many?”
Qymaen passively submitted himself to the accostment. “Two,” he said, quiet. “A boy and a girl.”
The moment Amagi stepped aside, Jindra moved in and enveloped Qymaen in a warm hug, catching him off guard. He froze under her arms, which she felt and silently lamented. She relaxed her grip, softening her enthusiasm. “I’m glad you made it back in time, Qymaen. And I’m so happy for you and your family.”
He removed himself stiffly from her embrace and retreated an antisocial distance. “‘Family’,” he echoed in a murmur, halfway between incredulity and melancholy. “Strange. I haven't thought of myself as having a family for a long time.”
“What about Zaebar?” rejoined Amagi. “I thought you two were cousins—or, no, you said your fathers were cousins. What is that? Something-cousins. That’s still family!”
“And I hope you consider us family, too,” said Jindra with gentle sincerity.
Qymaen did not respond, having descended into the dark well of his own thoughts.
Jindra and Amagi exchanged a subtle, but knowing and meaningful glance. This was, unfortunately, not an unusual occurrence for their old friend. In that brief glance, they held an entire conversation and came to an agreement.
Amagi found Qymaen’s cup and picked it up, examining it with exaggerated disdain. “What’s this you're drinking? Tea? Tonight’s a night for celebration, my friend!” Before Qymaen could react, Amagi flung the grainy dregs of the brew over the balcony with a flourish of his wrist—Jindra swallowed a resigned sigh at his methods—and strolled back toward the bedchamber door. “I’ll go find us something a little stronger. Be back in a minute!”
And, with that deliberate orchestration, Jindra stood alone with Qymaen. She moved out onto the balcony, and, left with little choice, he trailed after her. If he was aware of his friends’ collaborative manipulation, he only expressed it by slouching slightly as he folded his arms over his chest, though it could pass for self-preservation against the chill night air. Jindra rested her weight against the balustrade, tilting a small smile over her shoulder at Qymaen’s somber presence. “I truly am glad for you. What are their names?”
He didn’t look at her. “Kishar and Shahulla.”
“Of course. For your parents, yes?”
Again, he said nothing, but he moved up to stand at the edge of the balcony, remaining just over an arms-length away. Still, he stood at her side. It was as close to an expression of affinity as Jindra could ever wring out of Qymaen as of late, and though it pained her to relish it, she’d rather a pale reflection of their friendship than nothing at all.
“They’re lovely names,” she said, then, determined to engage him, hesitantly went on. “I wondered...I thought you might have named one of them for…”
Her attempt to draw him out of his shell had mixed results. A deep, dark tension seized Qymaen, pinching his brow and digging his claws into his sleeves. “Naming my children for her would mean nothing,” he uttered. “What sort of idiotic sentiment is that?”
Jindra persisted, though softly, “You honored your parents, Qymaen. That means something. Why would it be any different to honor Ronderu’s memory when she meant so much to you?”
Her wording was a test; she hadn’t heard him use her name in well over a year, perhaps not even since that fateful day. His baleful, luminous glare pierced through the darkness, a look Jindra had seen many times before but rarely been on the receiving end of. “I don’t want your pity,” Qymaen spat.
She blinked at his response, taken aback. “I-I’m only offering you my ear. I’m here. We’re all here. You can talk about anything you need to.”
He let out a bark of unconvincing, humorless laughter. “What is there to talk about?”
“We can talk about what we miss about her.” She watched as he jerked his head to the side, turning away. This wasn’t quite going as planned; she kept trying, regardless. “I’m so sorry it hurts. I’ve felt it, too. It can feel so...so impossible —like there’s nothing you can do to get past it—like there’s no way you can feel better, ever again. But...if you at least talk to someone, sometimes that can help. It can take some of the weight off. Ease the pain.”
“What do you know of pain?” he shot back without looking.
At that, Jindra couldn’t help but bridle. “Are you seriously asking me that?” she demanded, trying and failing to summon her usual patience. The words sprayed out like a thrown faucet. “Do you think you’re alone in this? Because you aren’t. It’s been almost two years. We’ve tried talking to you. Talk to us. Talk to me.”
Qymaen rounded on her, a sudden movement that hitched her backward a startled step. “What do you want to hear? What do you want from me? What do you possibly think I can say now that would make the slightest difference in how I feel?”
Her irritation and momentary alarm melted into heartache. None of them had managed to convince Qymaen to open up and speak directly about what had happened, never mind how he felt about it. According to Zaebar, any attempts on his part had been met with outright hostility, and Amagi, ancestors bless his cheerful heart, wilted at the slightest confrontation. Her own efforts were brushed aside and ignored, unable to penetrate his walls—which, she was not proud to admit, was why she hoped now, on the eve of the birth of his first children, she hoped he would be vulnerable enough to truly express his feelings. She was almost there; he was almost there. “Amagi and I mourned her together, when it happened. We talked about it. We celebrated her life in one breath and cried for her loss the next. We told each other stories about her.” Despite his intensifying scowl, she held his gaze, almost pleading. “Tell me a story about her. She loved stories. Think of a good memory you have of her. She’d want you to remember the good times.”
She’d hardly finished speaking before Qymaen stalked forward. Two strides put him in uncomfortable proximity, given his expression, and Jindra retreated until her back hit the wall. To her frozen shock, he used his height against her, planting his hands above her on either side of her head, looming over and bending close with furiously slitted eyes and seething kuu-lir. “Don’t tell me what she would have wanted. I knew everything about her. Everything. And now there’s nothing, because she is gone. She’s dead. Stories? Memories? Do you think dressing my memories with borders of kuninda and ulekni blossoms will make them sweeter? All of my memories of her are poisoned by her death. I remember how we met, and she’s dead. I remember how we fought together at Shrupak, and she’s dead. I remember...” His ragged voice began to lose steam, cracking with vulnerability. “I remember how we held each other at the oasis, that first time—and she’s dead. There’s nothing good to remember. Nothing good for me. Nothing.”
Too much. Far more than he’d intended to let out. With a growl, he pushed off the wall and wheeled around, giving Jindra his back.
It was the most in over a year that she had heard him speak about anything other than strategy and military tactics against the Yam’rii. For all her efforts in getting him to open up, she’d hoped to feel... relief, perhaps. Some semblance of closure or understanding. Instead, she deflated, hope draining away and leaving guilt in its wake. She’d of course known Qymaen hadn’t made the decision to change his earned name lightly—certainly not to a name such as the one he’d chosen for himself—but she hadn’t realized how dire his mental state was. He had closed himself off too well, and she and the rest of his friends had stood by too meekly as it happened. Loosing a shaky breath, she eased away from the wall and padded forward, overcoming her nerves. He would never hurt her, no matter how unsettling his behavior or menacing his glare...and yet, though she wanted nothing more than to reach for him and comfort him, she kept her hands at her sides. “Oh, Qymaen. I hope you don’t really feel like that. Nothing? You have us. Your friends and family. Your wives. Your children.”
He hunched over the balcony, gazing out across the darkened city. “I’ll have none of it if the Huk remain in our system,” he said in a low voice.
Jindra winced at the shift of focus, but followed his lead. “I understand your plan. And you know I’ll follow you anywhere. We all will. But...now that you have children—”
“Now that I have children,” he repeated through clenched teeth, “I must protect them from the Huk. I have to keep them safe. The only way Kalee will be safe—all of us—is if the Huk no longer pose a threat—any of them.” His hands crunched into fists. “No more Huk—no more threat. They won’t take anyone else. Not from Kalee; not from me. Never again.”
Jindra chewed the inside of her cheek, contemplating the gentlest phrasing.
“If you lead this campaign, it will take you worlds away from your new family. Dangerous, hostile worlds. Are you prepared—”
“To risk my life to protect those who can’t protect themselves? To do whatever is necessary to rid our lives of the Huk? Yes. Of course I am.” His golden eyes glinted through the night. “Are you, Jindra?”
Whatever is necessary.
For a reason she didn’t fully understand, Jindra shivered.
There was a bang from inside the chamber, and soon Amagi cruised cheerfully back out into their midst, toting a bottle of wine and a handful of glasses. “Alcohol acquired!” he declared, faltering for but a moment at the fraught atmosphere. He recovered with flourish, setting the glasses on a nearby table and giving the bottle a needless flip in his hands before opening it. “Thought I would break out the good stuff from Kaleela. So, Qy! How does it feel to be a father?”
Qymaen stayed where he was, waiting for his blood to settle. “Some feelings can’t be set to words,” he muttered.
Amagi agreed with a sage nod, passing a glass first to Jindra, and then to Qymaen. “Oh, so true! Sometimes you can’t help but find yourself at a loss.” He followed this assertion by pulling Jindra close for a brief touch of their foreheads, an embrace that she leaned into with a grateful nuzzle.
“I’m not at a loss,” said Qymaen shortly. “I know what must be done.” He turned to the others, a sharp motion exaggerated by his snapping clan cloak. “In a month, I will send the vanguard to Abbaji Minor. Our scouts have located a military outpost that we’ll capture and use as our own. Once we have claimed it, we will begin to funnel in more and more of the kolkpravis until we have enough to launch a full offensive. And then we will pry what remains of the planet from their cold, dead hands.”
Amagi’s eyes darted down, scanning Jindra’s face with a faint hit of bewilderment. And this is after you talked to him? his look seemed to ask.
She simply stared back, resigned. I tried.
“Does a month give us enough time?” Amagi ventured gamely. “We only met Kashbaru a couple of months ago. His forces and the others from Grendaju have barely made it up to the mainland. And, uh...” He gave his glass a meaningful wiggle, sloshing wine, a vague reminder of why they were drinking in the first place. “Maybe you want to stick around here for a bit, eh?”
“The longer we wait to act, the more time for the Huk to lick their wounds and rally their forces,” Qymaen growled. “We can’t allow them the opportunity to organize another invasion of Kalee. We have to strike as soon as possible. A month is ideal. No more than two months.”
Jindra murmured into her glass, “Two months will give you and your family some time to yourselves before you head offworld, Qymaen.”
He neither agreed nor disagreed; he only grunted.
Amagi lifted his drink in a halfhearted toast. “Well, here’s to your children, and to the start of the offworld campaign. May it end in glorious victory.”
Qymaen downed his wine in a deep draft, punctuating it with a grim, threadbare smile. “It will end when the Huk are all dead.”
Notes:
Uhhh.
B...babies!
...yay...?
Chapter Text
39 BBY
Year Twenty-Three of the Huk War
The Invasion of Abbaji Minor
Abbaji Minor was an objectively pleasing planet to look at from orbit. Kalee, brushed with far too much dry beige and sickly yellow, paled in every sense next to the marbled swirl of vibrant blues and greens that the lush, tropical world of Abbaji Minor had to offer. However, this planet, too, had suffered under the rapacious appetite of the Yam’rii, their stripping of the resource-rich lands leaving swathes of deforested jungle, ugly scars that followed a web of roads between durasteel military bases, refining and logging facilities, and civilian settlements.
An important detail that distinguished the two planets from one another was the full, devastating realization of the Yam’rii’s takeover: while the Kaleesh had fought back ferociously against their enslavement, the native inhabitants of Abbaji Minor neither provided anything of great value to the invaders nor posed much of a threat. Dismissed as dim-witted primitives—little more than wild animals, too sluggish to merit interest in the fighting pits, with flesh unpleasant for consumption, no eggs, no opposable thumbs or any utility as laborers—the Yam’rii slaughtered them with abandon until none remained. Every last member of the species, dead, because they had possessed no perceived value to their conquerors.
When this knowledge reached the Kaleesh, they met it with outraged horror and anger, but Qymaen took it under cold, calculating consideration, absorbing it into his strategy. No surviving natives meant less chance of collateral damage during his onslaught. No rebellions meant less of a Huk military presence on the planet. Fewer bases. A false sense of security.
He would punish their complacency.
Perched above a valley, overlooking the razed, overgrown ruins of what had once served as indiginous dwellings, a military bunker sent a column of black smoke up into the sky. Hanging in the air above the ruined hangar was the small fleet of the kolkpravis, headed by none other than the looming gunship Namireen.
The battle did not last long, if it could be considered as such. With the hangar destroyed, the Huk lost their best line of defense, instead scrambling for ground vehicles in an attempt to rally. But the Kaleesh shuttles landed, a kamen’s worth of warriors spilling out and infiltrating the base while the fighters circled overhead with wary regard, making certain it was safe enough for the Namireen to descend, as well. Once a new clearing had been formed by the gunship’s groaning mass, buckling trees and flattening foliage, the boarding ramp extended and a full horde of the kolkpravis exited the ship and advanced on the base. A cloaked member of the Izvoshra marched at the head of the force, his snow-white tumu swooping ahead of him and crowing in excitement.
As warriors hauled dead Huk off of workstations in the command center and fired slugs into the heads of crawling, injured soldiers, Dalibor lig Nemur strode directly to the holocomm node and activated it. After a few moments’ fiddling, the frequency locked in and a grainy projection of his Khagan flickered into view, seated and leaning forward expectantly.
Lifting his hand in jaunty greeting, Dalibor reported, “The outpost is ours, Khagan! The Huk didn’t know what hit them before it was too late. We intercepted a communication between them and the nearest settlement before we wiped them all out; requesting reinforcements, from the sound of it.”
Babbar nested in his dulhlava. “Port.”
“Did they mention the Namireen? ”
“Why, it did come up, yes.”
“Then there will be reinforcements,” was the curt reply. “They won’t be able to resist the chance to destroy our gunship. Fortify the base. If you didn’t completely disable them, make sure the shield generators are up and running. Did you land and deploy all of the troops? ”
“All except the pilots in the starfighters and the crew for the Namireen.”
“Get the Namireen back in the air and hold position over the base. Whoever the Huk sends, it could take at least a day for them to arrive. The rest of us are in position; we’ll see them coming first and alert you. Be ready.”
Dalibor thumped his fist over his heart. “Thank you, Khagan, and good luck, to all of you.”
“Starboard.”
—
Nearly two thousand kilometers away, in a control center within a large city settlement, a Yam’rii governor argued before a holocomm node.
“It may be ‘unprecedented’, ma’am, but it has happened nevertheless! The Kaleesh are here and this colony is in danger!”
The projected Yam’rii, clearly of higher status than the governor, peered down with an air of tedium. “Are you certain you are not exaggerating matters to expedite the offworld assistance you have requested, governor? ”
“Reports say they have taken over the nearest military base! Do you expect us here in H’tlak’zlk City to fare any better? Between the remaining outposts and other settlements, we have no aerial support more powerful than mere starfighters and transport shuttles, ma’am,” said the governor, poorly stifling his anger. “I wonder, exactly, why we saw fit to remove our largest spacecraft from the system after the loss of Kalee?”
“A tactical withdrawal,” came the immediate, intoned counter. “The losses we incurred on Kalee were not worth the meager resources their planet had left to offer us. In the meantime, as I have already stated, an offensive strike by the primitive Kaleesh was unanticipated. It was not deemed practical or necessary to leave any of our fleet with you on Abbaji Minor while High Command deliberated a course of action regarding the possible reclamation of Kalee. Moving larger ships back into the system at this time is premature . The Kaleesh pose a minimal threat to Abbaji Minor.”
The governor goggled up at the holoprojection. “Is Abbaji Minor an inconvenience to High Command? I promise you, the Kaleesh pose a substantial threat to our colonies here, and there will be dire consequences if they are not taken care of now. But we need aid if we are to stop them! We are not prepared to defend against a K’tahak-class gunship; apparently not even a military base had the power to do so!”
A pause. “I’ve just been informed we have given Tovarskl leave to mobilize three gunships and several starfighters to assist the colonies of Abbaji Minor in this matter. Our intelligence states that the Kaleesh possess only one gunship; if its location is indeed confirmed, High Command believes this may be our best opportunity to destroy the ship, which will neutralize the threat on Abbaji Minor and render the planet Kalee vulnerable. The fleet will be there within the day to assess the situation, governor. Command out.”
“Stingy cowards,” muttered the governor to the inert holoprojector as communications brusquely ceased. “Wouldn’t even come until I mentioned their precious stolen gunship.”
Independent traders and smugglers alike had long since learned there existed no officially sanctioned hyperlanes near the Abbaji Minor system. They forged their own reckless paths, treacherous hops and skips through hyperspace dared almost exclusively by those with little to lose and everything to gain by exploits on the fringes of Wild Space. These shortcuts did not pass unnoticed or unmolested by the Yam’rii, whose concern and respect for the dangers of uncharted hyperspace was fueled by the value of their crafts. It was one thing for little ramshackle freighters to dart through these smugglers’ runs; it was another matter entirely for the Yam’rii military to funnel hulking, expensive gunships and transport shuttles through what amounted to a system of leaky pipes installed by a careless plumber who had only a vague conception of their terminus. Thus far the Yam’rii had suffered few losses in their use, and so, not without a fair bit of furious logistics and quarreling beforehand, three K’tahak-class gunships and a dozen starfighters emerged with a snapping jolt into a relatively safe patch of normal space just beyond the Iminec star system. Hours later, the fleet at last reached Abbaji Minor’s orbit, stationing themselves outside of the exosphere above the region where the Kaleesh forces had been reported.
“The outpost in question is some 1700 klicks outside of H’tlak’zlk City. There have been no reports from the settlement of an attack since we were made aware of this invasion.”
“The outpost shield dome is currently active.”
“Scans confirm that their gunship is still in the airspace above the captured base.”
“Good. Prepare to descend. Deploy starfighters and send them ahead to target the enemy gunship. We’ll deal with any ground forces once we’ve blown that blasted craft out of the sky.”
No sooner did the fleet’s commander speak these words than a flurry of activity seized every display and sensor board upon the bridge of each gunship, scurrying Yam’rii back to workstations and sending bony, taloned fingers flying over screens. “Commander,” exclaimed an officer sharing the bridge of the central gunship, “eight starfighters are approaching from the outpost!”
“And what do we have? Shoot them down!”
But as fighters from both sides engaged in the atmosphere above Abbaji Minor, a problem quickly became apparent.
“What are they waiting for? Must we shoot them down ourselves?”
“S-sir, our soldiers and the enemy Kaleesh are operating identical spacecraft. Targeting computers cannot differentiate between their fighters and ours, and at these speeds it’s impossible to confirm any distinguishing marks on crafts. We might hit our own.”
“Idiots! Identify our fighters using their transponder codes and then shoot down the remainder! When did this become a complicated matter?!”
“Yes, Commander!”
—
Beyond the planet and the scramble of starfighters, Abbaji Minor’s two moons reflected the light of Iminec and sheltered a trio of shuttles in their shadow, all of which emerged and began approaching the Huk gunships.
Qymaen spoke quietly, as if keeping his voice hushed would prevent the Huk from hearing him if they happened to listen in on this particular channel. “Meshenna, head for the port target. Uanna, the starboard. The Masdaría will take the middle.”
Beside him in the pilot’s seat, Jindra nodded, making minute corrections to their course accordingly. “You’ve got it.”
Amagi’s voice burst over comms; he shared no such constraint as his Khagan. “Three-for-three? Couldn’t have planned it better ourselves. Remember, everyone—just like what we did with the Namireen! ”
“Greetings to each of you! This is Khan Karabbur speaking,” announced another jolly voice, though inordinately formal for his unfamiliarity with the use of comm systems. “Khan Ku’liana, my friend, I think I should remind you that the Kaleela Khan and I were not there for the capture of the Namireen.”
Zaebar, piloting the Uanna , spoke over his crewmate. “As good fortune would have it, neither were any of the Huk on these gunships, or they would know what to expect. Don’t worry, Karabbur, you were briefed. Follow my lead.”
“I see! I only wanted to understand if there was anything we should be knowing of the plan more than what Khagan Sahuldeem already has told us.”
The sardonic voice of Levantis dripped into the conversation. “Indeed. The plan.”
Qymaen ignored his obvious skepticism. “Dalibor, reposition the starfighters closer to the three gunships. We need to move this fight on top of them.”
“Aye, Khagan!”
Amagi turned to the Khan in the gunner station beside him, quickly muting comms to address only him. “You don’t need me to go over the plan again, do you? It’s, uh, pretty simple.”
“Its simplicity is what concerns me,” Levantis rejoined, narrowing his eyes through the viewport at the Huk fleet, growing ever-larger as their shuttles closed in. “But, taking into account the success of Sahuldeem’s efforts in expelling the Yam’rii from our planet, I suppose I should have faith in his tactical competence, shouldn’t I?”
“Well, it worked before.”
“Ah, of course. Consider my fears utterly unfounded.”
Sometimes, Amagi appreciated Khan Mazani’s wry sense of humor and pragmatic approach to affairs, but at the moment he found himself wishing Levantis had been left back on Kalee to oversee Kaleela instead of Bentilais.
Per the Khagan’s orders, the eight Kaleesh starfighters pivoted and careered out of the planet’s atmosphere, leading the Huk fighters back into the midst of the K’tahak -class gunships until all twenty small ships swarmed around the larger vessels like buzzing flies. Though the targeting computers now successfully singled out the Kaleesh fighters, the powerful but slow laser cannons of the gunships swiveled in vain to keep up with their swift circuits and struggled to offset the challenges of such a close proximity. The Huk starfighters, on the other hand, finally began risking shots, and inevitably plasma fire found deflector shields and, in the case of one unfortunate Kaleesh pilot, plunged through them. The burning wreckage flared and disintegrated into fiery particulates as it plummeted back toward the planet’s surface.
Amid the commotion, slipping between darting starfighters and beneath the notice of the distracted gunships, the three shuttles converged on their respective destinations—the docking clamps situated on the underside of each K’tahak-class gunship, automated mechanisms that dutifully locked into place around what its systems perceived to be a compatible Yam’rii shuttle.
The Masdaría made contact first; Jindra did, after all, have the most experience maneuvering shuttles, and herself had been responsible for the selfsame boarding of the Namireen.
On the bridge of the central gunship, a single Huk at a security workstation caught sight of an anomalous blip on his display. Puzzled, he pulled up the ship schematic and swiped the screen until he located the source of the disturbance on the map.
One of the docking airlocks blinked a warning red.
“Um...sir?” The security officer’s nervous voice was swallowed up in the clamor.
The commander’s attention remained on the front viewport as he barked orders to underlings. “What will it take to get some karking distance between us and those starfighters?!”
“Commander, sir!” the officer shouted, panic amplifying his words as the significance of the flashing red sector sank in. “I-I believe a shuttle has docked with the port side airlock!”
The commander wheeled around with a metallic rattling of his military bangles and there he froze for a stunned beat, registering just what this new piece of information implied. “Send soldiers down to the airlock immediately! ”
But deep within the central gunship, a pair of engineers already trawled the corridor that passed between the pair of docking stations, the inset strips of strobing red light panels alerting them to the triggering of one or more systems in the area. One consulted a datapad as they strolled from the starboard airlock to the port side, frowning over a readout.
“Has to be a glitch,” he remarked to his companion.
“Right. Who would dock in the middle of all this?” agreed the other, precisely as the blast doors to the airlock hissed open.
A press of masked warriors stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the doorway.
What followed in each of the three gunships could best be described as a massacre. The Yam’rii, with their usual shortsighted arrogance, had not traveled to Abbaji Minor in anticipation of much more than an aerial assault and an investigative probe, and as such their fleet was manned in no more excess than by requisite crew and standard security. The Kaleesh, by contrast, had packed their shuttles with as many warriors as could fit, a selection of fighters as skilled in close-quarters combat as impeccably as they’d been trained to operate Yam’rii technology, headed by none other than the Izvoshra and the Khagan himself.
It was, as Qymaen had predicted and now observed with vicious relish, gloriously one-sided.
He couldn’t see them all, but he could picture his Izvoshra as they fought—Amagi with his modified blaster firing in rapid, devastating bursts, Zaebar swapping with ease between his paired Lig swords and the scattergun Asilal had gifted him for his name-day, Kashbaru crushing thoraxes and lopping off heads with his bludgeoning, duranium-headed middu and brute strength behind its blows, Levantis moving like a dancer as he disarmed and disabled his enemies with swift, certain stabs of his reed-thin Lig blade. Jindra he could hear behind him, wielding her dual blasters and cleaning up the messes he left.
And, oh, he made a mess.
He was not standing at the helm of a starship, delegating retribution to beams of plasma with a flick of his wrist. Neither was this the place for his Outland, for remote, aloof headshots and clean kills. This was as much an outlet for his fury as it was balm for his splintered soul, as close to anything resembling joy as he could prise from the jaws of the beast that had locked onto him and dragged him clawing into dark depths. Every screaming memory—every crushing wave—every new shot to the heart as life gamboled on and abandoned him in that blue-dripped cave and swirling red waters—all of it he released in a firestorm, paying the Huk their due in bloody lustration. With his Lig swords he carved a path from bowels to bridge, splitting carapaces and spilling green fluids, violently inverting jointed limbs, severing just enough to leave dangling ligaments and wet, gurgling screams in his wake. Many he left alive, writhing and broken. Those he killed met their deaths piece by tortuous, ravaged piece. They cried out in their rattling tongue, coherent enough for him to know that they, in their agony, begged him for a swift end.
He laughed.
It was something like laughter, at any rate. Much like his cathartic violence, the sound escaped in short bursts, a paroxysm less fueled by pleasure than by the sheer, wild fever of fulfillment.
No horrifying flashes in his mind’s eye. No heart-dropping memories dragging him down.
No wallowing. No misery.
Not weak. Not empty.
He felt alive.
Through the bridge viewport, an exploding Huk starfighter backlit the frantic efforts of officers to learn how dire the situation had become.
“Our other gunships are reporting similar incursions, sir!”
“According to security holos they’ve found the turbolifts; they’re headed this way, dozens of them!”
“Do—do we inform High Command...?”
“No!” shouted the commander from his post, incensed but clearly floundering. “No, that won’t be necessary! We are perfectly capable of preventing a shuttle full of stupid beasts from—”
With a bang and a splatter, the Huk commander slammed against the viewport, his lurid green brains forming a halo on the transparisteel behind him.
It wasn’t long at all before Kaleesh warriors dispatched and replaced every crewmember on the bridge, with Jindra hastening over to man the helm and Qymaen working his way up to where the commander had been standing a minute earlier.
“The gunship is ours, Khagan!”
“Orders?”
With his enemies dead at his feet, the battle rush should have faded and granted him focus, but instead Qymaen hovered over the commander’s corpse, shoulders heaving, chest burning, pulse a muffled roar in his ears, Lig swords trembling in his grasp, phantom insects marching over every inch of his scaled skin. His thoughts scattered like a pakozri herd, stampeding over one another.
Good good that was easy too easy no just the first step take control and take the planet kill them all kill them quickly they’ll be coming they’ll send more ships but we’ll capture them or destroy them we’ve done it before and we’ll do it again we just did it need to move the kolkpravis and now we have three gunships four gunships no leave one here three gunships to use for transportation unless one of the cities down on the planet is housing a large transport shuttle but if we bombard them no we’ll have to take cities on the ground with aerial pressure and that way if there are Kaleesh slaves we can weed them out before but is there time before—before—
“Sir?”
“Khagan, are you...?”
“Qymaen?”
It was Jindra’s voice that finally found him, pitching his name in severe concern and cutting through the sea of static. He flinched, winced against the flashing lights and the piercing klaxons, and realized all eyes had fallen on him.
Staring.
Doubting.
Mortified and furious by their wordless judgment, Qymaen lunged back into command with a snarl and a slammed fist against the transparisteel at his back. “What are you waiting for?” he snapped, flinging his hand up to point at the holotransceiver. “Hail the other gunships! And íb-ku huul, shut off those alarms!” He’d hardly gotten the words out before a handful of coughs spluttered through his lips, residue from his earlier exertion that he caught with his sleeve after yanking his kakmusme out of the way. Strangely, the brief fit served as a reprieve, a moment to disrupt his frenzied state of mind and grind his erratic thoughts to a necessary halt.
“Initiating transmission,” spoke up a warrior from the nearest comm station, eyes darting to Khan Kuuzu for support, who herself hid her worry behind her mask.
“Qymaen,” she started to say again, half-rising from the helm and preparing to take charge if need be.
But he spat on the durasteel floor and approached the holocomm node, refastening his kakmusme to his face. “This is Khagan Qymaen jai Sahuldeem of Kalee,” he jeered at the barren hologenerator, “and this is now my fleet. Power down your weapons immediately. Surrender control of your gunships to my warriors and order your fighters to land on the planet’s surface, and you will be granted a swift death.” He paused, then, in an almost droll punctuation, added, “Do you need a translation?”
A crackle and a shiver of blue filled the space above the generator, followed by a cheerful and familiar voice: “Uh! Amagi here. We’ve got control of this ship—just—think someone shot the node, here, can’t get a clear projection up and running, heh!”
Jindra wilted in relief.
Amagi’s response also seemed to serve to relax Qymaen further, defusing his histrionics and reducing him to a few final internalized coughs that gently wracked his upper body as he stared up at the holotransceiver. “Ah. Well. Good work.”
“Got your message, though. Pretty sure their starfighters aren’t going down without a fight. Guess we should just shoot ‘em?”
A slow nod, a slackening of bunched shoulder muscles. “You’re probably right. Stand by for further instructions.”
“Got it, Qy. Amagi out.”
“Khagan, we’re receiving another transmission—”
“Hello, Sahuldeem!” A fresh holoimage of Kashbaru’s broad bonemask and wild hair abruptly dominated the projection area, suggesting he had inadvertently fiddled with the magnification settings. Qymaen took a reflexive step backward and blinked incredulously as the Grendajuin Khan plowed on with verve that rivaled Amagi. “You will be pleased to hear all of the Huk on this starship are dead and that your cousin the Khan Statziga is now in command!”
“Yes. Thank you, Khan Karabbur.”
Emboldened by the diminishing tension and his Khagan’s stabilizing mood, another warrior spoke up. “Khagan, the Huk have flagged which starships are theirs.”
Qymaen turned away from the holotransceiver, expression hidden by his kakmusme. “Oh?” he said mildly, then startled everyone within earshot with a brief, choked laugh. “How thoughtful of them.” He gestured, dismissive. “Have our fighters withdraw. Fire when ready. And connect me to Khan Nemur on the captured base.”
While all three gunships opened fire on the now-fleeing Huk starfighters, Qymaen waited, arms folded behind his back, for Dalibor’s projection to appear. “The gunships are ours. Once all of the Huk fighters have been destroyed, send a pair of our starfighters to make a pass over the closest Huk city to assess their defenses. The Namireen will remain with you in the meantime in case the Huk dare send more forces to contest you. I don’t expect it, not yet; they would be bold to immediately rally and send another fleet after what just happened. We have time. The rest of us will return within a day with fresh troops.”
“Yes, my Khagan.”
Jindra waited until Qymaen had finished dispensing orders before, with a cautious wave, flagging him down. He approached, and, as well as she knew him, she could see his movements and poise denoted that whatever inner turmoil had seized him during this mission still persisted, brewing beneath the ostensibly placid surface, threatening to erupt with sufficient provocation. She kept her voice soft and even, praying she wasn’t about to provoke. “Question for you, Qymaen. But first...are you sure you’re all right?”
He folded his arms and peered down at her, utterly closed-off, stubborn as ever. “Why wouldn’t I be all right?” Then, with a hint of impatience, “What’s the question?”
Fine. Not the time to push him. She swallowed a sigh and explained, “We know the Huk are capable of entering hyperspace with these gunships; that’s certainly how they got here today. We haven’t really had the opportunity to explore hyperdrive technology—we haven’t needed to travel such distances—but don’t you think that’s something we ought to look into, if we plan on following the Huk to their other colony planets? We’d be able to transport the kolkpravis much faster.”
He considered, then shook his head firmly. “Not worth the risk. What if we made a miscalculation trying to learn more of this technology? From what you’ve told me, it’s unpredictable and dangerous, traveling through hyperspace in this region. Why bring lightspeed into the equation when we’re barely able to operate these gunships ourselves without it? We can’t risk destroying what we’ve worked so hard to capture. If there’s a way to test how to use these—” he fumbled the Huk loanword, likely because he despised vocalizing their language “—hyperdrives without piloting a ship ourselves, and if someday we have enough ships that we can spare one or two for these tests, then maybe we can consider it in the future.”
Jindra felt a sad smile tug at her lips; to hear him express any amount of restraint should not have been as heartening as it was. “Of course. Sublight it is. We wouldn’t want to endanger Kaleesh lives just to cut down on travel time.”
Qymaen shrugged, a stiff motion. “We have analyzed the star charts. It’s only ten hours each way from Kalee to Abbaji Minor. Eleven days to reach Oben. Twenty-three to Tovarskl. I’m not concerned about speed, as long as we have the strength to take these planets. And soon enough,” he turned back to the bridge viewport, gesturing to the curve of the planet’s luminous sphere, “we’ll have this one.”
—
In H’tlak’zlk City, the governor spoke again before his holocomm node, the thrust of the conversation fraught with even more panic than a day earlier.
“This is a disaster! Two starfighters flew over the city—scouting us. There is only so much H’tlak’zlk City can do to defend itself if you don’t send us more ships or troops!”
Likewise, the projected Yam’rii was in a far greater state of stress. “After losing twelve fighters and three K’tahak-class gunships, do you really think High Command is simply going to send more ships?” she demanded. “Heads are going to roll for this, governor, and until we figure out whose , I would not expect any forward momentum.”
“Are we so expendable that the Imperator would sacrifice citizens to spare his soldiers?! The Kaleesh are going to take H’tlak’zlk City. They are going to kill us. We do not, I repeat, we do not have sufficient forces to protect ourselves!”
“High Command is investigating the situation and will respond accordingly once we understand the magnitude of the threat. There may be a third, more powerful party involved.”
“Either you don’t understand what’s happening here—or you choose not to believe it—or you’re trying to cover it up! We know what happened on Kalee, ma’am. If the Kaleesh take H’tlak’zlk City they will seize control of Abbaji Minor. They will wipe out every colony on the planet. No prisoners. They’ll take it all: our ships, our weapons, everything!”
“Impossible. The Kaleesh lack the means nor capacity to capture Abbaji Minor.”
“They’re doing it right now! They just captured your three kriffing gunships! We need the capital ship sent here, before it’s too late!”
“High Command will not spare such resources at this time.”
“Then you are dooming us all!”
“We are looking into the matter. Thank you for sharing your concerns, governor,” snapped the projected official. “That is all. Command out.”
The governor stared at the blank holotable, his outrage and disbelief sinking into deep, nauseating despair.
He knew Kaleesh, though he personally had never been to Kalee and observed them in their native habitat. The slave beasts were inferior to the Yam’rii in almost every way—smaller and weaker, with yielding scales, simple, front-facing eyes, tusks no larger than mandibles and claws far less effective than saw-fringed blades—but, by the Devourer, were they tenacious. Even the females and juveniles did not submit as quietly as propaganda would suggest, not without the aid of shock collars and intensive discipline. The adult males could be downright vicious when given the opportunity, though, as far as the governor was concerned, this too remained no more than cautionary hearsay from those who had borne witness to such violence, whether the rare owners of male slaves or refugees from Kalee who had fled before the fall of the planet’s colonies.
Were the Kaleesh perfect slaves? No. Valued for their sheer numbers, perhaps. Their worth as a seemingly endless supply of laborers served as a bonus alongside their other profitable qualities, such as their fine red leather, their powdered tusks and soft, delicious spawn. All of these things, for so long, had made the decades-long rebellion mounted by the Kaleesh worth the staggering amount of time, effort and resources the Yam’rii poured into the colonization of Kalee.
But then they started losing. No longer mere setbacks or inconveniences, but entire military bases scorched and salted, settlements wiped of life. And even as it happened, there were those who denied the severity of their losses, who refused to release holofeeds to the public lest they see the full magnitude of the destruction the Kaleesh wrought on Yam’rii colonies. So desperate they were to cling to the image of the primitive, inferior Kaleesh; so loath to acknowledge their own failures. The home planet watched as Kalee fell apart—High Command and the Imperator and the rest, so far removed from the fringes of their own empire—and twisted the frightened mass exodus into a deliberate withdrawal, claiming the planet Kalee had outlived its merit and that the Yam’rii interests lay on other colony worlds. Attempts to downplay the sheer military prowess of the prevailing Kaleesh were met with holofeed leaks and eyewitness accounts that could not be immediately located and silenced. When the governor of H’tlak’zlk City learned what had truly happened on Kalee, he began to wonder if Abbaji Minor wasn’t one of the colony worlds into which the powers-that-be would pour their interest. Abbaji Minor had always been a hub for trade in this star system, after all, and a prolific source of lumber and carbon.
Now he no longer needed to wonder.
Of his fate, he was certain.
The Kaleesh were here. Abbaji Minor was abandoned.
The capture of the Yam’rii colony worlds had begun.
Notes:
Yeah, I have to make the Yam'rii stupidly arrogant for this all to work. And have I mentioned how much I dread writing about spaceships and space battles in this Star Wars fic? :')
Also worth noting: boy HOWDY I have no idea how fast sublight speed is, but I have to imagine it's still a lot faster than anything we IRL can hope to achieve (in space, I mean; in a planet's atmosphere, I figure it's more comparable to actual aircrafts n' such). Meanwhile, the maps make it look like there are NOT any major hyperlanes around Kalee, so I was forced to reasonably headcanon that you have to be ballsy as heck or have really good navicomputers to dare make jumps in that region...and the poor Kaleesh just don't know enough about technology yet to deal with that aspect of space travel. It was a weird problem to run into, realizing the Kaleesh have to be able to travel to different star systems reasonably quickly but also avoid them utilizing hyperspace (and realizing they kinda needed to discuss it)...so...yeah, if the "calculations" seem off in terms of time/distance/etc., sorry, I researched what I could and hand-waved the rest!
...Anyway, it's Star Wars, right? It's the Jedi way to hand-wave things.
Chapter Text
38 BBY
Year Twenty-Four of the Huk War
The Battle of Oben
“Get to the escape pods!”
“Our shields are fried, we don’t have much time!”
“Hurry, hurry!”
The durasteel floor bucked as the Namesda suffered yet another blast of turbolaser fire, and this time an audible explosion reverberated through the gunship’s corridors. Lights erupted in glistering sparks as the power surged and failed, plunging the interior of the ship into ominous blood-black shadows illuminated only by auxiliary generators. Zaebar, at the back of the group and frantically urging crewmates ahead of him, staggered sideways, falling against a wall and almost entirely losing his balance. A hand caught his arm and pulled, hauling him upright and back amid the funnel of fleeing warriors.
“The Khagan would kill me if you didn’t make it out of this alive,” Asilal said breathlessly, maneuvering through the crowd. “Please stop gambling with both of our lives.”
“We need to get as many men off this ship as possible, not just us!” Zaebar spluttered in indignation as he was spirited to the fore of the group. “And I swear to the ancestors, if my cousin has said anything to threaten you I’ll kill him myself—!”
A clacking of bonemasks shut him up, an abrupt embrace that yanked him forehead-to-forehead with Asilal. He found himself staring directly into intense orange eyes.
“This is why I love you,” was the brisk reply, though no less fond or sincere for its brevity. Taking advantage of Zaebar’s startled silence, Asilal shoved him stumbling toward the nearest airlock. “Now get in the escape pod.”
From the bridge of the flagship Namireen, one could see the battle unfold: a whirl of starfighters in such numbers they resembled the swarms of gnats that gathered in the watering holes of the Ausez Steppes; gunships from both sides skimming the perimeter of the fight and teasing the edge of the gravity well of the planet Oben below, its otherwise darkened surface webbed with strings and pockets of city lights; and, the devastating centerpiece, an immense ship the likes of which the Kaleesh had never witnessed before, many times the length of a K’tahak-class gunship, as large as a city in its own right, armed with weapons proportionately more powerful and wreaking havoc on the Kaleesh fleet.
Khagan Qymaen jai Sahuldeem peered through the bridge viewport with narrowed, hateful eyes as the capital ship continued its steady bombardment of the Namesda until, with a final flash of vivid green turbolaser fire, the gunship erupted into a blinding fireball. Qymaen swore, his hand flying up in a reflexive attempt to shield his eyes against the explosion, but the ghostly afterimage burned itself in his vision, taunting him of his failure.
“Khagan Sahuldeem,” reported a warrior from his station, “the Namesda has been destroyed!”
Qymaen rounded on that particular warrior, freely lashing out. “What do you think I’ve been looking at?! Do you have anything to tell me that I don’t already know, or would you like to be removed from the bridge, as your presence here is clearly redundant?”
The warrior flinched, shrinking away from his Khagan’s fury. “Th-the escape pods—all of the escape pods were launched before its destruction—they’re heading for our camps down on the planet!”
Another warrior chimed in from a comm station, “Khagan, we’re receiving a transmission from one of the escape pods; the Khans Statziga and Zigan survived.”
Qymaen was already stalking to the holotransceiver. “Patch me through to our remaining gunships immediately.” The moment a comms officer hollered confirmation of the transmission, he began to issue brusque orders. “Bentilais, Levantis, Amagi. Shuttles, we need shuttles. We are going to find a way onto that monster of a ship. It has its own hangar; if they can fly starships out of it, we can fly in. Bring warriors who are familiar with starship controls, as many as you can transport. Jindra will remain in command of the Halamgul; Bentilais and Levantis, appoint who you will to take charge of the Ibdamza.”
Amagi’s image wobbled and stepped out of the holoscanner’s range as Jindra pushed in to replace him, clearly distressed. “Qy—Khagan, you can’t be thinking—I mean, we can’t possibly capture a ship of that size and hope to be able to fly it without—”
“We aren't going to capture it. We are going to destroy it.”
Her voice grew even more agitated. “Qymaen, this is far too risky! Please reconsider! You're going to get yourself—!”
He had neither the time nor the patience for this. Not when the ship was actively in the process of dismantling his fleet. Not when she spoke to him with such bold familiarity that his companions normally reserved for him behind closed doors. “Khan Kuuzu!” he snarled. “Shut your mouth and return to your post before I reconsider your role in this war!”
The holofeed snapped off and then reverted to display only the looming figure of Bentilais, leaving Qymaen a beat to acknowledge that the Halamgul had deliberately cut the visual feed on their end—though not the incoming transmission, as that would be sheer idiocy—and a flicker of guilt mingled with his shuddering, scale-crawling frustration. He had not missed the way Jindra recoiled at his harsh words.
But he didn’t have the time or patience to worry about that, either.
Instead, he addressed the stoic face of Khan Sk’ar. “These orders are for the warriors we leave in control of the gunships in our absence. While myself and the named Izvoshra are infiltrating the main ship, all three of our gunships along with half of our starfighters will engage in aggressive-evasive maneuvers and hold the ship’s attention. They are looking to destroy our fleet; they will be desperate to land a shot on you. Do not allow it. Never stop moving, and stick close to the ship. Harry it like birds mobbing a dravzu hawk. They will have difficulty using those turrets against you from that distance. Once I have given the signal, each gunship in turn will make a strafing run across the top of the ship, and then you will put as much distance between yourself and the ship as possible without leaving Oben’s orbit. Is that understood?”
The projected figure of Bentilais bent in a slight bow. “Understood, Khagan Sahuldeem. My brother and I will see you soon.”
“Yes, Khagan,” chimed in the uncharacteristically terse voice of Amagi.
On the bridge of the Halamgul , Amagi switched off the holotransceiver with a brisk tweak of his wrist. It was several seconds before he spoke in a low voice, still quite unlike his typical demeanor. “He didn’t need to yell at you.”
Jindra, standing aside and visibly shaken, having removed her mask to wipe at her eyes, nevertheless shook her head and composed herself. “He...he’s not thinking clearly,” she murmured. “You know how upset he gets.”
After a quick glance to see that most of the bridge’s occupants were busy with other matters, Amagi removed his own mask and stepped around the node to pull Jindra close, nuzzling her forehead. “Well, that’s no excuse to upset you .”
“No,” she agreed, holding him tightly and soaking up his protective kuu-lir, “but it makes me worry about his judgment right now. Amagi. Don’t do anything stupid on that ship. Don’t let him do anything stupid. Please?”
He blew a rueful chuckle through his nostrils. “Wish I could make that kind of promise. Qymaen probably won’t listen.”
“I-I don’t know if you should go, then. I have a bad feeling about this.”
He drew back and stared down at her, surprised. “We have to stop that ship somehow , Jindra. I don’t know how else we’re gonna do it. Even if Qy’s being a bit of a—um—hulbek , he still knows what he’s doing. He was the first Kaleesh to take out a gunship. Maybe he’ll be the first to take out whatever that thing is.”
She held his green gaze, pleading. “Help him however you can, but get out of there if you need to save yourself.”
“Ga kushlal,” he said with a sad smile, “you know I won’t run away.”
Resigned, she went up on her toe tips to press foreheads once more. “I know.”
“I love you,” Amagi stressed gently.
“I love you, too. Please be safe, and may the ancestors protect you.”
Within minutes, Amagi had gathered a small squad of warriors to join him in a docked shuttle that he himself piloted; Bentilais and Levantis did the same, squeezing into the passenger cabin with the rest of their men; and Qymaen, dropping away from the Namireen at the controls of a lone starfighter, gazed out at the fiery trails of escape pods and debris from the Namesda streaking through the atmosphere toward Oben’s night-blue surface, and wondered how it had come to this.
To call the Kaleesh takeover of Abbaji Minor easy would be a misnomer. Disarming, more accurately. The speed with which the kolkpravis rolled over the planet and stamped out the sparse Huk population was offset by the immediate aftermath of establishing their own presence on Abbaji Minor and all that entailed. It was a multi-month endeavor, far more complex and intensive than anything Qymaen wished to endure, given his general aversion to presiding over non-military matters, but if there was anything he had learned over years of ruling Irikuum and Urukishnugal, it was how to properly delegate. Appointing clever yet unambitious people to deal with less interesting matters was second nature to Qymaen, who, despite having less of a personal hand in the migration of Kaleesh to their first colony world, had mastered the art of receiving credit for successes concomitant with his military victories. He was Khagan Qymaen jai Sahuldeem. Kalee was safe because of him; Abbaji Minor was theirs because of him. When the first Kaleesh emigrants left behind a particularly devastated territory of the western continent and made their new home in one of many hollowed-out Huk settlements of Abbaji Minor, one of the first things they did was erect a statue of their beloved Khagan in the center of the city. When independent merchants and smugglers made their tentative return to the star system and did not find their usual Yam’rii clients waiting for them, representatives spoke on the Khagan’s behalf to demand trade agreements. With the resources gathered from Abbaji Minor and allocated by those who answered to the Khagan, the Kaleesh finally began to repair the damage that their home planet had been dealt for a full generation. The slow but steady march of success owed its due to Qymaen and his stratagems.
But success did not deliver universal happiness. The capture of Abbaji Minor left the leaders of the kolkpravis with a lingering sense of paranoia and dread as they wondered when the Huk would finally organize and launch a counterattack. A small but vocal number of chieftains on Kalee expressed disgruntlement with the Khagan’s impulsive decision to take the kolkpravis on the offensive, arguing they would better serve Kalee by remaining onworld and protecting what they had rather than risk incurring the inevitable and exacerbated wrath of the Huk. The logistics of controlling Abbaji Minor and managing the space between their two planets proved challenging for the Kaleesh, unversed as they were in such matters on an interplanetary scale, compounded by their struggles to grasp offworld technology and terminology through the limited lens of the Yam’rii civilization with which they were most familiar.
And then there was Qymaen.
Still broken. Still trapped in the dark. Still trying to fill the emptiness.
Much of his time was split between his forces on Kalee and on Abbaji Minor, organizing the kolkpravis for the next step in their conquest of the Huk colonies, sending small scouting parties into the Oben star system and then beginning the discreet transfer of troops when, at first, it had appeared Oben was as poorly defended as Abbaji Minor had been. A serviceable distraction, but, spread out over the course of many months, it was hardly enough to keep what haunted him at bay. After the initial invasion, there was no fighting. No outlet.
Thus, in his free time he sought other diversions, what little he had found that could fill him, even briefly, with sensations worth having and that which would only rarely trigger those harrowing, waking nightmares that flooded his being with too much sensation. The sakigur that came with the birth of Kishar and Shahulla had comforted him for a time, leading him again and again to the harem with requests to hold them or simply watch them sleep, but not even that could last before buckling under his certainty that they, too, would be lost to the darkness. He bedded Vykalla until she bore a clutch of another two pups whose scent brought him as close to peace as anything he had felt for months. Still, it wasn’t enough. It wouldn’t last. He needed more.
So he took more wives—three within the year.
Nights spent at the Khanagal with his new wives left them moon-bellied with children and afforded him no more than the ephemeral, carnal indulgence of their encounters. It was not quite pleasure, what he shared with them, but when they lay together, tangle-limbed, awash in kuu-lir and breathless with urgency, it came close. And, when he would wake in the dark of the night and find himself nested beside a face he barely recognized and could not summon the capacity to love, he would slip from his chambers and pace the night away, sometimes attempting to quell his disquiet with a glass of something intoxicating, just enough to relax his nerves and allow him to rest.
But amid the arrival of multiple clutches of pups came the news that something had happened on Oben. One of their troop-bearing shuttles had not made it planetside like the rest, and their forces on the ground detected an enormous, unfamiliar shape beyond the exosphere. It had not taken long to learn that the Huk had at last sent their fleet, headed by an impossibly large ship mounted with weapons that his experts identified as turbolasers, and which he was warned were far more effective than laser cannons in breaking through deflector shields.
He had dismissed their warnings and brought almost his entire fleet to bear, knowing that if he did not stop the Huk fleet at Oben, it would surely head for Abbaji Minor and Kalee next.
And now the Namesda was gone.
As he sat in the cockpit of his starfighter, the creep of hopelessness numbed his chest and drowned his mind with bleak thoughts.
Failure.
Things were going too well.
It never lasts.
You’ll lose this fight like you lost the first siege on the main colony.
This time you’ll lose everyone.
You can’t save them.
You’ve already failed them.
Weak.
Here, he had no wives to distract him with their kuu-lir; no pups to sweeten his senses with sakigur; no wine or zigmash to soothe his pain and settle his sickened heart.
What he did have seethed and threatened to erupt like lava, molten fury burning his lungs and pounding in his ears as he piloted his craft directly toward the one place where he could release it all in a welter of bloody destruction and rectified failures.
He would fix this or die trying—and even if he fell, gods knew he would tear down as many filthy Huk as he could before the end.
“Probably wishful thinking to suppose we could trick them into thinking these ships belong to them, eh?”
Amagi’s wistful voice disrupted the hot furor of Qymaen’s thoughts, reminding him he was not in this alone. He fumbled for the comlink controls. “I—yes. No. We can’t, not again. Move in, all of you. Be ready to open fire.”
The capital ship stretched before them, the full expanse of the massive hangar bay filling the viewports of their smaller crafts. The opening swam with faintly blue energy, a treacherous glimmer. An urgent, unfamiliar voice came over comms, the pilot of the Kaleela brothers’ shuttle.
“Khagan, there appears to be a shield blocking the entrance!”
“But we know they can launch ships from this hangar,” Amagi jumped in. “Do they lower the shields when they fly through the opening, or is that shield just to keep the air in?”
“Let’s find out.” Qymaen dipped his fighter into a dive, hurtling toward the opening.
“Kh—Qymaen, wait!”
He ignored the horrified shout, too immersed in a battle rush to care about anything beyond his own giddy desire to wreak his wrath upon the Huk. He didn’t quite laugh as his ship passed through the blue barrier, which proved perfectly and harmlessly permeable, but he huffed, a thrill of derision; leave it to the Huk to employ such an ineffectual shield. His starfighter’s ion engine screamed in protest as he entered the hangar at an absurd speed for how abruptly he attempted to bring it to a halt on the durasteel landing pad. Perhaps, he had a wild moment to consider, if he’d been a better pilot, he might have landed with more grace. But even Qymaen was forced to admit his constitution had disinclined him from spending as much time at the helm of starships as he ought, and his fighter hit the ground bouncing and sliding in a terrific clamor.
The brutal impact crumpled the starfighter’s wings and folded the cockpit into a distorted, smoke-clogged trap, a claustrophobic press of metal that pinned a wheezing, briefly panicked Qymaen against his seat. As he clawed around for anything that might free him, his palm found the ejection lever and pulled hard. The cockpit’s canopy sprang open on a hinge and, with a whoosh , his seat propelled itself through the top of the fighter—which was incidentally pointed sideways. Momentum launched Qymaen further than the skidding pilot’s seat, rolling him several meters along the floor. Coughing, still somewhat disoriented, he rolled until his knees were under him and lurched himself to his feet, yanking his Lig swords from their sheathes, dizzily taking in his immediate surroundings. A bevy of startled Huk engineers and security officers, likely summoned to the hangar to investigate the commotion, stood in a semicircle around himself and the ruined starfighter.
He twirled his blades and fell upon them.
By the time the two shuttles safely landed and expelled their passengers, he had already killed most of the Huk who had been foolish enough to remain within blades-length. White cloaks flashed as his Izvoshra moved to join him and finish off the rest.
“It looks like you’ll be needing a ride later,” Bentilais remarked, indicating the totaled starfighter.
“We’ll worry about leaving if we live through this,” was the brisk reply as Qymaen stamped on the carapace of a dead Huk, anchoring it in place to free one of his swords from its thorax.
“Live through this?” Levantis echoed, not a little scornful. “You almost didn’t live through that. What were you thinking, flying right into that barrier without knowing if you could pass through it?”
“We didn’t have time to sit there and wonder,” Qymaen shot back.
“You could have been killed!”
“And would you have been disappointed, Mazani?”
Amagi noisily cleared his throat and hefted the large leather bag slung over his shoulder. “We need to find a place to plant these explosives. Somewhere critical if we want to damage a ship this big.”
“Of course you brought explosives.” Despite it all, Qymaen’s voice carried a hint of amusement before his attention swiveled back to the Kaleela brothers. “Bentilais, you go with Amagi. Take half of the warriors from each shuttle. Find—” he faltered “—somewhere critical, yes. Amagi, I trust your judgment.”
“Engine room? Core reactor?” Amagi suggested with a bit too much enthusiasm.
Bentilais unsheathed his Lig sword, a broad blade as impressively oversized as he was. “I’m sure we will find a suitable place, Khagan.”
Qymaen’s eyes flickered as they passed over the huge Khan’s slighter brother. His tone flattened out. “Mazani, with me. And the rest of the men will join us.”
“Where are you going?”
“The bridge. Even if we can’t hope to bring a ship of this magnitude under our power, we can remove that power from them.”
Blaring klaxons drowned out the skittering march of Huk soldiers as they rushed through a wide hallway on the capital ship. Oscillating red lights threw their shadows dancing across the corridor walls. Orders blasted through the intraship comm, the amplified audio signal clipping as the voice shouted to be heard over the alarms. “Kaleesh warriors have been spotted outside of the hangar bay! Security cameras are being destroyed in that sector, so report any visual contact with the enemy! We are dispatching forces to eliminate them immediately!”
A rather small, meek Huk holding a datapad in fully-fingered hands poked his head out of a room. He watched the soldiers pass with a nervous exhalation from his spiracles before cautiously stepping out into the hallway.
“Well, this is a kriffing mess,” the Huk mumbled, just before claws found a handhold in the gaps of his exoskeleton and yanked him backward into the room. A narrow blade pressed to his throat, carving slightly into chitin.
With his heels stretched, Levantis stood as tall as the diminutive Huk, and he leaned his bonemask close to a horrified, multifaceted eye. “Don’t move,” he spoke in withering, word-perfect Yam’rii. “If my blade slips, it's your own trembling that will have done it.”
“How did you get in here?” whimpered the Huk, eyes rolling wildly to search what ought to have been empty quarters. His answer lay on the far side of the room: a ventilation grate, broken loose from the ceiling, being followed at that very moment by a second Kaleesh intruder who dropped to the floor and stood glowering from the corner.
The thin blade cracked deeper, drawing a straight line of green. “You’re no soldier, but you bleed just as well. Tell us the most direct path to reach the bridge and we shall allow you to escape this ship with your miserable life.”
The Huk ceased squirming even as his panic reached its peak. “Don’t kill me! Please—turbolift, there’s a turbolift, right at the end of the hall! Take it up six levels, you can’t miss it!”
“Six levels up the turbolift at the end of the hall,” repeated Levantis in Kaleesh, and then shoved the Huk away, back toward the door, swapping to the Yam’rii tongue. “Go, before he kills you.”
Huge eyes goggled in shock before the insectoid turned on his spindly legs to scurry to freedom.
Two blades snapped.
Qymaen peered coldly down at the beheaded Huk, then over at Levantis, who himself appeared to be neither surprised nor bothered by this development. “That was a lot of talking. What did you say to him?”
Levantis cast his gaze back at the rest of their warriors, slipping one by one through the vent shaft opening and crowding as quietly as possible into the small, dim room, then turned to Qymaen with a pensive inclination of his head. “I’m surprised you haven’t learned Yam’rii yet. I have educated myself in multiple languages that may yet prove useful: Yam’rii, Bitthævrian, Delephran, Basic. I would be willing to teach you when we aren’t embroiled in an active warzone.”
With a dismissive snort, Qymaen stalked ahead, leading the way out of the room. “Pah. I don’t need to learn the tongues of my enemies. I cut them out.”
Eyes lidded in thinly-veiled judgment, Levantis fell into step behind his Khagan. “As you say.”
—
Out in Oben’s exosphere, the three remaining Kaleesh gunships and a number of their starfighters continued to harass the capital ship per their Khagan’s orders. Occasional volleys burst forth from giant turbolaser batteries, but the gunships’ movements, despite their size, were too unpredictable to track with the slow-moving turrets. Smaller Huk crafts had joined the fray, but the battle’s proximity to the capital ship prevented reckless engagement, resigning both sides to an aerial ballet.
Jindra, on the command deck of the Halamgul, knew this dance couldn’t last forever. Peering fretfully out of the bridge viewport, she caught herself on the waist-high lateral barrier as the ship rolled to avoid a risky blast from a stray laser cannon. Then she leaned in.
“They’re losing altitude,” she blurted, waving over the nearest warrior. “You see that? The ship’s moving toward the planet at an angle, almost like they’ve lost control or cut their engines. I think the gravity well has them.”
“Khan Kuuzu, they’ve stopped firing, as well,” observed the warrior.
“Any communication from Khagan Sahuldeem?” she demanded of the nearest comm station.
“Nothing yet.”
Her hand slipped into a hip pouch and fiddled with her personal comlink—the one for direct communication with the other Izvoshra—but she decided against reaching out. Who knew what sort of precarious position they might be in? No risks. “Stay with the ship,” she said instead. “Something is happening. I’m sure we’ll find out what it is soon enough.”
—
Bodies scattered the bridge of the capital ship, delineating the path the Kaleesh had cut from the outer blast doors to the helm. Warriors quickly pulled dead Huk aside to commandeer consoles and stations; Levantis stepped to the side of the settling tumult, cleaning his Lig sword with a handful of his spattered cloak; and Qymaen, sheathing his own blades, moved to the fore of the command deck, staring out at the planet that filled the viewport.
It was night on this side of Oben, its surface star-dotted with Huk settlements. He had not yet been down there, relying on intelligence reports and holoscans from forward scouts and the limited ground forces who had only recently landed. Heavily populated by the Huk, more so than Abbaji Minor, but similarly lacking in military installations. Not as wet and tropical as the rainforest planet, but fertile, stable, with several regions composed of rolling grasslands ripe for the cultivation of crops and for grazing livestock.
Kalee needed Oben.
“Khagan, we’ve been locked out of the navigation systems! We can’t access steering, and it looks like the aft control cells have been deliberately drained. We’re being pulled toward the planet!”
What ought to have come as a dire warning entered one ear and left the other a blessing in disguise. Qymaen’s voice lifted, full of fire. “Send as many warriors as we can spare to man the turbolasers. Slaughter any Huk who stand in the way.”
“Yes, sir!”
This is it.
You can take it.
Will you ever have a chance like this again?
“When we gain control of their turrets,” he continued, “target the planet’s surface. Any city within range, ideally the largest. Divert power from shields and engines to weapons. Maximize damage. Use everything this ship has.”
Levantis looked up from his sword with a perturbed grimace under his kakmusme, but a hiss of static from his side jerked his attention downward.
“Khagan? Brother? Come in!”
Levantis answered his comlink tersely. “Bentilais?”
“Levantis. We’ve managed to plant several explosives and can detonate them remotely when the time is right, but Khan Ku’liana—he’s been badly injured. He needs medical assistance, now. Should we retreat? What’s the situation?”
A nauseating knot was beginning to form in Qymaen’s stomach, a dense, squirming sensation that sent a chill of needles up his gullet and down his spine to his flushed face and tingling extremities.
Not now.
It always falls apart.
Weak.
Failure.
No.
NO.
Not this time.
Levantis was in the midst of replying, “The ship is no longer in their control but it’s out of our control, as well. You need to—”
Qymaen could barely even feel his own comlink in his hand as he harshly cut Levantis off. “Go. Return to your shuttle and leave the other for the rest of us. Get Amagi off the ship. We’ll follow you soon. Get out of here.”
“Understood, Khagan. Khan Sk’ar out.”
Levantis lowered his comlink, incensed. “Sahuldeem, we need to leave now. This ship is falling out of orbit. It’s headed straight for the planet as we speak.”
“Good. Then we won’t miss,” Qymaen growled. “I will not waste this opportunity.”
“We don’t have time for this—”
No time.
Do it now.
“Status?!” Qymaen shouted over his shoulder to the frantically toiling warriors behind him.
“We have a target, Khagan,” rejoined the warrior who consulted the targeting computers. “A large city—at least three times the size of Urukishnugal—big enough for millions of Huk to live there. As—as soon as we hear that our gunner crew is in place, we can send them the target coordinates and open fire.”
Pay them back in fire.
Qymaen stood so close to the transparisteel his kakmusme practically rattled against its surface. His equilibrium swayed as the ship began to pitch forward to a perceptible extent, forcing him to curl his toes to seek purchase, tightening the tangle in his gut until it ached. Shivering with anticipation, bloodlust and the sickening, awful dread he would admit to no one, his thoughts raced, a scramble for cool logic in a mind aflame.
If they had defeated us here they would have taken this ship to Kalee they would have bombarded our cities from orbit this is what they deserve this is how we take the planet all it takes is one blow one powerful blow one city millions of lives Huk lives they are only Huk lives worth nothing they are nothing the rest will tremble and fall this is your best chance pay them back dearly for what they have done to us for what they have taken from me they took her from me they took you from me when I left you on the beach they dragged you bloody to the sea—
Her cloak, clenched in his wet hands, heavy with seawater.
Clawing for her, screaming her name, over and over.
“Khagan Sahuldeem?”
“Lug huul, Sahuldeem! We can’t waste any more time with this! Let’s go!”
“Khagan, sir, the gunners are in place and the turbolaser batteries are at maximum charge. What are your orders?”
He surfaced from crushing waves and emerged dizzy on the bridge of the capital ship. His hands were still wet, a disorienting detail that helped ground him as soon as he realized how it had happened—he’d clenched his fists so hard his claws pierced his own palms and slicked them with blood.
He blinked up from his hands and looked out at Oben, his vision drenched in red.
They deserve this.
For what they did.
For Ronderu.
“Leave only fire and ash,” he choked out.
The gunner’s fingers hovered over a screen, hesitating, preparing to relay coordinates to the waiting gunners. A mere brush of his fingertips was all it would take. “Confirm target?”
“Open fire,” Qymaen rasped.
Levantis couldn’t understand how time had accelerated from a standstill to lightspeed in an eyeblink. The Khagan had stood trembling before the viewport, staring at nothing and ignoring his underlings’ pleas for his attention, Levantis’ demands that they retreat, anything ; and now it was all hurtling, not unlike the ship, towards a cataclysmic decision he was increasingly certain Sahuldeem was not in the right mental state to make.
So, with a decisive stride, he rushed forward and grabbed the confused warrior’s wrist before he could touch the console screen and deliver the coordinates. “Wait,” he uttered. “Just wait.”
Qymaen whirled, cloak fanning. “Did you hear me? I said fire.”
Levantis did not release the other man’s wrist and glared in defiance. “Stop and actually think about this. You’ve seen what these turbolasers can do. Almost nothing in that city will survive a bombardment. No one.”
With a snarl, Qymaen sliced his hands through the air, half a shrug of disbelief, half a swooping, violent gesture. “Exactly! They are our enemies! Do I need to remind you of what they have done to us—what they have taken from us? They are all monsters, and I will see them all destroyed.”
“Our people!” Levantis shouted, anger and panic seizing his words and spinning them beyond the boundaries of his typical composure. “Don’t you see?! Our people are down there, Sahuldeem! In a city that large, there must be Kaleesh slaves! There could be thousands! You’ll burn them away with the Yam’rii! You can’t do this!”
Perhaps the Sheelal would have hesitated.
Perhaps the Sheelal wouldn’t have even been on the bridge of the capital ship, poised to unleash his wrath upon five million lives in a single, terrible instance.
But the Khagan Qymaen jai Sahuldeem screamed, “Sacrifices will be made, and if you continue to defy my orders, you can burn with them! Now, FIRE!”
And, in the instance of frozen, stricken shock that followed, Qymaen stormed over to the console, shoved Levantis and the warrior out of the way, and slammed his bloody palm down on the screen.
Another shuddering moment passed.
The turbolasers blazed bright green and enormous bolts of energy lanced down, firing again and again with a beat between each blast, pummeling the targeted region for a solid minute before the weapons began to overload and reduce their own rate of fire in self-preservation. Even at the current altitude of the ship, having barely encroached the thermosphere, Kaleesh aboard the bridge stared down at Oben and could see the beams of green bloom into red-orange flares on the surface of the planet.
Qymaen’s feet carried him across the command deck back to the viewport, his tread made unsteady by the angle of the tilting ship, until he reached the transparisteel and put up his bleeding hand to brace himself. From there he watched the bombardment unfold, unable to see the destruction but imagining it in graphic detail—the air itself igniting, the earth splitting, buildings crumpling and melting, bodies incinerating—a flaming crater, vaster than anticipated, the blighted mirror of his soul.
He reveled in it.
For a glorious minute, the pain was no longer his to bear alone. It was down where it belonged, consuming those who had earned it; a wreak of furious vengeance that blazed as beautifully and terribly as the sun; piercing through the darkness, through the heavy fog, through the thresh of the blood-black waves, the plunging sea that had swallowed her, the blue-glimmed cavern that had betrayed him; irrefutable evidence contrary to the loathsome voice in the back of his mind that tried to convince him that he was weak—worthless—a failure.
It was enough to make him laugh.
He had done this.
Who else but Qymaen jai Sahuldeem could have had the strength to do this?
—
“Get us out of here and dock with the Ibdamza—or, no, any of our gunships, it doesn’t matter which one!”
“Yes, Khan Sk’ar!”
Bentilais thumped his way into the passenger cabin, crossing from the boarding ramp to the far end of the rows of bucket seats in a few long strides. In the space between the furthest seat and the ladder that led to the cockpit hatch, he took a knee and quickly but carefully eased the limp body of his fellow Izvoshra from his shoulder to the floor, lying him flat on his back. Amagi stirred and tried to move about, but his cloak had been wrapped soundly around his body, pinning his arms in place, crumpled up in a messy, red-soaked ball of cloth.
“Be still, Ku’liana,” Bentilais rumbled, removing Amagi’s kakmusme and loosening his collar before grasping that bloody wad and leaning his weight into it. “We must keep pressure on your wound. Just breathe. We’ll get you to the medbay, where there is bacta.”
“Wha...what happened…?” Amagi asked in a thin, confused voice.
Bentilais considered lying, or at least softening the truth with a deflection, but in case his comrade did not survive his injuries, he didn’t want his last communication with him to be marred by dishonor. So, maintaining pressure and summoning the calm assurance that had secured him his beloved status in Kaleela, he explained, “You’ve lost an arm to the Yam’rii, and you are bleeding a great deal. I wouldn’t worry about your arm: I’m sure you with your interests are familiar with the offworld technologies that can restore lost limbs with metal and wires. We’ll have a replacement made. Your blood loss is of greater concern right now, but as long as we reach the medbay soon, you’ll be fine. Please don’t move and keep taking deep breaths.”
Judging by Amagi’s blank stare and washed-out face, he registered little of what had been said to him. “Okay,” he said with a shiver, so Bentilais instantly shrugged off his own cloak and draped it over Amagi from the waist-down. After a few seconds, Amagi’s eyes slid shut as his head lolled to the side.
“Ku’liana,” Bentilais urged, patting the side of the his face. “Try not to sleep. If you sleep I worry you won’t wake. Amagi,” he added, more sharply, hoping a more familiar term of address would help anchor him in the moment. “Hold on. It won’t be long, now. Khan Kuuzu is expecting you back. Don’t leave your wife widowed.”
Amagi blinked himself awake and mumbled, “How did you know...she’s...wife…?”
“You are bound together, aren’t you?” Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted movement through the nearest viewport: the shuttle was easing through the hangar shield and began to accelerate back out into space, thrusters burning to propel them clear of the planet’s gravity well. “Neither of you have spoken about it, but I always assumed.”
“Qy...doesn’t know…”
“Why doesn’t Sahuldeem know?” Bentilais asked, just as interested in keeping Amagi conscious as he was in this odd revelation.
Decidedly more alert, though still speaking through shallow breaths and wincing pain, Amagi struggled to explain himself. “W-we had...ceremony. Private. Years ago, but didn’t...tell. Too soon after...we...we didn’t want to…upset…”
“Upset?” Bentilais frowned. His understanding of the Khagan’s relationship with his original Izvoshra was at best limited, but it seemed, at least, that they had all been close at one point. Friends, even.
“We...we’re gonna tell him, someday...but...still...don’t think he’s...don’t think we should...not yet.”
“Shouldn’t he be happy to hear that his friends were married?”
Amagi released a sad, shaky sigh. “Not sure...anything...makes him happy.”
Green light poured through all of the viewports of the shuttle. Bentilais flinched, freeing one hand to guard his eyes from the intense flash, a moment too late, but it was shortly succeeded by another flash. Then another. More followed.
“What the…”
“What...what’s going on…?” Amagi tried to crane his neck, but his position denied him a clear line of sight to the nearest viewport. “Ship? We...blow it up…?”
“I don’t think so.” Bentilais maintained pressure on Amagi’s wounds with one huge fist and scooted as far as he could toward the sliver of transparisteel. “The big ship’s weapons are green.”
The shuttle banked, granting him a better view. The huge ship was intact, if listing dangerously toward the planet. Oben rolled into sight below.
Bentilais stared, trying to process the magnitude of what unfolded before him.
Shock struck first, breathtaking.
Then awed concession and grudging admiration, as an artist might look upon the work of a more successful counterpart, recognizing talent where it was due.
His comlink spluttered to life as his brother hailed him on their private channel, his hushed, frantic words confirming what he had already suspected—that Levantis was not the sort of man to condone this level of destruction. “He’s utterly mad, Beni. He—he’s obliterated an entire city, the whole region is on fire—millions, in an instant—this—he shouldn’t have done this.”
Of course Levantis couldn’t have done it. He preferred his words. He might have contacted the Yam’rii in the city that now burned and threatened them with such action; demanded surrender, evacuated Kaleesh slaves and Yam’rii offspring, appropriated food and supplies; and then he’d be happier to demolish the rest of the city and its inhabitants.
No, this brazen act was the doing of the Khagan. He had done what even Bentilais wasn’t certain he himself was capable of doing.
Prickling needles swept up and down his body in a hot, unsettling wave—a sting of curious envy.
If this didn’t warrant assurance of godhood upon Sahuldeem’s passing, he couldn’t imagine what would.
Maybe he already was a god.
—
In a patch of space few had bothered to hear of, a capital ship rained death on millions of souls before it exploded, fiery debris breaking off the main structure as it reduced itself into perfect firework fractals, cascading through the planet’s atmosphere like an aftershock of its own orbital strike. The Kaleesh pressed their advantage, poised to take the planet.
On the other side of the galaxy, something stirred in the darkness—or perhaps it was the darkness itself that stirred.
It sensed a tremor in the Force.
A flicker, a quaint curiosity on the edge of Wild Space.
Not an ally.
A pawn, perhaps.
The darkness turned cold, hungry eyes on what it had sensed in that far-distant patch of Wild Space, but did nothing more than watch.
And wait.
One day, something useful may yet come of it.
Notes:
PHEW. Maybe not the longest chapter in Part Three, but a DOOZY.
Phew.
Just as a heads up, I recently started a new job and am dealing with all the extra stress/chaos that entails. Going to do my best to stay on track with posts and updates, but be forewarned that things might slip here as I adjust! (plus the holiday season doesn't help lol) Sorry if any typos/errors pop up in this chapter, I had less time to edit than I'd hoped. x_x
Chapter Text
36 BBY
Year Twenty-Six of the Huk War
“Qymaen?”
The concerned voice cut through sickly grey-yellow skies and hip-high, rust-red fire-grass like blaster bolts, and his disproportionate flinch suggested he’d been struck as violently as he’d been startled. His hand twitched halfway to a comlink that wasn’t there, prepped to respond to a call that hadn’t come, and several blinks later found him seated where he’d been for the past hour: on the balcony of the Urukishnugal Khanagal, soaking in the late afternoon sun, sharing tea with Tilmun zas Shapra and Nulahu zas Mungazi.
It was Nulahu who had spoken. Barring the members of the Urukishnugal Guard who stood against the inside wall of the adjoining chamber, this was a private affair, and her tuugmusme lay folded on the table for the time being. “You seemed far away,” she observed, a gentle smile on her lips as she strived to make light of what she and her brother had just witnessed.
Qymaen recovered from his disorientation by snatching up his mug, grimacing as the lukewarm, insipid beverage filled his mouth. At least it served its purpose of grounding him. “I apologize,” he said stiffly once he’d managed to swallow the tea down, too formal for kin. “I was thinking about the Tovarskl campaign. But—what were we talking about?”
“I mentioned the colony worlds,” supplied Malga Shapra. His tired eyes, shrewd with old age and decades of well-honed insight, watched Qymaen closely. “It is not unreasonable for your mind to have wandered to Tovarskl.”
Wandered, hah. His mind plunged like an orbital bombardment to the surface of that accursed planet at the slightest reminder of their seemingly interminable siege. Even he had to admit the campaign had shredded his last failing nerve like no other aspect of the war had thus far; that was, at the behest of his Izvoshra and the request of his family, the reason why he presently languished here on Kalee, instead of guiding his kolkpravis to victory on the fire-grass plains. Zaebar had insisted on taking his leave at the same time, almost as if he didn’t trust Qymaen to remain on Kalee without someone there to monitor him. Yet distance did little to mitigate his fretful preoccupation with the war, and it seemed not even a pleasant visit from Nulahu and Malga Shapra could distract him for long. He growled into his mug, the sound darkly resonating. “Tovarskl will be ours. It’s just taking longer than I’d hoped. More heavily fortified than their other colony worlds. More Huk overall. Practically a second home planet for them. But we will take it. It's just—” He broke off with a frustrated exhalation, full of gravel. “Their largest city is impenetrable. Those blasted shield domes. Can’t break through. Can’t reach the generators. We’ve been trying and failing for months.”
Nulahu reached to place a supportive hand on Qymaen’s forearm, a fond, measured gesture that nevertheless found tensed muscles. “Try not to worry about those things right now, Qymaen. You are on leave, at your home, surrounded by family. Your Izvoshra will handle the war themselves for a little longer. You have at least another week before you return to the front, don’t you?”
Qymaen extricated his arm from her touch, averting his sullen eyes. “I’ll leave as soon as...as Siduri has given birth.”
“If Malga Sarabdu does not mind sharing his duties, would you like me to perform the blessing and naming ceremonies?” asked Malga Shapra.
Qymaen set his mug on the table and pushed it away, half-full and tepid. How he wished for imported honey to make the drink more palatable, but there had been a lull in offworld traders visiting the Kalee system as of late, and such a trifling luxury was not practical to reserve like other necessities, not even in the Khanagal. With his attention so concentrated on the Tovarskl campaign, he hadn’t much time to look into the matter until his prior two weeks of leave, and so far the fruits of his inquiries yielded no more than confirmation that offworlders had not communicated with Kalee or any of its colony worlds in a solid month. Not quite an emergency—in Qymaen’s mind, hardly a concern when weighed against the kolkpravis’ woes on Tovarskl—but he instructed leaders on Kalee, Abbaji Minor and Oben to escalate efforts to make contact with the merchants and smugglers who had failed to adhere to their shipping schedules. A soft hem from the Malga regained his focus, and he offered a listless shrug. “If you haven’t grown weary of Urukishnugal and returned to Irikuum first, then yes. Yes, I suppose so.”
“It’s certainly not as quiet as Irikuum,” remarked Nulahu. “I’m not sure I could get used to it enough to live here. But it’s a strong city, Qymaen. You’ve taken good care of it, as well as you can under the circumstances.”
Qymaen’s gaze drifted out over the vast urban sprawl—over the muddy banks of the Shumiv’za, whose waters had somewhat stabilized in the past three years since the Huk’s departure and the cessation of planet-wreaking bombardments, but at much lower levels than healthy for the annual floods—over the still-yellowed gardens, struggling to bloom in a permanently damaged ecosystem despite the ministrations of hopeful Kaleesh. Perhaps another day he might have preened at her praise, and relished what of Urukishnugal stood against the ravages of the war. Today, he felt his stomach contract and collapse in on itself, a sensation not remotely improved by how little he’d convinced himself to eat that day. “A lot has changed,” he mumbled at length, not trusting himself to speak further to her sentiment.
The elder siblings glanced at one another, inviting the other to shift the subject. In the end, Malga Shapra took the reins. “Siduri, you said? Is this her first or second clutch?”
Qymaen scrubbed his face with one hand and hummed a long sigh, pausing to recollect which wife Siduri happened to be. “Her second. She bore four pups in her first clutch. I hope she’ll have as many this time.”
“How many children do you have now?”
He drew himself up slightly as a seep of sakigur, sweeter than offworld honey, pooled for a cozy, contented moment in his core. “Twenty-two.”
“So many!” Nulahu exclaimed in delight. “Though I suppose that’s to be expected when you have nine wives.”
“Ten,” he corrected her impassively.
“Oh! Well, I will have to stop by the harem and meet them all, your wives and your little ones. When the fighting stops and you can spare time to visit Irikuum, you must bring your children to see the village where their father grew up.”
The moment evaporated. “When the fighting stops,” Qymaen repeated, the words failing to sink into anything more meaningful, trapped on the surface by blank incomprehension.
“After you take Tovarskl,” she clarified. “That’s the last of their colony worlds, isn’t it? Once you take Tovarskl, the war will finally end. This could usher in an era of peace the likes of which we’ve never seen. Kalee will be free to thrive and prosper. The colony worlds will grow. You will be able to do what you please—remain in Urukishnugal, return to Irikuum, settle on one of the offworld colonies, enjoy life with your family—become an elder-father, ancestors willing...”
When silence followed for a few too many seconds, Malga Shapra spoke up again, clearing his throat as if clearing a path. “The sun grows heavy in the sky,” he announced with grace, pushing out his chair and rising to his feet, a movement Qymaen reflexively mirrored. “We made arrangements to meet with Zaebar for the evening blessing and take our meal afterward, so I’m afraid we must excuse ourselves if we don’t want to keep him waiting. We’ll be staying with him for the next few days; if you do wish me to conduct the ceremonies, send word when Siduri is ready for her birthing.”
“Thank you for the refreshments, Qymaen, and for sharing your time with us,” added Nulahu, patting his arm a few too many times when he stiffly but politely provided a brace for her as she stood. “I know you’re still worried about Tovarskl, but I hope you can find some peace tonight. Just think of the peace that’s soon to come.”
“It was good to see you both,” he intoned, a phrase rote in its lack of warmth.
Malga Shapra motioned for his sister to go on, and as the members of the Urukishnugal Guard moved to escort her off the balcony and out of the chamber, he stepped close to Qymaen, peering up into his dubious eyes. Before Qymaen could question his appraising stare, or look away, or retreat, the Malga laid his palm on his forehead, as if preparing to impart a blessing.
Qymaen winced, but held still. Quiet. Quizzical.
“I remember a time, not so long ago, when a little boy would come to my hut with questions, hoping for answers. He always wanted to help those who could not help themselves, and he wanted so desperately to do what was right. What was just. What was honorable. I granted what guidance I could—everything I had learned from the ancestors, in all my years of serving and honoring them—and, most of the time, the boy listened.” A ghost of a smile flickered and flattened. “I have heard what has happened offworld, Qymaen. I wish I would have heard it from you, or from Zaebar, but instead I’ve only heard stories. Stories I hoped were the aggrandized accounts of those who do not know you as anything other than a story, yourself. Stories which, if true, belie the heart of the little boy who commanded his village and his horde with tremendous honor.”
Qymaen took a step backward, jerking his head away as if the Malga’s hand had burned him. “I’m no longer that little boy, Malga Shapra,” he said crisply.
Malga Shapra's arm fell, as did his expression. “And I fear you no longer have his honor.”
Qymaen met this with a snort of mirthless laughter, but turned his back on the Malga, gripping the balcony rail. “Oh. It’s easy to be righteous, isn’t it,” he said in a low, strangled voice, “when you believe the ancestors actually have anything to say about anything we do?” He laughed again, hunching over a light cough. “Honor? You’re worried about honor? I wanted your guidance when I didn’t know any better; when I didn’t know what needed to be done to fight back against an enemy as cruel as the Huk. But I learned. I learned. The Huk have no honor. The Huk deserve none of my honor, or my mercy. I owe them nothing but death. And your ancestors have nothing to do with the destruction the Huk have inflicted on our people—nothing to do with what I have done and will continue to do to stop them from doing anything like that ever again. I am the one saving Kalee; not the ancestors. Don’t,” he seethed, “lecture me about what is or isn’t honorable. I don’t care what your ancestors think. I don’t care what you think the ancestors think. I do not care.” He gestured over his shoulder, a dismissive flick at the air. “Enjoy your evening blessing, Malga Shapra.”
A long, slow exhalation followed. Qymaen refused to look at the Malga—he didn’t need to see him to feel the weight of his immeasurable disappointment and sadness—but his ears picked up the soft shuffle of feet on shellstone as Malga Shapra moved away. Finally, his tremulous voice murmured, “I will pray to the ancestors that you may find it in your heart to care again, Little Sheelal.”
His old name registered several seconds too late. By the time Qymaen turned to glare, to snap, to renounce, Malga Shapra had already left him alone on the balcony.
—
When Qymaen couldn’t sleep, he found other ways to occupy his troubled mind.
Often this meant seeking a distraction with whichever wife currently occupied his bed, if she herself had the energy to accommodate.
Frequently he wandered the halls of the Khanagal, pacing around in his silken robes with no destination in mind until his weary legs led him back to his bedchamber for the respite they’d earned.
Sometimes he accosted an attendant and ordered a sleep aid, subjecting himself to the noxious sedation of zigmash he despised as much as he savored, risking mind-numbing emptiness for the sake of a few hours’ slumber.
And occasionally, when sleeplessness struck and sent him spiraling into a sea of anxious, clamoring thoughts, he found a private room and poured himself a glass or two of Kaleelan wine, sipping until he lulled himself into a restful state, whereupon he could finally crawl back under his bedclothes, full, mellowed and warm.
The night following his visit with Nulahu and Malga Shapra, Qymaen left his newest wife in bed and took a bottle of wine to one of the Khanagal courtyards, settling on the stonebrick rim of a burbling fountain to drown his thoughts in a deep glass.
Tovarskl came first. The campaign. The frustration. Cloud-thick, discolored skies churned with starships and blaster fire over the vast fire-grass plains where ground troops clashed. Shimmering deflector domes towered and taunted. What was the solution? From how many angles could he approach the problem before he exhausted all possibilities and still failed to break through the shields and destroy the last of the Huk’s city-strongholds? If they could only position their gunships directly over the settlements, but no: too many anti-aircraft cannons, and too many ground vehicles and guard towers to ward off a ground approach to disable those cannons. He’d have to move in more ground forces. What forces? The majority of the kolkpravis had already been transferred to the fire-grass planet; those who remained on Kalee and the colony worlds he did not dare remove for risk of vulnerability. They had nothing else at their disposal. Nothing more powerful than their gunships. Nothing that could penetrate those shields from a safe distance.
Nothing like Oben.
Qymaen blinked green flashes out of his eyes, drained his drink and poured another.
Malga Shapra was an old fool if he still believed honor could be extended to the Huk in any capacity. He’d witnessed too many of their atrocities, trawling the remnants of Huk settlements in the wake of conquest. He’d seen the malnourished slaves with their filed tusks, clipped ears and haunted eyes; he’d seen the slaughterhouses and adjoining tanneries and processing facilities, where red-scaled hides were piled and strewn, where tusks, both whole and ground to powder, filled pressurized containers; he’d seen warehouses full of provisions, and within them abandoned coolers stacked with recently-preserved tuudbaraa, now spoiled like meat left in the sun, the pups within long dead.
So he offered no honor. No mercy. He slaughtered soldiers and civilians alike, collecting their exoskeletons for chitin armor and their arms as trophies. He razed cities to fragments and built Kaleesh communities on the ashes. He took no prisoners, and those who tried to surrender he executed and had dropped en masse into enemy bases. He found Huk hatcheries and broadcasted holofeeds on every Yam’rii channel he knew of his warriors setting egg sacs ablaze. He sent messages like this more often than he allowed his Izvoshra to know, pledging to follow his enemy from world to world, promising their destruction, giving them a face to fear, a name to echo in hushed, frightened whispers, a nightmare to haunt their sleep.
Sahuldeem...or Kummar?
His thoughts danced away from that hot coal, and others skittered in to take their place as he took another heavy draught of wine.
Like Nulahu, his Izvoshra seemed to think the end of their conflict with the Huk was nigh, that it would all stop once Tovarskl came under Kaleesh control. Their conversations were littered with references to “life after the war”; so ready to celebrate a victory they hadn’t yet earned.
Life after the war. Whatever that meant.
Well, no. Qymaen knew what it meant for some of them.
For Dalibor, it meant returning to the sea. For Kashbaru, it meant reuniting with his family and resuming his duties in Umauna. Jindra and Amagi gushed on and on about establishing a dedicated institute for reverse engineering and reconfiguring Yam’rii technology to develop something the Kaleesh could call their own, and spoke more quietly about what their private life might entail in the coming years, having abandoned the secrecy of their union and holding a public ceremony—as if Qymaen hadn’t already known they had been bound together within months of that day —surely galvanized into action by his own failure to bind himself with his aladurmash before it was too late.
When it’s over. After the siege next month. When we win—because we will win.
His own naive words surfaced and swirled with a tattered cloak in black, salted waves. He choked and spat up a mouthful of brine, but what dripped from his tusks and dotted his catching sleeves ran red. Not blood. Wine. Sweet, not salty. He salvaged what he could and poured more.
The Kaleela brothers might as well have been a study in opposites where his personal opinions were concerned. Levantis’ contempt was the cost of Bentilais’ invaluable service. Ever since the conquest of Oben, the brothers seemed to have landed on two sides of a feud, with Qymaen standing at the center of it. For as often as Levantis sniped his little misgivings across the war table and cast doubt on their Khagan’s faculties, Bentilais shushed his brother with rumbling, telegraphic counterpoints. The giant Khan set an example like none of the other Izvoshra, following Qymaen’s orders to a fault, and he alone seemed to have caught onto the unspoken conclusion of the Huk War, something which Qymaen himself had yet to express to his companions—that Tovarskl was not the end—that there remained one more world the Kaleesh could take from the Yam’rii.
Qymaen appreciated Bentilais’ stolid support, his calm, knowing glances, his unfailing dedication to the cause. It almost made it worth tolerating Levantis’ condescending insubordination. He’d spoken with Bentilais once about the future of Urukishnugal and Kaleela’s relationship, hinting their good relations might be contingent on the character of its leadership, and to his disappointment the patient and somewhat apologetic response was to direct him to brother. He promised his brother was a competent ruler, and well worth his political savvy should Qymaen need any counseling when it came to the management of colonies or offworld trade.
That had marked the end of that discussion.
When Zaebar and Asilal spoke of life after the war, they rarely referred to their own future, a subject they guarded closely in spite of widespread assurances that they would face no stigma. Their attention focused instead on Qymaen, and what he ought to do. Zaebar seemed determined to alleviate him of as many responsibilities as he could, demanding that he share the burden of leadership and remove some of the weight from his shoulders, culminating in what could essentially be described as a forced leave of absence (one he had convinced the other Izvoshra was necessary for their Khagan’s health). Asilal, not as bold as Zaebar but well-experienced in dealing with headstrong superiors, quietly attempted to influence Qymaen’s decisions with ingratiating words and appeals, but in the end his goal was the same as Zaebar’s. Perhaps, he had recently suggested, when the war is over and you return to Urukishnugal, it would behoove you to appoint a committee of rulers to govern the city. A council, like your Izvoshra. That way you can spend more time with your family. You can rest.
At the time, Qymaen had responded with suspicion. What ulterior motives did these two harbor, in trying to remove him from power? Had years of jealousy finally manifested as something darker in his cousin? Did the former Captain of the Urukishnugal Guard have greater aspirations than he’d let on?
Yet, after his initial misgivings, he wasn’t so sure. The rest of the Izvoshra were quick to latch onto Zaebar’s proposal of their Khagan taking a month of leave. Unless he believed they were all plotting against him, he had to accept that they were simply looking out for his best interests.
And now, hours earlier, Nulaha had reiterated his Izvoshra’s sentiments—urging him to relax, to spend time with his family, to consider what he ought to do with the peace that would follow once the fighting was done.
Life after the war.
What did that mean, for him?
For the wives whose names he floundered to recall?
For the children whose kuu-lir intoxicated him as well as any amount of alcohol, yet whose faces blurred together in a mass of indistinct red smudges?
He stared blearily at the red smudge at the bottom of his glass, struggling to make sense of it.
Struggling to make sense of his children.
What they meant.
What they meant to him.
The emptiness jeered at his efforts, caging his heart in icy fingers, so he filled his glass one more time that it might fill him.
Pointless.
You’ll have nothing after the war.
No purpose. No meaning.
Your strength is this war.
Your legacy is this war.
When it ends, you’ll be of no use to anyone.
Not even your children.
But as these bleak thoughts descended, something pushed back almost as quickly. The realization surged through him in a flush of warmth, an upward swell.
No.
No, you idiot.
They’re your children. The children of the great Khagan. Kin of the Jai Clan, descended from the greatest warriors of the Ausez Steppes.
How is that not your legacy?
You can teach them.
It had been so long since he’d felt anything like this—akin to genuine, exhilarant excitement. Leaving the worst of his thoughts and the empty bottle of wine behind in the courtyard, he stumbled to his feet and swept through the halls of the Khanagal, charged with new purpose.
Minutes later, a handmaiden opened the door to the harem, eyes going wide over her tuugmusme when she saw who had come to visit at such a late hour. “Khagan?” she wondered in a hushed voice.
He flapped a hand, dismissing her. “Go fetch one of my wives. Z...Zena. Bring Zena to the door.”
“Khagan,” she said again, fidgeting as she remained wedged in the doorway gap and blocked his view inside, “you, erm, I must remind you that no man, not even you, are meant to enter the harem after sunset or before sunrise.”
“D’you think I’m stupid?” he snorted. “That’s why I told you to bring her to the door . Hurry up and do as I say or I’ll have you thrown out of the Khanagal.”
She paled, whimpered, “Yes, Khagan” and vanished behind the closed door.
It wasn’t long before it flung open again to expel Zena, unveiled and glowering, positioning herself between Qymaen and the harem door, which she practically kicked shut behind her. “What are you doing, asking for me?” she demanded of him in a loud whisper. “You can’t just come barging in here at this hour; you already picked your wife for the night, so what do you want?”
“I’m not here for you,” was his scoffing reply. “Bring out Kishar and Shahulla. I want to teach them something. I haven’t taught them anything.”
This unexpected turn swapped Zena’s scowl for furrowed confusion. “I—sorry, what? Kishar and Shahulla? You want to…” A quick, bewildered glance over her shoulder, a swift once-over of her husband. “You do know what time it is, don’t you? I’m not going to go wake them up.”
“You will because I asked you to. They’ll be fine. They’ll be happy to be up this late.”
“You didn’t ask me anything; you commanded, Khagan,” she shot back with spiteful emphasis, setting his scales prickling slightly. Zena was the only one of his wives who grew as riled as he did when upset, and more than willing to express it. She had all the fire of Ronderu with none of the love. “In case you’ve forgotten, I’m not one of your soldiers. What exactly were you planning on teaching our children after midnight, anyway?”
“They’re my eldest,” he said, speaking to her as though she were a child. “They should learn first. I want to show them my weapons. ‘M going to teach them about my weapons.”
“Weapons?” If before she was irritated, she was now livid. “What are you—are you mad? Do you really think I’ll let you wave your slugthrowers and swords around our three-year-old children?!”
“It’s a lesson,” he bristled. “Don’t be stupid. I’m not going to hand them my weapons, I’m just teaching them what they are. This is important . Iss—it’s their future.”
She marched forward, willingly putting herself in such close proximity to the Khagan as a Huk soldier would never dare, without a shred of fear. “You are not going anywhere near Kishar with your weapons until he is of age, and there is no reason for you to ever show Shahulla such things. Do you understand me?”
“Do you understand?” he spluttered. Even as he closed the short gap between them, wavering centimeters short of her face, she didn’t budge, a fact that provoked him as much as it baffled him. “Even when the war ends—but if something happens, they—they should know how to defend themselves. They’re my children. The children of the Khagan. They have to learn these things. All of them. They have to! I have to do this, I have to—to—what else am I s’pposed to teach them? S’my legacy!”
Zena fixed him with a furious glare and opened her mouth to argue, but then her nostrils flared. Her expression shifted, the anger settling into resignation and realization, as she pieced together all of the evidence before her—the unusual time, the strange request, the sour smell, and, now that she was paying more attention, his unsteady movements and slurred, scattered speech. “You’re drunk, Qymaen,” she sighed, putting up a hand, pressuring it against his chest and pushing off, just enough to challenge his equilibrium and confirm her suspicions. She retreated to the harem door, shaking her head as she went. “Íb-ku huul. I should have known; you’re being more of an idiot than usual. Go back to bed. I’m sure Ilona’s wondering where you are.”
He caught her arm before she made it further than a few steps, spinning her around and dragging her into a rather sloppy embrace. “Let me see my children.”
She tugged herself free, considerably more tolerant but no less resentful. “No. Get off. They’re sleeping. You should be sleeping, too. We’ll talk about this another time.”
“Tomorrow,” he insisted to her retreating back. “I’ll teach them tomorrow. I will. Don’t need your per—permission. Because I’m Khagan, and I’ll do what I want.”
“Go to bed, Khagan,” she shot over her shoulder witheringly as she closed the harem door behind her.
—
Qymaen sat with his eldest children in another courtyard of the Khanagal, cross-legged on the colorful spray of a mosaic that served as a centerpiece of the surrounding gardens. In his arms he cradled his Czerka Outland rifle, unloaded and as harmless as he could render it, carefully holding it out for display and pointing out its features using simple, digestible words. He explained its function, as well, glossing over the graphic details of the damage it could inflict, but impressed upon them its value as a tool Kaleesh used for protection—a tool he himself used to protect them, and that which they would learn to use to protect themselves.
Kishar, unsurprisingly for a child his age, appeared much more interested in playing with the wrappings on his father’s feet, unraveling them with glee and following the act up with an intense inspection of Qymaen’s toes, complete with babbling commentary.
Shahulla, meanwhile, hung onto her father’s every word, wide-eyed and sitting as close as she was allowed to without actually touching the slugthrower. She wasn’t quite old enough to ask pertinent questions, but, if nothing else, she seemed to understand the importance of the lesson, and pushed at her brother to shush him.
Pride swelled Qymaen’s heart.
Then the world dropped away.
His children vanished.
Blackness remained, a cold, sightless void.
But Qymaen did not panic. He sat in the dark for a moment before, calmly, he set his rifle aside and climbed to his feet, scanning his empty surroundings. A pinpoint of red-orange flickered, perhaps as small as a torch, perhaps as vast as a distant sun, and, captivated, he began walking towards it.
The claws on his toes clicked against metal, and he looked down to behold a durasteel floor. Lifting his eyes again, he found he stood before a viewport. A familiar planet met his curious gaze. Green flashed, and he blinked. The mote of fiery orange in the center of his vision expanded, revealing itself as the surface of Oben, the destruction he’d wrought during his bombardment from the ship he had returned to and now stood upon.
He placed his hand on the viewport and leaned forward, staring down at his victory.
They didn’t like that, did they? A capital ship. Very expensive. You never saw one again after that. Never mind what you made them pay in blood. They couldn’t pay for much of anything after losing their colony worlds to you.
He blinked again, banishing the green, banishing the image of burning Kaleesh slaves from his mind—a sight he had never seen but had well-imagined. He removed his hand from the transparisteel, leaving behind the smeared, bloody print of his palm, and turned away.
Was it worth it?
He took a step and the bridge of the capital ship lurched out of existence as the courtyard had, only now the starry expanse of space flourished around him. He padded forward, one foot in front of the other, one step placing him over Kalee—the next over the blue-and-green swirl of Abbaji Minor—the next back above Oben—and another in the orbit of a planet whose surface appeared dipped in blood.
They ruined Kalee. It will never be the same after the damage they’ve done. But on Abbaji Minor you have so many new things that grow and thrive—on Oben you have space to shepherd and breed—and when you take Tovarskl, you can dig up its veins and bleed out its minerals to buy your people’s comfort and happiness for centuries to come. All you need is Tovarskl.
Another step. The command room of a military base, a holographic terrain map stretching before him, detailing the landscape of Tovarskl and of the nearest Huk settlement. Shield domes dotted the city.
You’ve done so much here. You’re so close. This is their last stronghold. Those stupid shield generators. Too well fortified. But if you push hard enough, you can break through. You can’t hold back, and you can’t wait. One final push, and it ends.
Qymaen stared down at the projected domes. He held his hand over one of them, then slowly pinched his fingers together, as if trying to squeeze the dome until it burst. His claws simply passed through the image.
“One final push,” he mumbled.
Wait. You...you can hear me?
Qymaen jerked his head up, startled and confused. His world smeared like dripping paint left in the rain. “What? Who’s there? Who are you?”
No. No. Tell me who you are.
The wet blur of his surroundings sank, sloughing away to leave behind an impression of the vast, swirling galaxy, a colorful riot of shooting stars and burning suns. He cast his wild eyes left, right, up and down, seeking the source of the voice that was not his own. “I...I...I am Sahuldeem.”
Idiot. That’s just what you feel. That’s not who you are, Sheelal.
With a panicked groan, Qymaen gripped his head in his claws and crumpled, doubling over. The stars shuddered and began to wink out like snuffed lamplights. “What—what’s happening?”
No. Wait. Don’t wake up. Listen to me. I thought there was a chance it might be different, but I can see it now—and they’re coming. The Huk are desperate, so—they’re coming and there’s no stopping it—it’s all going to happen—
“I-I don’t understand—!”
—and look, it’s going to be bad, really bad, but I need you to know—no, no, please don’t wake up—please, not when you’re finally—don’t go—Qymaen—!
He fell to his knees and continued to fall, pitching into the darkness.
—
Ilona dae Zubaru woke with a start to the sensation of her husband thrashing around in the bed beside her.
“Q...Qymaen?” she whispered into the darkness, apprehensive, still not entirely at ease addressing him with such intimacy. This being one of her first nights shared with the Khagan, she could hardly say what was or wasn’t typical nocturnal behavior for him. None of his other wives had deigned to give her much warning beyond the rumors she had already heard before she’d been sent to Urukishnugal: that the Khagan Qymaen jai Sahuldeem was a brilliant warrior with a heart of stone—that he spent more time offworld than he did on Kalee, let alone in the Khanagal—that he preferred slaughtering Huk to bedding his mates. It therefore had not been a surprise on the first night following their marriage ceremony to find the Khagan cool and rather dispassionate in his attentions. At least he was not unkind. She would rather lie with a husband who was indifferent but gentle than someone attentive and cruel.
The previous night had been a bit unexpected, as she had felt him slip from the bed and vanish for multiple hours before he returned, smelling of fermented fruit and wrapping himself around her with far more affection than he’d shown her that first night. Her hesitant queries in the harem that day were met with wry confirmation. Enjoy those nights, she was told, and thank the ancestors for the Kaleela truce.
But this was new, and with mounting concern she realized his rapid breaths carried more than gasps of air, punctuated by sounds of distress.
“Qymaen, what’s wrong?”
His body tangled in the sheets and prevented any wayward limbs from colliding with her, but she hardly had time to cherish that small relief before, with a strangled cry the likes of which she’d never heard escape his mouth, he tumbled off the side of the bed. He thudded to the floor out of sight, wrenching half the bedclothes with him.
“Qymaen!” she called out in alarm, scrambling free of the remaining sheets, rushing around the bed to see if he was all right.
Decidedly not, she discovered.
The Khagan huddled on the floor, rocking and moaning, clutching his head in his hands. Once she’d recovered from her shock, Ilona crouched and stroked his shoulder scales with one hand, quietly repeating his name to see if he was awake or still trapped in his nightmare.
At her touch, Qymaen broke down sobbing.
More bewildered than ever, though her heart ached in sympathy, Ilona wrapped her arms gingerly around him and held him close as he wept. She continued to hold him when he eventually returned the embrace with painful desperation, burying his face in her clavicle and issuing an overwhelming wave of kuu-lir the nature of which impelled her to purr and coo over him like a mother to child. She held him until his sobs subsided into whimpers and ragged breaths, until she managed to coax him to his feet and lead him across the room to his wardrobe.
Once they were both passably dressed—she in a light slip, he in loose trousers and a robe—she ushered him to a chair and went alone to the door, calling for an attendant. From him she ordered a pot of strong zigmash tea; a single cup, she reasoned, might not have been enough to calm the Khagan after his experience (and she would not be adverse to a few sips, herself).
While she waited for the tea to arrive, she moved around the chamber and lit lamps, casting glances at Qymaen to gauge his condition. He had sprawled in his chair, eyes closed, holding his bowed head in one hand, his shoulders shuddering with deep but tremulous breaths. Better. Still disquieting.
“Is everything all right?” whispered the attendant at the door when he returned with the pot of tea and a set of matching mugs. “Should I send for a kojmeda?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Ilona assured him. “I’ll ring for help if anything changes.”
“Of course, Khanin.”
Ilona crossed the bedchamber to place the tray on a nearby table, then poured a mug of tea and offered it to her husband. At length, he accepted, but drank nothing, cupping the mug in his lap as he continued to slump in his chair, ducking his head to hide his expression from her concerned scrutiny.
Tentative, she placed a hand on his scalp. When he didn’t flinch, she applied pressure and ran her fingers down the length of his locked hair, twining individual locks between her knuckles. As much meant to soothe him, it was an indulgence of her own. She loved his hair; the privacy of his bedchamber was one of the only places he let his locks hang unbound. They dangled a path down his back, and, taking their cue, she slipped her hand under the collar of his silken robe and pressed at the knot between his shoulder blades.
He sighed, a brief puff of air.
Ilona was glad to have elicited a somewhat positive reaction at all, given what had happened. Still, as she attempted to massage the immense tension from his muscles, she saw the mug in his lap slowly losing steam. Time to combat the silence. “If you won’t talk to me,” she said gently, “will you at least drink your tea?”
Qymaen didn’t move, but after several seconds he responded, mumbling, “I’m sorry you saw that, Ilona. It...it was shameful.”
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of. Everyone has nightmares—even the great Khagan Sahuldeem.”
To her surprise, he flinched as if he’d been struck. “That...it wasn’t…” He sank even lower, almost trapping Ilona’s hand against the back of his chair before she pulled it to safety. “No. No. It isn’t important.”
She chewed her lip, peering down at him fretfully, then came to a decision. Moving around to the front of the chair, Ilona first rescued the cooling tea to place it aside, then settled down into her husband’s lap, nestling with precision into the crook of his arm. He shifted his weight beneath her, a reflexive squirm seeking comfort, but he made no effort to dislodge her. “I know I’m your newest wife, and we haven’t known each other very long,” she told him, soft and patient. “I hope you can still trust me enough to share your troubles with me.” Carefully, she slipped her fingers beneath his tusks to lift his face and gaze into his pained eyes. “Do you have nightmares often?”
“No,” he said in an instant, strained. “Not nightmares. Or dreams. I don’t dream anymore—not when I’m sleeping. Or...or at least I thought I didn’t.”
“What do you mean?”
His breath quickened as he jerked his chin free of her hand and looked away. “My dreaming died—when she died. After—I never—I haven’t had a single dream since.”
His words raised more questions, but Ilona prudently focused on what was happening now. “But then you had a nightmare tonight? I can see how that would be upsetting.”
“I—I—” he stammered, either unwilling or unable to complete his thought. “I...I don’t…”
“Do you remember what your dream was about?”
“No,” he burst out, his voice breaking down once more under the threat of wretched sobs. “I don’t—I don’t remember anything. But I know it was there. A dream. I had one. I know I did. But—but it’s gone. I can’t remember—what—there’s nothing left. Nothing. Now that I’m awake. Now that I’m—alone… ”
“Shhh.” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and pressed foreheads, holding him tight, trying to still his violent trembling. “Hush. I’m here with you.”
He gulped for air and coughed. “My dreams. I used to—they used to mean something would happen. Something bad. If I had a dream, then something—something…” He shivered, squeezing his eyes shut. “No. No, not anymore. It’s over. It’s meaningless. It’s dead.”
Ilona stroked his hair, genuinely confused. “Qymaen?”
“No. Forget I said anything. I’m done talking about this. I’m done...feeling this. I just...I’m…” With a tremendous sigh, one that crackled around the edges of his exhausted lungs, his taut muscles relaxed and his head lolled onto her shoulder. “I’m so tired.”
Hesitant, she considered pressing him for elaboration...wondering if perhaps the crux of his heartache could be solved by discussing that which he seemed loath to explore...but, wife or not, she knew too little about the Khagan’s personal demons to dare push him any further, particularly when he was already so vulnerable and clearly unhappy about it. She instead gave him a nuzzle, exuding comforting kuu-lir, before retrieving his mug. “Drink your tea, then. It will help you sleep again.”
His hand closed over her wrist as she passed him his tea, and she froze. His golden eyes had snapped open, glaring forbiddingly into her face. “Don’t tell anyone about this. No one needs to know that I...no one needs to know.”
An anxious flutter jumped from her heart to her throat. “I-if you’re sure you’re all right.”
“I’m fine.” He swallowed a mouthful of tea and grimaced. “Just tired.”
And with that, cold walls bricked back up between them, shutting her out. Qymaen passed the next half hour taking morose sips of tea, unresponsive to her meek affections, and when at last they slid back under the hide covers of his bed he maintained a body’s width of empty space between himself and Ilona, lying on his back and glowering at the ceiling until his extravagant dose of zigmash spirited him to sleep. Once his chest rose and fell at a restful pace, Ilona reached out a hand and laid it along his cheek. He didn’t stir.
With a brief prayer to the ancestors to deliver him into a dreamless, untroubled slumber—and a private pledge to inform the Khagan’s other wives of the worrisome behavior she’d witnessed that night—Ilona rolled onto her side and drifted off.
Notes:
An action-packed chapter? No. But we learn a lot.
And they're coming.
Chapter Text
36 BBY
Tovarskl
They were late.
Heavy blaster fire churned the road connecting the two Yam’rii bunkers at the north end of Kyrkthilix, coming to land on the way station situated directly between them. The bunkers themselves were quite well-fortified, a pair of impenetrable monoliths of durasteel and bristling with laser turrets and anti-aircraft artillery, standing in the path as they had for months between the north point shield generator and the forces of the Kaleesh kolkpravis.
But it seemed during this assault the Kaleesh had redoubled their efforts to break through their defenses. The Khagan had returned to Tovarskl, bringing with him several thousand more warriors from his homeworld and the captured colony planets. His presence alone galvanized the kolkpravis, and now he was throwing more firepower at the northern bunkers of Kyrkthilix than ever before, relentlessly targeting the weak spot nestled between them: the way station, which shuddered under the bombardment.
And they were late.
A Huk captain inside the way station ducked aside as a durasteel beam loosed itself from the ceiling and swung to the floor, clipping the skull of a startled soldier beside him. Flattening his back to the groaning wall and staring down at the leaking corpse at his feet, he found his comlink and shouted into it. “The enemy is about to breach the north end of the city! Where are they?! High Command assured us they were due to arrive this morning! If they don’t show, we are going to lose this shield generator within the hour!”
“They’re here! They’re minutes away! Hold your position, defend the generator!”
Distanced from the thick of battle, positioned on a slight rise beyond the contended patch of Kyrkthilix and above his armies, the Khagan Sahuldeem oversaw the efforts of the kolkpravis. Currently, he scoped in on the way station with his Czerka Outland, picking off the occasional, unfortunate Huk soldier who darted outside its walls to make a break for the nearest turret or tank. Another head exploded, and, lowering his weapon in satisfaction, he reached for his comlink to relay fresh commands. “Central brigade, push forward. Force concentration on that way station. Shuttles prepare for vertical envelopment over the bunkers—deploy on my command.”
A new voice cut in over comms, not one of his Izvoshra. “Khagan! Radar operators are reporting from Command Post Buru. They’ve detected a ship entering the planet’s atmosphere. It will be in the airspace over Kyrkthilix in a matter of seconds.”
“What sort of ship?” Qymaen snapped, just as his surroundings deepened with shadows. He jerked his head up and pinned a hand to his head as a huge starship broke the clouds and passed overhead, low enough to send his dulhlava and clan coak lashing in the resulting wind.
He didn’t recognize the class of ship. Not a K’tahak -class gunship, though similar in size. Not one of the larger transport shuttles the Huk used when transferring slaves or evacuating settlements. Certainly nothing like the mountainous capital ship that had exploded over Oben. Neither could it be a freighter belonging to the merchants and smugglers who traded with Kalee. Between the fact that the design and construction of this starship differed so greatly from those he’d ever seen, and that it had decided to put down in an active warzone, he was forced to come to an uneasy conclusion.
The Huk had allies.
Qymaen swapped frequencies and growled into his comlink as he stormed back to the speeder bike he had parked slightly down the incline, keeping a furious eye on the sky. “Khan Nemur! Watch your flank. There’s a new enemy ship and it’s—wait, it’s landing.”
“I see it, Khagan. Huh. Never seen a ship like it before. What do you want us to do?”
“Stay on target, but be vigilant. If they’re landing, they’re likely deploying troops, but it may be a danger if it tries to enter the air again. Looking into it. Be prepared to shoot them down. Khagan out.” He thumbed his comlink again as he vaulted onto the speeder, powering on its repulsors. “Baatar Sumur, have as much of your horde fall back as can be spared, about two klicks out into the plains from Command Post Buru. A ship has landed and it’s safe to assume new enemy ground troops are incoming. I will join you shortly. See who comes out of that ship; it doesn’t look like a Huk craft.”
“Yes, Khagan.”
Still scowling at this unexpected turn of events, Qymaen abandoned his vantage point and sped down the rolling red hills toward the unknown ship.
For the CR70 corvette, landing so close to the battlefront had been a tremendous gamble, but the Yam’rii had insisted, promising that the Kaleesh were too single-minded in their targeting of the city to immediately fire upon a strange vessel as long as it didn’t outright attack them. So far, this promise held true, and the corvette set down unmolested outside of Kyrkthilix, beyond the Kaleesh military installation from which the bulk of their active forces were organized. However, it wasn’t long before comms alerted them of a welcoming committee in the form of a half-thousand horde of warriors moving to gather in the fire-grass field where their ship had settled.
The passengers onboard the corvette did not fear a confrontation.
Qymaen arrived on the scene, skimming to the front of his forces and dismounting in a flurry of white, just in time to witness the boarding ramp extend and the figures disembark the strange starship. Not military, he promptly discerned, watching the body language of the peculiar trio who descended the ramp first. The several dozen beings who marched down behind the trio moved in loose formation, belying his assumption, but, having dealt with Ennuru and the Urukishnugal Guard half of his life, he suspected they were less soldiers than they represented a defensive unit of sorts—at any rate, not openly hostile. This, he realized, looked like an envoy. With a quick, snapped order to the Baatar to hang back and hold fire, he moved forward and positioned himself prominently, standing tall in his regalia, his signature weapons lashed across his hip and back, intently watching the motley collection of aliens in earth-toned tunics who arranged themselves on the grass below.
Of the three who stood separate from the rest, two of them carried themselves with obvious authority. They dressed similarly, both draped in long, hooded brown cloaks, with what appeared to be an ornamental metallic tube hanging from each of their belts at the hip— or perhaps not ornamental, he speculated, noting how the positioning of those tubes suggested that they could be as easily accessed and brought to bear as a blaster or a sword. If they were weapons, they didn’t appear threatening at first glance, but, Qymaen wisely reasoned, if Kaleesh didn’t already know that blasters were dangerous, they wouldn’t have assumed so by looking at their shape without seeing them fire. There were too many things in the galaxy with which his people were unfamiliar; he felt safe assuming these metal tubes had a use beyond mere decoration.
The third member of the trio was not a person at all, as far as he could tell: a humanoid shape made of bronzed metal who, to Qymaen’s wrinkled nose, smelled no more alive than the starships they piloted or the transceiver nodes they manipulated. Yet here it stood, humming softly just behind the robed aliens, staring at him with unnerving round eyes that glowed with an internal light.
Qymaen’s attention snapped back to the others as they pushed back their hoods. One was a solidly-built, brown-skinned human with sparse, dark hair growing on his skull and an austere expression on his face. Though the Khagan had not often personally dealt with offworlders, he had met a handful of merchants in his day, humans among them, so this was not a particularly curious specimen to behold. The other, though, appeared more like the tokin crabs of Kalee on a much larger scale, sporting five sets of limbs—most of which were dedicated to ambulation, and two sets fished through openings in its sleeveless brown robe and terminating in pincer-like claws—and a face that struck an uneasy balance between humanoid and crustacean, with beady, partly-stalked eyes and maxillipeds dominating its lower face. It reminded Qymaen so much of the insectoid Huk that his scales crawled.
A fetid breeze rustled the fire-grass, carrying smoke and the near-distant clamor of battle from the north end of Kyrkthilix into the midst of their wary standstill.
Jedi Master T’chooka D’oon surveyed the small army before him, dark eyes lingering on the figure dressed in white and red who had stepped forward, and whose presence evoked smoldering embers as he peered at him through the Force. He glanced at the big Viraanntesse to his left, and muttered out of the side of his mouth, “What do you think?”
Master Jmmaar tilted his head, mouthparts arranged in an approximation of a frown. “The Yam’rii claimed he was on the planet, and he does seem to be an individual of high authority. But we cannot be certain this is the warlord-general they spoke of.”
“Either way,” said T’chooka D’oon soberly, “we need to start a dialogue, not a fight. So let’s begin, shall we?” He slowly lifted his hands in the air, palms turned out in a universal sign of peace, taking a few short steps forward while Jmmaar followed suit with one set of pincers.
Qymaen, standing his ground, flexing his claws as he waited for any indication of aggression, arched an eyebrow in disbelief as what appeared to be the two leaders of this band of intruders held up their empty hands in obvious submission. So startled he was by this sight that he dropped his guard and burst out into genuine laughter—a rare sound indeed these days—spreading his arms wide in bewilderment. “Strangers land in the middle of my war, and already they want to surrender to me?” His humor tilted into contempt. “It seems my reputation precedes me!”
Both Masters stopped in their tracks. “TC-23, translation?” Jmmaar asked the bronze protocol droid without daring to look away.
The droid, having mimicked the organics’ posture yet remaining a chary distance behind them, replied, “Er, I believe he is under the impression that you are surrendering to him.”
“Ask him if he is the so-called Supreme General who leads the armies of Kalee against the Yam’rii,” said T’chooka D’oon bluntly.
Qymaen’s derision faded as the aliens traded a babble of words with one another, setting his nerves prickling and his scales buzzing in suspicious anticipation. He was therefore taken completely aback when the metal humanoid toddled forward in its stiff gait, arms still aloft, and called out to him in perfectly serviceable Kaleesh.
“Ancestors blessings! I am called TC-23. Do I have the honor of speaking to the Great Khan of the Kaleesh army?”
Ah. He knew this technology had a name in the Huk language, one he’d heard Jindra and Amagi use many times before and yet which he’d stubbornly refused to speak and thus forgotten the word for—but terminology aside, he knew these constructs served many different functions, and this one appeared to be a translator. Simple enough. He therefore angled himself to the aliens who stood alongside TC-23, disregarding it in favor of those it served. “I am the Khagan of Kalee, Qymaen jai Sahuldeem. And who are you?”
Once the protocol droid translated, T’chooka D’oon looked the Kaleesh general up and down with patent disdain. “Inform the general that the Jedi Order has been tasked by the Galactic Senate of the Republic to end the conflict between the Kaleesh and the Yam’rii.”
“I’ll, er, do my best, sir.” TC-23’s vocabulator emulated the sound of a clearing throat. “Great Khan—ah, Khagan. These are Jedi Masters T’chooka D’oon and Jmmaar. The Jedi have been sent here by the...hrm...offworld government...to make peace between the Yam’rii and the Kaleesh.”
Qymaen froze at the mention of a familiar word, a word that plunged him back into deep-rooted childhood memories, of stories whispered by a comforting voice in the warm dark, spinning tales of elder-kin and their adventures that took place decades before his birth, of his great-elder-mother who fought alongside offworlders in the Bitthævrian War.
Je-dai.
Offworlder demigods who wielded flaming swords and controlled the wind itself.
He stared at the aliens with new eyes, yet now clouded by nostalgic recollections and faltering uncertainty. Those had been good stories . Fantastical, perhaps, but stories of victory and conquest. The Je-dai were the ones who warned the Kaleesh of the Bitthævrian threat—the ones who had brought slugthrowers and other armaments to Kalee that they might defend themselves—the heroes of his father’s stories.
Stories.
His throat constricted around a faint growl.
No.
Don’t be lulled by old stories.
Don’t be fooled by what you wish them to be.
Listen to what they are saying.
See who they are for yourself.
“There will be no peace between the Yam’rii and the Kaleesh,” he snapped at last, bolstered by an immediate murmur of encouragement from the horde at his back. “If the Huk haven’t called you here to interfere, then leave. But if you are allies of the Huk, then I will take great pleasure in destroying you and your pathetic troops.” He pointed a claw scornfully at the task force of Jedi Knights, oblivious to the threat they posed.
“There will be no further conflict, General,” said Jmmaar emphatically. “Under the authority of the Judicial Department of the Galactic Republic, we are imposing a definitive ceasefire, upon which you will enter our custody and accompany us to meet with the Yam’rii representative to oversee the negotiations of an armistice.”
“Oh dear, you want me to tell him that? The Kaleesh language...er...”
“It’s most important that he understands the fighting must stop now,” clarified T’chooka D’oon, not once having removed his stoic stare from the baleful, suspicious glints of gold glaring back from behind the skull-shaped mask of the Kaleesh warlord. “We will sort out the rest soon enough.”
“Ah, Khagan.” Qymaen’s ears pricked up when the metal man addressed him at last, its tone tremulous with synthetic nerves. “The Jedi are telling you to...to lay down your arms.”
Qymaen’s temper erupted, flaring out of control in a white-hot flash. “Us, surrender?!” he snarled. “Who are the Jedi to demand such a thing? This is a fraction of my forces you see before you! You have no power here! You—” His tirade cut off as his comlink chirped for attention, and he snatched it from its pouch without a second’s hesitation.
“Khagan, we’re awaiting further orders—”
“Íb-ku huul! Whatever you’re doing, carry on doing it!” he spat into the comlink before flinging the device angrily to the ground, not thinking too clearly about the damage this might inflict. He redirected his fury toward the Jedi Masters, voice lifting to a strangled shout. “I will not submit to the Jedi—the Huk—this government you speak of—no one!”
His horde cheered behind him, riled up by his animated defiance. The fifty or so Jedi Knights of the task force tensed in readiness.
“The general is not cooperating,” TC-23 informed the Jedi Masters unnecessarily.
T’chooka D’oon’s lip curled. “Tell him that if he doesn’t suspend hostilities, there will be grave repercussions from not only the Jedi, but the Galactic Republic itself. We don’t wish to fight him, but we will do what we must in the interest of establishing a lasting peace. If he chooses to stand in the way of that peace, we will remove him from power...forcibly.”
“Oh dear, oh dear,” fretted TC-23, processors whirring as it strived to paraphrase and translate diplomatically. “Please reconsider, Khagan. The Jedi don’t want to do battle with you, but...hrm...the offworld government will punish you terribly if you do not lay down your arms. And the Jedi will fight you if you insist upon violence.”
“Let them fight me if they dare!” Qymaen roared instantly. “These so-called Masters against myself!” He threw back his cloak with theatrical flourish, deliberately posturing and goading the warriors behind him into a snarling, intimidating storm of approval. “When I win, the Jedi will leave this planet immediately!”
Jmmaar whispered, “You know, if we defeat him in front of his army…”
“My thoughts exactly,” Master D’oon agreed, and, as it was not the way of the Jedi to initiate hostilities, he did not reach for his weapon. However, he twitched his hand in the direction of his hip, knowing full well the warlord was watching his every move.
The Jedi Code did not preclude baiting the enemy.
Qymaen, blood-boiled, battle-ready and itching for an excuse to wreak violence upon these interlopers, caught the movement and sprang forward in an instant. In a few short bounds he closed the distance between himself and the two brown-cloaked aliens, unsheathing his Lig swords and bringing them down over his head upon his opponents in one fluid motion.
He heard the sound before he saw its source: a percussive, crackling hum.
Twin flares of brilliant green nearly blinded him a moment later as his blades landed on the Jedi Masters’ waiting lightsabers.
He had little time to process what his opponents had used to block his swords before he realized the power behind his attack had already failed, and not because the two aliens were pushing back with greater force behind their own strange energy blades.
It was because their weapons were beginning to cut through the kuluha of his Lig swords.
Eyes flying open in shock, he broke off his attack and retreated, leaping backward and swiftly assessing the damage to his weapons. At the sight of two melted notches carving semicircles a finger’s width deep into the kuluha metal, he swallowed a fount of hot fury and cast his swords to the ground before yanking his Outland rifle to bear. No need to peer down its sights; at this distance, he couldn’t miss.
T’chooka D’oon spotted the slugthrower and swiped a hand through the air.
Qymaen let out a grunt of consternation as his rifle jerked itself from his grip and skittered meters away across the dirt. For a wild, baffled moment he wondered if he had somehow managed to drop it himself—but no , never mind the absurdity of such an idea: it had been as though someone had wrenched it out of his hands and hurled it away from him. And yet, his enemies stood well out of grasp.
It was in this state of stupefaction that he wavered, feeling an utter fool, unarmed and exposed, when the hulking Viraanntesse took a step forward and thrust both pairs of those pincer-like hands in his direction, as if pushing against an invisible obstacle.
This time there was no mistaking the correlation as a tremendous, unseen force struck Qymaen in the chest, so powerful it lifted him off his feet and propelled him backward for several meters.
He hit the ground rolling. The stunning impact robbed him of his breath, leaving him wheezing and clutching his ribs as he struggled to sit upright, cloak tangled in his limbs, his kakmusme askew. With blurry vision, he looked up and beheld the two Jedi Masters standing over him, lightsabers pointed at his heaving chest, expressions grim. Through the ringing in his ears he heard an agitated cry sweep through his warriors as they witnessed this shocking development.
How...how had that happened?!
Stories were one thing; to see it for himself, to feel it as their power rolled over him and sent him flying as easily as they’d snatched his weapon from his hands, was another matter.
Offworlder demigods.
The Jedi were speaking to him. More gibberish. He could barely hear it over his hammering pulse, gasping breaths and occasional, sporadic coughs.
“Order a ceasefire now, General, or there will be consequences we would sooner not invoke.”
“You and your army are outmatched.”
TC-23 peeked out from behind Jmmaar’s carapace. “Please lay down your arms, Khagan. Don’t fight the Jedi. They should not be underestimated. Don’t bring destruction down on your people.”
Qymaen clutched his chest and glared up at the Jedi Masters, struggling to catch his breath and regain some semblance of composure and dignity. “What is this power they wield, to disarm and best me without touching me?” he growled, for once addressing the droid. He was beginning to get the impression that the metal construct offered a kinder translation than what the Jedi were actually saying, judging by what he could read of their stoic expressions and hard voices. “That was no fair fight.”
“Er, p-perhaps now is not the time to quibble over—”
The commotion from the Kaleesh horde abruptly came to a head as a rifle shot cracked the air and one of the Jedi Knights crumpled from a slug to the gut.
Chaos descended.
Before the Khagan or the Jedi Masters could react, bellowing Kaleesh warriors surged forward with weapons drawn, firing blasters and slugthrower alike, hurling shoni spears, swinging Lig swords. Blue and green erupted across the rows of Jedi Knights as they ignited their lightsabers and responded to the onslaught in defense, deflecting blaster bolts, cutting through weapons and incinerating slugfire into mists of molten metal. Taking advantage of the confusion, Qymaen grabbed a small blade from a hidden sheath and flung it at T’chooka D’oon, already cursing to himself when he saw how far off he was from his intended trajectory; taking precise shots through the scope of his Outland was not the same as wildly throwing a projectile through the air. The blade found flesh, at least, embedding itself in the thigh of the Jedi, who clutched its hilt with a grunt and buckled slightly. Nothing to do about the huge Viraanntesse but hope he was not faster than he looked. Qymaen scrambled for his rifle, which at this point was his closest weapon, crawling through the grass as warriors charged around him and attacked the Jedi Masters.
As his hands closed around the stock of the rifle, an intense pressure clasped his upper arms and yanked him upward, a jolt so severe he lost his grip. In short order, he found himself propped upright, multiple powerful appendages wrapping around his torso and pinning his arms to his sides, with a blade of green energy poised under his throat.
Jmmaar was much faster than he looked.
The Viraanntesse Master felt Qymaen stop struggling the moment his lightsaber ignited, but continued to hold onto him tightly—not quite enough to harm him, but enough to impress upon him the futility of attempting to break free. Bringing his face to the general’s ear, Jmmaar hissed a warning, though he knew his words would not be understood without TC-23’s help (the protocol droid had been knocked down in the pandemonium, flailing around on its back in the dirt). He prayed the Force would help deliver his message plainly to the Kaleesh general. “Surrender and call for a ceasefire, you fool. We didn’t come here to assassinate you. You can’t want this—we don’t want this.”
Qymaen’s eyes darted around the vicinity, taking in the increasingly one-sided carnage. Once his warriors had spilled into the midst of the enemy task force, the Jedi Knights’ defensive maneuvers became lethal, far surpassing the combat prowess of the Kaleesh at close quarters. War cries traded for shouts of pain and death rattles as lightsabers sliced through bone and seared flesh and scales. His shocked gaze fell upon Jedi Master T’chooka D’oon, who had removed the knife and cast it at the feet of the swarming pack of warriors, now brandishing his lightsaber and cutting blazing verdant ribbons through limbs and worse.
The imbalance was clear. Never mind the immediate threat of a droning blade at his throat: he had no idea how many more of these Jedi there were, inside the ship or potentially in orbit. For every injured enemy there were a dozen dead or severely wounded Kaleesh.
He needed to know more.
“Hold your fire! Stop firing! Fall back!”
His rasping shout barely carried over the sound of battle, but the nearest of his warriors spotted his predicament and retreated, giving Jmmaar and his apparent hostage a wide berth. As he continued yelling orders, they began lowering their weapons, some even tossing them to the ground and holding their hands at chest level.
The protocol droid, upon hearing Qymaen, yelped in Basic, “Stop, stop, he surrenders, they surrender!”
The ceasefire rippled outward, effectively separating each side and reestablishing the gap between each front line, occupied only by Jmmaar, who still clutched Qymaen in his multi-limbed grasp, T’chooka D’oon, who stood panting and pressing his hand to the stain of red on his thigh, and TC-23, who had at last managed to climb to its feet. The fighting fizzled out, and tension filled the ensuing silence.
“I wasn’t left with many other options,” said Master Jmmaar apologetically to T’chooka D’oon.
The human strode forward, limping slightly, his dark, wary gaze fixed on the Khagan. “Don’t release him yet.”
Qymaen tensed his muscles against the Viraanntesse’s hold, testing for any indication that the pressure might relent. Unsure whether the Jedi intended to take him captive or execute him in front of his people, he put on a front of bravado. “Killing me would be a mistake,” he uttered in a low voice. “I have thousands upon thousands of warriors here, and more back on Kalee. You might kill me, but you wouldn’t leave this planet alive.”
T’chooka D’oon waited for the translation, then coolly responded, “There is a capital ship of the Galactic Republic in Tovarskl’s orbit as we speak, General. It can be relocated to your homeworld if we give the order. I believe you are familiar with the concept of an orbital bombardment.”
“Master D’oon,” Jmmaar cut in before TC-23 could relay the threat, trying to emulate his fellow Master’s calm demeanor lest he betray his own horror, “you know we won’t do that. We can’t.”
“Don’t let him realize that,” was the emphatic reply, though not harsh enough to allow the Khagan to recognize from their tones that they might be arguing. “This is the sort of ultimatum a warmonger like him will understand.”
“And if he doesn’t believe us?”
“Then I will convince him to believe us.” Master D’oon did not explain further. He didn’t need to. Jmmaar understood what he meant to do.
“Er, I apologize if I failed to follow the conversation, but what precisely am I telling him?” asked TC-23.
“Tell him about the capital ship; tell him what it can do.” T’chooka D’oon held Qymaen’s resentful glare. “Issue a total ceasefire now, for your entire army, or we will glass Kalee.”
Qymaen listened as the droid translated, narrowing his eyes, until the mention of orbital bombardment upon Kalee.
Then his world flashed green.
For a split-second, he was certain this was his end: the plasma blade at his throat, slicing him into oblivion, for surely there were no ancestors waiting for him, not after their mutual abandonment. Yet the flash of color did not come from the strike of a lightsaber filling his vision, but instead puncturing the black void of space outside the transparisteel viewport before him. His bloody hand pressed against the cool barrier, bracing his weight as he stared down at the planet below. It was not Oben.
It was Kalee.
Every violent, destructive detail he had imagined before—the air itself igniting, the earth splitting, buildings crumpling and melting, bodies incinerating—he saw unleashed upon his people, instead. Not the slaves he’d abandoned to their fates on Oben, but every last soul dwelling in Urukishnugal, Kaleela, Umauna, Sukundar, Agarmesh and all the villages in between. A vivid, harrowing apparition, so like the waking nightmares that hurled him back to the day he had lost Ronderu, like the prophetic dreams he’d renounced after his soulbond had been severed. Beyond the reeling horror of what he witnessed, a voice echoed in the recesses of his mind, whispering and insistent: The Yam’rii would have done this already if they could. They no longer have the means. But this is not the Yam’rii. They have the means. They will do this. And if you do not cooperate, they will destroy everything you know .
It was as if a great chasm opened up beneath his feet, threatening to swallow him. He scrabbled for a handhold, desperate for something, anything to anchor him, but all he found was the darkness and the emptiness that had haunted him for years.
He fell, harangued by a chorus of hissing voices.
Nothing left for you.
It’s over.
Things were going too well.
It always falls apart.
It never lasts.
You would lose everything .
This is how you must save them.
Save them and fail them.
Pathetic.
Weak.
Failure.
And he landed, gasping, back on the fire-grass plains, back into the Viraanntesse’s vise-like clutches, somehow still teetering on the edge of a pivotal decision as if he hadn’t already taken the plunge. Blackness gnawed at the corners of his vision as he found T’chooka D’oon’s expectant stare waiting for him.
No choice.
“What are your terms?” Qymaen asked in a hoarse, hollow voice, more shaken than he would dare confess to anyone.
The Jedi Masters hardly needed a translation to understand the Kaleesh general had decided to yield. Jmmaar’s grip relaxed as he deactivated his saber and T’chooka D’oon nodded with grim satisfaction. “Hostilities on all fronts must be suspended immediately. Recall your troops. Ground your ships. The Yam’rii have already agreed not to attack once you call for a ceasefire; they are ready for peace. Then you—you alone—will come with us and meet with the representative from the Senate of the Galactic Republic and the Yam’rii delegate to discuss the terms of a Yam’rii-Kaleesh peace treaty. They are waiting for us on the capital ship.” He was quite aware this did not align with what he’d earlier instructed the droid to say; even now, he was not providing full disclosure. T’chooka D’oon understood the difference between malicious treachery and justifiable deception, and if ever there was a time to employ the latter, it was in gaining the cooperation of a dangerous, actively hostile warlord with a reputation such as what this “Sahuldeem” had garnered, preferably without excessive abuse of invasive mind tricks.
Only what was necessary.
After a translation and a long, processing pause, Qymaen finally nodded.
“Very good. Declare your ceasefire.”
Qymaen felt the eyes of the warriors of his kolkpravis boring into him, waiting for a signal, trying to understand what had happened to leave him slumped in the arms of the brown-robed alien, and he felt his throat contract along with his pride. He tested Jmmaar’s grip again, and this time the Jedi Master released him. As soon as he was free, he faced the two Jedi, smoothing out his rumpled tunic and leathers, stretching his heels, stiffening his spine and lifting his tusks with as much dignity as he could muster. His hand moved to his hip pouch, and, spotting their flinches and suspicious expressions, he said by explanation, “My comlink.” He realized as he said it that he’d thrown his comlink aside some time ago, and cast his eyes around for where it might have fallen. “My comlink,” he repeated, this time inquiringly, with more urgency.
Once the Jedi understood what he was looking for, Jmmaar, spotting the discarded communicator some distance away, wordlessly lifted one of his pincers and drew it into their vicinity with the Force. It was an entirely unnecessary act for any reason other than as a harmless display of power for the Kaleesh ruler, who indeed hesitated before reaching out to accept the floating comlink. He turned it over in his hand, as if expecting it to have been tampered with or altered in some way, but no—it was an ordinary comlink, retrieved through extraordinary means.
Qymaen lifted the comlink to his mask and accessed the emergency channel, the one reserved for his Izvoshra, the Tarkhans and the Baatar, as well as other major authorities located in cities and bases across Kalee, Abbaji Minor and Oben. “This is Khagan Sahuldeem. Cease fire on all fronts. Disengage. Tovarskl ground troops, return to the nearest base. Pilots, land all starships. There…” His flat voice staggered and hit the wall of an explanation. “There has been a development,” he said instead. “Take no action until you hear further from me.”
“What development?”
“Lug huul, Sahuldeem, what are you on about?!”
“Qy, what’s going on—?”
Hearing the familiar, frantic voices of his comrades triggered panic, and in turn, his temper. “Do not question me! Cease fire!” he shouted into his comlink, all too aware of hands around him springing for weapons and the swift, staccato syllables from the protocol droid setting both sides at ease. But, despite his fevered state, logic prevailed and convinced him to provide some explanation lest his people assume he had been compromised—although, a bitter voice nudged the back of his mind, that might as well have happened. He drew a ragged breath and continued, calmer. “It...it seems the Huk have called for peace between us, and have sent their allies—the Jedi—to...to facilitate. I will go with the Jedi to their ship in Tovarskl’s orbit and explain to them why peace with the Huk is impossible. Without knowing how long this will take, I am transferring command to Khan Statziga in my absence. For the sake of everyone on Kalee and the colony worlds, do not break this temporary truce until I have returned and told you otherwise.” Another tremulous, steadying breath. “Should negotiations become necessary, I will strive to do what is best for our people. Khagan out.”
While TC-23 translated Qymaen’s words to the Jedi Masters to confirm he was not deceiving them, he could hear Baatar Sumur disseminating his commands throughout the horde. He knew rumors would spread as quickly as his orders, particularly from those who had been close enough to see the Jedi’s power and survive their weapons. He could only hope such rumors would underscore the gravity of the situation—and not call into question his worth as a warrior and a ruler.
You’re saving them.
You’re failing them.
Jmmaar, spotting when the clawed hand holding the comlink dropped to the Khagan’s side, scuttled forward a few steps and gestured with multiple arms toward the waiting corvette. “This way, General. We will escort you to the capital ship.”
“But we’re going to need that comlink,” added T’chooka D’oon warily, “as well as any other weapons you might have concealed on your person.”
Qymaen narrowed his eyes at the human’s outstretched hand, held out the comlink, and dropped it on the ground.
“Charming,” muttered the Jedi Master as he turned to lead the way to the boarding ramp. Qymaen fell into step behind him, Jmmaar loomed like a shadow at his back, and TC-23 brought up the rear. A subtle gesture from T’chooka D’oon summoned a pair of Jedi Knights to their sides, and their entourage filed back into the ship ahead of the rest of the task force, who remained posted outside a little longer to oversee the dispersal of the Kaleesh horde.
Once they crossed the threshold and stepped into the entrance forum of the corvette, Qymaen examined his surroundings, comparing its design and layout to the Huk ships with which he was familiar, and, to a lesser extent, the smuggler and merchant freighters he knew of. His initial impression was that this Jedi ship—he had no reason to assume it was anything but—aligned more closely to the ships of the merchants: more polished and refined than the smugglers’ slapdash crafts, and not as jagged, oversized and unwelcoming as the Huk’s aesthetics. He sniffed the air and screwed up his nose. Whatever filtration system they were using, it rendered the artificial environment almost too clean. All he could smell were the Jedi gathered around him and the strange non-scent of TC-23.
With the Kaleesh general busy taking in the scope of the entrance forum, T’chooka D’oon took the protocol droid’s arm and drew it aside. “I need you to teach me a phrase in the Kaleesh language,” he said in a low voice. “I must be the one to speak it, and he needs to understand me. Just this one phrase.”
Jmmaar, taking note of this, made himself as loud and distracting as possible. He pulled out his own comlink and spoke at an unnecessary volume. “Prepare for takeoff. We’ll return to the Equity as soon as everyone is on board. Inform the Senator and the Imperator that we are on our way with the Kaleesh general.” His eyes swiveled sideways; Qymaen was watching him, arms folded, ears tilting forward to hear his words, if not understand them. “Have a pair of binders brought immediately to the boarding ramp entrance,” he said into the comlink before turning to one of the Jedi Knights who had accompanied them. “Meet them out in the hall and come back in when we send for you.”
Qymaen intently observed this exchange, watching as the smaller Jedi in a beige tunic slipped through a sliding door and vanished from sight. More movement from the side angled his attention to the human Jedi Master, who was approaching him with an odd expression on his face.
T’chooka D’oon stepped in front of Qymaen and looked him in the eye, his fingers fluttering in a circle as he spoke: “You will allow yourself to be restrained.”
Qymaen couldn’t help but jolt in surprise as Kaleesh spouted from the human’s lips—strangely-accented, but comprehensible. He sneered, annoyed. “You speak Kaleesh after all? You waited until now to make yourself understood? And what do you mean, ‘restrained’?”
T’chooka D’oon held the Kaleesh general’s glare, drawing him in with a firmer tug on the Force. “You will allow yourself to be restrained,” he repeated, emphasizing every unfamiliar syllable, determined to make this work. He was quite certain, given all he’d witnessed thus far, that the hostile creature would not otherwise submit, and might grow violent again in his retaliation. The general was already vulnerable after the earlier necessary mental nudge, and this was a much simpler request than if he’d attempted to outright trick him into calling for a ceasefire, a suggestion the general would have actively fought against.
So he pulled.
Slitted reptilian eyes flickered and grew unfocused.
Qymaen registered pressure in his head, a slight, stifling sensation as if someone had grasped the bridge of his nose between their fingers and pinched. Almost like a headache, but without any pain. Unsurprising, given the taxing day he’d had; frankly, he was exhausted. His hand wandered to his temple and he inhaled deeply, attempting on reflex to clear the odd feeling, but the air he sucked into his lungs instead seemed to have the opposite effect, filling him from his chest to his head with a hazy, insouciant cloud. The Jedi made a reasonable suggestion; he could be reasonable. “I will allow myself to be restrained,” he intoned.
Jmmaar cast a doubtful glance at Master D’oon, but he couldn’t deny the questionable method had likely spared them the trouble they would have faced had they attempted a more direct approach. He signaled to the remaining Jedi Knight, who moved quickly to open the door and call the other back in, now in possession of durasteel binders. One placed tentative hands on Sahuldeem’s chitin spaulders to hold him in place while the other drew his wrists together and fitted him with the binders. “Take him to a holding cell,” instructed the Viraanntesse once the Kaleesh general was safely secured. “Guard the door until we reach the Equity. We’ll send for him then.”
With a sense of creeping unease, Qymaen blinked down at his bound wrists, trying to rationalize why he had consented to such treatment. “Wait. I...I agreed to accompany you. I cooperated. I don’t understand. Am I a prisoner now?”
T’chooka D’oon ignored the dazed muttering of the Kaleesh and addressed TC-23. “Tell the general that, by the authority of the Galactic Senate of the Republic, he is being taken into custody under suspicion of multiple war crimes, including but not limited to the targeted deaths of millions of Yam’rii civilians on Abbaji Minor, Oben and Tovarskl. He will be held in custody until all parties are present to draft a peace treaty to end hostilities between the Yam’rii and the Kaleesh, at which point we will determine whether formal criminal charges will be brought against him—and, given the evidence, I have little doubt they will.”
He beckoned to his fellow Jedi Master, their brown robes billowing in tandem as they turned to sweep away down the corridor.
“Tell him his monstrous crusade ends now.”
Notes:
They're here.
Chapter Text
Inside a grand meeting room of the Acclamator-class assault ship Equity, floor-to-ceiling transparisteel viewports granted its occupants the crimson-and-black backdrop of Tovarskl and the starfield of Wild Space beyond. The sizable chamber was sparsely filled: members of the Republic Guard standing wary sentry at the door, a secretary droid armed with a datapad and sitting at the long central table, one Jedi Knight or another ducking their head in to deliver messages—and two delegates, peers in eminence in a way neither would concede, both key to the negotiations that were already past due to take place.
One stood gazing out the viewport, a towering Yam’rii whose spindly frame draped in fine cloth and heavy gold jewelry was as good an indication of his status as the three-fingered hands folded before him. A custom-built translator was affixed to his throat, a far more suitable configuration for insectoid mandibles than a typical mask. The other paced at the head of the meeting table, a cloaked Neimoidian with a somewhat squat face whose miter seemed tailored to make up for his wanting height. With a huff, he flung himself into the seat of an elaborate mechno-chair, bony fingers drumming its armrests in restlessness, expression set in scowl. When the doors slid open to emit a Jedi Knight who stepped close to whisper in the ear of one of the guards, the Neimoidian sat up straight.
“This meeting was supposed to have started ten minutes ago,” he said churlishly. “Are they coming or aren’t they?”
The Jedi Knight turned to address the Neimoidian with an apologetic bow. “Masters D’oon and Jmmaar are on their way with the Kaleesh general as we speak, Senator.”
“Finally,” grumbled the Neimoidian. Then, he hesitated. “There’s not any chance of trouble, is there? We will be safe? Do we need to bring in more guards?”
The Yam’rii spoke without turning, his vocoder emitting Basic. “Wherever the Khagan goes there is always trouble, Senator.”
“The Kaleesh general is unarmed,” the Jedi Knight affirmed. “I’m sure Masters D’oon and Jmmaar have the prisoner under control.”
“I should certainly hope so,” spluttered the Senator.
As promised, within a few minutes the Jedi Masters escorted the Kaleesh general through the doorway, trailed by a retinue of several more Jedi Knights and the protocol droid TC-23. All eyes fell on the Kaleesh—the Yam’rii turning away from the viewport with a multifaceted glare of imperious hatred, the Neimoidian goggling as one might at an unexpected mess on the sole of their boot.
Qymaen brimmed with humiliated fury.
He had been vanquished and disgraced. Misled and lured aboard the Jedi’s ship. Bound and incarcerated. Stripped of his armor and his kakmusme. Dragged from their smaller ship to this capital ship—not as large as the Huk’s vessel from the Battle of Oben, but still of a daunting, planet-disrupting size. The Jedi Masters had at least deigned to remove the binders from his arms, but he still felt naked and vulnerable without his armor, weapons or bonemask, particularly when he stepped into this new chamber and beheld a huge Yam’rii leering at him from across the room. His hands balled into useless fists. Most Huk looked the same to him, but the regalia dripping from this particular creature’s frame was unmistakable. He knew who this Huk was; he had seen his likeness projected on holofeeds and framed on the crumbling walls of former government buildings.
The Imperator of the Huk. The Head of their High Command.
Even surrounded by a press of Jedi and the armed guards in blue, it took every ounce of self-control to restrain himself from flying across the room to attack the Imperator with his bare claws.
Or what if it’s worth it? wondered a tantalizing voice in the back of his mind.
If he could cross the distance quickly enough...reach the Imperator, tear out his throat with his hands...act before the others could overpower him, or even kill him...maybe it would be worth it to silence the loathsome ruler of the Huk once and for all.
Whatever is necessary.
A storm brewed in the tense atmosphere, palpable enough for the Jedi to stir and glance about uneasily. T’chooka D’oon had no doubts as to the source of such vicious hostility, and dropped a firm hand on Qymaen’s shoulder, not a calming touch in the slightest. “Perhaps we should all sit down,” he suggested, low and forbidding.
“Surely introductions are in order,” spoke up the Yam’rii, and Qymaen clenched his teeth at the sound of grating, electrosonic Basic. He didn’t comprehend the words, but the inflection of the vocoder was quite expressive, and if nothing else he could read the smug, sneering contempt in the tone of the Imperator’s synthetic voice.
“Oh, but of course!” TC-23 shuffled forward, repeating “Introductions!” in Kaleesh for Qymaen’s benefit. The protocol droid may have been programmed for interpersonal interactions, but it failed to pick up on the nonverbal, mutual loathing that passed between the Kaleesh Khagan and the Yam’rii Imperator, and pressed on almost cheerfully. “I believe everyone here has met Masters D’oon and Jmmaar. Yes? Excellent. Allow me to present the Khagan of Kalee—oh, pardon me.” Breaking off, the droid turned to Qymaen and addressed him in Kaleesh once more. “I have your language in my...er, database...that is, I speak it, but I’ve never interacted with one of your species before. I am not certain what is part of your title, which typically warrants a translation, and what is part of your name, which does not.”
Qymaen was taken aback enough to tear his eyes away from the Imperator, peering quizzically at the bronze construct. He hadn’t expected to need to provide a lesson in Kaleesh naming practices. “In my language, our names inform our identities,” he explained with a frown. “My name is a title, my title is my name. It is all my being.”
“I see,” said TC-23, an automated response its system spat out whenever it didn’t quite understand but believed its processors were up to the task of sorting out an alternative. “Shall I translate your name and title in its entirety to Basic, then?”
The Neimoidian half-rose from his mechno-chair, concerned and suspicious of all the unintelligible talk passing between the prisoner and the translator droid. “What’s going on?” he demanded. “What are you two chattering about? I hope the general is not plotting anything!”
Qymaen awarded the mottle-skinned Senator his attention for a withering moment, unable to understand him but recognizing the nature of his bluster all the same. “Tell them what they’ll understand.”
“I do apologize,” declared TC-23, swapping back to Basic and speaking to the room at large. “I was simply confirming with the general the correct protocol for addressing him. Allow me to present the Khagan Supreme General of Kalee, Qymaen Born of Spirit, Jai Clan of the Deep Valley in the Ausez Steppes, Sahuldeem the Grievous.”
The words rolled smoothly from the droid’s vocabulator, with hardly a pause between original Kaleesh and translation. Despite the circumstances, Qymaen couldn’t help but listen with curiosity to the sound of his own name. He wondered to what extent the metal man could possibly interpret certain aspects of his identity with accuracy—was the construct familiar, for instance, with the valley for which the Jai Clan was named, or with the Kaleesh sentiment of sahuldeem? What was it actually saying to these offworlders? Mentally cursing himself, he wished he had been more selective in instructing the blasted machine what to translate.
“Ah.” The Neimoidian’s already rumpled brow creased further as he combed through the mess the protocol droid had uttered, picking out what he recalled and what seemed the simplest to say. “General...Grievous, then,” he decided before moving right on, eschewing the protocol droid’s responsibility and making his own introduction with overenunciated, slithery affect. “Well, General Grievous, I am Lott Dod, representative of the Trade Federation within the Galactic Senate. In the case of this particular gathering, of course, my presence here is on behalf of the Senate.”
TC-23 barely had a chance to paraphrase this to Qymaen before insect legs clacked forward and the Huk equivalent of a cold smile split the Imperator’s mandibles. “And I am Imperator Tyx Ch’kidax’th of the Yam’rii—but I believe the Khagan already knows who I am.”
Qymaen grasped enough to respond by spitting on the durasteel floor. “Du-ha tu wataa, Huk.”
“Oh, dear,” fussed the protocol droid.
One of Jmmaar’s pincers joined T’chooka D’oon in clasping around Qymaen’s shoulder. “We are here to talk, not fight,” the Viraanntesse warned.
“Shall we proceed, Senator?” Master D’oon asked the Neimoidian pointedly.
“Let’s get this over with,” Lott Dod concurred, settling back more comfortably in his mechno-chair as everyone else claimed their own seats. The chairs in their standard configuration were not well-suited to such large and atypically shaped beings as Tyx Ch’kidax’th or Jmmaar, but with the backrests telescoped neatly into their frames, the Yam’rii and Viraanntesse managed to seat themselves without trouble. Qymaen was ushered into a chair between the two Jedi Masters—after confirming the Imperator had situated himself a safe distance away on the opposite side of the table—with TC-23 standing behind him to translate. The rest of the Jedi Knights arranged themselves around the room, including a pair that relieved the two Republic Guards posted at the door so they could relocate themselves to either side of the Neimoidian Senator.
Qymaen watched this pantomime play out, instinctively counting heads, identifying weapons, assessing the size and weight of potential opponents, measuring the distance to the door. Pointless, he reminded himself. For all his desire to dig his claws into chitin and cartilage and rip open the throat of Tyx Ch’kidax’th in spumous green ichor…
A flash of turbolasers in his mind’s eyes quieted his murderous aspirations in a heartbeat.
Lott Dod waited until all parties were settled before he carried on. “I have been sent here on behalf of the Galactic Senate to oversee the drafting of a peace treaty to end hostilities between the Yam’rii and the Kaleesh. Two standard months ago, the Imperator stood before the Senate and pleaded his case for Republic intervention.” His mottled eyes shifted to Tyx Ch’kidax’th, who, even when seated, towered over the rest of the table’s occupants. “Could the Imperator please recount the progression of the conflict again for our records?”
“Of course, Senator,” said the Yam’rii, conducting himself with disarming aplomb that already settled a sneer on Qymaen’s face. “Approximately 26 Galactic Standard Years ago, the Yam’rii arrived on Kalee to investigate its potential value as a source of mineral deposits. We were not aware at the time that the planet was inhabited by a sentient species, and had already established an outpost by the time first contact was made. The organization of the Kaleesh was such that there was no centralized government to which we could reach out—but we were able to obtain permission from the Kaleesh chieftains we met with to expand our mining operations and establish more permanent settlements for our people.”
“Lies!” exploded Qymaen with a snarl strangled by rage. “The Huk invaded Kalee—ravaged our land—murdered and enslaved my people!”
“Do not interrupt, General!” snapped Lott Dod without even waiting for a translation from the protocol droid. “You may speak in your defense when the Imperator is finished with his account!”
Qymaen cast disbelieving, infuriated glances around the table, seeking someone to appeal to, but he saw no sympathy on any of their alien faces. He settled back in his seat for the time being, seething in temporary silence.
Tyx Ch’kidax’th continued. “We lived peacefully on Kalee for years before, quite suddenly, there were reports of attacks on our settlements by hostile Kaleesh warlords who, it seemed, had decided the Yam’rii were not welcome on their planet after all. The conflict escalated as we were forced to protect our settlements—until, some three or four years prior to today, the last of our people still attempting to reside on Kalee were butchered by the Khagan—this General Grievous, who would sooner see us all exterminated, as we would shortly discover.” He turned his cold eyes on Qymaen, who quivered in barely suppressed fury. “We fled Kalee. The Kaleesh followed us to the colony worlds of Abbaji Minor, Oben and Tovarskl. They followed us and they began slaughtering us. They built colonies of their own from which they launched their hordes of soldiers upon our citizens. They stole our ships and leveled our cities. Millions of innocents—dead by the hand of General Grievous and his armies.”
Qymaen couldn’t contain himself any longer, slamming his hands on the table and flying to his feet. “This disgusting creature is lying to you all!”
T’chooka D’oon stood quickly. “General—sit down.”
But Qymaen ignored him, caught up in his own furious rant, while TC-23 was too busy repeating his words to the group to translate anything else at the moment. “It was the Huk—the Yam’rii—who invaded our planet by force! They killed our warriors, took away our women and children, made us their slaves, butchered us like beasts—of course we attacked them, we had no choice! ”
Lott Dod addressed him with clear, sharp scorn. “Do you deny the deaths of millions of Yam’rii civilians, General? We have scans of the former Yam’rii colony worlds. We have holorecordings of you carrying out the personal destruction of Yam’rii hatcheries and sending messages of terror. We have seen your military installations—the devastation—the mass graves. Do you deny that you led this appalling campaign against the three aforementioned planets?”
Holorecordings?
The Huk had recorded those broadcasts?
While he, like a fool, had burned every last shred of the Huk’s own atrocities to ashes?
Surely the Kaleesh had preserved some evidence of what the Huk had done to them—be it documentation, holofeeds, physical remnants—but of course he knew that wasn’t the case. Why would they wish to remind themselves of the horrors of the past when it could be avenged with cleansing fire and buried where it belonged?
And now who was to say the Huk hadn’t hidden and removed evidence of their own transgressions? If there was nothing left to prove to these interposing arbiters of justice that things were not as they seemed...
Qymaen’s breath hitched in his chest, on the brink of betraying him with a helpless coughing fit, and he couldn’t stop himself from reflexively grasping at the front of his tunic with a tight fist. Almost as distressing as this revelation was the insinuation from the Senator that he would disavow what he had done. The indirect accusation dug deeper than his own claws, drawing not blood, but his withered sense of deep-seated honor, untapped as of late but suddenly rising like a tide, urging honesty and integrity over the treachery that the Huk were clearly willing to stoop to. Now was not the time to cling to the moral high ground—gods, he knew that—but still the words came, as inexorable as a coughing fit. “I will not deny the actions of the kolkpravis under my leadership,” he all but spat before jabbing a claw toward Tyx Ch’kidax’th and rallying, “But understand that we did not attack without provocation, as this lying filth is suggesting! From the very beginning, all I have done is try to protect my people from these slaver scum, and Kalee will never be safe as long as the Huk live! They took our women as slaves—devoured our children in their tuudbaraa—skinned our dead for leather and crushed their tusks to powder! But they surely didn’t keep all Kaleesh for themselves,” he went on, seizing on a promising new angle, “they must have sold us to other offworlders—there has to be some record of what they did, somewhere…!”
Both Jedi Masters were now standing on either side of the Kaleesh general, and, finally and in concert, they gripped his upper arms to root him to the spot. T’chooka D’oon looked as unyielding as ever, but Jmmaar’s features were arranged in extreme perturbation.
“Stop translating until we tell you otherwise,” said Jmmaar to the protocol droid. “I want to hear this without further interruptions from the general.” After a vigorous nod from TC-23, the Viraanntesse turned his troubled eyes to the Imperator. “The Kaleesh general is making serious accusations against the Yam’rii, Imperator. Is there truth to any of what he says?”
“Baseless slander,” sneered Tyx Ch’kidax’th instantly. “Propaganda for his armies to whet their appetites for blood and destruction. You will find no evidence of his absurd claims.”
“What the Kaleesh general speaks of does sound exaggerated to that aim, yes,” agreed Jmmaar, “but surely the Imperator understands that in resolving this matter, we must learn everything we can. It would be helpful to know if there is any reason the general would make such claims.”
Qymaen, meanwhile, stared in consternation between each of the aliens babbling in their incoherent tongue, before twisting toward TC-23 with an agitated appeal. “Metal man, what are they saying? Why don’t you translate?”
“While I cannot speak to the worst of his claims,” said Tyx Ch’kidax’th coolly, “I may be able to shed some light on why he has mentioned slavery. It seems there was a misunderstanding...lost in translation, perhaps. The Kaleesh language is quite crude, you see, as is their understanding of civilized society. It’s true that we hired Kaleesh to work as laborers on our mining installations not just on Kalee, but on our colony worlds.” He canted his head to the side, vocabulator shifting in tone until it rang supercilious. “However, many Kaleesh misconstrued what was happening to those who labored for us—being as they have no currency-based economy to speak of, and as they themselves enslave the conquered citizens of their rival tribes during their perpetual squabbling.”
The Senator was quick to accept this explanation, nodding sagely. “Ah, I see. A primitive culture, indeed.”
But Jmmaar shook his head, finally bringing up a point he had been mulling over. “According to our records, the Republic—and by extension, the Jedi—had contact with the Kaleesh decades ago: Republic military leaders enlisted a contingent of Kaleesh to aid in quelling the Bitthævrian uprising, a five-year conflict in which a small Jedi taskforce also assisted. The records are, incidentally, incomplete. The mission was considered classified for some time, but we unearthed what we could in preparation for this assignment. While there are not a great many details in our accounts, my understanding upon reading them was that the Kaleesh were an underdeveloped, warlike people who were happy to join the cause, but there was no indication that they practiced slavery, or showed any interest in capturing the defeated Bitthævrians as slaves. I highly doubt the Jedi who served on that taskforce would have neglected to report evidence of slavery, nor do I believe they would have agreed to the disbursement of armaments to the Kaleesh if it seemed they were of questionable moral character. If anything, the records indicate good behavior all around.”
“I beg your pardon, Master Jedi,” said the Imperator with oozing politesse, “but I would find it surprising if your people could glean more of Kaleesh culture in a few years than the Yam’rii have in the decades we have spent struggling to protect ourselves from their wrath. Whatever the Jedi may have observed—or failed to observe—during this conflict you speak of, the fact remains that the Kaleesh responded to our presence with undue aggression.”
“Tens of millions are dead because of a misunderstanding about hired laborers?” Jmmaar asked incredulously.
Tyx Ch’kidax’th’s glare sharpened like a blade. So far, he had presented himself as the vastly more collected, reasonable party in this interstellar conflict; Qymaen’s behavior was not making such a performance difficult for him, even as his vocabulator reflected his clear loathing. “Tens of millions are dead because this Khagan—this general—is a bloodthirsty lunatic who seized technology and weapons beyond his means and took it upon himself to try and exterminate my species. You’ve heard the way he speaks about the Yam’rii. He will circulate lies about our intentions to rally his people against us. He will grasp at any excuse he has at his disposal to justify his genocidal creed.”
“No excuse in the galaxy exists that can justify the willful murder of innocents, let alone in such numbers,” agreed T’chooka D’oon grimly. “On behalf of the Jedi Order, I am ashamed that we had any part in providing the Kaleesh with the armaments and means to launch this assault upon your people.”
“I think I’ve heard all I need to hear about the matter,” said Lott Dod, folding his hand primly in his lap. “The Kaleesh were the clear aggressors in this conflict. We will decide upon the terms of the peace treaty shortly, but Kalee should expect to pay substantial reparations to the Yam’rii. As for the general himself, once the treaty is drafted he should remain in custody until he is summoned to be prosecuted and tried for his war crimes on Coruscant by the Republic Judicial Department.”
“I fully agree, Senator. With this treaty we will see justice meted out for the Yam’rii.” T’chooka D’oon addressed TC-23. “You can begin translating again. Tell General Grievous what the Senator has said—tell him his war is over.”
Jmmaar held up a pincer in a bid for patience. “Hold on. I trust the Imperator can provide proof that the Kaleesh laborers he spoke of were compensated for their services?”
It was Lott Dod who responded. “The Trade Federation has already corresponded with the InterGalactic Banking Clan regarding this matter; agents were dispatched to the Yam’rii planet to conduct an investigation and assess their financial accounts. Everything is in order, Master Jedi, and in capable hands.”
Jmmaar blinked. He was as close to detecting the insidious undercurrent of corruption as any person in the room would ever come, save Qymaen himself, who was at this moment listening intently to the protocol droid’s translation. “Wait, this was already done? But we’ve only just discussed—”
He was interrupted when Qymaen let out a roar and began to lunge across the table, claws outstretched toward Tyx Ch’kidax’th. The Viraanntesse hastened to help T’chooka D’oon hold the general back, latching onto his cloak and tunic with both sets of pincer-arms and calling upon the Force for extra strength.
“This is outrageous!” Qymaen snarled, half-choking over the gravel he’d disrupted deep in his chest. He struggled under the grip of the two Jedi Masters, jostling a few thick coughs from his protesting lungs. “You’re all fools to believe this—this monster! ”
T’chooka D’oon felt what Jmmaar had done and mimicked his fellow Master, drawing strength into his gripping fists, digging fingers into Qymaen’s biceps. “If you cannot control yourself, General, we will be forced to restrain you again!”
Lott Dod’s brisk cadence cut across the table. “15 million Yam’rii soldiers. 40 million Yam’rii civilians. 330 stolen spacecraft. 2150 destroyed spacecraft. A calculated two trillion credits’ worth of infrastructure damage. These are hard numbers, General Grievous. The Galactic Republic believes in facts, not in hyperbolic stories told by the guilty.”
“And the Yam’rii thank the Senate and the Jedi Council for their impartial judgment in this matter,” interjected Tyx Ch’kidax’th, cordial as anything.
Qymaen reeled as he attempted to parse TC-23’s words. The Kaleesh had no concept of trillion, let alone billion, and even though there were only “two” of them, the droid was in the midst of stressing to him that two trillions was staggeringly greater than many millions. All this talk of numbers succeeded as well as physical restraint to hammer home the hopelessness of his situation, draining the fight from him.
The Yam’rii may have been twisting the truth, but they also had holorecordings. Numbers. Evidence. A powerful government and the Jedi on their side. Perhaps they had bribed these outside parties. Cut some sort of deal. Had something of value to offer.
He had nothing.
Nothing.
He hadn’t stood a chance. It had been rigged from the beginning. They only had ears for the Imperator and disdain for him, no matter the strength, logic, or even desperation of his arguments.
Why should he have expected any less from allies of the Huk?
Qymaen’s shoulders sagged. Swallowing and flinching over a few more coughs, he allowed the Jedi Masters to press him into his chair where he continued to sink in dazed devastation, slowly, finally accepting that he held no sway whatsoever in this room.
Accepting defeat.
Lott Dod turned his attention to the two Masters and bowed, his miter bobbing with the motion. “Jedi Masters T’chooka D’oon and Jmmaar—I believe you, as purveyors of peace, are more qualified than I am to compose the terms of this treaty. Please, feel free to make any suggestions your Order would approve of. I defer to your expertise.”
“The Jedi are at your service, Senator,” said T’chooka D’oon.
—
Qymaen sat hunched on the bench of his holding cell, elbows braced on his thighs, hands dangling between his knees, glaring at the swimming red glow of the ray shields in the doorway.
For all of my involvement in their so-called negotiations, he thought bitterly, they might as well have kept me in this cell.
It was difficult to say exactly how much time had passed, since the offworlders seemed to adhere to a different sleep-wake cycle aboard the Equity than Qymaen was used to on Kalee or Tovarskl. For hours at a time they had sat in that meeting room, babbling over the semantics of the peace treaty and its stipulations, with him sitting in as a passive observer more than an active participant, before they would escort him back to his cramped cell for an interim roughly the length of a full night’s sleep, and then they returned to drag him back to that dreaded room to repeat the process. This had happened twice so far, so while he understood this to be their third day of discussion and deliberation, he wasn’t certain for how long he’d truly been detained.
Long enough to feel like his stomach was going to gnaw itself apart from hunger. He shifted his glare from the doorway to the ration bar he’d tossed to the ground. It was one of several such offerings his captors had attempted to press on him, but he refused to eat the food they gave him. Carafes of water were set out on the large table during their multi-hour meetings, at which point he would drink only when he was certain others had also poured from the same container, but he never ate or drank what was passed to him in his cell. Irrational paranoia? Pure obstinance? Perhaps a little of both. But if Tyx Ch’kidax’th managed to slip poison into his rations—or if the others attempted to lace his drinks with something akin to zigmash to make him more amenable— no , he didn’t dare invite the risk.
But gods, he was hungry.
Averting his eyes from the brick of dense-packed nutrients at his feet, he attempted to distract himself by withdrawing into his thoughts to mentally recite the various words of Basic he was learning and retaining during the course of his captivity. Most of their discussions in the meeting room were composed of dry, technical jargon that he found nearly impossible to follow in spite of the protocol droid’s efforts to translate. Still, he was beginning to focus past TC-23’s droning and pick out repeated syllables and their probable meanings.
The offworld government was the “Galactic Republic”. The title of the unpleasant green alien with the mechanical chair was “Senator”. The rulers of the Jedi were referred to as “Masters”. Tyx Ch’kidax’th was called an “Imperator”. TC-23 was a “droid”, which was, he recalled, what Jindra and Amagi had called such technology many times before.
And they called him “General Grievous”. It had taken several hours for him to start lifting his head and respond to being addressed in such a strange fashion. He knew it was his own doing, allowing the droid to translate his name into words the offworlders would understand, as it appeared it had done so to a fault. Not once did anyone speak his true name, and only a few times did he hear the word “Khagan” slip from the Huk Imperator’s vocabulator speaker. Otherwise, they were all perfectly content to call him by this new title, which, he confirmed the first evening when TC-23 accompanied the guards in escorting Qymaen back to his cell, was as accurate a translation as the droid could generate of “Khagan Sahuldeem”.
“Then tell them to just call me Khagan Sahuldeem,” Qymaen had growled.
“I will inform them of your request, Khagan,” the droid replied politely.
On the following day, they continued to call him General Grievous.
There were battles worth fighting, and Qymaen grudgingly decided this was not one of them.
Outside the barrier of his holding cell, two Jedi Knights loitered, one a human male, the other a Twi’lek female. Presumably they were waiting to see if he was going to eat his breakfast—assuming it was breakfast—before it was yet again time to usher him back to the proceedings. He listened to their murmuring; idle chatter from the cadence of it.
“He still isn’t eating,” said the Twi’lek. “Has anyone confirmed that ration bars are even consumable by Kaleesh?”
“Hunger strike,” grunted the human. “He can eat. He just won’t.”
“Well, maybe it’s worth finding something else for him to try, just to be sure.”
“I don’t think that’s up to us. Anyway, I’m sure he’s fine.”
Coming to a decision, Qymaen lifted his head. “You out there. Jedi. I have a question. Get the droid.”
Both of the Jedi Knights jerked to attention. The human peered through the ray shield with a hard, suspicious expression. “He said ‘Jedi’. What—do—you—want?” he asked in the overly-loud, overly-articulated manner of someone who was certain such an approach would overcome a language barrier, to which he received a withering look from the Kaleesh general.
The Twi’lek was already halfway out the brig. “He also said ‘droid’. I’ll get TC-23.”
She returned a few short minutes later with the protocol droid in tow. “The treaty drafting conference will not reconvene for another hour,” said TC-23 quizzicially. “This is highly irregular.”
“Maybe we shouldn’t be engaging with him,” said the other Jedi Knight, sounding chagrined to have already done so. “He’s a war criminal.”
“He asked for the droid, and I’m curious what he has to say. Besides,” added the Twi’lek a bit sheepishly, “now TC-23 can ask him if he wants something else to eat other than ration bars.”
The droid helpfully obliged, and Qymaen ignored the query, waving it away like a fly. He turned his attention to the Jedi hovering outside his cell. “I’ve been trying to understand for days, but I don’t want to talk to your Masters. They refuse to listen to me. So. This government. This—” It had no name he was aware of in Kaleesh, and he didn’t want to confuse the droid with an invented term, so he attempted to mimic the Basic syllables. “Gaa-laa-ki-teek Rae-pu-bi-leek.” With a disgruntled face, he swapped back to his natural tongue. “They rule the Yam’rii. Or...they hold influence over them, at least. And it’s a powerful government that rules millions of people in thousands of worlds across the galaxy. Rulers always have their laws; now Kalee is affected by them, as well. It’s preposterous, but it at least makes sense. But you? The Jedi?” His golden glare slitted through the curtain of red. “What do the Jedi get out of this? Years ago, the Jedi helped the Kaleesh; now, they’re siding against us. I thought the government ruled over the Jedi, yet more often than not it seems the Jedi Masters influence the Senator. Who...what are the Jedi?”
The human squinted while the droid translated, then replied, not a little haughtily, “The Jedi are the guardians of peace and justice. Something you surely wouldn’t understand.”
The Twi’lek elaborated with a less prickly answer, almost as if reciting a memorized passage. “The Jedi Order is a religious order dedicated to serving the Force. We harness the power of the Force to promote balance and harmony across the galaxy.”
Qymaen drew himself a bit more upright, unable to mask his intrigue. “What is this power you speak of?”
“Are we surprised he is interested in power?” the human muttered aside to his companion, scornful.
“I am not certain how to best translate ‘the Force’ to the general,” TC-23 told the Jedi apologetically. “He may have misunderstood me.”
The Twi’lek mulled it over, intrigued by the challenge of describing the Force to someone who was ignorant of its existence. “It’s...energy,” she said thoughtfully. “Life energy. One could almost call it the spirit of the universe itself.”
Qymaen frowned, repeating the droid’s translation. “Aladur. Spirit? Soul? You are talking about souls? The galaxy doesn’t have a soul; it’s just stars and rocks.” Even as the words left him, a painful twitch seized his shoulders and summoned the phantom smell of seawater. She had said such things long before he fully believed her. Now he echoed her without thinking.
The Twi’lek shook her head. “It’s an energy field that is shared by all living things. It connects and binds all of us—it lives in all of us. Though some living beings are more sensitive to the Force than others, and with great diligence we can channel it and use it in ways that might appear extraordinary to those who aren’t Force-sensitive.”
The human let out an irritable sigh. “Why are you trying to explain this to him? He won’t understand. How is the droid supposed to translate ‘Force-sensitive’? Wait, don’t translate what I’m saying.”
But Qymaen was barely listening, having shuddered against a splashing wave from the shores of the Jenuwaa, and he sucked stabilizing breaths into his lungs, fighting to clear his senses of the taste of salt. Seeking an excuse to ground himself, he planted his toes on the floor and lurched to his feet, gripping the doorframe and stopping just short of swaying into the red energy field. Self-preservation helped banish the ominous portent of his waking nightmare, and he snapped back to attention. “Forss,” he uttered, mimicking the sound of Basic like a tumu before slipping back to Kaleesh. “You’re saying it’s a form of energy that grants the Jedi power.”
The Twi’lek peered through the barrier, looking concerned, but she nodded. “I suppose you could call it a power that the Jedi use for good, yes.”
He glared. “The Jedi use their power for good? That’s all I’ve been trying to do. Using my power to protect my people. And now I’m being punished for it.”
“He still doesn’t get it,” griped the human before moving closer to the ray shield, glaring back at the Kaleesh. “General, you were abusing your power to bring about the deaths of millions of innocent Yam’rii. This is why we’re removing your power. I hear the treaty will call for Kalee’s disarmament. Soon, you’ll have no army to lead.”
Qymaen sneered at the human Jedi Knight. “Oh, yes? Is that the Jedi idea of doing good? Surely you realize this treaty will harm more than it will save these innocents you claim to care about.”
The Twi’lek frowned. “The war is over. There will be no further hostilities on either side.”
“Do you really think Kalee will be able to pay the reparations they are outlining in the treaty?” Qymaen asked witheringly. “You know your credits hold no meaning for us.”
“Commodities can be paid in kind. That allowance will be included in the terms.”
“Exactly,” he emphasized with an agitated growl. “Commodities. What commodities? Kalee must turn its mining operations back over to the Huk, offworld and on—our colonies will be returned to them, as well—much of our land has been scorched beyond viability—offworld trade will be banned—soon we won’t have enough for ourselves, let alone enough to pay the Huk! You’re so concerned about the so-called innocent Huk who are already dead and burned away? What will happen to my innocents who yet live? What do you think will happen to us when we have no resources left?”
“This is why there will be non-violent measures in place to be taken in the event that Kalee defaults on its payments,” explained the Twi’lek with calm patience, though her brow creased in uncertainty. “The Yam’rii cannot resume hostilities in the case of your inability to pay your debts. The peace will be kept between the Yam’rii and the Kaleesh. We will make sure of it.”
“I have no reason to trust this. You care nothing for Kalee, even after our elders past fought the Bitthævrians alongside you. Now you only support the Huk.”
“We support justice,” interjected the human Jedi Knight.
“Ah. Jedi justice.” Qymaen curled his hands into fists as he stepped as close to the ray shield as he dared, near enough to feel the humming energy dance over the skin of his face. “I see. It’s all well and fine when the Jedi decide who to punish—because the Jedi are good, and the Jedi get to decide what is good.”
While the human stared back at the Kaleesh general in his cell, coolly unimpressed, the Twi’lek looked uncomfortable at his accusing words. “I’m not sure you understand, General. The Jedi don’t themselves decide such things. The Force acts as our guide. We only serve it.”
At that, Qymaen let out a short, bitter laugh. “Then perhaps your Force and my ancestors have something in common.” He retreated from the doorway, dropping back onto the waiting bench, whereupon he angled himself with a slump and a baleful, hissing sigh toward the wall, effectively signaling his exit from the conversation. “They are both excuses.”
Notes:
So, I'm not sure I can say it's been FUN trying to work out just how completely ~wrong~ the Republic/Jedi were in their understanding of the Yam'rii-Kaleesh conflict, but I did what I could to make it work (and yes, left a lot unspoken; how would Qymaen know what really happened behind the scenes?). In the end: the corruption runs terribly deep and leaves terrible wounds.
(Also, honesty time: I have AGONIZED over the actual "hard numbers" that Lott Dod brings up and changed them several times. Am I happy with them? I STILL don't know. Too much? Too little? We'll see if anyone has any thoughts on that. More concerned with death toll/ship numbers vs credits.)
Chapter 10
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
After four days of exhaustive and exhausting deliberation, arguments, provisions and addendums, the Trade Federation Senator and Jedi Masters D’oon and Jmmaar oversaw the signing of the Yam’rii-Kalee Treaty by Imperator Tyx Ch’kidax’th and Khagan Qymaen jai Sahuldeem. Qymaen had to be shown how to scrawl his signature on the datapad with a stylus, as well as instructed in how to copy the Aurebesh characters used in his name.
At least they had not made him sign as “General Grievous”.
Only then was he permitted to reach out on comms to his subordinates and inform them that the Huk War was over. As there was no widespread knowledge or use of the HoloNet among the Kaleesh, there wasn’t a simple way to broadcast such information on a mass scale other than to get word to the individual Izvoshra, the other military leaders and the Chieftains across Kalee and their colony worlds and instruct them to circulate the news as quickly as they could. Beyond that, Qymaen wearily told them, the Equity would be in Kalee’s orbit within a couple of weeks, and once he himself was planetside he would make several announcements across Kalee to explain to the population what had happened—all overseen, naturally, by members of the Jedi Order.
It took some convincing for his Izvoshra to believe that he wasn’t under duress and this was not a Yam’rii trick. He wished he hadn’t agreed to the terms of the treaty of his own volition—or was it genuinely his own volition when they deliberately used circuitous, obfuscating language in its composition and held the equivalent of a loaded slugthrower to his head in the form of the Equity’s turbolasers? Orbital bombardment was never again spoken of during his incarceration aboard the capital ship, but he still believed it to be the ultimate punishment for transgressions against the Galactic Republic or the Jedi, and a far worse, more immediately catastrophic punishment than what was outlined within the treaty. During his call with the Izvoshra, he didn’t dare bring up the threat of orbital bombardment, not with the Jedi representatives sitting nearby while TC-23 translated back his correspondence, and all he could do was promise them he had had no choice but to end the war, and that he would explain more later.
Qymaen was transferred from his holding cell to more spacious quarters for the duration of the cautious sublight flight to the Kalee system, though guards still remained on duty outside of his apartment at all hours. He finally gave in and ate the food they provided, knowing the Imperator had disembarked the Equity after the signing of the treaty (for that matter, so had Senator Dod, having departed on his personal luxury shuttle). As far as he could tell, the ration bars were not in any way tampered with, even if they were as tasteless as week-old, stale ninkagu and unpleasantly chewy. The Twi’lek Jedi Knight who had expressed concern over his eating habits appeared outside of his door the first few days, quietly slipping him mugs of caf and oddly-shaped fruits. He tossed the fruit in the waste bin and dumped the beverages down the vacc-tube. She stopped bringing him treats after that. Good. He had no interest in her useless acts of kindness.
As it turned out, the food was the least of his concerns, as about a week into the journey he was brought out of his quarters and taken to the medbay for what TC-23 assured him was a mandatory physical exam. He unenthusiastically allowed himself to be poked and prodded by a 2-1B-series medical droid, a somewhat humiliating but ostensibly harmless exercise that saw his vitals measured, scanned and recorded, the information filed away (for what purpose, Qymaen was not apprised). The medical droid raised a bit of a fuss after scanning his chest cavity and finding something it didn’t like, which TC-23 labored to communicate to Qymaen before, without further warning, the medical droid produced a vial of a bacta-based expectorant spray, clamped down on Qymaen’s scalp with one servogrip pincer, stuffed the end of the nozzle up his nostril and pressed the plunger.
Qymaen wheezed, sneezed, then reared up and kicked the medical droid square in the chest. He proceeded to swear profusely, both at the sensation of the unwelcome substance and at the pain in his foot.
“But Khagan, that was to help you!” exclaimed TC-23. “Oh dear, do you not have a word for inflammation in Kaleesh? Swollen—angry? Your lungs: the scans were abnormal and the good doctor prescribed you a...er, medicine. You know bacta, don’t you? It—well, it’s an—hrm, aerosol has no translation, either—it’s a spray that’s meant to be inhaled—”
In his distress, Qymaen began to cough, and in this instance he couldn’t speak until his sleeve was completely damp. “The stupid droid made it worse,” he gasped out when he could.
“Oh, I highly doubt that! The spray should help you cough with more ease.”
“I don’t need help coughing!”
The medical droid, no worse for wear after the kick, said something in an inquiring tone.
“Indeed, yes.” TC-23 pedaled its hands in the air, trying to persuade the Kaleesh general to calm himself. “If you could relax for a moment, Khagan? The doctor needs to run one more test, and for that you need to be still.”
Qymaen wiped his mouth and nose and glared hotly at both droids. “Not more bacta spray?” he growled.
“No, no. It won’t hurt a bit, I have been assured.”
The medical droid had already drawn blood from Qymaen, so he thought nothing of it when it produced another syringe, tugged his tunic open and jabbed the hypodermic needle into his shoulder muscle. He thought nothing of it as his vision blurred and the lights of the medbay dimmed to black. He thought nothing at all for an indeterminate amount of time, after which he awoke back in his quarters, laid out on his slab of a bed, feeling groggy and heavy.
His door opened, admitting the two Jedi Masters and TC-23.
Qymaen sat up as quickly as he could manage, aiming a baleful glare across the room. His recollection of his experience in the medbay was hazy at best, but he certainly knew one thing. “Your droids tricked me,” he spat.
T’chooka D’oon almost appeared amused at that. “They only did as they were programmed to do, General.”
He swung his legs off the bed and made to stand, hoping to meet the Jedi Master eye to eye, but the residual wooziness of whatever the medical droid had used to sedate him convinced him it might be safer to remain seated. “Why was I made to sleep?” he demanded.
Jmmaar, who Qymaen had grown to understand was marginally less contemptuous than Master D’oon while addressing him, at least outwardly, sounded crestfallen as he explained, “In accordance with the stipulation that you will remain grounded on Kalee until a date has been set for your trial, you have been implanted with a tracking device.”
“I have been…” Disbelief gave way to horror, impossible to stem as he looked down at himself. He saw no evidence of a wound anywhere, felt nothing as his hands began to roam, fingers palpating along his limbs, his chest, the back of his neck, seeking tender spots. “You...you what? Where is it?!”
“You think we’re fool enough to tell you such a thing?” T’chooka D’oon asked pityingly. “You aren’t going to find that chip. It’s smaller than a grain of kodari-rice, and the wound is already healed. It can only be traced or deactivated using its specific frequency. You cannot leave Kalee without our knowledge, and should you attempt to do so, we’ll transfer you immediately to the Republic Judiciary Central Detention Center on Coruscant.”
“It was your request that you remain on Kalee to await your summons,” Jmmaar reminded Qymaen. “This was the best compromise we could come up with.”
Qymaen was too nauseated to indulge anger. Somewhere beneath his skin, squeezed into his innards— anywhere , as far as he knew—they had placed a piece of their technology. “You did this without my permission,” he accused.
“Would you have submitted without a fight?” asked T’chooka D’oon matter-of-factly.
Of course he wouldn’t have.
The Jedi Masters showed him on a datapad how they could track his chip, in case he believed they might be bluffing, pulling up a grid of the galaxy to pinpoint his location—illustrated as a blinking blip—within a reasonably accurate proximity. It appeared to be enough to know whether or not he attempted to leave Kalee, even if not precise to the extent of tracking his specific whereabouts on the planet. At least it wasn’t one of the shock collars the loathsome Huk used on his people; as far as he understood it, the device did nothing more than transmit a traceable signal. It still sickened him to know that they, with this stupid, tiny piece of technology that he could not see or feel, had essentially asserted complete mastery over him.
He hoped Jindra or Amagi would be able to do something about it.
—
The rest of the journey passed uneventfully. Qymaen grew bored in his quarters, but simultaneously couldn’t say he was looking forward to his arrival back on Kalee, not when he had his tour of defeat to carry out. He felt rather ill and miserable when the time came for him to be transferred to the docked Jedi corvette to be flown planetside, descending, at his request, on the outskirts of Urukishnugal where the Namireen once sat. He knew as many Izvoshra as could have made it in time would be waiting for him there (Zaebar, Dalibor, Bentilais and Levantis had all been stationed on Tovarskl at the time of the treaty signing), and it was with a staggering rush of mixed emotions that he found, ahead of the crowd that mingled near the base of the boarding ramp, Amagi, Jindra, Asilal and Kashbaru.
Not even the gathered crowd seemed to know what to make of his return, blending a murmur of joy with furious whispers of speculation. Their relief at seeing their Khagan unharmed was tempered by the sight of the Jedi Masters and the rest of their task force descending the ramp on the heels of Sahuldeem.
Qymaen did not let the presence of the Jedi deter him from moving forward to greet his Izvoshra, and, to his surprise, this was one matter in which they didn’t interfere. He was also grateful they’d returned his kakmusme to him at last, which hid his expression from his companions as he approached and halted a few meters away, one arm out in expectation of a salute, yet unwilling to close the distance and initiate it himself.
Jindra plunged ahead, using his arm to yank him into a hug that he for once did not attempt to pull away from, despite the many eyes on him. “Did they torture you?” she whispered in his ear, surprisingly blunt.
“No. I’m…”
Qymaen broke off with a grunt as Kashbaru grappled him into an embrace of his own, tugging him from Jindra’s arms and lifting the Khagan’s toes off the ground. “Sahuldeem, so glad I am to see you are unharmed! But your message was very strange. I think there has been a misunderstanding?”
“You said you made peace with the Yam’rii and signed a treaty,” said Asilal, eyes locked on what he could see of Qymaen’s face, exuding disappointment in his muted voice and sinking shoulders. “The Khagan I know would never agree to do such a thing.”
“We...we’ll talk about this later. Amagi, don’t—” Qymaen raised his voice, attempting to call back his friend, but Khan Ku’liana was amiable to a fault and had already stepped forward to greet the Jedi Masters, lifting his mechanical arm in greeting.
“Hello, offworlders,” he chirped. “Welcome to Urukishnugal. Are you the Jedi that Khagan Sahuldeem mentioned to us in his communication?”
Before either of the Jedi Masters could respond, Qymaen surged up behind Amagi, dragged him backward by his prosthesis (knowing it would hurt him less), and positioned himself between his Izvoshra and the Jedi. Too late, he had realized just how dangerous it could be to alert the Jedi Masters to the identities of his companions; if the Yam’rii had evidence of his deeds, why not his Izvoshra? Better to keep their interactions to a minimum, lest the Jedi find ways to punish them, as well. “Don’t talk to them directly, not any of you,” he hissed at a startled Amagi before facing the Jedi. “My childhood friends,” he said by way of explanation, not entirely a lie.
Fortunately, the Jedi Masters were more interested in moving matters along. Jmmaar, as usual, possessed more decorum than his uncompromising counterpart. “Do you need time to settle in before you make your proclamation in this city?” inquired the Viraanntesse. “Repast? Rest?”
But Qymaen shook his head. “We should proceed to the Khanagal. I can address a great many of the citizens from the balcony if they gather in the square below, and it also houses our best-maintained and most reliable holotransceiver.”
“Very well. Lead the way, General.”
And so, a short time later, the Khagan of Kalee found himself on the balcony of the Khanagal, standing over a gathered crowd of confused and frightened civilians, describing the sanctions of the Yam’rii-Kaleesh peace treaty and cataloging his litany of failures. With the Jedi overseeing his announcement, there was no way for him to overtly accuse the Order or the Republic of their tyrannical injustice, but he reiterated as many times as he could that these higher powers were responsible for the treaty's provisions, and avoided using language that would suggest his active complicity. Not once did he issue a command on his own behalf or say any approximation of “I agreed to”; instead, “the Galactic Republic has ordered” or “the Jedi will oversee”. He assigned responsibility where it was due.
But he could not deny that he had failed Kalee, in so, so many ways.
The war was over; all troops would return to Kalee; the colony worlds would be handed back over to the Yam’rii and evacuated of all Kaleesh citizens; the majority of stolen spacecraft would be returned to the Yam’rii; any previously established Yam’rii enterprises on Kalee, such as mining operations or civilian colonies but excluding military bases, could be reinstated at any time; Kalee was to achieve 90% disarmament within three months of the conclusion of the war, making exceptions for the tools necessary for hunting game; embargoes would go into effect immediately, barring offworld trade unless explicitly authorized by the Galactic Republic; and five trillion credits in indemnities were owed by the Kaleesh to the Yam’rii for damages and loss of life, to be paid in kind through movable goods or, failing that, by providing reparations labor.
The matter of reparations was the most difficult for him to explain for several reasons, and it was while he struggled to express just how much a “trillion” constituted that the crowd below finally began to dissent.
“Why must we give our goods to the Huk?” shouted one voice louder than the rest, and this triggered a chorus of escalating consternation and panic. “They deserve nothing!”
“Why are we doing any of this?”
“Who are these offworlders to tell Kalee what to do?”
“Why do we not fight them, Khagan?”
“Khagan, have we lost? Have the Yam’rii won?”
“The Huk have beaten us! All is lost!”
Qymaen bellowed to be heard over the rising, lamenting wails. “Kalee has not lost to the Huk or we would all be dead or enslaved! What we must do we will do because we have no other choice!” Throwing caution aside, he jabbed a finger at the delegation of Jedi who stood aside on the balcony, monitoring his words through TC-23. “They have given us no other choice! If we continue to fight, we will die; if we submit to this treaty, we will survive. I have always done what I could for Kalee—I liberated millions, drove the Huk from our planet, took their colonies from them, won countless victories in battle—but this is a new battle, a different battle—and it is not one we can surmount through further violence. We have to do what is best for Kalee, what is best for our survival. This is how it must be.”
Even as he spewed his nonsense, he knew it would not make anyone happy, Kaleesh or Jedi, nor could it bring him the comfort or absolution he craved. Not when a voice in the back of his mind screamed at him to leap to the side, wrest the Jedi Masters’ lightsabers from their hands and slice their heads from their necks—to rally his forces and take the Equity as he had taken the Huk’s capital ship over Oben before obliterating it in orbit—to finish what he started with the Yam’rii and then wage righteous war against the Republic and the Jedi who had dared attempt to rebuke him, humiliate him, leash him, punish him—
— And what then?
The Galactic Republic is greater than a single capital ship. You know this. Kalee is one planet. The Republic is made up of a thousand thousand planets. Maybe a million, a billion, a trillion. They have the Jedi on their side, who draw power from the universe itself to control their enemies.
They will all crush you if you oppose them.
There’s nothing you can do.
You are nothing.
Qymaen nearly ended his speech like that: words failing him, knees locked and trembling, pale-knuckled hands clenched on the balustrade, his own rapid breaths and pounding pulse drowning out all other sensations and smothering the flames in his chest. Feeling useless.
Worthless.
But the cries of dismay and indignation below were not the only voices raised. Others interposed, hopeful, zealous shouts defending his name. For some, his words had landed.
“Khagan Sahuldeem only has Kalee’s best interests at heart!”
“The Huk will take everything from us!”
“The Khagan has saved us before and he will save us again!”
“But he can’t fight for us!”
“Kalee will survive!”
“Glory and honor to Sahuldeem!”
“Sahuldeem, Sahuldeem!”
And as the chanting went on, picking up momentum and volume, sweeping the crowd like a brush fire in the steppes—as the Jedi Masters frowned and shot sidelong glances at one another, their fingers tensed around comlinks—as his Izvoshra, standing alongside a smattering of the Urukishnugal Guard below, lifted worried eyes and bit their tongues—the susurration of vicious doubt in the back of his mind hushed, hissing a sigh of reprieve through the sharp jaws that dislodged tooth by tooth from his throat, releasing a fraction of his guilt in a hot breath.
He was the Khagan Qymaen jai Sahuldeem. His people believed in him.
If he could convince so many to believe what he said to be true...couldn’t he believe it, as well?
But he knew better.
—
The passage of time itself seemed to change over the next three months: dragging every step as if lumbered with the weight of the massive undertaking at hand, and yet fleeting as a juleem dancing clear of a hunter’s scope.
More ships filled with Republic and Jedi-aligned offworlders arrived to assist in overseeing the transfer of Kaleesh warriors and civilians from Tovarskl, Oben and Abbaji Minor back to Kalee, as well as the ambitious confiscation of 90% of all weapons and war materials. Qymaen did what he did best when it came to non-military matters, delegating wherever necessary, yet remaining the main point of contact for the Jedi leaders. The Izvoshra who had passed the entirety of the inception of the Yam’rii-Kalee Treaty offworld were charged with assisting in the organization and logistics of transportation, a matter in which Levantis excelled, given his administrative experience and his fluency in Basic. Amagi and Jindra were entrusted with the task of determining how to collect and sort the weaponry to be requisitioned and removed from Kalee, a challenge when it came to more remote villages and clans who had not enthusiastically aligned themselves with the Khagan and his war efforts. Qymaen himself, meanwhile, enlisted the aid of Asilal and the old merchant guild leaders of Urukishnugal to establish a sort of taxation system to cover the costs of reparations—utilizing the Great Trade Road to collect as many resources across the western continent as possible—as well as a designated time and location for the Yam’rii to land on Kalee and secure their payments on a regular, scheduled basis.
If Qymaen was honest, he still didn’t quite understand how many goods Kalee would have to hand over to the Yam’rii before their value equaled the five trillion credits owed. He had been shown credits before, knew what they looked like: years earlier, offworld merchants had attempted to pay the Kaleesh using the little metallic ingots, which they had refused in favor of more useful trade goods from other worlds. What use were tiny pieces of soft metal? Kalee already had kuluha for Lig swords, had glass and gemstones for decorative purposes, had salvaged durasteel and other strong metals from the Yam’rii to be melted down and repurposed into their own structures. It seemed absurd to assign worth to credits that could be in any way comparable to necessities like food, clothing, medicine or armaments—but that’s what the offworlders preferred.
Qymaen wondered how they calculated it. How they determined the exact number of credits a destroyed city was worth—or a spacecraft—or a single life.
He wondered how they could be satisfied with any payment other than blood.
The Jedi themselves did not spend much time planetside, seemingly disinclined to intermingle with the Kaleesh, their perception of the species poisoned by Yam’rii prejudice. Generally, they conducted affairs from their starships, a decision that curled Qymaen’s lip behind his kakmusme whenever he addressed them during holocomm meetings—as if their feet were too hallowed to tread on Kaleesh soil for any length of time.
But when the supervised transitional period ended, with Kalee declared sufficiently toothless and a reasonable percentage of the kolkpravis and offworld colonists returned to the homeworld, the Republic and the Jedi expressed their intentions to withdraw the majority of their ships from the sector and leave the remaining responsibilities for the Yam’rii to handle. The two Jedi Masters who had been assigned this mission met with Qymaen at the unofficial spaceport of Urukishnugal to bid farewell, where only two ships were aground: the Republic shuttle the Jedi had taken to travel planetside, and the Masdaría.
Qymaen stood before the Jedi with his arms folded, in partial regalia, defiantly sporting his clan cloak and kakmusme but otherwise unarmored and unarmed. The contingent of the Urukishnugal Guard at his back, now armed with mere shoni spears, no longer felt quite as compelling a threatening force.
“Kalee is permitted to keep five shuttles for ease of cross-planetary transit, to be dispersed among the five largest cities.” Jmmaar gestured curiously. “You’re certain that is the one you wish to keep for yourself? You have stolen larger vessels; it’s not too late to choose another ship.”
“I will keep the Masdaría,” said Qymaen shortly.
“That is the shuttle he wants,” TC-23 supplied, trying to be helpful.
“I gathered as much.”
T’chooka D’oon cleared his throat. “I am obligated to remind General Grievous that he is to remain confined to the planet Kalee until such a time that he can be taken offworld to be tried for his war crimes. It may be quite some time before he will need to appear in court, but we will send someone to collect him at that time. Under no circumstances may he leave the planet, unless authorized by the Republic Judicial Department or the Jedi Council. As he should recall, he is being monitored by a tracking device that will alert us if he leaves Kalee. We will find him if he attempts such an escape.”
“Did you think I would forget?” growled Qymaen once the translation was finished. “I already know all of this.”
Jmmaar spoke up, “He understands. That’s enough.” Then, scuttling a few paces nearer, the big Viraanntesse made a measured, meaningful gesticulation with all four of his pincer-arms, a custom which Qymaen could only assume was typical of his species. “We will take our leave now, General. May you find peace with the Force.”
Qymaen was unimpressed with this Jedi variation of a parting blessing, but he was more bitter than openly hostile toward Jmmaar. For a moment he considered a salute for the alien who had bested him in combat and grappled him unmoving. Only a moment. “I doubt my ancestors will permit it,” he said gruffly instead.
“If they are as bloodthirsty as you are, this is not surprising,” said T’chooka D’oon, unfriendly to the last. “Goodbye, General.”
Qymaen’s downright murderous eyes fell on the human, full of hate and cold as ice. “I will not forget you, Ukuur ni Kalee,” was his steely promise.
Master D’oon turned to TC-23 as they mounted the boarding ramp. “Don’t think I didn’t notice,” he muttered. “You didn’t translate everything he said. Can you tell me what he called me, or do I want to know?”
TC-23 was as uncomfortable as a protocol droid could express. “He, ah, called you ‘Butcher of Kalee’.”
T’chooka D’oon’s face darkened as his step stuttered. “The audacity. When he himself was responsible for…”
Jmmaar placed a cautious pincer-hand on the other Jedi Master’s shoulder. “It’s over, my friend. Please. We’ve done what we can here.”
“You’re right, Master Jmmaar. It is time we put this matter behind us, at least until we are called back for the general’s trial.” He cast a cool glance backward at the Kaleesh Khagan. “I do not think he will be so bold then.”
Qymaen glared while the Jedi’s shuttle lifted into the hazy sky, parting the clouds as it accelerated beyond the atmosphere. His claws slipped through the wrappings of his palms, pinching him as he balled his fists, though thankfully not drawing blood.
And he came to a decision.
He would fight them when they returned. He knew he could not defeat the two Jedi Masters—not if they fought together, not if they called upon their Force to bring against him—and he did not care. He had already done everything he could for his people, and would continue to serve them until his dying breath. He was under no illusion that the Republic’s trials and hearings would lead to anything but his execution or to permanent imprisonment, far away from Kalee, likely under much worse circumstances than his few weeks aboard the Equity . He would become as useless to Kalee there as he would as a corpse.
When the Jedi Masters came again with their binders and tried to drag him off to the stars, he would do everything in his power to kill them, and if they had no choice but to take his life for his defiance...then so be it.
Better to die free.
Notes:
Originally, this and the previous chapter were one GIANT chapter, but I'm glad I broke it up. x_x
The next couple of chapters will involve some calculated time-skipping. We've spent enough time on the conclusion of the war!
Chapter 11
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
34 BBY
To the scientifically-minded offworlder, Kalee was an invaluable example of what happened to a planet on the verge of ecological collapse.
It had begun years earlier, before the end of the Huk War. In their desperation to dissuade the Kaleesh from attacking their remaining colonies and in an expression of sheer intimidation, the Yam’rii had bombarded swaths of the countryside, deliberately targeting such agricultural mainstays as the rolling fertile plains south of the Ausez Steppes and the tangled Kunbal jungle. This resulted in massive wildfires raging across the land, choking the sky with smoke and blanketing everything below in a dun-dulled mantle of ash. The small, concentrated but numerous and persistent bombardments afflicted more of the planet than the Kaleesh imagined possible, pushing and pulling at weather patterns for months upon months before the creeping damage became clear: more than a mere dry spell, but the onset of a series of far-reaching, progressively severe droughts. Slowly but surely, this development placed growing pressure on the dwindling freshwater supplies, though this was counterbalanced marginally by the hope that offworld trade, bolstered by the kolkpravis’ success in the war, would mitigate the damage that was being done to their resources.
Then the Huk War ended. Offworld imports dried up along with the parched lake beds and thin, slow-moving rivers. The kolkpravis and hundreds of thousands of displaced Kaleesh colonists from Abbaji Minor and Oben returned to Kalee, but few settled back in the ravaged remote regions from which they originally hailed, instead flocking to the cities, to perceived stability and plenty. Such crowded conditions diminished precious resources at an accelerated pace and sparked further unforeseen complications. Tensions rose between clans who would otherwise not intermingle, no longer united against a common enemy, their old feuds rekindled. Overfishing and excessive hunting was not a sustainable enterprise, and only resulted in further throwing off the ecosystem upon which the Kaleesh had relied, driving too many species to unseasonal migration and critical endangerment. The great Shumiv’za, now shallow and sluggish, from which the citizens of Urukishnugal and its environs drew drinking water, developed blooms of blue-green algae that poisoned thousands before they recognized the danger. Soon they learned many other water sources across the globe were suffering from similar toxins, a problem that could not be simply boiled away. The same warm, stagnant and contaminated water sources served as breeding grounds for blood flies, and the illnesses they carried that would normally be isolated and treated swiftly took root in population centers and spread with abandon. And, crowning these cumulative disasters, the reparations Kalee sent in the form of their own limited resources finally crossed the line from an inconvenience to dire shortages.
Dire and lethal.
The Khagan was no scientifically-minded offworlder observing Kalee’s collapse from the outside in with empirical interest. He was in the thick of it, a desperate ruler struggling to save what he could of his foundering homeworld.
And he was running out of options.
“Well, that’s what I’m telling you: there is nothing left for us to give before we no longer have supplies left to last the dry season. What you ask is impossible.”
The brothers of the San Clan huddled before a holotransceiver node inside the Kaleela Khanagal, arguing with a holoprojected figure. Neither looked particularly hearty: Levantis’ scowling face was wan and devoid of its usual decorative piercings and jewelry, his hair lank and less well-kempt than his preference, and Bentilais’ somewhat slimmer shoulders hunched under his stained and unwashed clan cloak as he blinked hollowly at the holotransceiver.
The projection, of course, was of Sahuldeem. He had always looked small without his regalia, but he seemed somehow smaller, now, as if the stress of the previous two years had personally eaten away at every part of him, leaving him bedraggled and worn. Even his voice carried less anger than usual, as if he lacked the energy to summon anything more taxing than irritation. “I’m not the one asking for it,” he uttered, pinching away the start of a headache. “We underdelivered last time. We only have two more months before the next payment. We have to give them something. There has to be something.”
Levantis bristled with impatience. “I won’t repeat myself, Sahuldeem.”
“Nothing can grow in the dry season here,” said Bentilais, as ever more patient than his brother. “We have always harvested what we had at the end of the wet season to keep through the dry. That was before the Huk destroyed half our farmland and scorched the sky. Our crop yield is a quarter of what it once was, and the dry season is longer than ever. We have to feed ourselves for many months, Khagan.”
“We can’t go into default. You know what happens if we can no longer pay them in goods.”
“And if we give them what we need, what then?” demanded Levantis. “We starve. We are already rationing; we’ve been rationing for the past four months. Not just food, but medicine. We won’t survive like this. We have no other choice.”
“We don’t have a choice!” Qymaen burst out. “We are rationing here, too, but we’re still doing everything we can to meet the Huk’s quota. We can’t resort to...we can’t let this happen.” His voice almost cracked as he flicked his panicked gaze between the two brothers, both hands lifted in supplication. “Not after what our people have been through. It can’t happen again. We can’t allow it. We...we’ll lose everything we fought for.”
“We already lost everything,” said Bentilais with grim certainty. “When they forced the slow death of their peace on us, we lost.”
“Then we have to appeal,” insisted Qymaen. “I’ll personally make an appeal to—no, not the Jedi.” Even through the distortion of distance and a poorly-tuned holocomm, his disgust cut through clear and emphatic. “They won’t listen. Someone else, then. A different representative from the Galactic Republic.”
Levantis lifted an eyebrow at the Khagan’s clumsy enunciation. “Not with your Basic.”
“You’re the one teaching me,” was the snapped response, a flare of anger to mask self-consciousness. “If my Basic isn’t any good, it’s your fault.”
“Deflecting blame, are we?” said Levantis. “Not that any of it matters. The offworlders won't listen to you, no matter how well you attempt to speak their tongue. When was the last communication you had with them, anyway?”
Qymaen glowered, but his shoulders drooped. “It’s been months,” he admitted. “They...they said my trial had been delayed. Again . They never explained why, and I preferred not to ask.”
“A small blessing,” said Bentilais.
“Unsettling,” remarked Levantis. “Do they have other, more important affairs to attend to in the meantime? Or perhaps they intend to throw you to the Yam’rii for judgment and haven’t the heart to tell you?”
Qymaen’s glare darkened. “Send whatever you can spare,” he uttered at length, returning to the matter at hand. “The longer we can stave off the debt…”
Bentilais bowed his head in polite deference. “We will do what we can.”
“I trust you will, Khan Sk’ar.” Sahuldeem disconnected, his image fizzling out.
The transceiver node had hardly begun powering down before Levantis emitted a strangled snarl of frustration and kicked the base of the low-humming machine. “Lug huul! Does the man hear himself? ‘We can’t let this happen’—it’s entirely his fault it is happening in the first place!”
Bentilais sighed, enduring his brother’s fit of pique. “He didn’t write the treaty, brother.”
“He sat in their midst while they drafted it, and I’m certain every word they spoke glanced off that thick skull of his. I have sent messages weekly—every week, for over a year!—so that someone employed by this Galactic Republic might hear from someone who can actually speak a scrap of Basic and explain how ridiculously distorted this whole affair has been from the start, but they refuse to acknowledge me. Me!” Levantis emphasized, hands to his chest. “I doubt there’s a man who can better speak Basic on the planet—and they ignore me on the unfounded basis that Kaleesh as a species are treacherous scum not to be trusted, thanks to the falsehoods concocted by the Yam’rii and the precedent set by our blessed Khagan.”
Bentilais tilted his head, eyes lidded in skepticism. “We did plan to oust Sahuldeem by the end of the war,” he reminded his brother, not a little dryly. “On the subject of treachery.”
“If only we had killed him sooner!” raged Levantis. “Then I would have been the one to enter into negotiations to begin with!”
“I’m sure a lot of things would have been different,” said Bentilais in a quiet, noncommittal rumble. “But perhaps not those negotiations.”
“I would have communicated with them properly! I would have contested their provisions!”
“Sahuldeem told us then, and many times since: there was nothing he could do. Everyone on that ship had made up their minds about what to do with our war long before they met him. Nothing he could say would have changed that. And therefore nothing you might have said would make a difference,” Bentilais pressed on when Levantis started to protest. “They were going to support the Yam’rii no matter what we did. It was an impossible situation.”
Levantis found new fire. “But if I—if either of us had become Khagan years ago—we wouldn’t have made such foolish decisions! We wouldn’t have followed the Yam’rii to their colony worlds! We wouldn’t have slaughtered their civilians by the millions! We wouldn’t have given them a reason to reach out to the Galactic Republic!”
Bentilais turned sharply, pinning his startled brother with a scalding glare. “What Sahuldeem has done I wish I’d have had the strength to do myself. Don’t put your words in my mouth. We are not the same, Levantis.”
Taken aback by his brother’s response, Levantis failed for several seconds to find his voice. “I know we’re not the same, Beni,” he muttered at length. “I know our...sensibilities diverge, particularly when it comes to Sahuldeem. But I had thought… You were the one who came up with the idea to begin with. To align ourselves with him until we found the right time to remove him from power. I’d thought your admiration was merely an act to earn his confidence.” His hands lifted slightly, palms up, incredulous. “Even after all that’s happened, you support him? Truly? It’s not an act?”
Bentilais’ intense stare softened into sadness. “Would you support me if I had done everything our Khagan has done? Or would you have already killed me?”
To this, Levantis could formulate no reply at all. He only stared back up in wounded uncertainty.
Bentilais dropped a gentle hand atop his brother’s head. “It helps nothing to blame Sahuldeem for Kalee’s misery, or to turn against one another when our planet is already struggling. We may no longer be his acting Izvoshra, but we are still the Khagan’s strongest allies. We must honor that. If there is anything, anything Kaleela can spare, we should send it to Urukishnugal as soon as we can—without complaint,” he added with a frown.
Levantis didn’t bother dislodging Bentilais’ hand, standing passively under its warm weight. “Not for his sake,” he mumbled. “For Kalee. Only ever for Kalee.”
On this matter, they could agree. “For the sake of Kalee,” agreed Bentilais.
—
“Qymaen! Perfect, glad you’re here. Can you hold this in place for me?”
Qymaen stifled a sigh and plodded across the length of the workshop, trying not to cast sullen, disapproving glances around at the sheets of durasteel adorning the walls and shelves cluttered with technological odds and ends. Assisting Amagi with anything at the moment felt rather antithetical to the purpose of his visit, but the request had been directed at him with such good cheer that he knew he wouldn’t be able to turn his old comrade down without a little guilt. Neither could he escape such guilt as he did offer his assistance, knowing what must follow. For the moment, he ignored his twisting stomach and instead focused on carefully pinching a delicate mechanical component to hold it still while Amagi soldered it in place. Amagi’s prosthesis, though well-constructed, did not quite possess the finesse to wield the soldering gun or to reliably manipulate such small parts; its appearance mimicked that of a Kaleesh hand and it functioned similarly, but here in Wild Space they had not managed to procure a model able to produce more nuanced movements than the rather weak and halting haptics of this prosthesis. Amagi had himself attempted to tinker with it, with Jindra’s clever and dexterous assistance, but the finer details of cybernetics proved to be beyond their combined self-taught engineering knowledge.
Still, he made do with what he had, as evidenced by the sprawling contents of his workshop: a heavily modified laser cannon propped in one corner, a disassembled hyperdrive generator in another, a more mundane generator in the back of the room powering the humming, electrical overhead lights. The current subject of his focus appeared to be a repulsorlift engine repurposed from one of their old tanks, destined for a new function the likes of which Qymaen couldn’t imagine.
He didn’t want to imagine. He swallowed, composing himself. “I’m sure you’ve guessed why I’m here.”
“Eh?” Amagi blinked up from his exacting work. “To chat? You probably should have come by the house, then. Not exactly cozy in here.” With a rueful laugh, he set aside his tool and began the process of tugging off the glove on his good hand. “No hearth or tea or anything. What’s up, Qy? Is something wrong?” His brow instantly creased in worry. “I hope nothing’s wrong.”
Everything is wrong, you affable fool. “We were below quota for our last payment to the Huk,” he said aloud, voice flat. “Matters haven’t improved for our next payment. We have barely a month to pull together what we need.”
Amagi winced. “Have you reached out to the rest of the Izvoshra? Maybe there’s more they can send.”
“The Kaleela brothers claim they have nothing more they can spare. Kashbaru has sent fish and pelts from Umauna. Dalibor contacted his clan kin and asked them to scour their mines for more kuluha. Zaebar and Asilal are monitoring the Great Trade Road for stragglers. I’ve done what I can, short of invading Sukundar and Agarmesh myself to see if they’ve withheld resources.”
“Which you wouldn’t, of course,” said Amagi with a nervous laugh that bespoke little confidence. He caught Qymaen’s venomous stare and quickly sobered. “I’m so sorry. What comes next? We’ve given the Huk more than we can afford to lose already. We’ve given them everything .”
“Not everything.”
This Amagi met with a blink and a deep frown. The expression didn’t come naturally to his face, and Qymaen almost took a perverse sort of pleasure in summoning it. That anyone could dare smile or laugh at a time like this baffled and infuriated him. “We agreed,” Amagi pointed out, sounding wounded. “Research and development. We agreed. What we’re doing here is important.”
“Not more important than making sure there’s enough food to go around,” was the cold response. “We have to pay the Huk in other resources. No more food. We’re already starving. The merchant guild will be by later today to assess the value of what you have here. Hopefully it’s enough that we can withhold some of these materials until the following payment, as well.”
Amagi opened his mouth, stopped himself, then sighed and scrubbed at his face with his good hand. “We...we can’t keep doing this.”
“It’s going to happen whether you like it or not,” Qymaen growled.
“I don’t mean this,” Amagi snapped, lashing out his arm to indicate their surroundings, so abruptly upset that Qymaen flinched back a startled pace. The exhausted anger in Amagi’s voice rang all too familiar. “I’m talking about everything. Chipping away at our lives piece by piece, every few months—this can’t be the way, Qy. We can’t survive this.”
“You think I don’t know that?” demanded Qymaen. “Do you think I haven’t spent every waking moment of the past year thinking about what can possibly be done to ease Kalee’s suffering?”
Amagi relented first, never one for confrontation. Palms up in surrender, the aggression dropped from his bearing and left only hopelessness behind. “You know there’s another option. And I don’t think we’re going to have much of a choice about it soon.”
First the Kaleela brothers; now Amagi. Qymaen retreated until his hip bumped a laden shelf, stifling a groan as he squeezed his brow, trying to will away yet another stress headache. “That’s not a solution. That’s…concession.”
Amagi persisted, if hesitantly. “At this point it’s inevitable, isn’t it? It was written into the treaty. They wrote it in knowing it would have to happen eventually. It’s been almost two years and we’ve barely made a dent in the debt we owe the Huk. They knew we’d never be able to afford the reparations. They knew we’d have to resort to sending laborers instead.”
Qymaen’s voice pitched up beyond his control, increasingly despondent. “That’s why we can’t give in. Don’t you see? We’ll be right back where we started. It would almost be like the war never happened. Like nothing I—like nothing any of us did mattered at all, in the end.”
Amagi wished Jindra were there; she was better at this sort of thing, particularly when it came to Qymaen’s volatile moods. He couldn’t even recall the last time they’d had a conversation together that hadn’t included his wife, or that which wasn’t exclusively centered around the fruits of his research into repurposing and conserving existing technology and energy sources. What would she say? “Nothing we did will matter if no one is alive to remember it. Qy, please—I understand how it must feel. But you won’t be failing Kalee if you tell the Huk we can’t make our payments anymore and have to fall back on sending laborers. You’ll be saving lives.”
“I’ll be dooming our people all over again,” Qymaen countered instantly. “They can call it whatever they wish—labor contingency—justify it however they like in front of the Republic and the Jedi, but we know what it really is. It’s slavery. And the Galactic Republic doesn’t approve of slavery, did you know that?” he added with a bitter sound that wasn’t quite a laugh crackling in his tensed throat. “That’s what the Senator said at one point. How did he put it? Practice of slavery has been outlawed in all territories that fall under the jurisdiction of the Republic. But now, under Republic law, in the eyes of the Jedi, the Huk have found a way to make us their slaves and call it justice.” His hands curled into fists against his thighs to ward off the impulse to clutch reflexively at his head. “They’ve made a fool of me, undone everything I fought for, everything I’ve sacrificed. And now you want me to bare my throat to them and let them feast?”
Amagi flung his own hands high in the air. “It’s not just about—! Ya igni, everyone else has been saying it for years, but I’m telling you now: you’ve always taken on too much . You’ve done so much for so long that you feel like you do everything—feel like you have to do everything—but it’s not true. It doesn’t all fall to you, and you can’t control every little thing that happens. Need an example?” he demanded, more harshly than intended. “You know what Jindra has been through. You know how many years she spent slaving away for the Huk on Tovarskl before she escaped. You know she would rather die than let herself be taken again.”
Qymaen’s stomach had already dropped at the mention of Jindra’s name. “And I would never expect her to make such a sacrifice,” he interjected, and even as the words blurted out they echoed hollow to his ears. What a stupid, empty statement. He hadn’t even been thinking of Jindra when he balked at the labor contingency.
Amagi waved it off. “That’s fine, but not the point. The point is that Jindra told me—just a few days ago—this is a risk she’s willing to take, and a sacrifice she’s willing to make. She knows it’s Kalee’s best chance at survival, even if it means she could be among those laboring for the Huk again. And if that happens, guess what?” Emboldened by Qymaen’s increasing uncertainty, he stepped forward and held his gaze. “Not your doing. Not your burden.”
“But it is,” was Qymaen’s deflated protestation. “I’m Khagan. Everyone on Kalee knows my name, if not my face. I’m the one who the Huk blame for our entire uprising. I’m the one who the Jedi will try to drag offworld to their trial and...kill or throw into their Republic prison to rot. It...it’s my…”
It’s your fault.
“It’s my responsibility,” he blurted a bit too emphatically, quick to override the seething voices in the back of his mind.
Amagi sighed and shook his head, trying to summon his wife’s gentle patience. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s what we’ve all been talking about for ages. If you really feel that way, maybe you need to...I don’t know...take a break. Let Asilal and the guild leaders take care of things for a while. They can contact the Huk—arrange whatever needs to be arranged. The Huk won’t care as long as they’re getting their reparations one way or another. They can sort things out while you step away.”
The proposal caught Qymaen so off guard he wondered if he had misheard, or if perhaps he’d imagined Amagi’s voice alongside the ones who hissed his failures at him in the privacy of his thoughts. But, seeing Amagi’s expectant expression, he realized the suggestion was quite real. Hot blood surged to his face and dangerous kuu-lir rolled off him in waves. “You’re telling me to flee? You want me to abandon my people in the middle of this crisis?!”
Amagi knew he should have left this discussion for Jindra to handle. Qymaen’s intensity had always flustered him even when he wasn’t on the receiving end of it. “I’m not telling you to go anywhere,” he insisted, wilting. “Just spend some time resting, here at the Khanagal, with your family. The people wouldn’t know. How many citizens of Urukishnugal even see you on a day to day basis? No one would judge you, Qy.”
“I’m not weak,” Qymaen snarled, as much to convince himself as the universe at large. “I’m not a coward.”
“Ya, no, of course not!”Amagi hastened to placate. “Far from it. But Kalee is reaching its breaking point, and…” Taking a deep breath, banishing his own cowardice that surfaced whenever he was confronted with his old friend’s frightening temper, he reached out his good hand and planted it on Qymaen’s shoulder. “I think so are you. Not because you're too weak to handle it. Just—no one person can expect to do all this on their own, Khagan or not. You can’t hold yourself responsible for the fate of an entire planet. You need rest like anyone else. Let someone else carry the weight for once, yeah? For your sake and Kalee’s. Please.”
The fire slowly dulled from Qymaen’s furious glare and from his thudding heart. The worry evident in Amagi’s green gaze—not pity, not doubt—softened the sharp, twisting stab of rage and shame in his gut until it left him stewing in queasy malaise.
Gods, he was so tired.
It was in a low, weary voice that he finally replied. “I hear you, Amagi. But…the next payment is a month away. I want to finish what I’ve started before…before I consider any alternatives. You understand. Don’t you?”
Amagi was frankly astonished to wring such a concession from Qymaen, so much so that he was stunned into several seconds of silence. At last, he patted his shoulder. “Just promise you’ll think about it, okay?”
Qymaen did not nod or give any other indication of assent. He pulled away with a rough motion, as if self-conscious of his display of vulnerability, and turned to retreat for the door of the workshop. He stopped halfway there, head tilted in contemplation. “Did Jindra put you up to this?”
“Does anything thoughtful I say have to be—yes. Yes, it was her idea. But for what it’s worth,” he added, “I’m in full agreement. So are the other Izvoshra we’ve talked to. We’re all here for you, Qy.”
Qymaen grunted, an ambivalent sound, and proceeded on his way out. With one last pause, he lingered in the doorway, hand on the lever. “The merchant guild will come by later for your things,” he said stiffly, closing the door on Amagi’s disappointed expression.
—
A month later, a shadow fell over Urukishnugal.
The city’s denizens had grown used to the sight of Yam’rii cargo freighters descending to touch down in what was once the makeshift spaceport, but the ship that blotted the sun on this day appeared to be a different class of ship entirely, and concerningly larger than a K’tahak-class gunship. Apprehensive eyes lifted to the sky and bodies en masse shuffled indoors, tucking themselves away in an instinctive act of self-preservation. Few Kaleesh recognized the nature of this particular starship, but its novelty was enough reason to scurry most of the civilians of Urukishnugal into hiding.
The new ship’s advent preceded a pair of the usual freighters, as well as a standard shuttle dipping across the Shumiv’za to set down just outside the entrance of the Khanagal. The once grand structure stood barren of its erstwhile gleam and luster, its shellstone surface dull with dust and pockmarked where its decorative gems, marble and glass had been stripped away to offer as payment.
Qymaen himself appeared stripped of much semblance of his former glory, seeming to sink under the weight of his regalia, weaponless, waiting at the base of the front steps with a paltry smattering of the Urukishnugal Guard to greet the pair of Huk who emerged from the shuttle and made their approach. His tired eyes strayed past the advancing figures, watching suspiciously as another several Huk soldiers slithered down the boarding ramp and fell into formation. Though he hid his face with his kakmusme, his lip curled as the two Huk closed the gap and loomed over him—clearly administrators, and likely female from their coloration, one wearing the same translator he’d seen on the Imperator, the other toting a datapad. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, barely containing his antipathy. “Your payment is where it always is—outside of the warehouse district. You have no reason to come to my Khanagal.”
Qymaen wasn’t certain how the hideous physiognomy of the Huk could possibly allow for expressions, but the one with the translator somehow looked smug as she spoke. Thankfully, the device did not emit Basic, but had been programmed with the same level of conversance that TC-23 had possessed with Kaleesh. “But that’s not entirely true, is it, Once-Khagan? You were well below your quota the last time we came to collect. How could things have improved since then?”
He glared up at them. “How indeed?”
The first Huk gestured to the second, who tapped the datapad and turned it toward Qymaen, displaying a page from the pertinent document. “In accordance with the Yam’rii-Kalee Treaty, should Kalee find itself unable to pay reparations in credit or in kind in a timely manner, we have the authority to acquire Kaleesh laborers to aid in the restoration of the widespread destruction inflicted upon Yam’rii territories by the Kaleesh armies. We will begin collecting those laborers today.”
And there it was.
Qymaen was determined not to let the Huk know just how much horror these words brought him, but his slowly tightening fists betrayed the tense dread building up inside of him. “We will never be your slaves again, Huk.”
“You’re mistaken,” was the smooth reply. “There is no record that the Kaleesh were ever slaves. You won’t be slaves. You will be perfectly legal laborers in service to the Yam’rii, as outlined in the treaty, which…” She paused and reached out to tap the screen a few times, making a show of studying the contents of the datapad. “Yes, I believe this is your signature? Your lettering is crude, but what can one expect when you were taught to write your name that very day?”
Qymaen felt the eyes of his guards fall on him and ignored them as best as he could. He didn’t wish to see their looks of incredulity, or judgment—or betrayal. Swallowing a lump of thick, congealed fury and mortification, he maintained a flat expression and indicated the structure behind him. “We can step inside the Khanagal to discuss this matter. There are considerations to be made—how quickly this can be done—how many—”
The Huk waved a spindly hand. “That won’t be necessary. You’ve seen our transport ship; there are more on their way. We already have a procedure in mind for securing the laborers we need at this time, in sufficient numbers: we will conscript one resident from every household with five members or more in this city.” Hardly permitting Qymaen a moment to process what had just been said, she droned on, “This will be quite the undertaking and may even take weeks, but we have brought with us a number of officers to help ensure the swift and organized transfer of the selected laborers. And just think: with so many people of this city moved offworld, surely that will free up more of the resources you have been failing to deliver unto us. We will evaluate the situation in six months, whereupon your regular payments in kind will resume—or we will simply have to acquire more laborers.”
“This can’t be what I agreed to in the treaty,” spluttered Qymaen at last, flinging out a hand to point at the datapad. “You can’t possibly have permission to take so many—!”
“You were explained these terms at the time of the treaty’s drafting,” interrupted the Huk smugly. “You are welcome to refresh your memory by reading the passage in question...or do you need me to read it out for you?”
Face flushed with hot humiliation, Qymaen could only muster a wordless snarl in response. His guards curled knuckles around their shoni spear shafts as the opposing Huk security force flexed their scythe-like arms in readiness.
Unfazed, the lead Huk lifted her dark eyes to the Khanagal, voice still disarmingly calm. “We may as well start here, the home of the Once-Khagan. We understand you have quite a large family, with many valuable, small hands. Such a large family that it might be more balanced to acquire half of their number.” Her vocabulator practically oozed, her transmitted voice thick with pleasurable menace. “No one better to set a precedent for the rest of your people—lead by example, yes?”
It took several seconds for the Huk’s intentions to penetrate the static in Qymaen’s mind.
Names and faces ran together like wet pigment. Nearly forty names and faces, scrawled in his consciousness like an impersonal ledger and leaving even less impression than strings of tiny, illegible Aurebesh glyphs glowing on the surface of a datapad. Incomprehensible and incidental.
No.
That was his lie. That had always been his lie.
Their names and faces were blazing suns, blinding beacons shining in desperation to draw him back into the light, so bright he’d felt he had no choice but to turn away and hold them in the periphery of his vision. Yet they had still burned themselves in him. He knew them. He knew Zena’s barbed tongue, Vykalla’s finicky tastes, Ilona’s honey-sweet company—he knew Kishar’s mischief, Shahulla’s curiosity, Luru’s boundless enthusiasm, Mirek’s love of kuunsi—he did know them, all of them.
But you rejected them.
You didn’t cherish them.
Not enough.
It was never enough.
Now you cannot protect them.
You are going to lose them.
Just like you have lost everything else.
Like how you lost the war.
How you lost her.
Waves pounded in his ears, drowning out all sound but his rushing pulse. He wheezed over a lungful of brine- and blood-misted wind. Darkness descended as the sea swallowed dozens of faces, extinguishing any promise of light they’d ever held for him.
“I see you are speechless.” The odious, artificial voice of the Huk overrode the soundscape of his waking nightmare, piercing the roar of waves and the hissing chorus in his mind. It was just enough to restore reality, if not any sense of stability. Qymaen’s legs trembled where he stood, threatening to buckle.
“You can’t do that,” he finally choked out.
“This is our right. This is our due. We will take what is owed to us, and there is nothing you can do to stop us. No violence. No breach of treaty. Nothing.”
You are nothing, jeered the other voices.
But that was another lie, wasn’t it? In that instant, Qymaen knew his value—not to his people, but to his enemies—and though it went against his every screaming instinct to the contrary to consider such a thing, panic overrode the scrap of pride he still possessed. He abandoned the stubborn strength in his legs and allowed them to crumple, falling to his knees in the dirt before the Yam’rii. “Wait,” he uttered, hooking his claws around the edge of his kakmusme and yanking it free of his face, casting it aside in a fraught display of submission. “Wait. Please. You can take me. Just take me. I alone am worth more than a thousand Kaleesh laborers—a hundred thousand. I’m the one who gave the orders, who slaughtered your people. I’m responsible. Take me. Leave the rest. Leave them be. You can have your revenge on me. Think of what you can do to me.”
And, for how sick, pitiful and wretched the Khagan Sahuldeem felt in that moment of perceived abasement, he was far too broken to realize just how close he had come in years to rekindling the fire that had once fueled the heart of the heroic Sheelal.
The Huk, however, chittered in laughter. “Oh, if only we could take you with us, Once-Khagan. But the Galactic Republic and the Jedi Order have decreed that you must remain here on your worthless planet to await justice. The day they drag you away cannot come soon enough.” She leered down at him. “If nothing else, it brings me great satisfaction to see you beg.”
His resolve shattered and Qymaen flew to his feet in an instant, making a thoughtless leap for the Huk with his claws outstretched. “You will not touch my children!”
This was what the Huk enforcers had been waiting for, and they immediately sprang into action. While most moved quickly to disarm the members of the Urukishnugal Guard and level weapons at their heads and throats, two closed the distance to intercept Qymaen—one swinging a scythe-arm to block him with blunt force, the serrated edges turned away from his foolishly exposed face to spare him severe injury, another grappling him from behind and pinning his arms to his sides.
The Huk with the translator stepped close and lowered her face close to his, eyes reflecting his stricken reflection back at him. “You must be careful, Sahuldeem,” she informed him in a low voice. “You know the consequences of taking violent action against us. We will be forced to defend ourselves, and when we report the incident to the Galactic Republic, they will intercede. And yet,” she continued, straightening to her full height and casting him in a shadow, “in this instance, a minor token of violence may be necessary to prevent escalation. The terms of the treaty preclude any obstruction on your part against the collection of laborers, and you may end up getting yourself killed trying to stop us, which would be—well, premature. So, in the interest of protecting all involved…” Her bony fingers flicked in the air.
“No!” Qymaen struggled, but the Huk soldier had the advantage of height and a durasteel-strong grasp. His toes scraped up the front steps of the Khanagal, and, with a nauseating lurch, he felt his feet leave the ground as he was swung forward. A pitted shellstone wall rapidly filled his vision.
Then, only darkness.
Notes:
Oof.
...It gets worse before it gets better.
(and yeah, we've got somewhat more significant time skips happening around this part of the story; the intervening years really just boil down to "BOY HOWDY THINGS ARE BAD ON KALEE", and I'd rather focus, as I usually have, on the specific, significant events in Qymaen's experience)
Chapter 12
Notes:
Remember my warning at the beginning of Part Three? That this part would include darker/more upsetting themes?
Well, fresh warning: this chapter contains significant mental health struggles and suicidal thoughts (also starvation...and child death mention...this is a rough one).
And a reiteration: Please take care of yourselves and take a break from reading if you aren’t in the right headspace. <3
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
32 BBY
Irikuum
As the bucket emerged from the darkness of the well, Vykalla san Nisina winced first at the disappointing heft of it, then at the sight of its contents. Silt clouded the water like the haze that hung in the atmosphere and streaked the morning sky with rust. The well must have been quite low to produce such a pitiful and filthy yield; unsurprising, given the lack of rainfall as of late, despite it being the ostensible wet season in the Ausez Steppes. But even such orange-stained water as this could be filtered and boiled clean, so Vykalla heaved a sigh, hoisted the bucket to her hip and crossed the dusty main road back toward the center of Irikuum.
Passing over the threshold of the largest hut in the village, she was immediately beset by an army of a dozen children who seemed determined to insert themselves underfoot in that categorical fashion of children who wished to be helpful but were anything but. Shooing them out of her path so she wouldn’t trip and spill any precious water, Vykalla wended her way through the tiny horde for the central hearth.
“Children, please give her some room to breathe!” called Ilona from the corner of the main chamber, where she knelt over a mortar and pestle grinding shelum seeds to a mealy powder. She abandoned her chore to rescue her fellow khanin, tugging the bucket into her own grasp just as a pair of pups wound their arms around Vykalla’s heels and fussed against her knees. “Do you want me to take care of this?”
“If you don’t mind,” replied Vykalla, rather harried. “Ancestors above, they’re lively. Maybe I can direct their energy toward something useful. Anything we need to forage?”
Ilona cast a worried glance back toward the mortar and pestle. “Everything.”
“Right. Stupid question. I’ll find Siduri. She can help me wrangle.” Already Vykalla was signaling for the children’s attention, herding them toward the door. “Come on, children! Mina, Martu, I need to use my legs, please. And Kishar, stop pulling your sister’s hair! Honestly. Who wants to help dig up tubers?”
This suggestion incited a small stampede, one that nearly bowled over Zena as she entered the front door of the hut with a wicker-woven basket of dried clothes. The arid climate may have been conducive to line-drying, but the copious amounts of dust in the air necessitated a preliminary shakedown of freshly laundered tunics before bringing them inside. It was, Zena had to admit, a maddening exercise in futility: the dust and sand was everywhere, permeating every crack, scratching eyes, clogging lungs, settling in their water and adding unwanted texture to what little food they had.
Needless to say, she was already in a foul temper as she sidestepped her way past the mass of children and her sharp eye fell on Ilona, who had stretched a cloth filter over the cooking pot and begun pouring out the bucket’s murky contents. “You’re up,” was her observation, accentuated by a deep frown as she unclipped her tuugmusme. “So where’s Qymaen? He didn’t already leave, did he?”
Ilona looked up with a guilty wince. “Oh. I let him sleep in.”
Zena dumped her basket to the ground and marched for the doorway that led to the hut’s adjoining quarters. “He can’t sleep in today, he needs to hunt. I just ran into Zaebar outside, he’s been waiting for him! He was asking if he went ahead!”
Ilona’s shoulders wilted as she called after Zena, “W-well—he really didn’t seem well last night, so—”
But it was too late to settle the storm, and Zena burst into Qymaen’s quarters. With the curtains drawn, the room was as dark as if dawn had not yet arrived, so she swept to the window and threw open the hanging panels of cloth rather aggressively. “Why are you still sleeping?” she demanded, rounding on the bed, backlit by the warm morning glow.
Qymaen was not fully awake as his eyes slitted open and squinted against the sunlight. His mind struggled to process what he saw. Was this reality—a dream—a memory? “Ron…?” he started to mumble.
“Ya, Qymaen!” But it was Zena who stood at the side of his bed, digging through the pile of furs and blankets, determined to extricate her husband. “You were supposed to hunt with your cousin today. Get up! He almost left without you.”
Her voice pierced through the film of sleep just enough to drag him into groggy consciousness. He propped himself up on his elbows, lethargic. “Oh,” was his halting reply. “Today. Right. I’ll...get my leathers.” But then, with no further catalyst that Zena could discern, he began to scramble to free himself from the blankets in a state of clear panic. “Wait—the children—íb-ku huul—where are the children—?!”
Annoyance gave way to alarm as Zena grabbed his shoulders to anchor him in place. “They’re fine! They’re all here. Everyone is here and everyone is safe.” Though she had never been one to express much in the way of compassion with regard to her husband, even over the course of the past two spiraling years, a sympathetic grimace flickered over her face. “They just went outside; about to go foraging, I think.”
Qymaen’s breathing settled as he stared up at his first wife, gaze wide and haunted. “O-oh. Good.”
She released him shortly thereafter, turning away to hide her discomfort. Her sympathy only extended so far, and his rather unsettled behavior as of late disturbed her more than it concerned her. “Get dressed,” she muttered as she headed for the door. “Lucky for you, Zaebar hasn’t gone yet. He said he’ll be waiting for you outside the wall.”
Left alone, Qymaen lay back on his hide pillows, taking deep breaths, ears tilting toward the breeze gently whistling through his cracked window, carrying with it the faint sound of his children giggling and babbling amongst themselves.
Still there.
Still alive.
Most of them.
He peeled off the last of the covers and climbed shivering out of bed, still heavy with fatigue despite sleeping in, and anxious to clothe himself in anything more substantial than his light sleeping breeches. Mornings were cooler these days in the Ausez Steppes, yet in the back of his mind Qymaen knew there were other reasons for the chills and lassitude that wracked his body more often than not. It was difficult to ignore as he wrapped himself up in his tunic and hunting leathers and found himself swimming in excess fabric, cinching his sash tighter than usual around his narrow waist, doubling up his wrappings around rawboned limbs. By the time he donned his dulhlava and a thicker cloak than the cool morning air required, he felt marginally better, and he hoped, at least, that today’s hunt might yield enough game that he could eat along with his family.
Then he might combat this frailty.
This weakness.
As he exited his hut, he heard two of his wives around back attempting to instill a modicum of order in a dozen children under the age of seven years. He couldn’t help but spare a small smile for the energy his pups possessed—more energy than he was prepared to deal with at this hour. Instead of bidding them farewell, he headed directly for the western gate of Irikuum, where Zaebar waited with a worn speeder bike, the one they used specifically for hunts. A metal cart had been crudely welded to its side, large enough to hold the carcass of any modest-sized beast of the steppes.
“Ready to hunt some pakozri?” Zaebar greeted him, deliberately good-natured. He, like the rest of the village, had lost some mass, but his stocky build had not been as severely affected by famine as Qymaen’s already lean figure.
Qymaen’s response was less optimistic. “I haven’t seen anything larger than five to a herd since last season.”
“Ancestors willing, they’ve bred since then.” Worry etched itself in Zaebar’s face as he watched Qymaen approach the speeder. “When was the last time you ate, Qy?” he asked, trying to make the question sound casual. He knew how his stubborn cousin balked at such concerns.
“I still have a big family,” Qymaen answered wearily—not quite an answer, Zaebar noted—as he hid his sunken cheeks with his kakmusme. “It’s more important that they eat.”
Zaebar shook his head, also slipping on his bonemask as he mounted the speeder bike. “Well, I have some jerky left over from our last kuunsi. Thought I’d bring it along for the hunt. It’s not much, and it’s going on two weeks old, but...it’s yours if you need it.”
Qymaen grunted in acknowledgment and, soon, the speeder shot out across the landscape toward the nearest hunting grounds.
While the Ausez Steppes could never have been called lush by any stretch of the imagination, in the past decade it had fallen desolate, its brown grasslands exsiccated and shriveled beneath the hazy, sun-starved sky. Their destination, the watering hole at which Qymaen and Zaebar had hunted since they were young and short of tusk, had sunk into a pitted, parched depression in the soil crumbling around the edges, a mere hint of damp at its center, ringed by the feeble, crooked remnants of dying trees that stood bare of leaves. As they had always done with their kuunsi-drawn wagon, they parked the speeder bike a good distance away from the site and walked the remainder, although, as they shortly learned, the precaution was unnecessary. Zaebar crouched in what little mud there was, examining the ground, while Qymaen scanned the horizon using the scope of his Outland.
Too much time passed.
“These hoofprints are at least three days old,” Zaebar finally conceded. “Don’t think we’re going to have much luck here.”
“I don’t see anything,” Qymaen agreed, sighing and lowering his rifle. He slumped against the nearest tree trunk and closed his eyes. “No juleem. No pakozri. Not even birds or tumu.”
Zaebar stood, brushing off his breeches. “We’ll just have to hunt elsewhere. But, uh, look on the bright side,” he added in the tone of someone who had little experience in such matters. “At least with the speeder we can cover ground a lot faster than if we still used kuunsi. Ah. Which reminds me…” He rummaged in his hip pouch and pulled out a few strips of dried jerky, holding them out toward Qymaen. When his cousin didn’t move, he strode forward, grabbed his wrist and firmly pushed the morsels into his hand. “Please eat. Ya igni. You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Grudgingly, Qymaen tugged off his mask and began nibbling at the jerky as if he didn’t have the energy for larger bites, or, rather, in a way that allowed him to relish the experience, to trick his mind into thinking his was eating more than what he actually consumed. The meat had begun to turn, its slightly rancid stink squirming his nostrils, but his need for food was too urgent to discard the paltry repast.
Zaebar joined his cousin under the tree, leaning his back against its other side, chewing on his own piece of jerky in silent contemplation. It wasn’t until he finished eating that he peered around the curve of the trunk with a dismal expression. “Qy. I, um...I knew you needed some space, but I wanted to tell you how sorry I am. About last week. When Tila...and…”
A blank stare met his sad eyes. “Oh.”
“Uncle Shapra...he...he only told me a little. He doesn’t usually say much about a birthing, especially when… How many…?”
Qymaen stopped eating, his hand falling as his tone grew even more distant. Detached, as if he weren’t an active participant in the conversation. “Three. Hili, Inda and Kirizal. We had just enough time to name them before Tila took them with her. Guess she didn’t want to die alone.”
Zaebar drooped and muttered, “Lug huul, Qymaen.”
And just like that, Qymaen’s hunger withered, failing to filter through the fog that had followed him for the past two years and which descended at the slightest provocation. He stared down at the morsel in his hand, sickened by the sight and smell of it, but refrained from casting it to the dirt. Instead, tucking it in his hip pouch, he numbly spoke up. “We need to move on. Need to hunt.”
Qymaen took a few steps, but Zaebar circled the tree and caught his wrist. “Wait. Listen. There’s something else.” Though he wasn’t certain he had his cousin’s full attention, judging by his hollow expression, at least there was no easy way for him to retreat from the conversation. Zaebar braced himself. “Asilal reached out to me yesterday.”
A beat followed as Qymaen processed the implication of not one, but two facets of this news—that Asilal had reached out at all, and that he had communicated with Zaebar instead of with him. Never mind the fact that he had smashed his comlink a year earlier in a miserable fit and had never bothered with a replacement. His chest tightened as he regarded Zaebar with a slow, suspicious blink. “What did he say?”
“He...well, he and the others were wondering about...about your return to Urukishnugal.”
Qymaen yanked his arm free, gave Zaebar his back and took an instinctive step in no particular direction beyond away. “No.”
“That’s not an answer,” said Zaebar sharply, dogging his heels. “The question isn’t if. The question is when.”
“Semantics,” Qymaen bristled without turning. “My answer is not yet, then. Isn’t that obvious?”
“Look,” continued Zaebar, softening his argument into something more plaintive, “I understand you’ve needed...rest. I know, okay? You’ve needed it since...you’ve needed it for years. And you don’t necessarily have to resume command right away. You can ease into it. That’s fine. Asilal, Captain Gazhdani and the Guard, the merchant guild, even Amagi and Jindra—they all have things under control, as best as they can. But...it sounds like the people have been wondering why you haven’t shown your face in public for so long.”
“The people only want to know where I am so they can tear me down,” Qymaen growled. “Ungrateful wretches. After everything I’ve done...”
You did this.
“That’s not true. No one blames you for the treaty. Or for the labor.”
Of course they do. It’s your fault.
“Why should I go back?” he asked, ears flattening against his skull as if it would deliver him from the accusations in his mind. “They don’t need me. What can I do for Kalee that I haven’t already done?”
You can’t do worse.
Or no, you probably can.
“You’re still the Khagan. In name and in spirit, you’re the ruler of this continent and more. The people need to know you’re still...there. Not dead. Not hiding.”
Coward.
Qymaen finally wheeled around to face Zaebar with hot eyes and a razor-edged snarl. “I’m not a coward!”
On reflex, Zaebar barred the space between them with his raised palms. “I didn’t call you one,” he shot back defensively. “I understand why you’re here. I know how important it is to keep yourself and your family protected. But...Asilal told me about something that happened a month ago. A skirmish broke out in the city. A challenge between two clan chieftains; nothing inherently wrong with that, but the fight boiled over and more blood was spilled than honor demanded. No one was able to calm things down until dozens were already injured and killed.”
“Your point?” Qymaen snapped. “Assuming you have one?”
“You’ve always had a knack for leadership,” said Zaebar, years of bitter jealousy and grudging admiration battling for supremacy in his admission. “Always. Before you were Khagan or Khan, gods, even before you were named Chieftain of Irikuum. Everyone likes you. They listen to you. They trust you. If you’d been there in Urukishnugal, you might have been able to stop that fight from breaking out in the first place with a single word.”
“Ah, I see,” Qymaen rejoined with a sardonic huff. “So that’s my fault, too, is it?”
“No, I’m not—! Look, I’m just saying things would be better for everyone if you were staying in Urukishnugal. Including your family. It has to be better there. It has to be better than…” He bit his tongue, stopping himself short of voicing tragedies best left unspoken.
Another growl harshed Qymaen’s throat. “No. No. They go where I go, and I’m staying here. The Huk don’t know where I am. They can’t do anything to my family—can’t take anyone away—they can’t do anything to us if they can’t find us. I won’t let it happen again.”
“Asilal told me the Huk haven’t returned to the city to collect more laborers in months. If you would just…”
“No,” spat Qymaen again, treading a flimsy line between conviction and desperation. “This is safer for everyone. And—and Urukishnugal isn’t any better, you know. Did Asilal say it was better? Nowhere is better when it’s all bad, but—with all the shortages—at least out here we can hunt and forage. And the diseases? It’s worse in the cities. It can’t be better. All those thousands of bodies crammed together, spreading it all to each other. Blood fever, wet lung, scale rot—all of my children would be dead by now—not just—” His voice broke, then, failing him and refusing to carry on. For a moment he seemed to choke on his own breaths, frozen in silent struggle.
Zaebar’s heart sank. He reached for his cousin’s shoulder. “Qy…”
But before he could touch him, Qymaen recovered and jerked away, throwing his arms wide as he embraced a new angle. “And—the Jedi haven’t come to drag me away to their trial yet, have they? They wouldn’t know where to find me. Their stupid tracker only knows if I’m on the planet, not where on the planet I am. And if they can’t find me, they can’t take me away. I can still be here with my family, protecting them. They need me. The rest of Kalee doesn’t need me to do anything else. They don’t need me.”
All you’ve done is ruin everything.
No one needs you.
Worthless.
Zaebar tossed his own arms in the air. “Sure! Fine! Maybe if you keep saying it, it’ll become true! Another self-fulfilling prophecy from the great Sheelal, like all the others!”
Qymaen physically recoiled from the impact of those words. “What did you say?” he breathed, too stunned to even allow for any anger to bleed through.
And, witnessing his staggering shock, Zaebar instantly regretted going as far as he had. His crumpled brow lifted, angling into a wince. “Sorry. I don’t mean...I know that’s not how it works. Worked. And that’s not the point. Sorry. I’m frustrated, Qymaen. I knew you needed a break, but I never thought you were going to stay in Irikuum this long. You...you aren’t done. Kalee still believes in you. Kalee needs you. You can’t stay here. You have to go back.”
“Maybe you should go back,” Qymaen said in a low voice. His manner had reverted to its subdued, dull default, his energy spent, his temper defused. “Why did you even come out here, anyway?”
At that, Zaebar stepped briskly forward and grabbed his cousin’s skinny shoulders, clamping him in place, glaring into his face. “I followed you because, like it or not, I’m your family, too. And just like you need to look out for your wives and children, someone has to look out for you. I only wish I were doing a better job of it,” he added in a mutter, abruptly averting his eyes, grip faltering.
Painful silence stretched between them as a slight breeze skirted the stale air, dusted eddies rustling their clan cloaks and shivering the dead grass.
“I am glad you’re with me, Zaebar,” Qymaen mumbled at last, “but I don’t want my family anywhere near Urukishnugal, and I’m not leaving them alone while I still have a choice.”
Zaebar sighed and unhooked his kakmusme from his belt, replacing it on his face. No point in further argument; not today. “Fine. Enough of this. We need to hunt, anyway. We’ll head to a new spot and track from there. But finish your jerky, at least.”
Their hunt became muted and businesslike after that, words only exchanged by necessity as they coordinated their efforts in tracking and pinning down a small herd of bony pakozri in a dried riverbed several kilometers away. Thirsty, curling leaves clung to the lower branches of the surrounding trees, upon which the pakozri browsed so intently and desperately that they detected no hint of the approaching Kaleesh hunters. A rifle shot scattered all but the one Qymaen fell, and it was with an immense sense of relief that the pair of them emerged from cover to collect the dead beast. The air between them cleared, cautiously permitting positivity.
“This has to be the biggest pakozri I’ve seen all year,” Zaebar admired as he squatted by the body, rolling it over into a better position to pick up.
“Will it even fit on the speeder cart?” wondered Qymaen. The imminent promise of so much meat left him feeling a bit giddy in more than one sense of the word, and he took a few settling breaths to calm his excited, almost erratic pulse. “And…are you sure you can carry that?”
“Oh, we’ll make it fit,” said Zaebar, though he abandoned his attempts to stand with a grunt and dropped the pakozri back in the dirt. “Uh. Maybe we should bring the speeder round. Anyway, now we know there’s a herd around here, so we can come back tomorrow for more!”
“More,” Qymaen echoed, hardly daring to believe it.
The pakozri was at least twice the size of the average juleem, so even though Zaebar could have hefted it over his shoulders and carried it a short distance, he was not going to be able to trek all the way to where they’d parked the speeder bike. Qymaen hurried ahead and fetched the speeder, and together they dumped the beast into the sidecar. Soon, their vehicle listed across the steppes, cruising at a labored velocity, the weight of their prize tilting them at a precarious axis.
“This thing’s so heavy the whole bike is tipping over,” Zaebar called over his shoulder joyfully.
“A small price to pay for so much meat,” Qymaen said, almost matching his energy.
“Well, as long as it doesn’t crash us!”
“As long as you don’t crash us.”
“Who do you think I am, you? I’m not going to crash!”
A reluctant grin lit Qymaen’s face as he acknowledged Zaebar had a point about his piloting skills, leaving him on the cusp of laughter while the speeder jounced and crested a hill. The valley for which the Jai Clan had been named opened up beneath them. The huts of Irikuum came into sight in the distance.
So too did the large Yam’rii shuttle, lifting off the ground and making for the sky.
An electric shock jolted through his mind, freezing his grin as his jaw locked. His hands, wrapped around Zaebar’s torso, spasmed and clenched on reflex as all of his muscles painfully tightened.
“No,” he whispered, strangled by the lump in his throat.
Zaebar responded by pushing the speeder bike to its limit, surging toward Irikuum. But, of course, it was far too late to make any impact on events. Already the two of them could see villagers in the streets—some having been beaten to the ground in retribution for their defensive actions, others simply on their knees, crying, clinging to their remaining loved ones. Before Zaebar careened to a full stop, Qymaen leaped off the back of the speeder.
As he hit the dirt mask-first, the world flashed. He was on the beach again, tripping into the sand, sick with panic, scrambling hopelessly toward a lost cause.
Another failure.
He staggered through the open front door of his hut.
Inside, the central hearth lay smoldering in the drench of their upended cooking pot. Through the wisps of dissipating smoke, Qymaen made out what was left of his family, cowering and shaking in a tight cluster by the window. He knew in an instant who was missing.
One of his wives. Four of his children.
Kishar among them.
Several pairs of arms unfurled from the frightened huddle, beckoning him in. Qymaen’s feet carried him forward before dropping him on the floor beside his family, and there they all clung to one another, wordlessly mourning.
—
Life in Irikuum resumed, an injured beast licking its wounds. Normally insular families began to emerge from their huts and reach out to their neighbors to seek and provide support, filling the spaces left behind by those who had been spirited away by the Huk. Voices remained hushed, interactions gentle. Malga Shapra held a special blessing ceremony for the departed, bringing the community to the central square to pray to the ancestors for their safe return. No one had heard of any laborers returning to Kalee; still, they prayed.
Three days passed. Grey skies held the promise of rain over the village, the air heavy with seldom-felt humidity.
In the Khagan’s hut, his family ate their evening meal around the hearth. The atmosphere was solemn, though a couple of the children had decided to play with their food rather than eat it properly, sparking joy where they could.
Siduri cast a glance at the darkening sky through the window. “Looks like a storm,” she observed. “We should set up the rain catchers.”
Zena cleared her throat. “Shahulla, do you want to help clean up the dishes, or set up the rain catchers?”
Qymaen’s eldest blinked up at her mother. The other children were too young to truly understand what was happening; Shahulla not only knew that her clutchmate was gone, but why she would likely never see him again. Qymaen’s three remaining wives took particular care when speaking with her, making sure to keep her engaged and involved with daily chores and responsibilities, but refraining from pushing her too hard or raising their voices in her presence. In the past few days, she had fallen much more reticent than usual, and with her fully-formed mandibular tusks and perpetually creased brow she more resembled a grave, worried, miniature adult than a seven-year-old child. She stared at Zena, mulling over her choices as if much higher stakes had been presented. “Rain catchers,” she said at last, voice so soft it barely carried across the hearth.
“All right, ga kuninda. We should hurry before the rain starts.”
Ilona reached for the bowl sitting by the conspicuously empty cushion, scraped up the rest of the stew from the cooking pot, then stood. “I’ll go see if Qymaen is…I’ll see if he’s hungry.”
Zena’s expression hardened. “If he’s hungry, he should have joined us for the meal.”
“I’m not going to punish him for feeling ill,” said Ilona curtly before turning on her heel and passing out of the main chamber. She approached the door to Qymaen’s quarters, steps slowing to a hesitant shuffle.
She hadn’t seen him since she’d taken in a plate of food in the late morning, she realized. He’d swaddled himself in his furs and hides and hadn’t spoken a word of acknowledgment when she’d left his food on the bedside table, despite her queries after his health. If he was ill, it wasn’t a fever or anything else she could feel from a smartly applied wrist to his forehead (which he soon hid by rolling over and burying himself deeper in his cocoon). He disregarded her questions and concerns, and, rather irritated by his stubborn silence, she decided to leave him be.
Now, she gave the door a gentle rap with her knuckles. “Qymaen?”
No response.
Her fingers hooked on the door handle…then slipped off, falling to her side as she let out a long, slow sigh. If he wasn’t in a mood to have her in his room, she wasn’t in the mood to be there. She would try again later—perhaps with the support of Zena or Siduri. For now, she’d give him the time he needed to rest alone.
But Qymaen was not resting in his room. His mussed hide blankets framed an empty space. The clay plate lay in pieces on the floor, his untouched food spattered in a sunburst. The window yawned open, curtains rustling in the damp breeze.
Outside the walls of Irikuum, having walked his personal speeder bike a safe distance away from where someone might hear the repulsorlift engine firing up, Qymaen finally mounted the vehicle and accelerated out onto the forsaken steppes.
He needed to go.
He didn’t know where.
For the time being, he simply rode, skimming across the lonely landscape at a pace that knifed his face with sharp winds and rendered the world around him an incomprehensible blur.
Maybe if he rode fast enough, he could leave the voices behind.
What do you think you’re doing?
Are you running away?
You already did that, or have you forgotten?
Coward.
He squinted his eyes shut briefly and shook his head, trying to clear it, and felt the bike wobble beneath him, threatening to spin out of control.
It’s already out of your control.
You’re powerless.
Pointless.
Then, abruptly, from the darkness bloomed golden light.
A warm desert. A lush oasis.
A memory.
A pair of speeders tracing figure-eights in the sand.
Maybe if he rode fast enough, he could go back there.
Back to her.
There’s nothing left for you here, anyway.
He opened his eyes, not realizing they had been closed for many seconds.
A wall of rock filled his vision, rising before him, a steep escarpment so close he couldn’t see the top of it. He was headed straight for it.
Don’t stop, whispered a voice.
She was waiting for him there, on the shore of the freshwater spring, waiting for him to swing his speeder to a skidding halt and flip the vehicle, sending him tumbling. Waiting to bend over him and laugh, for him to pull her down with a playful yank, to straddle him and bring her face close to his and taunt him as she always had. Waiting for their first embrace.
She was waiting, and all he had to do was crash.
And yet…
What if there’s nothing there, either?
At the last instant, he jerked the handlebars sideways and slammed on the brakes.
Too little, almost too late. The speeder mimicked his memory of the crash all those years ago, rolling over itself and throwing him from his seat. There, the paths diverged: the vehicle’s momentum carried it with an explosive, fiery crunch into the rock wall, and rather than landing in soft sand he bounced across painful, jutting rocks down an incline until his skull cracked against a hard surface. For a blinding moment, his vision laved white.
Blinking dizzily, Qymaen found himself sprawled on his aching back, staring up at an overcast sky. Nothing was broken, as far as he could sense from his bruised body.
He could move; he didn’t want to.
Why did you stop?
You could have ended it all.
What’s wrong?
Scared the ancestors won’t take you?
After all, why should we?
A drop landed on his upturned face. Then another.
Soon, he was lying in the mud, soaking in a torrential downpour, making no effort to remove himself from this unpleasant position. His crash had landed him within a depression in the earth, shallow but curved enough to collect the accumulation of rainwater, and the rising flood slowly seeped around him, a numb cradle to sap the warmth from his gaunt body.
No use fighting anymore.
No point to any of it.
It was when his arms were completely submerged in cold water and muck that he seemed to realize where he lay, and, shivering and struggling against the weight of his sopping clothes, he pushed himself into a sitting position and stared down at where his hands sank out of sight.
He lifted his hand and found Ronderu’s ragged cloak clenched in his fist.
Lightning split the darkness.
As he sat reeling, trying to make sense of how this could be, the cloudy water began to bubble, churning and frothing as if boiling over a hearth, and something white bobbed to the surface by his waist. Hollow sockets gaped up over two severely curved tusks, pigment streaked down angular cheek lobes and running off into the water, distorting the Lig Clan markings.
Her kakmusme.
But he’d never found her kakmusme. Only her swords and her cloak, and those— those he had entombed at Shrupak. Yet his claws twisted around soaked cloth. A carved karabbac skull nudged his hip.
And then more shapes surfaced. Smaller masks. A dozen of them and more.
No; not masks.
Kaleesh skulls.
You failed them.
Qymaen recoiled from the horrible sight and scrambled to get away, Ronderu’s cloak trailing behind him and curling through the water, spilling blood in his wake, as a chorus of voices resumed hissing malicious accusations in his fracturing mind.
It’s your fault.
They’re all gone because of you.
Kalee is dying because of you.
You failed everyone.
You ruined everything.
A roar of thunder followed Qymaen as he finally clambered to his feet and fled the fountain of skulls and bonemasks, blinded by the downpour, desperate to be anywhere but there. He didn’t make it far before his toes slipped on slick stones and tumbled him straight back into the waiting sludge. His chin struck rock with such violence he wondered for a half-lucid moment if he’d cracked a tusk. He clenched his jaw and tasted blood.
The voices persisted, viciously mocking.
Worthless.
Pathetic.
Weak.
Coward.
Failure.
You aren’t helping anyone.
Can’t protect anyone.
You aren’t needed.
Why are you still here?
What use are you to anyone anymore?
As he struggled to pull himself free of the sucking mud, something snatched his wrist. His shoulder. His calf. His locks. Snagging his muck-caked clothes. Scraping along his scales. Dragging him back down. Pinning him in the filth.
Not like this, anyway.
Skeletal hands began to tear him apart in a way that violated logic and sanity—bony digits digging deep and prying fingers from hands, hands from wrists, wrists from elbows, snapping him apart as if he was nothing more than a hundred components of a larger design—a bloodless deconstruction no less horrific as the busy hands broke him down, stripping him of extraneous parts until only his torso remained.
Qymaen finally found his voice when the clawed fingertips wrapped around his throat, and screamed.
Lightning streaked across the sky and thunder swallowed up the sound of him.
When the flash of light faded, there were no skeleton hands. No voices. No skulls. No cloaks. Only Qymaen, thrashing in the mud, howling and choking, fighting off terrors of his own imagining.
“Qymaen! Qymaen!”
Flesh and blood hands seized his shoulders and rescued him from himself, hauling him to his feet, bearing him up even as they shook him with intense vigor. Coughing and spluttering over muddy water that had poured its way down his throat, shuddering against the cold and gasping for air, Qymaen looked around wildly and saw nothing, unable to find Zaebar standing before him.
And suddenly, it was all too much effort.
One last voice, drifting through the storm.
You should be dead.
“What are you doing out here?!” Zaebar shouted, oblivious, still attempting to shake sense into his cousin. “Do you want wet lung again? You stupid—you…” He trailed off, anger washing away in the rain. He’d known Qymaen all his life; he knew when something was wrong, and he’d never seen an expression like this on his face before. Empty. As if he’d stepped out for a moment and left his body behind. “Qymaen?” He shook him again, more cautiously. “Qy. You...you okay?”
No reaction.
“Hey. Right here. Focus.” Zaebar freed one hand and waved it in his cousin’s face, increasingly worried when he realized Qymaen’s vacant eyes didn’t track the movement. “Íb-ku huul,” he swore, giving Qymaen’s arm an experimental tug, meeting a little resistance. “Okay. Okay. I...I don’t know what this is, but we’re not dealing with it out here. C’mon.” With a grunt, he wrapped his arms around his unresponsive cousin and heaved him over his shoulder, angling back toward the hunting speeder he’d ridden out into the waterlogged wasteland. “We’re going home.”
Back in the Khagan’s hut, his wives and children gathered around the lit hearth, engaging in quiet indoor activities (save a trio of children who were more interested in roughhousing, despite continuous shushing). The cozy atmosphere erupted into confusion the moment the front door burst open, emitting Zaebar and Qymaen, the latter still slung over Zaebar’s shoulder, both thoroughly drenched from the rain and tracking a path of sticky puddles from the entrance to the far end of the room as Zaebar marched forward.
Zena was on her feet in a flash. “What the—Qymaen? When did he…what happened?”
“Good question,” Zaebar replied shortly. “Don’t know. Not letting it happen again. Kids, move,” he couldn’t help but complain when he found himself attempting to wade through a small swarm of curious children and high-pitched babbling.
“Zae-Zae!”
“What’s that?”
“Is Father hurt?”
“Eww! Yucky-muddy!”
“Give your father some space, children,” Siduri called out, hastening to call the little ones away and waving them over to the loom on the other side of the chamber. “Come, come see what I’m working on!”
As the children flocked to admire the emerging patterns of the blanket Siduri was in the midst of weaving, Zena and Ilona trailed Zaebar. He deposited Qymaen in a wicker chair and stood back with an aggravated sigh, mopping his dripping curls out of his eyes to see if there was any change in his cousin’s behavior. To his disappointment, Qymaen remained where he was placed, half-slumped, shivering on reflex but otherwise taking in nothing around him.
“I was walking over to check in on everyone when I saw his speeder bike wasn’t here. Grabbed the hunting speeder and followed his trail. Found his bike in a wreck, then found him.”
Ilona moved beside the chair and ran her hand over Qymaen’s drenched, matted locks. “You’re freezing, Qymaen,” she admonished. “What were you doing out in the storm?”
“Ancestors know what he was doing,” Zaebar grunted, frustration and worry rendering his words a bit more brusque than intended. “Just—out in the middle of the steppes, rolling around in the mud, screaming for help like someone was murdering him. Almost like he was having a nightmare or something. Don’t think he’s injured. Don’t know what’s wrong. All I know is he hasn’t said anything since I found him.”
Zena caught Ilona’s eye, exchanging a knowing glance. “A nightmare?”
“Or something. Look, I—you—he needs to dry off and rest. And don’t let him go anywhere. I don’t like that he went out alone. He shouldn’t be alone. Not now. His speeder was...he could have been...” Zaebar turned away, more agitated and distressed than he wished to let on. “I—I’ll go see if Mother has any ideas. One herb or another. If you have zigmash, start with that.”
“We’ll keep him safe, Zaebar,” said Ilona with gentle assurance. “Thank you for finding him.”
As he swept out the door back into the cold, wet night, he muttered over his shoulder, “Please don’t let him do anything stupid.”
—
Mindfulness returned languidly to Qymaen, unbidden but inevitable. It wasn’t quite like waking up: not at all refreshing, for one thing, but neither had he fallen so out of awareness that it could be comparable to sleep or unconsciousness. He had still been able to see. Hear. Feel.
It had simply been meaningless.
Now, however, warmth trickled in to fill the emptiness, stirring him alert, and with it came a stiffness in his limbs and a dull ache pulsing from his thighs to his chest. He blinked and found new clarity in the orange firelight of the blazing hearth, in the patter and rumble of the settling storm across the roof of the hut, in the brush of drying cloth against his skin—and in the four children who had arranged themselves all over his body, clinging to various limbs and cuddled against his torso, all dozing.
Apparently his wives had taken Zaebar’s words to heart: he wasn’t going anywhere, and he was not alone.
Siduri worked at the loom, fingers dancing. Zena prepared jerky on the drying rack. Ilona sat by the fire, watching over a pot of boiling water with a mug at the ready. Intuition prompted Ilona to look up, and she spotted Qymaen’s wandering eyes. She indicated the pot, voice soft. “Tea?”
At length, he nodded, and after a few minutes she delivered a steaming mug of zigmash, trading him for one of the children in his lap. That left him with two toddlers sitting on the ground, wrapped around his calves, and with Shahulla curled against his chest. He took a careful sip of tea, trying not to disturb her, but between his sore throat and fatigued lungs—he vaguely recalled screaming so hard it felt like something had ruptured within—he found himself stifling a series of spasmodic coughs. Shahulla didn’t even flinch.
Ilona deposited the fourth child on one of the hearth cushions, catching the eye of the other wives with a subtle shake of her head. She didn’t want to overwhelm him with too much fussing; best if they stay back for the time being. She returned to stand by Qymaen’s chair. Her hand rested on its wicker back, not yet daring to touch him, gauging his behavior. Unsurprisingly, he appeared quite listless. “How are you feeling?” she whispered.
His bleak eyes stared forward, unwilling or unable to meet hers. When he spoke, the words escaped in a hushed, haunted rasp. “Like I was supposed to die out there.”
Ilona’s stomach flipped and her pulse quickened, but she remained as outwardly calm as she could manage. Thank the ancestors the children were sleeping. “Do you still feel that way now?” she asked him.
He closed his eyes. “I’m not sure what I feel.”
Her vision blurred with welling tears as she moved her hand to his head, stroking his still-damp hair. “You know we all care very much for you, Qymaen. Your wives—all of your children—your friends. We love you.”
The hand clasped around his mug of tea began to shake. “What if I’m not worth it?”
“Qymaen.”
“No. I...I’m not who I used to be. The Sheelal. I was so much, then, but I turned them away. The ancestors. They betrayed me when she died. They took my soul from me and gave nothing back. So I changed. I stopped giving them anything. I shut them out. Or I thought I did. But s-sometimes—” His free hand planted over one of his ears, claws digging into his scalp as he babbled on, seemingly unable to stop himself. “I hear their voices. They can’t find me in my dreams so they give me nightmares while I’m awake. For years, now. And they won’t stop—won’t stop blaming me. For my failures. For my mistakes. For everything. They’re punishing me. They have to be. They’re making me weak. They keep taking things away from me until there’s nothing left at all. Nothing.”
Ilona’s breath snared in her throat. How was she supposed to respond to something like this? Her eyes darted to the side, seeking help, but she had already signaled to Zena and Siduri that they should entrust this conversation to her alone. Now that she heard what he had to say, she felt woefully ill-equipped to provide the support he so clearly needed. She continued to card her fingers through his locks, mind scrambling to decide how best to address his unsound words, and, realizing her touch was as much meant to comfort herself as him, pursued that angle. “I’m so sorry,” she soothed. “That sounds awful. I’m sorry you feel that way.”
“But they’re right. It’s my fault. Kalee is dying because of me. I failed everyone. I ruined everything. I can’t save our people. I can’t even protect my own family. What am I if I can’t…? No, I—I’m no use to anyone anymore. I’m pathetic. I’m weak. I should...I should be...”
“Oh, gods. Shh.” Moving to stand directly behind him, Ilona cradled his head and pressed his cheek to the front of her dress, as close to an embrace as she could manage without dislodging Shahulla. “Please. Don’t say that. Don’t think that. You’ve done everything you can. It wasn’t your fault. Those…” She swallowed. “Those voices are wrong. It wasn’t you. It was the Huk. It’s always been the Huk.”
“More than the Huk,” came the choked response as he latched abruptly onto that new branch of thought. “The Galactic Republic. The Jedi. It's their doing. If they hadn’t intervened...if they hadn’t given the Huk the power to do this to us… No,” he went on, more wretched than ever, each successive word washing away more of the flames of his anger until only despair remained. “No, they took my power. All the power I fought for. Took it away from me. From Kalee. Took away...everything. Everyone.”
Neither of them expected it when two little arms wound around Qymaen’s chest and hugged. Shahulla snuggled close, burying her face into the crook of his neck. “It’s okay, Father,” she murmured. “Don’t be sad. We’ll be okay.”
Zigmash tea sloshed across the floor as Qymaen enveloped his eldest daughter in his arms and clutched her tightly. He shuddered, made a noise as if about to speak, or perhaps to sob, but nothing more escaped his throat. Instead he held her in silence, trembling, while Ilona ushered the other pups away and quietly cleaned up the spilled tea.
Shahulla stayed with her father in that chair until sleep came for them both.
Notes:
This may be the dark night of the soul...but the darkest hour is just before dawn. ...Right?
Phew. Building up to this chapter has been...something. I knew from the start that Qymaen wasn’t going to sail through this part of his life without experiencing the effects of serious unresolved/untreated trauma and depression. Fortunately for him, things are about to improve in many ways (the very next chapter, in fact)—but we also know his fear of weakness and his guilt over his failure to protect his loved ones is going to continue to haunt him...right up until the time that it is used against him to manipulate him into making a fateful decision.
Anyway. Serious, not-talking-about-a-fictional-character-in-a-Star-Wars-fanfic talk. Posting this here: The National Suicide Prevention Lifeline provides free and confidential emotional support to people in suicidal crisis or emotional distress 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, across the United States. If you or somebody you know is in crisis, reach out to the Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.
Chapter 13
Notes:
I accidentally wrote the longest chapter yet. Oops. Maybe I'll go back and split up the final chapter later, but for now I don't want to confuse anyone by posting two surprise chapters!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Two Months Later
Pink morning light crept through the messily drawn curtains of Qymaen’s bedchamber, crawling across his closed eyes, as disruptive as a soft, inquisitive knock on the door. He mumbled slumber-steeped syllables and draped the crook of his elbow over his face, blocking out the light. Both Siduri and Ilona had passed the night with him, not a common practice before their move to Irikuum, but nowadays the whole of his family clung to what they had. Siduri only shifted in her sleep, but Qymaen’s movement stirred Ilona awake.
Sighing, she rolled over in the pile of hides and watched Qymaen doze for a minute. With one hand she reached out, slipping beneath the covers and touching his rising and falling chest. Her thumbs traced his prominent ribs and clavicles, a heavy-hearted examination that didn’t improve as she trailed south and her palm dipped into his concave stomach.
The last pakozri was long gone, partitioned among the remaining villagers of Irikuum and every last scrap consumed. No more pakozri had been seen since the small herd they’d tracked down two months earlier; the remnants had likely been hunted down by other desperate villages. The children had not eaten more than a few mouthfuls of tubers in two days; herself and the other wives had eaten less than that for three days; for Qymaen, it had been a week since he’d taken what could be considered a meal.
Despite his concerning physical state, she was at least grateful that he had made improvements mentally in the last several weeks. For as little as they spoke directly of what had happened the evening of the storm, his wives, children and clan kin nevertheless made it quite clear that the changes they made in their day-to-day lives revolved around providing support for him however they could. He was never alone, but the children were well-practiced in giving their father space if he needed it. His wives involved him in chores when he felt well, and one of them would sit with him in his dark, quiet bedroom when he didn’t. Nulahu visited almost daily and took tea with him, using their time together to make gentle conversation and perfect her herbal blends until, after a few weeks, his unpredictable moods began to stabilize. At that point, Zaebar also visited and convinced Qymaen to join him beyond the outskirts of the village, if not for futile hunts then for target practice or Lig exercises.
And, slowly, Qymaen started to seem like himself again. No more mention of voices in his head. No more silent spells where he would sit for hours and do nothing. No more abrupt outbursts, bouts of panic or waking nightmares. It all began to fade like a dream.
Ilona knew better than to believe all was well, however. She remembered that night, years earlier, during her first week at the Khanagal. His breakdown. The nightmare that wasn’t a nightmare. If such a thing had happened then, so long ago and so devastating, she had no reason to expect it would never happen again. She also had good reason to suspect that such a dramatic reaction only occurred during times of intense stress—and their current straits were hardly conducive to alleviating such stressors.
Gods, they needed food.
As she lay in bed, feeling Qymaen’s heartbeat, she raised a silent prayer to the ancestors for a blessing— any blessing, no matter how far-fetched. A successful hunt. A good rain. An unexpected advent of the Khagan’s followers, making the pilgrimage to his birth village to bring him tribute. A catastrophic event to wipe out every last Huk in the galaxy and free Kalee from these odious sanctions.
A clang of the warning bell out in the village square.
Both Qymaen and Siduri jolted awake, the former clambering across the bed to thump to the floor in front of the window. He thrust his head outside, looking for danger.
Several villagers had already flocked onto the street, some only partly dressed, jabbering and huddling together as they moved en masse toward the western entrance. One of the villagers spotted Qymaen at the window. “Sahuldeem! A starship landed outside the village! There are lu-kubdallam—they have blasters, but they haven’t attacked yet!”
Metal men.
Droids.
Spitting a stream of profuse curses, Qymaen ducked back inside and began ripping the room apart to clothe himself as quickly and sufficiently as possible. In his haste, he yanked on only his hunting leathers. No time for his wrappings or dulhlava. As he dressed, he fired off terse instructions to his wives, who both huddled wide-eyed on the bed. “Keep the children inside. And you stay in, as well. Don’t follow me. If you hear blaster fire, barricade yourselves in the cellar and make sure the children stay quiet.”
Ilona nodded vigorously. “Of course. Be safe, Qymaen.”
“They said there were metal men,” Siduri said, deeply troubled. “The Huk have never sent metal men. Is—is this the Republic? The Jedi?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.” Snatching up his old clan cloak and slinging it around his shoulders, he paused for a moment by the wall in his quarters upon which his twin Lig swords were mounted, crossed with decorative pomp, notched where two lightsabers had melted the kuluha, and briefly considered grabbing them on his way out. He had used them little since his shameful defeat at the hands of the Jedi Masters. They didn’t serve him well as hunting tools, after all. Today, he wondered if they would be useful against the bodies of the metal men. With sufficient strength—or in the hands of a clever swordsman—kuluha-forged Lig blades sliced with ease through Huk chitin; metal, he found, put up more resistance.
Instead of taking up his swords, he emerged empty-handed from his sleeping quarters and burst into the main chamber to find Zena already waiting for him, brandishing his kakmusme in one hand and his Czerka Outland in the other.
“The bell woke the children,” she said plainly. “They’re still in their room. Shahulla is keeping them occupied for now.” She lifted his mask and his slugthrower. “Go and make sure they have nothing to be afraid of, would you?”
Maybe a slug to the head worked as well for droids as it did for Huk. Giving her a curt nod, he slung on his rifle and strapped his kakmusme into place. “Stay here, no matter what happens. Keep the children safe.”
“Try not to die,” she muttered as he swept out the front door without a backward glance.
Outside his home and out on the road, Qymaen approached the mass of villagers, pushing them aside and berating them for their reckless curiosity. “Lug huul, stay away from the gate! Do you want to get shot?”
“They have shot no one!” protested one young villager.
“What if they’re here to help?”
“Let Sahuldeem pass!”
Zaebar already stood at the head of the pack, nearest the archway of the western gate, armed with a pair of macrobinoculars. He welcomed the sight of his cousin with a heavy sigh of relief. “Right there, about a kilometer out. Unknown shuttle. Two dozen metal men disembarked, began to advance, then stopped half a klick away. They have weapons—blasters, from the look of it—but they’re holding them at their sides. I think...I think they’re waiting for us.”
“For me, more likely,” Qymaen corrected him darkly, gazing out across the former meadow toward the gleam of metal in the distance. “Can’t be a coincidence, can it?”
Zaebar’s posture drooped. “You don’t know that they’re here for you.”
Qymaen found himself shivering slightly in the morning air and preferred to believe it was due to the lack of extra insulation of his dulhlava and his limb wrappings rather than any failing of nerves on his part. This was not how he imagined he would face down his captors, in the end—enervated and lightheaded from his bone-deep hunger, half-dressed in his leathers, so weak he knew his thin arms would shake and protest the weight of his own rifle when he used it.
But he had pledged to himself that they would not take him away without a fight.
“You don’t know,” Zaebar repeated with more urgency, reading his cousin’s expression from beneath his kakmusme, dreading the mix of resignation and determination he saw glinting in his eyes.
“Stay here,” Qymaen said. “Keep everyone back.”
“Qy. Don’t.”
“Of course they’re here for me. But I don’t know if the Huk, the Republic or the Jedi are behind this. So, I’ll go find out. Alone,” he emphasized when Zaebar began to protest. “They came for me . No one else here needs to be involved. This is my…” He cut himself off abruptly, retreating into his thoughts for a moment. The voices no longer hissed and seethed blame at him, at least not with the same vicious intensity that had culminated in a night he’d sooner forget. He could override them, nowadays. So he did. “This is my fight,” he amended, and even Zaebar could hear his grim smile.
Zaebar understood the futility of further argument, but nevertheless plunged his hand into a pocket and fished out a spare, cracked comlink. “Fine. You go on ahead, but I’ve got your back whether you want it or not. I’ll be watching. Keep me updated, if you can.” Pressing the comlink into Qymaen’s reluctantly outstretched hand, he then traded his macrobinoculars for the rifle he himself rarely used, stepping back to position himself behind the waist-high wall that encircled the village.
Qymaen bit back his thanks. Somehow, saying “thank you” felt like an admission of what this shuttle probably represented—that such parting words carried the meaningful weight of a final farewell. Rather, once he’d tucked the comlink away, he turned his back to his cousin and walked out through the gate of Irikuum as if setting off on a morning stroll. Sounds of quiet protest erupted behind him, but his flicked ears heard Zaebar shushing them, warding off anyone from pursuing.
As he approached the droids, they all lifted their heads in unison. Still some several meters away, his step faltered and ceased as he examined these unwanted visitors.
These droids were...different.
While TC-23 had been made in the obvious likeness of humanoids, these spindly beings, while also bipedal, possessed narrow, elongated faces that tapered at the end of their snouts. It reminded Qymaen rather of a juleem. Their tall, lanky bodies were painted predominantly a pale beige, but they also sported crimson components, not unlike the color of the pigment Kaleesh often used for marking their kakmusmal. As he soon learned, they had not been engineered with diplomacy or relations in mind—and not only for the obvious, disconcerting fact that they were all armed with blaster weapons.
“What is your business here?” he called out to them, alert and wary.
One of the droids stepped stiffly forward to address him, and to its credit it did not point its weapon in his direction. However, its words were a garbled blend of Kaleesh and Basic. “Greetings! Are you the Kaleesh known as General Grievous?”
Fighting his impulse to sigh in exasperation at its poorly-executed attempt at communication, he glared and demanded, “Who wants to know?” Droids were not autonomous. Someone had sent them, and if it was indeed who he feared, he would soon find out how his slugs fared against the metallic skulls of these constructs.
The droid paused, processor audibly whirring as it tilted its head at the impatient Khagan. “Uhh. Designation...OOM-37. Are you the Kaleesh known as General Grievous?” The repeated question matched its first iteration with pitch-perfect precision.
This time, Qymaen couldn’t hold back his frustrated groan. Language barriers aside, he realized answering a question with a question was not the right move when speaking with metal men. “ Yes . I am the Kaleesh you offworlders call ‘Grievous’.”
“Oh, good.” OOM-37’s nasal voice, though relatively flat and tinny as it emitted from its vocabulator, almost carried relief. “Your presence is requested by the Chairman of the InterGalactic Banking Clan. We have been sent to escort you to his private yacht, the Prudence.”
Íb-ku huul. What was all that supposed to mean? He’d never heard of half of these words before. Qymaen pinched his brow and asked, “Can you explain using Kaleesh? Only Kaleesh?”
“Uhhhhh…” The sound gradually dropped in pitch, as if the droid was powering down.
“Mostly Kaleesh?”
“Oh! Yes. The Chairman of the InterGalactic Banking Clan wants to see you on his starship.”
Strange. He didn’t remember hearing these particular words in his dealings with the Huk, the Republic or the Jedi, or if they had come up, there were no Kaleesh translations or adapted loanwords he recalled. It almost sounded as if an entirely new faction had entered the scene...but what did that mean? Was this third party here to deliver him to his trial—or to deliver him from it? Difficult to say without more information. “A person wishes to meet with me?”
“The Chairman.”
“Jairman,” he echoed, uncertain whether it represented a name or a title. Qymaen pointed to the sky. “His ship is in orbit?”
“Roger, roger.”
Whatever that meant, it appeared to be an affirmation, as the droid’s snout bobbed up and down eagerly. Qymaen narrowed his eyes. “Well, that’s fine for him. I, however, am not allowed to leave the planet, not while I still have this tracking device inside of me. Unless this person has permission from the Galactic Republic or the Jedi Order to remove me from Kalee for my trial,” he added sardonically, “he will have to land and speak with me here.”
OOM-37 tucked its weapon behind its back and emerged with a new tool clamped in its rudimentary hand. Qymaen flinched, bracing himself for an attack, but the droid patiently held up the oblong object and waved it in the air a bit. “This won’t hurt. Hold your limbs out from your sides,” it instructed him, and, warily trusting this stupid machine wasn’t clever enough to trick him, Qymaen obliged.
The droid swept the deactivator wand up and down Qymaen’s tensed body, from fingertips to toes, then paused at the base of his skull, where his head and neck met. The wand hovered an extra moment and emitted a long beep, again drawing a flinch from nervy Qymaen.
“There. Your tracking chip has been deactivated. Now you can leave the planet.”
Qymaen blinked. Lowered his arms. Stared. “You...you’re lying,” he blurted before it could occur to him that such a thing was extremely unlikely for a metal man.
“I’m not programmed to lie,” confessed OOM-37, swapping the deactivator wand for its weapon once more. “Lying is too complicated for my processing unit.”
“It can’t be that simple.”
“You are correct, it isn’t simple! When you lie you have to prepare a statement that is false as well as remember what is true and my processor can’t—”
“Shut up!” Qymaen snapped. His mind raced, dizzying. Surely there was no chance authorities would remove his tracking chip before bringing him into custody, not at the risk of him escaping and becoming untraceable. “This...this has nothing to do with my trial, does it?”
“No. The Chairman was permitted to remove you from your planet for the purpose of this meeting.”
“What is the purpose of this meeting?”
“I don’t have access to that information,” the droid said sadly, as if it wished it did. “The Chairman only said he wants to help.”
Help?
“I can also tell you that threats won’t be necessary as long as you cooperate.”
“What if I refuse?” he tested.
“Oh, that’s when we make threats.” The droid’s weapon lifted in an enthusiastic demonstration, then jerked back down. “Oops. Not yet.”
“Stupid droid,” Qymaen muttered. His eyes darted over the squadron of droids, counting, calculating, considering. If this new individual wanted him dead, the droids would have already attacked. The deactivation of his tracking chip certainly made a compelling case for earning his trust and enticing him aboard a strange ship to learn more. But the promise of treachery still loomed. “This... Jairman. He’s not an agent of the Huk, is he? They didn’t send him?”
“Huk does not compute.”
“Yam’rii!” he practically shouted. “Does he serve the Yam’rii? The Republic? The Jedi? Who does he serve?”
“Oh. The Chairman serves the InterGalactic Banking Clan,” the droid explained without explaining much to Qymaen’s frustrated comprehension, rattling off the same string of Basic words that held no meaning to him. “I’m supposed to tell you that you will not be harmed, but if you do come with us, you’re going to have to leave your weapons here.”
Qymaen’s fists clenched and his jaw tightened as he listened. He didn’t care at all for the idea of yielding to these droids and their master without any weapons, despite their assurances.
And yet…
And yet, since they’d already pledged not to harm him, he worried it wasn’t his own hide in danger if he refused to cooperate; the droids’ threats could fall on Irikuum and its inhabitants.
And he was lying to himself if he thought he wasn’t the slightest bit curious about this new person—whether he truly intended to offer help —and what that aid might entail.
If there was the smallest, faintest chance that it could help Kalee…
He had to find out.
He had to go.
So, scowling beneath his kakmusme, he slowly put up his hands to signal his peaceful, if reluctant submission. “Will it take long?” he growled. “This meeting?”
“You will be returned to your planet by nightfall.”
“I need a minute to speak with one of my—subordinates,” he said, settling on a more militant term, preferring not to complicate matters with talk of friends or clan kin. “I just need to get out my comlink and inform him of the situation.”
“Put down your weapons first.”
Wordlessly, he removed his rifle and set it in the brown grass, then, maintaining deliberate eye contact with what he presumed were the droid’s photoreceptors, he drew out his comlink and thumbed it on, tuning to the appropriate channel. “Zaebar.”
“Qy, what’s going on?” was the immediate response, his voice razed by static and muted by a broken speaker.
Qymaen suspected they’d have a better time communicating by shouting on the wind than continuing this conversation on a malfunctioning comlink, but persisted regardless, turning toward Irikuum’s gate and addressing the scope of a distant rifle. “I’m meeting with someone in orbit. He’s requested that I come unarmed. I should be back by nightfall. When we’ve left, come get my rifle and take it to my hut—and let my wives know I’ll be home soon.”
“What the—what are you talking about?! Who are you meeting? How do you know this isn’t a trap? What did they say? Why are you agreeing to this?”
All very sensible questions.
Qymaen ruminated on his answer for a minute, waiting for something profound to grace the tip of his tongue. “You said it yourself before,” he said at last, not without a little wistful pride as he held up his tusks. “I’m still Khagan.” Then, before Zaebar had a chance to say anything else—whether to convince him of his foolishness, to shout at him, or even to agree with his decision—he switched off the comlink and turned his back to Irikuum, facing the patient, empty gaze of OOM-37. “Very well. I will go with you to meet this Jairman.”
“This way, General,” replied the commanding droid without hesitation. The whole squad pivoted in unison, as if responding to an unseen signal, leaving Qymaen to trail along behind them uncertainly as they led the way to their waiting shuttle. At least they weren’t marching him at blaster point. He nevertheless lingered at the base of the boarding ramp, taking in the sight of this unfamiliar ship with cautious regard. It was quite unlike the admittedly clunky shuttles used by the Huk and appropriated by Kaleesh, closer in aesthetic and refinement to the other ships he’d seen, but stamped with an unfamiliar sigil on its glistening side—a circle with spires protruding from each cardinal direction, rather like a compass or a simple, stylized sun.
The interior proved to be similarly polished, and more comfortably furnished than what the likes of Huk or droids required with their respective exoskeletons. The padded seats, however pleasant, did nothing to mitigate the nauseating motion of the starship as it lurched into the air and propelled into the atmosphere, a sensation Qymaen had avoided for a good few years and which struck him full-force as if to make up for lost time. His empty stomach left him retching miserably but fruitlessly on the floor of the passenger cabin, a development that left the droids at an utter loss as they goggled down at him. A strange audience indeed; they offered no hand in assistance when he at last clambered to his feet and sought out a seat, made no effort to be sociable as he passed the next several minutes of ascension sitting quietly and gazing at his hands in his lap, and continued to stare in silence when he eventually dared to stumble his way to the nearest viewport and watch their approach to the Chairman’s starship where it waited in the exosphere.
And what a ship it was: a large cruiser, sleek and elegant, its chrome chassis shimmering in the light of the sun and reflecting Kalee’s surface in a warped rainbow of dust-brown to sea-blue. It was as if the entire starship had been drenched in melted kuluha, and Qymaen couldn’t help but gape.
Their shuttle docked and a reduced droid escort brought him aboard, revealing the cruiser’s interior to be as extravagant and clean as the outside, and shockingly quiet. One would have guessed they were stationed planetside; the engines hardly made a whisper, and he couldn’t feel the kinetic vibrations that teased his toes while in transit. He had little time to process or appreciate these unexpected luxuries before his escort drew to a halt before a silvery door and OOM-37 put a hand to its audioreceptor, speaking Basic. “Sir, the Kaleesh general is here.”
The door shunted open, seemingly in response. OOM-37 indicated the opening with its blaster.
Qymaen stepped forward alone, the door sliding shut behind him and sealing him inside a new room. Similar to the quarters where they had dragged him to sign their accursed treaty, he observed, but, like the starship itself, it was small and chic by comparison. A wave of tantalizing aromas washed over him, so powerful he was forced to swallow a flood of saliva as his mouth watered on reflex. He spotted the source of the smell a moment later: a large central table, not populated by his enemies, but laden with platters and bowls of foods that defied description. A severe tremor of unbearable need seized him at the sight of it, leaving him weak and hazy until his stupefied gaze caught movement. He flinched and turned.
An unfamiliar alien rose from the seat at one end of the table and moved a few steps closer in greeting. It was a tall, painfully thin, sallow-skinned creature who looked stretched out from his elongated skull to his fingers, with a severely flattened nose, small earholes and a cramped smile. The alien brushed off his sleek, greenish tunic with long hands and fixed beady eyes on Qymaen. He spoke, and another voice from behind the alien startled Qymaen yet again—one of those protocol droids, standing respectfully off to the side, this one silver and of a slightly different structure than the last. It translated the alien’s Basic to impeccable Kaleesh.
“Welcome aboard, General Grievous! I am San Hill, Chairman of the InterGalactic Banking Clan.” The alien gestured with great flourish toward the spread; Qymaen suspected most of his gesturing was done with flourish. “Please, sit down, help yourself. Given what I know of your current circumstances, I can only imagine how hungry you must be.” The unpleasant smile pinched. “Starving, if I may presume?”
Qymaen narrowed his eyes at the stranger’s words, but temptation drew his attention inexorably back to the food on the table. He had every reason to be wary—he needed to be wary—but his stomach cried piteously for nourishment. Surely the food was safe to eat. If the Chairman wanted him dead, he reminded himself, the droids would have attacked him before he ever set foot on this starship. He struggled for only a few seconds longer, then, with a curt nod, claimed the closest seat and removed his mask. If the alien reacted to his face, Qymaen ignored it, already busy reaching for whatever was at hand and pulling it close for the briefest inspection before stuffing it in his mouth.
It was fruit. Fresh fruit. Its juices gushed over his chin and dribbled down his tusks. He shivered and almost fell faint again, overwhelmed by the sensation. And there was so much more! It was like the feasts of Sudab’a Ud-Imin he remembered from years past, only made up of a hundred novel offworld flavors and textures. Gods, there was so much.
San Hill watched the ravenous Kaleesh warlord sample the food off of several platters, hovering thoughtfully on the other side of the table, before he folded himself into his own chair. “Try the topato soup,” he suggested, sounding quite pleased. “Not the most appetizing color or consistency, but believe me, it’s delicious.” He paused, crossing his hands on the bare stretch of table centered in front of his seat, allowing his guest another minute to indulge himself. When he spoke again, his nasal tone pitched up like a bridge, carrying them forward in the conversation. “I hope you weren’t put off by the little security force who collected you. I’d have sent someone sentient to relay my invitation, but, frankly, I didn’t trust that my party wouldn’t be met with a violent reception, and organics are far more valuable than droids, nevermind more difficult to replace. But now that I see you are here—willingly, weaponless, and unscathed—and here I am, prepared to meet you without one of my usual bodyguards on hand—then I believe it’s safe to say we’ve already achieved mutual trust, yes?”
San Hill’s attempt to get things rolling pulled Qymaen out of his food-dazed reverie. He looked up from a bowl of pale green stew to find the alien’s small, dark eyes fixed on him. There was a niggling familiarity about the gaze, a squirming tug at the back of his mind. It wasn’t as infuriating as the utter disgust with which the people of the Republic and the Jedi had regarded him—it reminded him rather of the many village leaders who, so long ago, when he’d first become Chieftain of Irikuum, had peered down their tusks at him and demanded who this youngling thought he was. It was not a look that shamed him for existing; it invited him to impress. Qymaen didn’t feel especially impressive at the moment, half-clothed, ragged with hunger, hands and face dirty with the food his host had deigned to provide him, but he did the first thing he could think of that an offworlder might consider impressive.
He tried to speak Basic.
“Yes,” he said, then, spotting the alien’s startled blink, proceeded with more confidence. He may not have gotten far in his lessons with Levantis, but he knew he had retained what he’d learned. He pointed at the table. “Good. Thank.”
San Hill’s lips split in an intrigued smile. “It’s my turn for a surprise! I didn’t know you spoke any Basic, General. Excellent. That will make things easier.” He twisted toward the protocol droid. “We may not need you after all.”
The protocol droid, who had continued to translate San Hill’s words to precious Kaleesh. Qymaen realized what was happening and hastily pinched a thumb and finger together. “Small Basic.”
“Ah.” A supercilious veil descended. “Then we shall keep the protocol droid on hand to translate what I say. I’m not about to talk down to you.”
Qymaen’s stomach still ached to be filled—and perhaps ached from being filled after so long with nothing—but the mood had already shifted. Suspicion clouded his face as he pushed the nearest plate away and squinted at the smirking offworlder, floundering to recall and mimic the words he had heard repeated several times now. “What...ah, Jairman San Hill InnerGalateek Banklan...what want? Why…” He paused again, already frustrated but determined to practice his Basic, then resorted to exaggerated hand gestures to help illustrate the words he lacked, pointing to himself and then to his surroundings. “Why...Grievous...ship?” Even as his translated moniker passed his lips, it felt false to him; still, it seemed to be the name that he had come to be associated with by non-Kaleesh, and San Hill had already addressed him as such, so he saw little point in introducing more names or titles that might confuse the offworlder.
San Hill let out a sigh, a blend of irritation and pity that wasn’t quite condescension but which skirted its boundaries. “You needn’t speak Basic if it is too much of a challenge for you, dear General. The droid can translate both ways.”
Qymaen shook his head with a stubborn scowl. He wasn’t about to give up on Basic so soon, and San Hill calling attention to his struggle only made him more determined to persist. “Grievous speak Basic.”
“If you insist.” San Hill tented his fingers. “There’s a matter I would like to discuss with you.”
That much was obvious. Qymaen couldn’t stop himself from huffing in impatience. “Jairman San Hill speak now.”
“Straight to business! Oh, I do like that. Well, General,” the Chairman went on, plucking up a pastry from the table, “not to put too fine a point on it, but your planet is in astronomical and economical dire straits. Your very planet is dying.”
The words didn’t translate especially well, but Qymaen squirmed at the hyperbole—or rather, at the realization that it was not quite the exaggeration he wished it were. “Kalee…live,” he frowned.
San Hill scoffed. “Hardly! Don’t let your pride get the better of you. Kalee is crumbling apart...like...like a biscuit in Bantha milk.” He made his analogy with a visual aid, dunking the biscuit until it threatened to dissolve in the blue liquid, before flicking it free and eating the soggy confection with relish. “You are trillions of credits in debt and you don’t have the resources, the means, nor the hope to pay it off. Most of your people have never even seen a galactic credit.” With so much food at his disposal for demonstrative purposes, he reached next for a piece of fruit, which he pinched between his fingers until red juice oozed and puddled on a waiting plate. “The Galactic Republic is letting the Yam’rii drain you until you can bleed no more. Considering the sanctions and trade embargoes they themselves placed, it’s clear they would sooner anticipate the collapse of your species than the repayment of your debts. One less problem planet to deal with. It wouldn’t be the first time something like this has happened.”
Qymaen’s glare knifed across the table. “Jairmen San Hill want what?”
“Why, I want to help, of course. As I was recently promoted from co-chairman to sole Chairman of the InterGalactic Banking Clan, I do have a few strings I can pull—but,” he chuckled, “not exactly to the extent of the forgiveness of five trillion credits. No, what I can do is offer you employment. A job.”
Qymaen had to wait until the droid translated that particular word, but once he realized what it meant, he physically recoiled in his chair. “Nangasham?” he said first in Kaleesh, and then in monosyllabic, dissatisfying Basic. He couldn’t decide if he was more surprised or skeptical. “Job?”
“We’ve had some rather dramatic turnover lately at the IGBC, and given the current political and financial climate of the galaxy, well, we are a tad overwhelmed.” San Hill paused, his smile tensing into a rictus of displeasure. “Please, these refreshments are here for you. If there’s anything I abhor as much as wasting money, it’s wasting food.”
Qymaen, more conscious of appearances but still desperately hungry, managed to pick up a utensil before he resumed eating. He watched the strange alien closely. “What job? Jairmen San Hill speak.”
“Just ‘San Hill’ is fine. You see, we are in the midst of restructuring our Collections and Security Division. Yours is hardly the only debt in the galaxy, dear General. We not only need more collections agents to secure debts owed, but certain leadership roles must also be filled to organize these efforts.” He saw what plate Qymaen was reaching for and pointed with a chuckle. “Oh, you’ll love that. Uj'alayi, from Mandalore. Do you even have sweets on that awful planet of yours? You poor wretch.”
The droid may have been translating San Hill’s words into Kaleesh, as best as it possibly could, but Qymaen also tried to listen to the Basic to test his knowledge, and some of the ideas were being lost in cultural differences and in the impossibility of translation. “What…collek-shun-zae-jens?” he wondered, then winced at the syllables, knowing he hadn’t quite gotten it right. He decided he’d rather take a large bite of food than bother embarrassing himself trying to improve his enunciation. Whatever it was that San Hill had pointed out, it looked like a dense slab of bread stuffed with nuts and dried fruits similar to zuulum, but with a compelling fragrance. He took a bite and almost choked.
“Careful, my friend.”
“Kushlal,” Qymaen spluttered, eyes wide with unrestrained delight.
“Ah,” said San Hill with a knowing smile when the droid translated. “So you do have a word for sweetness. Though I suspect it is an uncommon flavor?”
“Mmph!” Qymaen dug into the cake eagerly, filling his mouth with sticky bliss that had been all too rare his entire life, let alone in recent years. Kalee had fruit, of course, and he’d tasted honey before; this was even better . “What food?”
“Uj’alayi. Uj cake. It’s soaked in syrup. The syrup is the sweetness you’re tasting.”
“Uj kaek. Ya igni! Good food.”
“Glad to see you’re enjoying yourself.” San Hill cleared his throat. “But you asked me another question a moment ago, didn’t you? I apologize, it was a bit, ah, garbled.”
It was suddenly much harder to focus on the conversation, but Qymaen paused mid-bite and nodded vigorously. “Collexunjenvh,” he repeated, mouth full.
“Lovely. But yes, what is a collections agent.” San Hill drummed his fingers thoughtfully on his chin. “How to put it? When a party, be it individual or business, fails to pay back a loan, it is the collections agent’s duty to approach the debtor and learn why the payment has not been made, and, in the case of repeat or recalcitrant offenders, impress upon them the urgency of the rectification.” He topped his explanation off with a truly ghastly grin. “With the appropriate application of violence, of course. In this arena, I think you will flourish . I believe with enough time and, hm, education, you will eventually find yourself at the head of the Collections and Security Division. If I am honest, that is my hope for you. But you will need to grow into your role—and so, it would be best to officially hire you on as a collections agent at the start.”
Once his plate was clean of the distracting uj cake, Qymaen licked his lips and belatedly tried to make sense of the alien’s words. Failing that, he twisted in his chair to appeal to the protocol droid. Multiple passes at translation and simplification later, he reverted his attention to San Hill with a wrinkled, perturbed brow. “So...man no ‘ pay ’.” He touched his chest. “Man like Grievous. No pay. Collek-shun-zaejen— fight no pay. Hurt.” His eyes narrowed. “No luuzhidma.”
“Honor?” San Hill fluttered his fingers, dismissive. “Oh, but most of these people aren’t like you. You are a victim of unfortunate circumstances. You were told to pay reparations with resources you utterly lack. And there will be others in similar straits, I suppose. But the rest? They don’t want to pay back the money they have been so generously loaned. They are trying to cheat the system. They are dishonorable. It will be up to you to determine which category the debtor falls into, and act accordingly.”
“Koklul.” Qymaen honed in on the word, despite the imperfect translation.
“Cheat?”
“Yes, jeet.” His frown deepened. “Huk jeet. Republic jeet. Jedi jeet.”
“Oh, precisely!” San Hill pointed excitedly across the table like Qymaen had won a prize. “They put you in a terrible situation, utterly unfair. Mustn’t forget why you’re here in the first place, and why I’m here with my offer. If you accept this position with us, I can arrange for the IGBC to assist with your debt. Financial aid—a substantial loan—which you will essentially pay off through your employment with our institution. Kalee’s debt to the Yam’rii will be delivered to us . And, once you’ve signed on, I will personally reach out to the Galactic Senate and see to it that some of the strain be lifted off Kalee’s external dealings as quickly as possible. Alleviate those dreadful embargoes, reopen travel and trade, as well as regain access to imported food and medical supplies. How’s that for a job offer?”
There was a twinge in Qymaen’s chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time, a feeling he acknowledged wistfully but just as quickly tried to stifle. He daren’t hope. It all sounded far too good to be true. He’d bartered enough in his time to know something about this business was suspicious; San Hill was offering him everything—exactly what Kalee needed—and for what? He voiced his incredulity. “All...for job?”
San Hill reached for something that stank of ethanol, the fumes powerful enough to waft across the table and tickle Qymaen’s sensitive nose. He began pouring two glasses. “Unorthodox, I know. But I assure you this is a mutually beneficial arrangement. I gain a valuable asset; you restore your dear planet. Imagine how your service to us will help Kalee. You can save your people. Oh,” he pushed one of the glasses across the table, within reach of Qymaen, “and on a more personal note, that trial I’m sure you’ve been threatened with, regarding your alleged war crimes? I’m sure you’ve wondered why they couldn’t manage to settle on a date for that pesky affair. I don’t mind telling you: I myself may be quite powerful, but I have very powerful friends, as well.” He lifted his glass in a toast. “There will never be a trial. Consider it a demonstration of my influence and a token of goodwill—and your sign-on bonus, if you like.”
Qymaen’s head spun. This was absurd. Perhaps the alien was toying with him, dangling such impossibilities before him for a sadistic thrill before snapping his long fingers and summoning his droids to capture him, to haul him to one of those cramped, electrified holding cells to await his trial. He realized he’d gripped the edge of the table so tightly his claws left shallow scrapes on the metallic surface, but he couldn’t seem to relax his rigid limbs. “Why?” he demanded, throat just as strained. “Why Kalee? Why Grievous?”
San Hill smirked. “Let’s just say I’ve been following the trajectory of your military career, and I see value that would be squandered if you were left to languish here on this doomed planet of yours, or in a Coruscanti prison cell. It certainly wouldn’t do for you to be executed in obscurity. I’ve heard accounts of your... feats . You will need a great deal of training and understanding of our institution before you can rise to the position I have in mind for you, but in many respects you already exceed the requirements for qualification. The Collections and Security Division is responsible not only for the collection of debts, but for the safety and protection of our properties and personnel. In addition to our organic agents, we have a growing force of droids at our disposal for such purposes as providing security and, ahem, enforcement. Rather like a small army—and what is an army without a commander? You’re an investment, dear General.”
Qymaen listened to the translation with closed eyes, taking slow, deep breaths to calm his rapid pulse and thoughts.
Where the Jedi had seen his victories as the acts of a depraved criminal, San Hill saw value. He wanted a warrior. A leader.
He wanted him to fight, and there was little Qymaen craved more.
When he opened his eyes, he leveled an intense stare at the protocol droid. This was too important to risk losing anything in translation, and despite his determination to practice his Basic, he was tired of feeling stupid beside the comparatively eloquent alien. Qymaen was still waiting for the catch, but he decided he might as well test the limits of the Chairman’s offer. “If he’s so eager to hire me,” he said in Kaleesh, slowly transferring his golden glare to San Hill, “tell him he also must do something about the reparations labor. Once we fell behind on our quota, the Huk began taking my people offworld for labor, the nature of which they refuse to disclose. This development is unacceptable to Kaleesh. And yet the Republic and the Jedi have been silent in response to our appeals.” Once he saw he had San Hill’s full attention, his hairless grey brow arched, he addressed him directly. “Can you stop this?”
“Hm. Well, once the IGBC takes on Kalee’s debt, that should negate the need to supply the Yam’rii with laborers, as reparations will then be covered by pecuniary means.”
Qymaen shook his head with a low, irritated growl. “But can the Kaleesh laborers be returned to their homes? Can you do that?”
“The IGBC does not plan to pay off Kalee’s debt to the Yam’rii retroactively, but I can look into the matter.” San Hill did not appear unsettled by the Kaleesh general’s glaring and growling, but wryly added, “And thank you for demonstrating your powers of intimidation. You see? You’re a perfect fit.”
“There must be specific terms,” Qymaen insisted warily. “Like the treaty. A formal pledge to be written and signed.”
San Hill nodded and sipped his drink as the droid translated. “Of course, dear General. We will write you up a contract detailing the nature of our arrangement. One thing I can tell you with certainty—this is not a short-term engagement, and it will take you offworld for quite some time. Your service to the Banking Clan represents repayment of our loan to Kalee; such service you should expect to last for many, many cycles to come. I understand your life so far has been rather...provincial...so I am only giving you a fair warning before you agree to these terms and find yourself unsuited to life away from Kalee and your erstwhile colony worlds.”
Cycles. Years.
Years offworld?
Life away from Kalee?
“But surely I will still live here on Kalee,” Qymaen said, perplexed. “While working for your—” he swapped to Basic and immediately stumbled “—InnerGalateek Banklan.” He wrinkled his nose, then plunged on in Kaleesh. “My work can be conducted from Kalee, can it not? Or will I travel to other planets as this...in this role you want me to fill? This collekshun zaejen?”
The somewhat pitying sigh from earlier returned. “And that is precisely why I wanted to make this clarification. Should you accept my offer, General, you will leave Kalee and return with me to my homeworld of Muunilinst, where the InterGalactic Banking Clan is headquartered. You will primarily be stationed there, though your duties will bring you to many other worlds, no doubt—just not Kalee. More likely than not, your direct involvement with Kalee will be extremely limited for the duration of your contract with the IGBC. Conflict of interest,” he explained, heading off Qymaen’s demand for elaboration. “Your ties to Kalee as its—what is the proper term for someone like you? More than simply a general, if I understand correctly.”
“Khagan,” Qymaen uttered, glaring once more.
“Mm, yes. Leader of your people in all manner of things. Well, you will not be serving the Banking Clan in the capacity of Kalee’s Khagan,” he stated, emphasizing the deep fricative nature of the term in a way that curled Qymaen’s lip. “You will be serving the Banking Clan as an employee of the organization, and to serve the IGBC is your primary interest. Your personal ties to Kalee represent a secondary interest capable of undue influence.”
“But I will be helping Kalee,” Qymaen countered, struggling to follow. “You will be paying me in credits for my work, which I will use to pay the Huk.”
“No. Listen carefully.” A pause, a break in Basic. “L-3PX, are you translating properly?”
“Well, I’m sure I’m doing the best I can with the lexicon that has been installed, Mr. Hill,” replied the protocol droid primly.
“Good. Then perhaps you should slow down for the poor general. He has not demonstrated what I would consider exceptional acumen.” San Hill returned his attention to oblivious Qymaen, whose claw tips marched an uneasy cadence on the edge of the table. “The InterGalactic Banking Clan will be shouldering Kalee’s debt in exchange for your employment. Your loyalties must lie with the IGBC, not the Kaleesh government—such as it is. I can no more employ, say, the King of Toydaria if his monarchy held an account with us. You cannot continue to conduct governmental affairs for Kalee while you are in the employ of the Banking Clan. Do you understand?”
So that was the catch.
“You are telling me that not only must I leave Kalee,” said Qymaen slowly, “but I need to yield my position and title of Khagan?”
“To avoid a gross conflict of interest, yes, I would say that would be a nonnegotiable stipulation of our contract.” San Hill watched Qymaen’s face closely, gauging his reaction.
Qymaen gave him nothing, expression tense but blank as he fell into deep deliberation.
On the one hand, the answer was clear.
On the other, his stomach soured and his chest ached as he imagined the conversation he would have to have with—gods, everyone.
They needed to know their Khagan was not abandoning Kalee. He wasn’t abandoning his people. His allies. His comrades. His friends. His wives. His children.
Her.
“General?”
Qymaen blinked up at San Hill’s expectant face, then rapidly shook his head, a reflexive shudder as if to shed him of his haunted concerns. “I need time to think about it,” he blurted. “I can’t just make a decision like this here, now, not without...I...I need to think.”
Not entirely true. He knew what he needed to do. But he still wanted time.
San Hill offered a smile that was more a sneer than anything tangentially friendly. “Perfectly reasonable. Why, I’m happy to stay in orbit for a Kaleesh week while you mull it over. I can begin drafting terms, just in case, in the meantime…ah!” His hands unrolled over the table. “And please, eat as much as you like before you leave. I will send this food with you, as well.” His unpleasant smile intensified. “For your wives and children.”
Qymaen tested out a little more Basic, fishing for the correct words from the droid. “San Hill...good heart. Kind? Kind.”
“Just a literal taste of what will be in store for your people should you accept my offer,” simpered the Chairman, not at all kindly. “But yes, please think about it. A small number of my droids will accompany you back to the surface, and can communicate your decision to me once you have come to one. They can transport the food, as well.”
“Yes.” Qymaen took this as a dismissal, leaving behind the untouched glass of alcohol and fastening his kakmusme into place as he rose to his feet. “Good. Thank.”
San Hill tipped back the last of his drink. “I hope I can look forward to doing business with you, General. But...” Though Qymaen was not practiced in reading expressions on the alien’s long face, it resembled Kaleesh physiognomy enough for him to recognize an obvious grimace. “If you do join us, leave that mask at home, would you? Garish, barbaric thing. The Banking Clan has an image to uphold, after all.”
The protocol droid, being a well-programmed protocol droid, shrewdly elected not to translate everything San Hill said.
__
The following week marked the first time in nearly two years that the Khagan Sahuldeem and all of his Izvoshra spoke together on a holocall.
Qymaen did most of the talking, though not without interruption. His subordinates—and his oldest friends—protested his decision to accept San Hill’s proposal, some with more vehemence than others. He needed to find out more, they insisted. He couldn’t just blindly trust that what the Chairman promised would come to pass. He needed to return to Urukishnugal first to settle affairs before even considering leaving the planet for a prolonged period of time. How long would he be gone, for that matter? Would his family go with him? Who would be left in charge in the meantime? When would the embargoes be lifted? Did the Banking Clan have any personal designs on Kalee? What would change? Was this really the answer to Kalee’s troubles?
Qymaen couldn’t alleviate all their concerns, not when he himself led the discussion with admitted uncertainty. But he had already resolved to take the Chairman’s offer, and the purpose of such correspondence with his old Izvoshra was to inform them of this development, not to seek their various opinions, whether in the form of support or misgivings. Jindra’s quiet worry, Zaebar’s obstinance, Kashbaru’s excitement and Levantis’ leery derision were all dismissed as unhelpful sentiment. Asilal, as usual, made pragmatic observations and offered no emotional appeals, perfectly demonstrating the reasoning behind another one of Qymaen’s decisions—that Khan Zigan would officially rule Urukishnugal in his stead during the unknown interim of his absence. On that point, at least, the Izvoshra agreed.
Using the portable holotransmitter that Zaebar had brought to Irikuum, Qymaen recorded a message for the general public to be broadcast on any remaining holocomm nodes or transceivers on the planet. It was a message of assurance, not to be released until the Banking Clan made good on San Hill’s pledge and Kalee saw measurable improvements, such as the return of offworld trade and resources (and, ideally, more holocomm stations). In it, he didn’t fully detail the terms of his contract—or the nature of his work, such as he understood it—but explained that he was being called away from his duties as Khagan to help allied offworlders bring stability back to Kalee, an effort that would likely take many years. It felt strange, donning his old regalia, making hopeful promises of security, plenty and prosperity in clothing that draped in baggy waves from his skeletal frame. He desperately wanted it all to be true, that he needn’t rely on faith, on trust, on a pathetic wish. In actuality, the only tangible evidence he had that amelioration was within Kalee’s grasp was the food the droid escort had brought with them planetside, enough to feed every household in Irikuum for the rest of the week.
But even that was more than anything the ancestors had granted him of late.
To his surprise, it was enough for at least one of his wives to place her faith in San Hill and the InterGalactic Banking Clan. Zena practically packed his things for him, insisting the risk was worth the reward. It will give you purpose again, she told him one evening, blunt as ever. It doesn’t do anyone any good when you don’t have purpose.
Ilona and Siduri expressed greater reluctance, mirroring his own reservations—not distressed that he would be making the wrong choice by leaving, but by what his children would make of his absence. The children were too young to understand why he would be gone; most of them had only formed conscious memories of him during the family’s life in Irikuum, away from Urukishnugal, away from the Huk and the active years of war. Some were young enough that if he did not return for years, they may not remember him.
His most difficult conversation was with Shahulla.
Everyone she’d lost had been taken by the Yam’rii. They would never return. No matter what he said, whatever numb vows passed through his tight throat and gritted teeth, he could see the mistrust in her eyes. Up through the morning of his departure, she averted her solemn gaze and fell silent when Qymaen approached her, again and again, with as much comforting kuu-lir as he could muster, and attempted to convince her that his situation was different—that he was not like the other Kaleesh who’d been taken away, that this was of his own volition, that he would send messages to the family as often as he could manage, that he would appeal to San Hill to allocate time away from his work that he might return to Kalee on leave and visit her and the rest of his kin.
He had briefly considered bringing his family with him offworld, and sent a message through one of the security droids to consult San Hill on the matter, who quickly discouraged the idea. You are about to embark on a transformative journey, dear General, the Chairman had informed him, through the filter of L-3PX. Not every moment is going to be pleasant, I’m afraid. I can only imagine the culture shock. And you’re going to be so terribly busy with work. Do you want to subject your family to the overwhelming stress of leaving the only home they’ve ever known, just when it is on the verge of being restored to them? Wouldn’t it be best for them to remain where they are to reap the benefits of Kalee’s resurgence? The Yam’rii will have no precedent or pretext to harm them once they have their reparations.
Qymaen was forced to agree. No one on Kalee, least of all his family, would ever need to suffer again. He would see to that.
It still pained him to think of leaving them behind.
And so came the morning of his departure, muscling its way onto the scene with all the delicacy of a day that is faced with both anticipation and severe dread. Qymaen dithered in his quarters, dragging each simple task into a lengthy, meticulous chore: folding up his old regalia and tucking it into the chest that would remain at the foot of his bed, taking up his Czerka Outland from the corner, disassembling it and packing it away with care into a rifle case, and, at last, hanging his kakmusme on the wall, centered beneath his crossed Lig swords.
He stared at the scarred mask and the damaged blades for a minute, mind roiling like a cooking pot on the hearth. It was almost like a shrine, he thought—a capsule of the war, a monument to what he had done and moreover what he had failed to do.
He found himself reflecting on what his shrine might look like one day. What offerings would sit on his altar between plumes of burning simsu. Which victories would adorn his life tapestry. How the people would remember him. How his children would remember him.
Despite his morbid reflection, he supposed it was good to be considering such things. He hadn’t been thinking of any of this the night he’d ridden out into the storm. Now, he realized he very much cared about what he might leave behind when he passed.
He hoped his kin would not be forced to entomb a life token in his stead, should he die offworld and his body not be recovered. He knew that pain, and wished it only on his enemies.
Qymaen, though perfectly willing to stall his boarding of the shuttle that would take him away from all he knew, had no desire to prolong his farewells and subject himself to the inevitable heartache that would come with those final words and touches. A heavier weight than his sahuldeem rested on his shoulders as he slunk from his hut and crossed the dusty roads of Irikuum, a bag of spare leathers hanging from one arm, his rifle case over the other. No; not quite the sahuldeem that had plagued him since losing his soul-bond. This was the sasiga of a sickened, sinking heart. Where sahuldeem burned and consumed, sasiga bled, and it wept.
The droid escort had called the shuttle back to the planet’s surface and stood waiting outside the village gate, stationed at the foot of the boarding ramp. In a moment of hesitation, toes curling slightly into Kaleesh dirt in an almost unconscious effort to tether him, Qymaen felt a hand on his arm. He jolted and turned to find Zaebar, flanked by both Nulahu and Malga Shapra, who had donned his ceremonial finery.
Zaebar’s thick brow was pulled low, but his voice carried no anger—if anything, a soft plea. “Qy. This is your last chance. It’s not too late to change your mind. When I told you Kalee still needed your help, I…I didn’t mean…” He shook his head. “You didn’t even want to go back to Urukishnugal. Now this?”
Qymaen composed himself, drawing a deep breath and coughing a bit over the taste of the steppes. The once familiar, comforting smell mingled with death and ruin. He knew what he did today would be the first step in restoring the aroma of blooming zigmash, wind-swept tukbrush and fresh grasses. “When you said that, I couldn’t see anything left for me to do that would help Kalee. But…yes, now this.” He tipped his tusks toward the waiting shuttle. “This is something I can do.”
“You trust this Banklan any more than you trust the Republic and the Jedi?”
“They didn’t care about Kalee. They didn’t even listen. San Hill is different. He’s going to help Kalee, and for that I’ll help him.”
Zaebar’s mouth flattened into a hard grimace. “No matter what that means for you?”
“Whatever is necessary,” said Qymaen firmly.
After a long, scrutinizing pause, Zaebar sighed, reached out and clasped Qymaen’s arm in a salute. “I can’t stop you. Never could.”
“I don’t mind my elders.” Qymaen dug his claws into Zaebar’s scales. “Watch over my family while I’m gone. But make yourself available to the Izvoshra if they need you for anything.”
“I must do as my little cousin commands,” replied Zaebar with a faint, crooked smile, “even if he’s no longer Khagan.”
As soon as her son stepped out of the way, Nulahu strode forward and wrapped Qymaen into a hug so tight his bones creaked. “Send us a message as soon as you can,” she whispered in his ear. “I’m sure you’ll have many stories to tell. And,” she added, stuffing a smaller leather pouch into his bag, “here is a blend to soothe your mind if you need it. Please try to take care of yourself.”
“Thank you, Nulahu.”
Malga Shapra moved forward once the two of them parted. “You were planning to leave without a blessing, Qymaen?”
For all Qymaen’s sentiments about the ancestors, he wouldn’t begrudge the old man his traditions. Brown, withered grass crunched under his knees as he bowed before Irikuum’s Malga without a word.
This was no battle blessing, with no formal ceremony beyond what the Malga chose to bestow, despite what his outfit would indicate—no kakmusme, no pigment, no verse—so Malga Shapra merely placed his hand over Qymaen’s forehead, thumbs arranged with gentle pressure over his temples. “May the spirits of our ancestors watch over you and keep you safe on your journey, Qymaen jai Sahuldeem,” he intoned, a short, simple blessing, almost secular in its imparting.
Qymaen spoke to the ground, reciting a similarly rote response, more out of respect for his Malga than any hint of reverence to the ancestors and deities he’d renounced. “I will continue to honor their memory, Malga Shapra.”
It wasn’t a lie. There was one memory he honored.
She had told him he would be the savior of Kalee. That it would be his legacy. His strength. He had thought he understood what that meant. He had carried her words with him into every battle—down the scope of his slugthrower—through the swing of his Lig sword—channeled it into every city he razed and starship he obliterated to smoldering dust.
He stopped halfway up the boarding ramp, looking out at the starved grasses of the dying steppes, the discolored sky, the silent crowd of sickly thin villagers that had gathered behind the western gate to see him off, their upturned, hopeful faces.
Now, he understood.
For a moment, he imagined he could hear her laughter. Weren’t you listening, Qymaen? I already told you. It isn’t your physical strength that matters to our people; they never would have followed you to begin with if that was important. It’s the strength of your spirit that guides them. And you have the strength of spirit to do this. I flew to the stars for you. Fly to the stars for Kalee.
It wasn’t her, of course. But, for once, it was nice to imagine.
Qymaen let the shuttle swallow him up and carry him into the unknown.
Notes:
And so ends Part Three, on a slightly more hopeful note than...frankly, the majority of this part. :'D
Thank you all so much for your support, comments and kudos! As I've mentioned many times, this part was a ROUGH one to write, for so many reasons, and it's a relief to have Part Four to look forward to (don't wanna hype it up too much, but it's one of my favorites...though we'll see what happens after the inevitable re-writes, oof). Seriously, Part Two was originally MUCH longer than Part Three, and look what happened! Apparently I have no self-control, haha.
Like I did between Parts Two & Three, I'm going to be taking a short hiatus before I begin posting Part Four, but hopefully not as long this time! The goal right now is to resume a biweekly posting schedule on May 2nd.
At which point...stay tuned for Part Four - Collector.
See you around~ <3
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