Qymaen stood before the Kharankhui, his headscarf and armor strapped across his chest. "Your khaneme, Kummar, is gone. She perished exploring the forbidden temple at Jenuwaa — by the Yam'rii. We must take care that she did not die in vain."
Bent nodded beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder, and Qymaen inhaled. "We must rally the whole planet to be reunited. I am aware that Kalee has long been torn by war and feuding tribes in the Khaganate. But unless we want the Huk to decimate us, massacring and enslaving our people, we must put aside these old differences."
After the address, many people walked up to him to offer their condolences, the last of whom were Shia. "I am deeply sorry for your loss," she said softly. "The Ezen-Khaan tribe must rebel in Kaleela before any real progress can be made. I can take a team there—"
"We cannot send you alone," he interrupted.
"I am prepared to die if it means Kalee will be free."
"But if you die uselessly, nothing will get done."
She lowered her gaze shyly, and he rested a hand on her shoulder. "I apologize, Your Grace."
His hand tightened around her shoulder as his other fist clenched. "I will take some soldiers to Kaleela to recapture the Ezen-Khaan from the Huk in due time. But first, I must train you."
She tilted her head. "Train me?"
"If you're coming as a medic, you must know how to wield a weapon to protect yourself." Perhaps mentoring Shia, someone he knew was a good person, would heal him from the impact of Ronderu.
Her eyes grew wide with excitement. "When will we start?"
"Tomorrow. Meet me in the Kunbal."
The next day, Qymaen took Shia to a small clearing where the shining canopy left dappled shadows in place. Everything wild reminded him of Ronderu: the flowing creek, her voice, the trees, her green skirt.
"Let us begin," he said. "Remove your mask."
She let the roggwart skull drop to the ground, and he studied her exotic features. "Someday, you may see me without my mask," he said, drawing lines in the dirt with his heel's claw to mark their training ground. "Do not cross these lines when learning. If you do, I shall land a swift blow to your leg."
At the surprised expression on her face, he decided to explain more. "That is how I was trained, back when—" He bit his tongue, the salty tang of blood resting in his mouth, and he stopped before his throat closed up.
He handed her a branch. "We will practice with these first. Hold the branch between your fingers."
She did as he asked. "That's how you would hold a Lig sword." A trick formed in the peak of his mind. "What's that over there?"
Her eyes flashed in his direction, and he swung his foot against the side of her thigh, kicking her downward. She yelped in surprise. "Your Grace—why did you do that? It isn't fair to attack when I'm distracted."
He gave a bitter chuckle. "The enemy will not play fairly either."
She sighed and got to her feet, blood seeping from the cut his heel claw had given her soft leg. "Fine. I'm ready now."
"Today, you will learn defense. The sword will swing, and you must parry. If you fail or step out of the line, there are repercussions. Take another one. Lig swords are carried either dual or singular, but I was taught to wield them dual, so that is how I will teach you."
She clutched the branch in her other hand, her two middle fingers gripping the thin part of the wood while her thumbs touched the other side of the base.
"Your move," he said.
The branches swung at the empty air for practice. Quick as a bolt, he blocked her shot with one of his, using the other to spear into her gut. She landed in a sitting position on the mossy forest floor. "How was that?"
"Decent," he said, and she got back up. "When fighting with Lig swords, only one is used for offense. At least one sword should always be on the defense; two if you must."
He studied her physique. "You are taller than most of us, so focus on the physical part of Lig combat. It gives the advantage of strength." He leveled a branch at her. "Again."
Bent laughed when they returned to the settlement, his great shoulders quaking. "Qymaen! Contact has been received from Unen and Kudlaa. They will send reinforcements for the attack at Kaleela."
He addressed Shia. "Men have been wounded today. They are around camp."
"Very well. I will attend to them." She left, her gold head-scarf blowing about in the evening wind.
Bent placed a hand on Qymaen's back, steering him gently to a place by the ocean where they sat alone. "You're ill."
Qymaen tilted his head. "I don't understand. Just because I'm—" the rest of his sentence was choked off, and he was silenced. Just because I'm still grieving doesn't mean I'm sick. "I'm just tired, Bent."
"Your eyes look different," he said. "Too much moisture."
He rolled his eyes. "Enduring pain is courageous, and I will lead Kalee to victory. I will make the Yam'rii pay for what they did to Ronderu."
An eye-roll. "You're of age. You would do well to act like it."
He flinched. "Bent, you don't understand—"
"Listen," Bent said, closing his large hand around Qymaen's shoulder so hard that it hurt. "I do understand. Ronderu was my friend too, and I grieve for her as you do today. The difference is that I had to lead our forces after the fight while you stayed inside by yourself."
"You will never understand what Ronderu and I had," he growled back. "Never."
"Maybe, maybe not." A sigh. "Her death is taking a physical toll on your body. I don't mind leading the kolkpravis for now, but you must listen to yourself."
Qymaen pressed his lips together. Fatigue had caught up to him immensely. But as his grief hallucinations told him, victory was right between his claws. "I will rest when Kalee is free again."
"You don't know how long that will be," Bent said, shaking his head and walking away from the shore.
After the next training session, Shia asked him a surprisingly personal question. "How are you?"
A pause as he fiddled with the moss. "I'm your trainer, not your friend. There's no need to—"
"You're in pain, Qymaen."
The sound of his name on her lips, rather than the title Your Grace, prompted him to raise his head. Shutting his eyes, he forced himself to tear the memory of Ronderu's lips against his the day before she'd been slashed to pieces by the Yam'rii.
"I could have saved her," he murmured. "It is a stain on my honor."
She scooted closer to him but didn't touch him. "Nobody thinks that except you. When you love someone, you'll blame yourself for their passing."
"We were political allies, nothing more."
"Have you no honesty?" she asked. "I heard what you said in my bay. There's no use in hiding the truth. You loved her."
Relief cascaded over him as sorrow bubbled from his throat. And he collapsed into her arms, letting his tears out quietly.
Shia sighed as they stood together on the balcony of the Kharankhui tree-dwellings. "It was my fault for sending her into battle with her wounds. She could have survived if she was healthy."
"You weren't there. She was...overrun," he said, his voice breaking on the last word. He forced himself to forget her eyes, flashing like coins in his mind, terrified and exhausted and in pain as she sank beneath the waves. "I was too much of a coward, saving my skin instead of looking after those I loved."
"Qymaen." Her gold eyes, with round pupils, flashed in the dark light. "Even if that was true, there's no reason you can't become better. The past is written in stone, but the future is yours to decide."
"I don't want to forget my mistake," he murmured, taking a shuddering breath. Letting his pain out to Shia felt good, almost as good as slashing the Yam'rii down.
She ran her knuckles down the thin fabric of his shirt, and his scales prickled with sweet sensations, and the four weeks gone by training her seemed like forever. Her gentle, quiet spirit and desire for him to be happy were attractive in a way that was unhealthy….but he couldn't stop himself.
Perhaps Ronderu is replaceable.
No, maybe she can be found again in Shia.
He checked to ensure nobody was around, then took off his mask, unsure how to indicate to her that he wanted her to kiss him. Ronderu had seemed always to know. But with Shia, there was nothing more than a slight feeling of trust, of friendship.
Was this how it felt to be like any average person?
She shook her head, bringing it back to rest against his face. "I'm not like her. I won't break modesty—not even for you."
And as she turned to enter her house, he let out a shaky sigh, climbing down to return to his own. What did I just try?
Shia and Qymaen had become friends over the next two months, but Qymaen had great difficulty keeping it that way. Her sheer beauty captivated him most shamefully, and she was deeply attracted to him as she tried poorly to hide it.
After several more training sessions with Shia, they sat beneath the trees together. He'd removed his headscarf and mask from the summer heat of Kalee's rainforests seeping into his skin. Tracing the cracks in his mask with the claw of one of his left thumbs, he ruminated on a crazy idea. To his surprise, he was hesitant and slightly shy as he forced the words out, gripping her hands. "I want to ask you to be my bride."
A long pause. Shia's eyes glittered, and she smiled. "I would be honored." Leaning forward, she cupped his cheek in her hand and pulled his lips to hers. He made himself kiss her back — those soft human lips which betrayed the woman he should be kissing.
He sighed, primarily out of cold guilt clamped onto his body. She thought he had asked her to marry him because he loved her. But it was untrue; though Shia was indeed a friend and a good apprentice, she was nothing more than a friend, a nobody compared to Ronderu.
No, he had asked her to marry him because it would benefit them both. She would live on believing that her romance had happened, and he would have a family. And perhaps he would learn to love her in time truly.
The ceremony happened the next day at high noon. He held the corners of Shia's cape, his face veiled only by a small cloth, hers likewise. When the priest gave him the word, he covered her face with his veil, pressing his mouth to hers, but her lips were cold. The kiss was emotionless and meaningless to him.
He sat in the temple that evening. The other Kaleesh bowed, conducting their prayers. As the words from the ancient texts—in a dialect of Kaleesh dead to the world and incomprehensible to him—flowed from his lips, his mind wandered.
He turned his gaze upon the ceiling, his mouth dry. Perhaps I can find a way out of it. Maybe I won't have to give myself to someone else and betray her.
But he could not hide forever. Eventually, he would bear a child with his face mixed with hers. Could he stand to face the fact that he had failed Ronderu? That he had utterly decimated her memory by having nights of bonding with another woman as if she had never existed?
This is silly. It will all be okay. The pretense was something you did for years with Ronderu—you fooled almost everyone. You can do it again.
He caught Shia's dreamy gaze as she sang in the old tongue. Does she realize I am afraid of her?
No. She is under the impression that she's healed all my wounds from Ronderu's death.
He tried to think of how he'd react if it were Ronderu he was afraid of, but that was impossible. They knew so much and deeply about each other that nothing was new to them. He would never have been terrified of giving his spirit to her and his body if he could.
His stomach turned again. You were a coward once before, and now you're a liar. Don't be abusive too.
I will retain my honor. I will not betray the woman I love.
The woman I love is gone.
The next day, his eyes were on his hands as he tried to cook and forget. Forget everything, but he could take nothing back—his body in utter ecstasy, but his mind scorched with guilt and longing for it to be over.
He needed space. He needed time. But to admit that to Shia was to acknowledge that he had not moved on and wasn't indeed in love with her when he'd told her he was. Ronderu would have called him a damned liar by now, and he deserved it.
Biting his tongue, he stirred a pot of tea. All he wanted was to shout. This wasn't right. But he had gotten into this, and there was no going back.
She entered the room and hugged him from behind. "I'm going to work now," she said, kissing his ear gently. With a sigh, he looked over at his headscarf on the table; he'd forgotten to put it on, something extremely uncommon.
"I'll probably be with the kolkpravis," he said, squeezing any hints of coldness out of his tone. "I may not be home tonight."
"No matter," she murmured, running her hands along his chest and stomach. "It's fine."
He smiled. A gentle and quiet spirit, he told himself. That's why you love her.
"Have a nice day, busgui," he said. The word bride was at least honest—he could not bring himself to use the words nee ru with her.
"And you," she said, briefly kissing him again before heading out the door.
At various moments, Qymaen was tricked into believing that his life was everyday again. He moved to the Kharankhui settlement with Shia and lived together as best friends, husband, and wife. She was found to be with child two months after their marriage, and he'd been drowned in happiness at the news.
But lurking beneath the surface was the drifting form of Ronderu. Guilt clouded him every time he was alone with Shia. During the day, he enjoyed her company but always saw Ronderu's form at the back of the conversation, sad and meek. And at night, as his body blazed with the secret pleasures of marriage, his mind screamed for it to end.
Death greeted him like an old friend every day of his life. It had taken his mother when he was five when she had been carted off like a trophy to the planet Huk. Then it had taken his father when he'd been fifteen. As his life moved forward, bloodied to its core, the Huk War had ripped away everyone he cared about.
Yet this time, something was different. Something was amiss with her death.
As Shia lay in his arms one night, he allowed the cold to seep into his scales. He sighed and stood; he wouldn't get any sleep. Walking outside to meet Bent, he had one goal in mind: it was time to retake Kaleela and end the Huk war.
The next day, Qymaen took the Kharankhui on the long river trek to Kaleela. The air was warm now, and flowers bloomed on the mossy floors of the craggy streams and canyons that led to the capital city. Spring had come again, yet the cold of winter still blossomed on his brow.
They found the capital city. "Carry me in as a prisoner," he said to Sk'ar.
Sk'ar cuffed his hands, this time with metal bonds, prizes stolen by the Yam'rii during their many quarrels. "Careful, Your Grace," he joked. "If you resist, you'll get zapped with a voltage so high you won't remember your name for a week. Want a demonstration?"
"Hilarious." He studied Kaleela's gates for entry points. The main entrance would be the best place to transport prisoners to the capitol building, where they would free all the actual prisoners of war and retake the building from the Huk.
Bent went around, handing cuff boxes to the other Kaleesh soldiers. Each person was bound, and their weapons were hidden beneath their headscarves or shawls where nobody could see them.
"All right!" Bent barked, arranging them into a line. "Single fire, heads down, no talking. Any noise will result in a swift beating to the head. I don't work for free, y'know!"
They marched to the city gates. "What's the order number of your delivery?" the Yam asked in passable Basic.
Bent tilted his head. "I think my order number is T0A-DR3-HUQ."
Her eyes widened. "That's not an order—" But she didn't get a chance to finish because the general wrapped a hand around her neck, snapping it in a quick swipe.
Qymaen spotted a camera. "Bent," he whispered through his teeth, nodding up at the metallic dome, and his friend nodded. He aimed his slugthrower at it and fired, disabling the camera. Let's hope nobody was on duty, Qymaen thought; knowing his recent luck, that was not a likely prospect.
Bent drew himself to his full height. "Move it! We don't have the whole year!"
Bent led Qymaen and their group deeper into the city. Bombs exploding in the distance told Qymaen that the kolkpravis had engaged the outside forces.
He sighed as they came upon the old Kaleela hall. The first time Khaneme Kummar had stepped foot here during his time as khagan, she had fought tooth-and-nail against a hoard of Yam'rii to get to him. She had hugged him while sweaty, dirty, and wearing a torn shirt.
He wished for her to be the one back at home, pregnant and watching over the soldiers, looking forward to their first child.
He stamped out the thought. I've replaced her.
But unlike Shia, Ronderu was not content to simply stay at home if she was pregnant. She was wild, impossible to cage. A discussion about being gentle in her condition would have had to be held between them. He could almost hear her laughter now. I'm always careful. You, on the other hand…
The Yam'rii officer at the gate stopped them, and the general addressed them. "Would you mind escorting these prisoners to the palace's main floor?"
"Why the main floor?" he hissed.
"The new ruler of Kalee wishes to speak to them," Bent replied coolly. "These are the remaining soldiers of the Kharankhui." Leaning closely, he added, "we took them when Khagan Sheelal passed away. They are the ruling party's to dictate."
The Yam clicked his pincers. "Why did you not just execute them?"
Bent let out a great laugh. "These soldiers are part of the most fearsome kolkpravis on Kalee. Khagan Sheelal was a harsh master and trained his soldiers to be able to survive anything. They are valuable."
"I see," the Yam said. "If Minister Holona were to make slaves out of them, they would be strong and good at their work."
"We agree," Bent said with a grin. "Now, please allow me passage."
"I shall escort them myself," the Yam said. "You will receive your credit." As Qymaen and Bent parted ways, his friend nodded.
His officer laughed shrilly, studying Qymaen's thin body. "Senator Kitik was right about how much they influenced the warrior spirit of the Kharankhui." His mouth stretched into a wicked grin.
Qymaen kicked, aiming for the head. Lifting his foot, he sliced his heel claw across the officer's thin neck, imprinting a large black gash. The life left his opponent's eyes instantly.
The blaster from the fallen Yam was retrieved, and Qymaen handed it to another soldier, who freed them.
"Shoot anyone who engages you but does not shoot any of our own." Qymaen cocked his new weapon and pointed down another corridor. "This way. We must find one willing to assist us in getting to the throne room."
Qymaen located a Kaleesh enslaved person quicker than he'd thought he would. It was a young boy, still in his pre-teen years. He held a serving platter filled with daelfruit, but he dropped it at the sight of the kolkpravis.
Qymaen laid his blaster on the floor. "Child, pay heed. We are here to rescue you."
"Why have you come? The Huk will wipe you out too."
"We come to liberate Kaleela. We must know where to find the throne room."
"It is on the third floor," the boy said. "See, there is an elevator straight ahead. What shall I tell the governor?"
"He'll be dead before you relay the message," Qymaen promised. "We're retaking Kaleela, but we can't do it alone. I need you and the servants to take these blasters and go to the hangar, where the ships are. That way, you all can cut off the Huk air assault." He handed a blaster from the fallen soldier to the boy. "Lose this weapon, and you lose your life."
He took off his cloak and gathered the blasters, wrapping them in the soft mumuu hide and giving them to the boy. "Alert us in the capitol building once you've reached the hangar."
Once in the elevator with the closest soldiers to him, a voice spoke in crackled beats, clicking and whirring in Yam'rii'n.
He sighed, raising his pitch as high as he could. "Speak Basic, please. I have difficulty understanding your dialect." He wanted to curse as it dawned on him that his unique accent would have easily given him away. Special entrance, I suppose, he thought ruefully as he waited for a response.
"This is Governor Holona of the Kalee province. Whom am I speaking to?"
You did not just say that. "This is the Kaleesh kolkpravis. Your tyranny is at an end." He shot an energy bolt at the speaker, and it sparked, spewing smoke into the small chamber.
The elevator dropped them off on the third floor, and the izvoshra stepped foot into the throne room. Holona spoke. "You were brave to come here."
He leveled a Lig sword, his face twisting into a scowl. Soulless, wicked creature. "Surrender, or your end will be much less merciful at my hands."
"Bold words for one so young," Holona said as he walked casually out from behind the khagan's desk. "I suspected that you had driven all the forces from Kaleela into the jungle. A smart move, but very foolish. We will have your forces taken in due time."
Qymaen loaded his slugthrower rifle. "Bring him forward."
Holding rifles to his head, the soldiers nearest him did as he ordered. Where should he strike first? Decapitation would be merciful but expected. Through the heart would kill him slowly, but that wasn't painful enough.
"Blind him," he snapped, turning away.
As his soldiers stalked toward the Yam, he clicked nervously. "I surrender myself!"
"The crimes against Kalee are too egregious," Qymaen growled. "Request denied."
"Khaneme Kummar would have desired that you show mercy!" He cried out.
"Ronderu is dead!" The soldiers rushed forward, exacting vengeance against the governor just as was deserved.
Qymaen shakily got to his feet, tucking the sword in his belt. "Throw the body out the window. Let it be an example to whoever dares infringe on Kaleela again."
One of the pages stepped forward. "But sir, we shouldn't draw attention to ourselves. Besides, how long can the other tribes keep the forces at bay? They're bound to realize that we created a diversion sometime soon."
"It doesn't matter. We'll get to the hangar soon, and this will all be over."
"But—"
Qymaen leveled the sword. "Throw him out, or you will share in his fate!"
The page swallowed. "You heard him." Three others lifted the Yam and heaved him out the window. Soon after, his body made a sickening clunk on the ground.
It's almost over.
He pressed a white button, guessing it was the com link. "This is the Kaleesh kolkpravis," he said, his voice weary. "Sk'ar, if you are here, secure the hangars and take every ship you can find outside. Shoot the Yam'rii down."
Three weeks passed. The yearly conclave arrived, and the Khaganate fought in favor of the action Qymaen proposed: to take action against the Huk system's colony worlds for what they had done to Kalee.
Against his better judgment, they had also legalized polygyny, mainly due to the argument that the non-traditionalist tribes had pointed out: there was a gender imbalance. If they didn't legalize polygyny, the men might not be able to reproduce quickly enough, and the Kaleesh race could genuinely die out.
Qymaen addressed the planetary kolkpravis at Kaleela. "Our conquest of the Huk system may be lengthy, but we will eventually take the capital of Huk for ourselves. The Yam'rii will never oppress another system again. May the kolkpravis be the shudarga, the vindicators for the good of Kalee and the whole galaxy.
"For ages, the Yam'rii brutally oppressed the Kaleesh people, and their honor was damaged. But now we have a chance to prove ourselves righteous in the eyes of the gods and restore our position of dignity once more.
"The Kharankhui khaneme Ronderu lij Kummar would have been proud of the fighting prowess you have displayed so far. But now it is time to complete our original task. For our sons and daughters, the name Yam'rii will be blotted out from the face of the galaxy!"
Cheering erupted in the ranks of the kolkpravis—soldiers at Qymaen's command, his tools of vengeance against the Yam'rii for what they did to his Ru. His mouth twisted into a grin.
The din died down, and he spoke again. "We will invade the planets three at a time. The voshrati, who will lead with me on this mission, are Bentilais san Sk'ar and Ikha guu Saikhan."
The two he had selected were khans he knew he could trust—they had proven themselves in the Battle of Kaleela. Saikhan and Bent stood, walking to the foyer where Qymaen was speaking.
He continued. "I have assigned a set of generals to each one of you. The lists will be handed out shortly. I will send scouts to the first three planets we will retake: Abbaji Minor, Elke, and Tovarskl. Once we conquer the main planet of the latter, we will be able to subdue its many moons. Dismissed."
The jungles of Kalee might be luxurious on the surface, but the sad truth was that his homeworld was a barren place. Yet when he saw Abbaji Major, the only word he could find was paradise.
Great trees towered high above the atmosphere. Their everlasting color splayed across Qymaen's vision in dazzling bursts of natural shades. The sun of Iminec played gently on the planet, so gentler than Kaleesh weather.
"On my mark," he murmured. "Three…."
The cries of wildlife echoed from below.
"Two…."
He strapped his slugthrower around his waist and a case of ammunition.
"One. Jump!"
He hurled himself out of the aircraft, holding his breath as he fell. The trees cradled his body and the bodies of his elite, his izvoshra.
Qymaen spoke. "Light the fire and escape as it makes its way through the trees. This will be our best bet at forcing the stragglers out." His voice was frigid as Grendaju's wind, stern as the bows of that ship so long ago….
He pulled Tikhél, the scout who had gone on reconnaissance, aside. "My men will be outside once you make it down. As soon as you finish your flamethrowing, find me. That is an order."
Tikhél blinked, then looked downward. "Why are you concerned with my safety?"
Qymaen looked at her for an instant too long. Then he touched his thumb to her lip. "I admire your bravery," he said honestly. "I…." he swallowed. "I hope we meet again."
"I too, Your Grace."
A strange thought entered his mind. Would she care for me if I told her what to call me?
He ducked his gaze. "Call me Qymaen."
She smiled. "I like the sound." She turned to her troops. "Move out!"
Qymaen ducked beneath the branches of the great oak. He couldn't tell from here, but he estimated that the moss-bathed floor was around twenty-two meters below. Vertigo sang through his body as he stepped onto a lower branch, spotting Tikhél and her troops swinging to a neighboring forest giant with frightening agility.
His hands shook—he could fall, crack his skull into a thousand pieces on the floor. Ronderu's calm voice ebbed to the front of his mind. Don't be afraid. The tree will catch you if you fall.
He fell into memory. Her hand reaches out to take his as he steps on a fat branch. The callousness of her fingers curled around him—her thumb stroking his. Those hands carry a message that words can only hope to fathom. "I trust you. I want you. I'll help you."
Qymaen pressed his forehead to his knee as he curled in the bosom of a swooping bough of bark. He stepped with a new certainty down the great tree—one branch, then the other. Ronderu's commands came back to him. "You must let go of what is in your mind—to look at something beyond yourself. Concentrate on the moment, not what is within."
The branch was in front of him, and his thoughts were behind him. The soft glowing light of a Yam'rii shack beckoned from beside him. Inside, the silhouette of a mantis cut out the warm glow—a shadow against the peace.
Qymaen forced himself to look away as he continued downward, away from the threat. Perhaps, now that they thought the war to be over, they would avoid him so long as he did not engage them.
At last, he reached the bottom, then walked along the ground. Iminec's winking light sprayed across the land in glimmering rays of sunshine. The scenery hurt him, made him long for the days when he was alone in the woods with his Ru — instead of on the battlefield.
But he replaced the grief with anger. He would have vengeance for her death soon enough. His boots crunched across the dry leaves as he slipped unnoticed from the Yam'rii village and met his soldiers.
Generals Queru and Tarkha stood at the front lines. Qymaen nodded slowly to them. "Station your troops around the perimeter. There's a fence to mark the border." The women walked away to do as he said.
Now I must count on Tikhél.
He sat down in the cool sunlight, allowing the wind to wash over him, as he waited for the smoke to rise from the Yam'rii village. The capital of Abbaji Major.
His first conquest.
It was nightfall when Qymaen noted the pillar of billowing black smoke rising to touch the sea-green atmosphere of Abbaji Major. He gripped his slugthrower, walking up to the rear of the blockade.
"Steady," he whispered, clenching his free fist. The Yam'rii would be flying, or dropping to the ground, any instant now.
The trees cracked and smoked around them. He spoke louder. "Fall back. I just realized something…."
But it was too late. Qymaen's eyes darted briefly upward. A large, charred tree branch crashed towards him, flattening several slower soldiers of the kolkpravis and knocking him to the ground.
Smoke stung his eyes. Screeches of Yam'rii from behind pierced his ears as he staggered to his feet, clenching his gun.
And he let down all reserves of calm, all the barriers of his agony and grief that had been tucked away for the time being. His slugthrower was tight in his hands as he fired. Each shot meant more pain slicing in his head.
Yet it was worth the glorious sight of the Yam'rii corpses.
A red haze filled his vision. He allowed himself another kill.
And another.
And another.
Slugthrower shots resounded all around him. Blurs of his fellow Kaleesh falling. Kaleesh and Yam'rii blood stenches, reptilian and rancid, choked his nostrils.
And as he took another shot, fatigue gripped him. A sudden wrench of pain ripped his forehead. His body thumped against the ground.
"Your Grace!" a female voice screamed from the blaze around him. So many sounds overwhelmed his senses—moans, cracks, roaring—but this one caught his attention.
He forced himself to open his eyes. He was maskless—naked, cut open for everyone to see. Blood ran into his eyes, and his throat was raw after his screaming was complete.
He crawled across the spongy moss. Blood marched between his scales. A large foot trampled over him, rushing to engage another defender, and a wrench of agony soared through his ribs.
Please, he prayed, and he may have formed the words. The pain forced him to take tiny breaths, though each was like knives in his chest. A cough wrenched itself from his lips.
Blood was on his skin as his trembling hand reached for the mask. He fastened the mumuu skull over his face.
With the mask over his gaunt face, he got to his knees. Dirt curdled around him with the fire of missed slugs. Grasping his rifle, he aimed for the trees. Yam'rii took flight from the trees, great blurs of green and blue, setting foot to the sky. Crack. He shouted orders at his soldiers. "Shoot up! They're dive-bombing!"
But before he could fire, a small turquoise blurb fell quickly to the ground like a star amidst the others.
And suddenly, Qymaen was not the great khagan of Kalee. He was a small boy looking for a fallen child. He was a gentle khan again, a khan who was rushing forward toward the fire, sidestepping over furious licks of orange and red.
What am I doing?
The smoke rose, squeezing his lungs and ripping tears from his burning eyes. Through the blurring of orange, green, and brown, his keen ears picked up the sound of a small child crying out for his mother.
The blur showed itself—a Yam child, spotting the Kaleesh man who had ordered the death of his parents. Qymaen's voice came out in a hoarse shout. He did not know much of Huk's language, but being around them from a young age, he did understand one phrase. "E hele mai. Come to me."
"He pepeha kanaka'oe!" the child replied. All he cared about was making sure this child survived. Perhaps to teach the Yam'rii that we are not like them.
"I won't hurt you if you come right now," Qymaen said in his own tongue, but the child backed away, closer to the flames, which began to close around the two. A burning branch crashed down a meter from the Yam boy.
He spoke in Basic. "Come to me."
The boy's eyes brightened, and he took a step forward. "That's it," he said. "Come closer. I'll help you."
The boy edged toward him. As soon as his carapace was in view, Qymaen grabbed it by the blunt end, careful not to touch the knife-like tip that awaited him on the other side.
He screeched, but Qymaen ignored it, though it took every ounce of focus he'd been learning from age eight. He turned in a full circle, attempting to spot some sort of exit, some possible route out.
He squinted at a space between two smoldering logs—big enough to slip the child's body through. Qymaen's head swam with the smoke intake, and in the panic, he held his headscarf to his nose and mouth.
He drew his foot up and slammed it into the space. A few embers landed on the Yam, and he screamed again, but Qymaen's only response was to grip him harder.
The logs cleaved like butter beneath his foot, and he shoved the Yam through the hole and out into the open, following suit in quick time. He collapsed on the ground, his bare cheek streaked with dirt, blood, and smoke.
The Yam shouted something in his own language, but Qymaen was too tired to attempt to understand it. He coughed again. Touching his hands to his chest revealed that even the most delicate movement could cause pain.
"Go," he said in Basic, "before I change my mind." The boy, seeming to get the message, took flight on its flimsy wings and soared to the sky, presumably fleeing elsewhere.
Did you know…
● After Qymaen and Ronderu met, they taught each other how to handle the other's weaponry - Ronderu taught him how to wield Lig swords, and he taught her how to shoot a rifle.
● Grievous' eccentric, borderline-insane behavior in The Clone Wars is explained by what happened after Ronderu died. He suffered from psychotic depression and grief hallucinations about her up until he got the cybernetics.
● Grievous' mother was only mentioned once in the post-2008 canon, and it didn't specify what happened to her. However, the war orphaned so many younglings on Kalee that it isn't farfetched to imagine her being carted away.
● Tikhél is the second lover of many more that he had after Ronderu's death. Like Shia, she was never mentioned by name in Unknown Soldier.
Tell me what you think…
● Do you appreciate the context behind Grievous' borderline-insane behavior in The Clone Wars or have you never minded it by itself?
● Are they justified in legalizing polygamy for repopulation? Why or why not?
● Would you have rescued the Yam child in Qymaen's situation? Why or why not?