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.