Geol’ik poured over the data scrolls, his upper two arms rubbing his weary head. He was tired of it. His body longed to get up, to fight, to be active. Yet he knew he could not. These data scrolls were the true lifeblood of the clan, and as such he could not shy away from them. The burden was his, and his alone, to bear. The rank he held enforced it on him and while it gained him little honour, shirking his duty would leave a black spot on his prestige.
There was another reason why he forced himself to keep at this task he so much hated. Geol’ian, the previous clan leader of clan Givrain, had dismissed these tasks. Passed them out to subordinates, who, while capable in their own right —more so than Geol’ik himself was, for sure— did not have sufficient authority or standing to commit to some of the transactions needed.
Instead, the late clan leader —he hoped the male was dead, at least— had preferred to occupy himself with his favourite sport; wanton slaughter and debauchery. The male had been a horrid leader. While his strength had never been in doubt —he had been mighty beyond compare and his feats of physical ability had earned him much glory and prestige— his honour and respect for the Geol’ way of life were… Questionable, at best. He had slaughtered those who were not warriors, outside of war and raids, gone against orders of his better, stole from his own clan and kin and, to make matters even worse, had slept with Geo’ who were not his wives.
Yet he had been the clan leader, and those bonds had enforced many to stay silent. Combined with his prowess, they had not challenged him directly, often instead preferring to take their part of the clan and leaving. Until he had spoken up and sent a report on the many infractions of Geol’ian against the orders of the Witch Lord, their supreme patriarch. A title only rarely given to a non-Geol’.
Not too long after that betrayal had been repaid in full, when the enigmatic leader of the Lawbreakers arrived. Seemingly alone and lightly armed, he had strode into the room as if he owned it. A short, vicious exchange of words later, he had left it again, taking a wounded but living Geol’ian with him. Five out of six Geol’ left in the room were dead, their heads missing. He, the sixth, had been the sole survivor. His reward was a nightmarish memory he would never again forget, a promotion to clan leader and a tiny insignia that he guarded with his life. The small, dark pin containing a grey skull with flaming black eyes and two crossed swords was a sign of the Witch Lord’s trust. It marked him as one of the man’s few lieutenants.
Even now he did not know how to feel about it. Not that he had been granted much time to think about it. The clan was in disarray, fractured and weakened. Geol’ian’s disappearance had seen it splinter further. The knowledge that it had happened at the hands of the Witch Lord had caused many subordinates to flee for their lives, citing the wrath of the ancestors as their reason for leaving.
Others had stayed. Those had been the old guard, those with nowhere to go, his own friends and those with too much to lose. The once mighty clan Givrain was down to a dozen vessels and less than ten thousand members, where they once had two hundred mighty ships and half a million souls.
He had been trying to keep what was left of it together, but he was struggling. He was raised a warrior, not a leader, and his skills fell woefully short of what he needed for the gargantuan undertaking of rebuilding the clan. My clan, he amended. It is mine to lead to glory. Or to its doom, he darkly added after.
At least he was not alone. He had a circle of advisors, old, wizened Geol’ and Geo’ who were offering advice whenever he so much glanced in their direction. He still had to sign off on anything, as well as be the one who made the eventual decision, but he allowed them to dictate much. They had relished in it, yet he knew he had to take care, lest they overrun him. So far there had been little of that. It was surprising how polite everyone was when you had a little badge pinned to your chest-mane that connected you to the most frightening entity this side of the galaxy.
Not without reason, he thought. The Witch Lord had kidnapped Geol’s wives and children. Had tortured until they died, and had recorded it all for posterity. The Witch Lord had shown remarkable knowledge of Geol’ culture by hitting them precisely where it hurt. His own wives had denied their husband in their last moments, and promised him that after they would die, they would continue to deny him and his spirit, condemning him to the bleakest of hells.
Then the human had proceeded to carve runes of excommunication and rejection onto the once proud Geol’s eyes, further dooming him to eternal damnation.
He still felt sick recalling it.
He looked up when he heard the door slide open. There were only a scant few people who had access to his inner quarters, and he trusted all of them. He was little surprised when he saw two of his new wives —he was up to seven now, four more than when he was a bodyguard— approach. He hoped the other two were resting. They were advancing nicely in their pregnancy, as were his first three wives. There had been a lot of celebrating when he had been promoted.
They paused just outside of his office, waiting for him to grant them access. Geol’ marriages were curious things to outsiders. The leading partner had absolute dominance over his or her partners. Any Geol’ required might, prestige, honour or some other proof of capability, skill, ability or luck in order to attract mates. Once they did, however, they could easily pick a new mate amongst the young, unproven Geo’ and Geol’. Of course, the invitee had the right to refuse, or demand proof. Courting was, especially for the warrior families, harsh and violent, but the consent needed to be there. If a Geol’ was seen as having too many wives or husbands already, no others would join them.
Geol’ian had had four wives. The fact that he had seven now was a sign of others faith in his ability. Part of it was due to the honour of his family. The power armour, a gift from his father’s father, and many fathers before, as well as the heavy plasma caster, had gained him much renown. That his own family had deemed him worth of possessing such mighty relics from the Blighted Wars.
His own ability had further enhanced his prestige. His skills as a warrior were great, he had saved more than one clan member on the field of battle, and he was not bad to look at. Now, however, he was a clan leader beside, which might have garnered him two more wives. Six wives were typically reserved for those who lead the greater clans. Yet he had seven, and he knew it had a lot to do with that little insignia. He had been acknowledge by the Witch Lord, and that counted for probably more than being a clan leader ever could.
“Yvera, Arina,” he greeted them warmly, permitting them entry. “L’ik, fire of my heart,” Geo’Yvera greeted him. She was tall for a Geo’, barely any shorter than he himself was. She had been an up and coming gladiator before he had asked her to marry him. She had been on a six-win streak against male opponents. Her large sized belied her incredible agility. She had been fighting in the arena on his homeworld, one of the many festivities thrown in his honour of his ascendance to the clan. One needed to celebrate it, after all, and appease the ancestors.
She had been a sight to see. Ducking underneath blades and delivering vicious punches in return. She fought with lithe and grace. And after decking her opponent, she had gazed up at him, grinning every bloodied teeth bare. It had been an invitation, one he had accepted. He had liked her guts, her bravery and daring. Later that night she had proven herself worthy to become his wife. Their battle had been long and hard, her earlier exhaustion barely weighing her down, but eventually she had acquiesced to him, and he had asked her to be his wife.
Geo’Arina, on the other hand, was incredibly tiny. She was not of a warrior family, but instead of one of mechanical engineers. She had been shy, a rare trait amidst their race, yet that had attracted him to her. She was very young, only an adult for a year. He had met her during an inspection of one of the derelict engines of the ancient Ra’bauw. The place was supposed to be abandoned and he was walking through it with his quartermaster, looking for parts they could cannibalise from the broken systems. He had ignored the noises coming from the machinery, assuming they were part of the vessel, until a loud series of swears had echoed through the enormous engine. Followed by an enormous roar as it suddenly was engaged.
She had shot out of one of the pipes swearing a blue streak, her mane and clothes burning, bruises and oil covering every part of her. She had run straight into him, bounced off, shot past and towards the nearest fire extinguisher, where she sighed in relief as she doused herself.
Only then had she seen him. He grinned as the petite Geo’ sashayed in, much of her earlier shyness gone. He was lucky to have caught her before she had been able to bolt inside another pipe again.
“My loves, my passions,” he greeted them both, standing up. He pulled them both against him, enjoying their presence. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”
“My flame,” Arina replied, delighting in the irony of the name she addressed him with “it is well into the night. We were worried.”
He checked the time, and was shocked to find her to be right. He had been spending hours on these scrolls. He let out a deep sigh, rubbing his eyes wearily. “You are right, but these need seeing to.”
He felt Yvera’s teeth sink deeply into his shoulder, drawing blood. “What she means, warrior mine,” she growled, “is that you are expected in bed with us, not behind scrolls.”
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He grimaced as she shook her head, her fangs pulling at his flesh. He tightened his hands around her, crushing her and earning an approving, if pained, grunt. She did not relent, however. It annoyed her that she was not pregnant yet, and she made no effort to hide it. She was his fourth wife, and the fifth and seventh already were swelling with the proof of their loyalty and passion, yet her desires remained aflame.
She suddenly let go, letting out a high pitched yelp. Geol’ik looked down and saw Arina holding a tool typically used to shock-start machinery.
“She has a point, flame. You need to find someone to help you with this. A close attendant perhaps, or—” she got no further, Yvera shifting her displeasure from her husband to her diminutive sister-wife, who immediately went down under a mountain of muscle and anger.
He abandoned his data scrolls. He had little choice, given that it looked like they were going to tear each other apart.
It was only much later, when they were exhausted and finally asleep, that he realised he had been played the fool. They had succeeded in dragging him out of his office and into his bedroom. They were snoring softly, feeling calm and safe as they were snuggled against him, a source of warmth and security.
His thoughts went back to the ancient predators that once haunted his people’s homeworlds. Towering beasts that would occasionally rise from their prolonged slumber and kill hundreds of his kin, before retreating into the wastelands. Herds of fast moving Kerkas, leaving the jungle once their population grew too large and feasting on any Geol’ caught unaware. They shirked neither town nor city, their sharp claws allowing them to scale walls with ease. The nightmarish Lo’Ri, the flying scourges who migrated around the globe and left entire regions depopulated. And many, many more.
The Geol’ had fought them, tooth and nail, until they had advanced enough technologically to make some drastic changes to the eco-system of their planets. It was ancient history now, well over a thousand years ago, but it was still taught.
The galaxy thought them simple minded brutes, driven on by a desire for violence and sex, dominated by a strange code of honour that spurred them on to fight endlessly. They failed to see the truth. How the Geol’ had banded together in overwhelming force to utterly eradicate the countless beasts who tormented their populace. How the warrior families had a duty to the others. They did not know of Geol’ poets, scientists, dancers, artists… They did not know of their culture, of their beliefs, of the ancestors.
He had met, in his short tenure as clan patriarch, too many aliens who viewed them as simple-minded. They either hated them for it, looked down on them or tried to use them for their own gain.
He lamented this. He found aliens interesting, if often terrifying. The Shadows still haunted his nightmares. And the less said about his new master, the better. He wished to know them better, and for them to know him better in turn.
His great-grandfather, his mane turned white with age and his central eye gone grey and blind, had told him that once it was different. That once the Geol’ stood proudly amidst the stars. Before the Blighted Wars happened. Before they were cast down and scattered into separate clans, fighting against an enemy of untold power. It had been a glorious fight, yet also one of survival. Even the other nations recognised that great War as the greatest to have ever happened. It had been a time of impossible horror. And yet, he thought, it was a time we stood proudly amidst the others.
He kept thinking about a time where the Geol’ could reclaim their rightful place until sleep finally claimed him.
“My Lord,” Geo’Seryan snarled,” to what do I have the pleasure of your sudden call?”
The human on the other side of the feed, used to the seemingly violent tendencies of the Geol’, smiled his teeth bare in turn, knowing she was glad to see him. “’Yan,” he greeted her back, using a term of affection typically reserved for a partner. Their relation was of a vastly different nature, however. “As much as I wish it was a call of courtesy and to catch up, I have a task for you.”
“Of course you do, Mi’Sivi,” she replied, smiling her teeth bare. “I don’t think you’ve ever called me for pleasure before.”
The human’s grin broadened. He quite enjoyed her nickname for his. Little one. “Please. As if you do not derive great enjoyment from your job.”
She spread her four hands out, her eyes flickering with delight. “I derive enjoyment from many things, Mi’Sivi. I shall not deny it. Your calls especially. Now tell me. My time is limited. I have an important meeting to attend soon.”
“Anything I should be informed about?”
“Not particularly. Weapons shipment. Advanced stuff. Talking about how to best sell it without drawing unwanted attention.”
The human’s eyes turned serious. “Do not put yourself in needless danger. If you need a distraction…”
“Ancestors preserve me from your attention,” she growled. “I need not babying.” Then, as if it was an afterthought. “Though it would be of worth to me if you could keep me up to date about the movements of a certain Admiral Kar’la’kiri for some time. I believe he might drop by for a surprise visit sooner than later.”
“Naturally,” he nodded. Then, with a smile, “though I am certain an upstanding member of society such as you has nothing to hide.”
She bared her teeth. “I am Geol’. That is enough to warrant accusation these days.”
“True enough, I suppose,” he sighed sadly. “Speaking of your kin, I want you to sell that shipment to Clan Givrain. And convince the clan’s patriarch to meet you in person. He is in dire need of a better advisor to the financial and logistical side to his clan.”
She slammed two of her fists down on the table. “You knew,” she hissed. She howled at the ceiling for a good long while, before glaring at him, mustering all the vitriol she could. “I hate you, Mi’sivi. If you were closer, I’d stomp you into the ground.”
“But alas, I am not, and therefore you must contend yourself with growling angrily.”
“One day I will find out how you know the things you do.”
Something flashed across his eyes. Something dangerous. Lethally so. Then it was gone, replaced by the smile he usually reserved for her, and for people like her. “One day, maybe. I wouldn’t bet on it, though.”
“I don’t bet. I make investments.”
“Can I count on you?”
“Naturally. Why though?”
The human paused, considering the question. “Because I see potential in him. Had he not been bereft of ambition, I would have found him much, much sooner. He is duty bound, and has no desire to do more than to protect what he has. I will see him thrust in the storms of life and make him howl to his ancestors. He has characteristics I have long waited for. I will cultivate him and raise him up.”
The human’s friendly behaviour disappeared and emotions and determination of monstruous strength appeared. “He shall be my Qulak’I, whether he wants to or not.”
Seryan could only nod. It was rare for him to show his other side when he talked to her, but when he did it never failed to terrify her. Or impress her. Both the strength of his character and his knowledge of Geol’ culture. Too few still knew the ancient animals of old, that once had vied with her kin for the spot of dominant species on their home planets. The mighty Qulak were intelligent pack creatures, led by a Qulak’I, their version of a patriarch. The war between the Qulak and the Geol’ had been long, vicious and bloody. In the end the Geol’ had only won due to their breeding habits. The Geol’ of the past had been able to withstand the horrendous losses of the war. The Qulak had not.
It was ancient history, lost to the galaxy and to most of the Geol’ as well. Before she had met him, she would have wagered her been willing to invest her fortune in the claim that none outside her race knew her race’s ancient enemy. Had he been Geol’, she’d have asked him to take her as a wife in a heartbeat, despite her own status as a Family Matriarch, one who owned several Vasnu’k at that. As it was, however, she was merely his friend and confidante, even though she served him with the same level of loyalty as she would a mate.
“You see that much potential in him…” she finally continued, her voice pensive. “Perhaps I should pay him a visit myself then.”
“Are you thinking of finally taking a husband?” he teased.
She felt her mane shiver in embarrassment. It was highly unusual for a Geo’ her age, let alone her rank, to not be part of a happy marriage. She should have had a dozen husbands by now, yet she remained single. By choice, obviously. She had suitors aplenty.
Normally she would respond to any such accusation with the customary violence, but he was too much a friend, and he knew he was sad to see her lonely. He knew how much the lack of mates pained her at times.
“Perhaps,” she eventually relented.
“He has seven wives,” he warned.
“I said perhaps. And I did not mention his name.”
“I bow to your wisdom, you indeed did not.”
She snarled again. “So. Why does he need the weapons? And the support?”
“A convoy will be passing by his region soon, and I want him to take it,” the human said, easily transitioning into business mode again. “It’ll invoke retaliation, but it will tighten the clan’s bonds and remind everyone that he is a power. And it’ll serve some other goals as well.”
She did not ask further, knowing there were things he kept close to his chest.
“The support is because his current advisor is barely competent, and the situation of Givrain is only stable.” The man’s eyes bored into hers. “I do not want it to be stable. I expect more. But as of yet he does not have the right people for the job. My own accountants have assured me that it could be flourishing given their assets. I do not want to interfere personally, yet he needs to grow.”
“So you want him to be taught as well?”
“Preferably. He doesn’t need to become a master bookkeeper, but he needs to be more aware of his resources. It won’t do for him to be that dependent on his assistants. He is trying hard of his own, though.”
She snorted at that. “A warrior going through accounting scrolls. You are joking.”
A toothy smile crossed his face. “As I told you, he takes his duty seriously. His only sin is lacking ambition, yet it might be that very thing that has kept him humble. He only wants to protect. In a different age I would fully support it. But we are Lawbreakers. It does not do for us to sit and hand over the initiative.”
“How is the situation in the region now that he has taken over?” she asked, her wonder growing with each passing moment. It was rare for a Geol’ warrior to possess such characteristics. It made him something of a curiosity.
“Much, much better. He has actually repaid the damage to the offended parties, earning him much good will and restoring our reputation, even though it damaged his in turn to the more unruly elements.”
“I had not heard of that…” she whispered, eyes wide. For a Geol’ to admit fault was… Unheard of in the current era. They were too proud. She knew of ancient tales of a long forgotten time that his ancestors would approve of such admissions, but those were parts of his culture scant few alive still knew of.
“They kept it silent, of course. And rumours have a hard time travelling through space. He wore his insignia while he did it, too.” That was accompanied by a smug grin. “Scared the crap out of some of his clan members, who ran for the hills after. They were sure he had invited doom upon them.”
She barked a loud laugh. “Well, consider me interested.” Her massive fangs were bared in an excited grin. “I’ll see it done, don’t you worry Mi’Sivi. And I’ll take a look at the male in question.”
“Can’t ask for more. Take care ‘Yan. Don’t get arrested.”
She waved at him and the screen went dark. She leaned back in her chair, wondering about the implications of their conversation. She fished the small lockbox out of her pocket and entered the codes, before confirming the biometric scan. There were only a handful things in there. A manepin that had passed down her family for countless generations. The deed of her first Vasnu’k. And a small, golden insignia bearing a grey skull with black flames for eyes, and two swords crossed behind it.
She fingered it briefly, before a beep alerted her that it was time to go to the meeting.
Geo’Seryan got up and secured the lockbox, her mind still on the far future. She knew much of the future was clouded in mystery and possibilities, that not even the ancestors saw all.
Yet she knew that it would be highly interesting, and that as long as she faithfully served her tiny master, it would be profitable as well.
For the Witch Lord cared well for his own.