The full might of Clan Givrain was marshalling. The Ra’bauw lay in the centre of it all, clustered to a large, hollowed out asteroid that served as a stationary base for the clan. Four destroyers were present, along with seven frigates. Three dozen small corvettes were flitting about, like moths dancing around a flame. And more vessels were coming in, the dark of space temporarily lit as they jumped in at a safe distance from the asteroid belt. All of them loudly broadcasted their colours, banners and allegiances. All of them boasted of their strength. Clan Givrain might be weaker than it had been in ages, but morale was high.
Geol’ik and his commanders paced around the room, roaring at each other and their aides as they planned the oncoming fight. The Patriarch took careful note of the movement of each of his warriors. Some stomped across, their every step accompanied by loud thumps as they went, their breath fast and coming in growls. Others were quieter, prowling instead, making as little noise as they could. Those were watching, looking for weaknesses. Hunters, ready to pounce on their prey. A handful were like his wife, Geo’Yverra, who was positively stalking. Those were the warriors used to interpersonal combat, waiting for the right moment to strike.
Some were boastful. Others were more quiet and conserved. Others were arguing hot-headedly. Two fools had even attempted to instigate a duel, an issue that had been swiftly resolved as the others beat up the fools who tried. He had growled threateningly at them. Time and place.
“We are certain of this report?” the captain of the damaged Levia’nik asked.
“We are,” Geol’ik growled. “A heavy cruiser, four destroyers, a dozen frigates, again as many corvettes and four carriers are on their way to us. It seems the Kiri’Kou have taken exception to our victory, and are determined to destroy us. They will find us in short order too, this I know.”
“Our forces gather swiftly, Patriarch. But it will not be an even fight. These are not mere hired escorts.”
“We’ll have a numbers advantage,” the captain of the Ki’ragt added. “If all our warriors arrive in time, we will have twelve destroyers, eighteen frigates and near fifty corvettes.”
“We’ll also halt all our operations throughout the sector,” another gruffly added. “We will lose much.” It was said without disdain or regret. Geol’iver was an old hand, one of the true veterans of the clan, and one who was usually found roaming far and free. He flashed his Patriarch a broad, toothy grin. “Better make sure you survive then, ey? I’ll want someone to complain to afterwards.”
Geol’ik let out a deep laugh, one that rumbled from his core. He met Geol’iver’s eyes, and nodded confidently. I understand your worry, he conveyed without words. There was no heir in place. Nobody to take his place as Patriarch should he fall. Clans fragmented over such things. Or over the wrong warrior taking up the mantle.
“Outnumber them, we might,” Geol’ik cautioned. “But outgun? I would rather face their vessels two-to-one, and that would leave our frigates with a marginal advantage. And it would leave but four destroyers to face off against their cruiser. While their carriers would harry us unopposed.”
“Feh,” one captain spat, a younger Geol’, master of a frigate going by the decorations on his mane. “We crushed them easily enough last time, we—”
Another cuffed him on the head. “These are soldiers, young fool. Not mere mercenaries. They will fight until their final breath, not strike their colours at the first sight of a negative credit line.”
Geol’ik watched the general atmosphere slowly settle into a form of controlled chaos. Occasionally new captains and their retinues would join them as another vessel docked with the base, urgently shouting for updates and wanting to know just what had caused the Patriarch to declare this state of emergency.
His mind wasn’t on the gathered males and females around him. They were all warriors, proven and true, yet this required more than simple bravery, honour and skill. His hand fingered the pin as he idly wondered how he could live up to the expectations the Witch Lord had placed upon him. To ask the patriarch of a thousand clans for aid was a thought that never occurred to him. It would be shameful. They were not that badly in need.
No, the main thought that occupied his mind was the amount of souls that would be sent to join the ancestors in the upcoming battle. At least half, he knew. And even if we win, then what? The realisation hit him like a charging Qulak, his eyes going wide. It was an angle he had never considered. And one he had no idea how to deal with.
He got up from his throne and motioned for a handful of his closest confidantes and most trusted advisors to come with him. Then, as an afterthought, he motioned for Geol’Iiver to join them. He led them to a separate room, and bade them to sat down.
He looked each of them in the eyes, taking his time to assert his dominance and their characters. These were not the young, brazen warriors that were numerous in the clan. Neither were these the males that had grown used to their overpowering strength, might or rank. No, these were the ones that had survived enough to know where luck factored in. Where politics came into play. They were true Geol’, who had matured through combat and pain, and who were now the supporting pillars of the clan.
And perhaps the only ones who will not murder me for voicing the words I am about to say. I hope.
“Warriors,” he growled, his voice low, his eyes high, signalling his desire to keep the contents of this meeting secret. “As your Patriarch, I need your advice, for the sake of the Clan.”
“For the sake of the Clan,” the others intoned the official words.
His mouth felt dry, his tongue sliding across his teeth as he felt his mane rise and fall, betraying the turmoil of emotions within him. He felt fear, an emotion that was rapidly becoming familiar to him, and he tried to hide it. He bought himself time by affirming that all gathered were steadfast and loyal, before speaking the words that might condemn him.
“Do you believe we can win?”
The gathered group sucked in a deep breath, holding it in unison. They looked at one another, taken aback. Some looked horrified. Others pensive. Geol’iver, the oldest Geol’ present, was neither, and was staring at him, as if trying to rip the missing piece of this puzzle straight out of his skull.
“I am assuming,” the old male took the lead, “that you say this not because you are a coward?”
Normally the statement wouldn’t have failed to get a rise out of Geol’ik. Normally. Normally he would have been crucified for expressing doubt in their victory to begin with. Yet it is that line of thought that has the galaxy painting us as warlike brutes. It is exactly that behaviour that sees us do so much less than what we are actually capable of.
“You assume correctly,” he growled. His eyes remained fixated on the wrinkled male. The rest of the room was sufficiently silent one could hear the rippling of manes.
Geol’iver remained silent for a while longer, before nodding once, as if making up his mind. “How old are you, Patriarch, if you’ll permit me asking?”
The young clan leader did not know what the veteran captain was up to, but he decided to humour him. “I count thirty-seven winters.”
“Thirty-seven…” Geol’iver muttered softly, shaking his head, the many grey hairs in his mane rippling softly. “So young. I myself count two hundred and thirty-eight.” A flash of teeth. “I am more than two centuries older than you, young Patriarch.” The words were said carefully, not lacking respect. “I have fought many battles in that time. I have celebrated many victories. I have borne the shame of many defeats. I have sent many to their ancestors, and many of mine have gone well before me too.” He raised himself to his full height, rolling his impressive shoulders. “I know well of battle, Patriarch. I know well of the Geol’. What we were. What we are.” He spat the final word, anger forming in his eyes.
He turned and looked at the other elders. “All of you are younger than me. Yet all of you are old and wise. Should be wise. How long has it been, in the history of clan Givrain, in the history of the many clans of lawbreakers serving the Witch Lord, that one of ours had been granted the honour of being worthy to openly display his loyalty to the Master of Shadows?”
The words came out in a low, threatening growl, and the gathered Geol’ reacted appropriately, assuming threatening stances. Yet, there was a level of demureness in them. Of deference. Geol’ik watched it, but did not understand.
“You,” Geol’iver suddenly barked, pointing his right hands towards him. “You look beyond this singular battle, do you not? Tell me, Patriarch. Tell me what you see.”
Geol’ik’s mouth felt even more dry than before. There were things at stake here, that much he knew, but what? Another debate flowed beneath the spoken words, one he was not privy to. Yet one that felt even more pivotal to the existence of the clan than the one he wished to have.
“I see victory,” he said, the words coming with difficulty. “In this battle. One that will be paid for in blood. Rivers of it.” His voice gained strength as he spoke. “I see their carriers sending endless waves at us, their craft burning in streams of pulsar fire. I see the hulks of their destroyers, vomiting debris as they were gutted by our weapons. I see their frigates, burning and broken. Their corvettes, annihilated. Their cruiser ablaze. I see victory for the Givrain.”
Backs were straightened, eyes began to glitter, chests were puffed up.
“But.” He bit off the word, casting a vicious glare at all around him, letting the worry that had kept him up at night stream freely from his gaze.
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“But. I see Givrain wounded. I see our ships damaged, all but salvageable. I see molten weapon batteries. I see hallways filled with corpses. I see demolished bridges. I see burnt banners. I see our might reduced to a fraction of what it was before. For every warrior we have now, I see but one in two, one in three still standing. I see the back of our clan broken, in dire need of healing.”
There was a greater silence now, a deeper one. Had they been the younger warriors, they would be howling for his blood, unaware that the Patriarch had to think of the clan before all. How had Geol’ian done this?
“And after that?” Geol’iver encouraged, pushing him on. “What after?” His eyes were open and honest, sincere curiosity in them.
“After that, I see our clan destroyed,” he hissed, causing the others to draw back. “I see an Empire, enraged. I see a second fleet dispatched, greater than the first, coming for us. I see a squadron of destroyers, led by several cruisers. I see patrols of frigates, chasing us down. I see heightened escorts, preventing further raids. I see our kind, hunted, run down. I see our mates fleeing for their lives, stricken by poverty, trying to retain the honour we left them with our glorious deaths.”
His face was red with fury, borne from being powerless to alter fate, with rage at the cost the clan would pay. A cost his decisions had incurred. “That is what I see,” he spat.
Every other visage in the room was struck with the sudden realisation, their faces ashen and their eyes wide. Geol’ik’s heavy panting was a stark countermelody to their shocked silence.
“A glorious battle, we will fight. A glorious victory we will achieve. But then we will be annihilated. Like a pest. By powers far greater than ours.” He sagged down onto the chair, his energy leaving him. “Once we were a power ourselves,” he whispered. “Once the vessels of the Geol’ sailed far and wide, exploring regions and mysteries few dared. Casting out challenges to all we found worthy. We even fought in the Blighted Wars, against the Great Enemy, and shone like never before.”
He let out a deep sigh. “Look at us now. Pirates. Lawbreakers. Our honour a shadow of what it was. Our very race reduced and made simple in a bid to survive. How many of you have studied the past? You are the venerable elders of our clan, the most wise, the most educated. How much,” he whispered, his voice full of regret and lament, “do even you still recall?”
There was an uneasy shifting amongst the gathered. The history of the Geol’ was a sore spot. All Geol’ knew that their race had been far greater in the past than it was now. That before, and even during the Blighted Wars, they had stood proudly. Yet few truly cared. It was mentioned in the same breath as ancestors a dozen generations removed. Only a scant few knew more, had an inkling of the true heights the Geol’ had once reached, before they had been cast down. And perhaps only one in ten from those knew that the Geol’ had once fought to save the galaxy, bravely facing the Great Enemy as others cowered, only to be cruelly cast down. A shame so deep, so total, it had been all but erased from their history. Taking far too much of the Geol’ with them.
These males knew inklings of the truth. Of their true past. But none truly cared. Geol’iver folded his arms over one another, an angry glare settling on his face. Despite his age, one few modern Geol’ reached given their inclination for combat, he had been a warrior true and through. History, politics the whys and hows, none of it had truly interested him. He was skilled at warfare, and had never ventured far beyond that.
“Do you!” Geol’ik suddenly roared, infuriated by the lack of understanding he found all around him. By the lack of care for what was their true birthright. For the way they continued to squander themselves. For how he had doomed even more of them to die, giving in to those same urges.
Ancestors beyond, what a mess. How is a Geol’ supposed to fight this?
He blinked, a new avenue of thoughts opening up to him. One he hadn’t considered before.
Are we supposed to fight this?
Hiding was… Difficult. But operating a fleet was expensive. The further it was from their base of operations, the more expensive it became. To send a ship, a squadron, was to spend money. He had become well aware of that.
But there is more than one type of currency, his thoughts continued, pouring over one another now that the dam had burst open. He jumped out of his chair and began to pace. “Weapons,” he muttered. “Money. Ammunitions. Ships. Manpower. All are currencies. All can be depleted.” He paused in front of Geol’iver. “Pride is another. So is political power.”
More understanding dawned on him. “This is why you fought endlessly, so far away from home,” he whispered, speaking so softly none but the elderly captain could hear him. “Otherwise you would have been forced to face Geol’ian, challenge him openly.” He eyed the warrior with respect. “He would have torn you apart, and your crew would have fallen under his sway. You protected them by willingly avoiding the stain of the clan.”
Geol’iver’ eyes shot down to the ground. “The shame is mine to bear,” he whispered back, his voice a low grumble. “I have stained my honour.”
Geol’ik clasped the older male’s hands. “Did you? Or did you obey the tenets of your position rather than your wants as a warrior?”
He turned around, his mind clear. The images of thousands of lost lives, of burning vessels and weeping widows, that had kept him awake for nights on end, were now dispelled by the clarity of this realisation. Geol’ warrior clans were warlike, bound by their codes. Yet where was the honour in a senseless sacrifice? Was claiming victory in battle, or dying in pursuit of it, really the only way they could claim it?
“Clan Givrain will not fight,” he ordered. We will hide. We will not face the enemy in open battle. Our enemy, Admiral Kar’la’kiri, holds a strong hatred for our kind. He will try to hunt us down, but he cannot keep his fleet here indefinitely. All we must do is last longer than he does. We must suffer this wound to our pride, and bear it quietly.”
“That is a cowardly tactic,” one of his advisors dared.
“It is a tactic,” Geol’iver suddenly spoke. “One that allows for survival.” He looked at the Patriarch. “For otherwise I see no solution. We fight, we die. The Patriarch is right in this. We kill this fleet, another will come. We are pirates. Like a flying pest, only to be swatted down when we irritate them. Yet should we claim their fleet, we will no longer be just that. We will be hunted down like Megwy,” he barked, referencing the small rodents that seemed to magically infest every ship. “And we cannot win in a straight up fight.” He turned to Geol’ik and bowed his head in acquiescence. “As much as it pains me to admit it.”
“As I said,” Geol’ik reiterated. “We must swallow our pride, and allow the enemy to fly freely in territories assigned to us.” He flashed his teeth in an amused grin. “It seems it matters less to the esteemed nobles when my predecessor”, he grinned, avoiding the use of naming the damned one, “ran rampant amongst civilian populations, then when we hit targets that can actually fight back.”
A rough chorus of laughter rippled through the room. Some forced, some genuine.
“We can take solace in that, at least. That our foes find us that worthy. Now, unless any of you can think up of an alternate approach we can take…” he trailed off, waiting for, hoping for someone to speak up. When none did, he suppressed a sigh, continuing. “Then I must ask for your help to bring this to the others. I fear they will not take to my orders kindly.”
Geol’iver barked a harsh laugh. “They will not. They lack the wisdom age brings. They are young warriors, hungry for the fight and the honour it brings.” He cocked his head. “Yet many are disciplined, and will obey. Still,” he bowed, “we will obey and bring your words to them.” The others gave similar grumblings of assent, their loyalty to the Patriarch, whether heartfelt or duty-bound, trumping whatever other feelings they might harbour.
“Do so, but not yet,” Geol’ik called out, causing the others to pause. Curious eyes found his, awaiting his next words. “Geol’iver, I want you to bring in the rest of the leaders you trust. I want my plan boiled and grilled. My mane does not cover my eyes,” he growled. “Advice from those with experience is always welcome.” The tension around his eyes suddenly faded as mirth took its place. “And the strength of my arms is not so great that I can wrestle all who disagree into submission.”
Geol’ik saw the gathered warriors laugh, and satisfaction filled his beating hearts, his worry easing. Clan Givrain needed not die this day. As more veteran leaders were brought into the room and his rough plan was hammered into a fine sword, he felt his chest swell with pride at what he had wrought. Gnaws of doubt still pawed at him, but he was confident in his decision.
He never caught on to the studious gaze of one of those present, as his every move was being carefully studied.
“He ordered what?” The Witch Lord’s incredulous voice thundered over the feed, causing Geo’Seryan to slam her hands onto her ears. For such a small being, the human could produce an astonishing volume when he so desired.
“Don’t roar my mane off, Mi’Sivi,” she protested. “I am but the messenger.”
“I know you are. Bugger and barter, what possessed him to order such a thing?”
“Fear of seeing his clan dead, I believe. Not wholly unjustified.”
“Kar’la’kiri is an idiot, and one who’s running out of political power besides and who’s advancing with a fleet that’s more wreck than vessel. By the lost lanes, I thought that was damnably clear in the report.”
She allowed him to rage, knew better than to get it out of the system. Her eyes widened when he suddenly switched language and, unless she was suddenly bereft of her senses, he made some choice comments about Geol’. She did not understand enough to know what the context of it was, but she had the impression that he had pplanned along the young Patriarch’s likely course of action, and was now wholly infuriated by being wrong. Which would have been amusing, had it been anyone but him.
“Are you alright, Mi’Sivi? She asked, worry frowning her mane and concern tinging her voice.
His reaction was a look of fury and rage, before it disappeared, a mental bulkhead slamming shut and cutting off those emotions from the world at large. The Witch Lord’s shoulders sagged. “I am tired. And taken off guard. I like neither,” he whispered. Once again a shadow seemed to play over the feed, once again she could swear she felt a giggle. “Thank you for your report, Geo’Seryan.”
“Should I…” she carefully began, knowing she was treading a minefield. There was a strong bond of trust between them, yet the Witch Lord did not acquire his title by being merciful, predictable, or by being kind. “Should I exert tension and press the Patriarch onto an alternate course?” she ventured.
“No, blast it. A thousand times no. He has made his decision, recalling it now would be even more disastrous. I hope his plan holds. This will cost him a lot of prestige. And he already has it in ill supply.”
She nodded along, understanding part of his frustration. She knew fragments of his plans, what he intended to use Geol’ik for. The pieces he had deigned to share. The parts she had been allowed to extrapolate. He was akin to a spider, carefully weaving his web. The actions of one fly should not disturb it, but clearly this one had slipped the net, however briefly. “Most Geol’ will not see his actions as honourable. He will struggle to draw in new recruits. Even in spite of his recent victory.”
“Exactly,” came a tired sigh. The Witch Lord languished in his chair, shaking his head. “But that is for me to concern myself with. Not you. You protect yourself.” A grin. Life returning to him. A sense of dread filling her as she gazed in his twinkling eyes. “You protect yourself well,” he repeated He stood up, his cape whirling around him as he turned and moved deeper into the room of whatever place he was currently in. The shadows seemed to dance around him. The unnatural darkness seemed to come alive.
“And stay in the light, my dear,” his voice drifted in, his silhouette being devoured by the void around him.
As the connection cut, she found herself standing upright, her hands digging into her desk, her mane painfully hardened, her eyes open wide in fear.
“Master of the Shadows,” she whispered.
A myriad of rumours surrounded her enigmatic master. That he spoke to ghosts, who whispered in his ears the secrets of the living. That he danced with shades, seducing them, luring them away from the bodies they belonged to. That the spirits themselves obeyed his every whim. That those he killed in life continued to serve him after death, bound to him by the darkest of spells. That he flayed those he caught, stripping them from skin and soul, devouring both as he bathed in their blood.
She had never paid those stories much heed.
Until now.
For the void hath eyes.
And they hath not the look of subservience.