How do they live? How do they toilet? Does one nearly adopt one and examine what they do? Why have none done so, and where could one find them? People, the humans, have often asked such questions as residents to their desert homeland of Ilivanmar. These dark skinned few had never thought highly of their estranged neighbours, the Tuleks, as they dub them, short for Tulekibo’nomo .

“They are not very big, so they must be stupid,” one often might say.

“Even so, why do they do what they do?” a common reply may follow.

These ape like creatures they speak of stand no higher than three feet at best. They have tails as longs as their outstretched arms, but builds that reflect the smallest of children. Their faces are bare, though some have sideburns, with noses flat against bright caramel skin. Their ears are pointed, but always arched downwards, while their eyes are wide and smooth facing forwards. They have bare skinny legs, with singly pointed feet, and wear strange little dresses in brightly desert colours. It is hard to differentiate a Tulek from a Tulekess, yet one may tell from its topknot or lack of said knot. A male Tulek always wear a topknot.

The Tuleks have always been peaceful, minding about in odd hierarchies they construct. To which the humans have hunted, captured, and even attempted to train such creatures, still none have succeeded. Some say so because the Tuleks are merely wild animals. But that they are not. They build towns, lead lives, help weary travellers. And they, these wondrous creatures, the Tuleks, wobble about and start feeble little conflicts, each resolved and started with their own ‘Tulek’ tongue. No humans have deciphered this speech. It confounds such refined minds merely so with its mystical hubbub and jibber jab. Nevertheless people have tried, and people have failed. Thus, the mysterious Tulek have been so forth hailed.

Sol read that in a book. Little had he known those Tuleks were last things he saw in the land of predestined cities. Young prince Solesio Gel’Ravé edged about the desert soil, he was crouched low, lower still considering how short he was for his ten years of age.

He had snuck away into a valley where the Tulek lived. Dirt and sand and shrubs littered his sides, and, not far off, he saw the first of Tuleki huts. He ducked as a Tulek, top knot adorned in a surly fashion, squandered towards a Tulekess, who bore no top knot, but rather long beads of greyish hair. The couple were nearby and he listened to their squabblings. The Tulek was dressed in a dark brownish full body skirt, with a bottle hanging awkwardly against the rim of his attire. The tulekess wore a maroon full body skirt, with many silvery rings apparent on each level of her skirt. The Tulek rose his extended arms to portray a furious gesture at the Tulekess

“Gi’Na boo ik ba, Waaaanaaa!” it squealed.

Young Sol giggled at this. The tulekess puffed an air of exasperation, “E’laaa ba NIK, WA PA.” the tulek snorted and turned expectantly towards the region where Sol was hiding in. Then the creature waddled about in his small tribal skirt with his tail flailing about in absolute rage. When he was within inches of Sol’s hiding spot, he nudged at the bush besides the young prince. He then turned his head at the Tulekess “Wa pa no eh?”

“Pey, wa pa lo,” signaled the Tulekess. The Tulek sighed, then side stepped to Sol’s shrub. He extended one of his three fingers at the greenery, “Wa pa nooo-- eh?”

“Tey, wap pa jo,” she spoke nodding her little head. The Tulek smiled, a splendid smirk, then reached into Sol’s hideout. Sol edged from the Tulek’s strange hand. The Tulek then placed his other hand in the bush and parted the shrub wide to peer into it. Sol shuddered. The Tulek saw him. “Eek! Wa Pa nam!” It started.

“Ig?” queried the Tulekess

“Ma! Ig,” screeched her companion.

The Tulekess shuffled to Sol’s destination. She cooed at the sight of the young prince. “Oh, Ba-to, Ig.”

“Ig? is that what you call us?” laughed the prince, “Well I’m Sol the Ig, happy to meet you.”

A splattering of happy coos followed and the Tulekess waved her three fingered hand “Ig mono rum?” continued the Tulek, brandishing the bottle about the rim of her skirt. Sol tilted his head. Perhaps the most curious object of fascination regarding these creatures was their familiarity of rum.

“Ahh” started Sol, “Everyone tells me I’m too young for that.”

The Tuleks laughed, somewhat aware of his Galokinian speech. “Ig no Ery,” dubbed the Tulekess upon Sol, ‘mouse human’. He had that in his notes. It had been a past time of his to translate that which had never been translated. If the people here could understand the tulek perhaps they would treat them better? Treat themselves better? He thought of his own country, Galokin. It would be muddled in conflict before long and all the people had to do to avoid it was to talk with each other, much like a certain Prince tried now with Tuleks.

“Beh ko, Ig no Ery,” motioned the Tulekess with her small hairless hand. Sol followed the two, swaying past the bush.

“Sol. Sol! What ya be doing?” shot out the voice of an Ilivanmari youth. Sol smiled the moment he recognized that baritone.

“I’m fine! I’m just visiting my new friends.”

“By da spirits, Sol ya be too foolish to lumber about with these Tuleks,” cried the voice, its body rearing just over the Cliffside which overlooked the Tulek village.

The youth, maybe fifteen gazed upon the boy and his pygmy hosts, he rolled his crimson eyes, and formed a slight smile. His black hair, short, unkempt and uncouth, flicked a little in the wind. He had the makings of a soldier. Tight leathers hugged his skin, a loose splay of chainmail rustled at his chest and a heady brown jacket hung over top.

“But Cirin, they were so nice to me.”

“Ig no da” spat the Tulekess with her mad eyes locked upon Cirin. Sol was right, Tuleks would never hurt anything let alone humans, yet for royalty to be seen with such lowly creatures was a disgrace to the Gel’Ravés and those guarding them. Cirin knew this, and was instructed to keep Sol away from the common rabble and Tuleks alike. Sometimes for the boy’s reputation but mostly for his safety. It was Cirin’s final promise to his teacher afterall.

“Alright then I be going down dere myself to get ya mon, perhaps when I’m done more may wanna know about dis.”

Sol flinched. He was scared. Even had he lied, Cirin would know. Those red eyes missed nothing.

“No wait,” pleaded the Prince. “I’ll come. Please do not tell on me.”

Cirin laughed, “Well den, come here quickly or I may be obliged to tell anyways.”

Sol scurried to the top of the cliff face and in his rush he waved a hasty goodbye to his newfound Tulek friends. Surprisingly they waved back.

Cirin spoke to him as the prince finished the last stretch, “Alright Sol, ya be needing to eat.”

“But I’m full.”

Cirin helped the boy up the small cliff overlooking the Tuleki valley. “Dat’s just da spirits of hunger, dey be shy sa dey neva be telling ya when ya first be needing em’”

“You sound more and more like Manama these day, Cirin.”

“Am I wrong dough?”

Sol’s stomach growled in approval. Cirin smiled, “Da spirit of sound, however, be neva too shy to speak out.”

Sol frowned at his traitorous gut. Any other Gel’Ravé would not have known hunger. Sol had been a stranger to his own family, he always would be. He was rather skinny for a Gel’Ravé, even a young one, and for some reason, he felt the need for more friends than enemies. Most of his kin were more apt to gain the latter.

“Eeeeeeek!” roared a Tulek’n scowl. Sol snapped to that direction. He spotted the cliff-face and slipped past Cirin’s watch. Cirin stumbled as he chased the child, “Wait Sol! Dun be foolish!”

Sol ignored him, now fully focussed on the Tulek. He spotted the commotion at the top of the cliff. A dessert lion, still young by the look of his budding mane, had prowled into the tulek village. Tuleks screamed and scuttled to cover. Yet not all made it. Sol discerned one small Tulek who had lost his balance against the dry earth. He didn’t wear a skirt, but instead a loin cloth, evident of his adolescence. The two teenage creatures circled around each other. One was eager, the other terrified.

Sol didn’t stay to watch.

He leapt from the cliff-face and landed below to a running start. He peered at the young Tulek as it grew with distance. Cirin found his way to the cliff, drawn to commotion himself. By then Sol had reached the Tulek, now quivering against the rough soil. The lion was close. It growled, swaying his budding mane as if to say, stray away from my meal.

With his arms stretched outwards and where he stood in front of the Tulek, Sol defied the beast. The lion lowered himself, ready for the pounce and Sol held his green eyes on the creature. He frowned sadly at its stare and gulped. The creature lunged, claws adorned. Sol stood his ground.

But the two never met. Cirin did instead.

Cirin’s feet shifted against the weight of the beast. The youth had parried the cat in a wrestler’s lock. The creature’s claws sank deeply into Cirin’s bare arms, yet the boy only stared back madly with his teeth clenched his, lips parted, sparkling white and unmoving. His crimson eyes challenged the lime ones of the lion while Sol watched in stupefaction. Cirin was no ordinary Ilivamari babysitter, no, there was more to him, more to his spirit. He was the reincarnation of something old and something splendid. He who protected with warmth of the desert and heralded its ire. He who was fire. The lion’s swayed his head in an attempt to bite the youth’s neck, but the youth saw through it. Cirin met the lion’s skull in a headbutt.

There and then the lion fell into a fit of dizziness. Cirin did not waste it. His elbow thundered down. Bloodied leather against lion mane.

Sol edged away with the tulek following close behind. Cirin’s eyes grew brightly crimson, and then he withdrew one of two swords from his back, brandishing it with his free hand. By the time the lion came to, it was too late. Cirin had plunged the blade into the beast’s neck. Clean white steal dribbled in gore. It was over the moment Cirin stood straight.

The lion convulsed, struggling for that last breath, then died with a flutter of eyelids. Its killer heaved and fell forwards on his knees.

“Cirin, are you ok?”

Cirin smiled, still bearing the pain of his wounds, “Better dan what I’d be if that thing were to have gotten you instead.” The tulek behind Sol gave off a small coo to the prince. Sol spied at him. The small Tulek, maybe two feet in size, had light caramel skin, and a small patch of nut coloured hair atop his scalp. His brows were skinny, and oaky, while his eyes were remarkably orange. He seemed to have larger ears than most Tuleks. Except for that ‘coo’ the creature had been simply left speechless by those two acts of heroism. He was not alone.

The other Tuleks emerged with all their little hairless faces stuck in awe. Cirin got up, his arms bleeding heavily. He hesitated, then stumbled. A couple Tuleks ran up to him and guided him towards a tent, he looked at them skeptically, but followed due to pain. Sol waited outside the doorstep, constantly easing in to witness the medical process. Despite their tribal appearance and odd utterings, the tuleks, were always a sophisticated people. In fact what they dubbed as medicine far surpassed any other form of medicine that existed anywhere else in the world. They mastered the art of long life and death prevention. Yes they were not shamans nor necromancers, but they possessed the practicality of nature under their little skirt belts. Some would even call their doctors druids, mystified with their mastery of the natural..

By the time they were finished with Cirin, his arms had been covered with Tulek’n bandages with no blood in sight. The night sky kissed the desert sands, and the air had gone stiffly cold. Cirin emerged out of the hut followed by his practitioner. The doctor held out a small package formed by leaves tied in a hair knot, his prescription.

“Ne, ilvebo ging ban tek.”

Cirin smirked at his concerned medic, “Ma, ban tek.” replied Cirin, mimicking the foreign tongue. The medicine man broke out a wide smile upon his caramel face then patted the youth on the back. Cirin swerved about and found Sol next to the orange eyed Tulek the young prince had saved. The two were sharing a well-cooked roast salad of types. Sol spotted Cirin almost immediately after the crimson eyes landed on his form, “Cirin!” he started, dashing towards his caretaker.

“Zirink!” mimicked the Tulek, who Cirin supposed had had equal right to be happy about seeing him. The two shrinks embraced Cirin endearingly, and Cirin kneeled to accept the hugs. He then parted the hug early and motioned towards the star lit sky.

“Look Sol, we need be going, it be far too late as it is.”

Sol nodded, and the two made for the cliff. Little did they know, a very appreciative pint-sized Tulek lagged behind.

The path had always been a quick one. Peaceful to. But both the boys knew that would not last. Cirin winced under as the pain in his arms flared.

“Are you ok?” asked Sol.

“What dis? It be noting mon. Dose fangs only went half as deep as Taba’s--”

“Not about the lion I mean.”

Cirin relaxed his arms and studied the clear sky with his ruby like eyes. The soft sand crunched beneath them in a mixture grains and dry weeds.

“I know what ya meant. I’m fine. Bot ways,” he said.

A city loomed before them, tossing jagged shadows against the twilight sky. The city’s outline proved lower and dome shaped near the recesses and taller near the center, all of it culminating in a spectacular monolith that conquered the night sky. So high in fact, the peoples of old called them and, by extension, the cities that followed stars. The name stuck. There were thirteen stars in in Illivanmar and the city of Lamanori was the last of them.

Cirin tried his best to ignore it. It was both his home and a place he desperately wish to be rid of.

“I’m sorry I ran off, I was only hoping.”

“Dat you’d distract me?”

“Got you smiling.” said the Prince.

Cirin fought back a newly emergent grin and focussed on the lines of mud houses that closed by. “That you did.” hummed Cirin.

“It was only a few days ago,” reminded the Prince. “I’m worried about you Cirin.”

“Says da boy who was nearly eaten.”

Sol pouted, kicking the sand before him, “That man, Hyrin. Cirin I don’t trust him. He’ll help you but… but what will he ask in return?”

“Don’t worry about that, my prince.”

“But I do worry Cirin. What you’re planning to do… Azhar wouldn’t want this.”

Cirin sighed, turned and clutched the boy by his shoulders. He looked him the eyes. Red against green. They had known each other for eight years now. The prince was Cirin’s charge since he was toddler and Cirin a young child. And since then, since that covenant, Cirin knew protecting sol was all that mattered. Until now.

“I know that,” he said with his gaze wavering. “I know that. But he’s gone, Sol. No point dwelling on the subject. Look,” he said with a nudge of his head at the town nearby, “We’re close and they’re expecting us. Especially you.”

Sol tilted his head low, “I don’t feel right leaving after all that’s happened.”

“You’re royalty, Sol. Go change ya country in da way ya hope to and one day I be doing da same,” Cirin frowned as the prince kept his head low. “We’ll meet again ok? Afta dis is all ovah. Deal?”

Sol lightened up for a moment, “Alright.”

Cirin nodded, releasing the boy and straightening to his full height, “This’ll be over soon. Promise.”

…

They made their way through the quiet streets and the sporadic clusters of soldiers with ease. Cirin acknowledged his surroundings. It was once the ruins of the city that was his home, but now it was a staging ground.

Sol stayed close. There was no hiding the intentions of a thousand some armed men nor that of the few their vaunted leader had summoned.

Cirin was one of them.

Minutes through the city’s wide and barren streets and they arrived where he had been called. It was a run-down shack that grew from the base of the city’s black tower.

There were six seats inside. Two of them were empty, the other four were filled with faces Cirin recognized instantly and they him. But now, he could barely name them while his eyes remained fixed on one of the empty seats.

Six seats. One for Hyrin, the strongest man in Illivanmar, and five for his lieutenants. Five. The fifth seat, the one meant for Cirin, was one he was undeserving of. Azhar was to sit there, but Azhar was no longer there.

The others, the short, the loud, unclear and greedy watched him with a mix of emotions, most concerned. They would be. They all knew Azhar, but not in the way Cirin knew him.

He could almost spy the man sitting there, yawning, stretching back lackadaisically and taunting the boy. There was a tug on his sleeve and he saw Sol there gesturing behind him. A turn and he saw what to. There stood the largest man he had ever known and the self proclaimed strongest in all thirteen stars. Hyrin.

“Cirin,” said a voice as low as thunder. “Good den, we all be here. Welcome my gen-nah-rals.” the man stretched out his massive arms and trudged in, prompting all the ‘generals’ save one with golden eyes to stand. “Welcome,” he continued un-phased by insubordination, “To my war.”

The generals seated themselves and Hyrin gestured at the empty chair.

“Go on, boy. Take ya seat.”

Cirin spied at the wooden thing. It was empty. No more Azhar. Nothing. He took steps to it as Hyrin detailed the first of his many plans.

But it did not matter. Nothing did. Perhaps fetching Sol back for his dinner was a distraction for his own hunger: Revenge.

Hyrin spoke on about how everything would go as he had planned for and how it would only be possible with his generals’ cooperation. He finished the last step until the chair was ahead of him and he remembered something Azhar had said years ago. His eyes went wide.

He spun, and, as he did, wind gushed into the room from the open door. Hyrin slammed it shut.

“As I was saying,” he continued.

“I get it.”

All heads snapped to Cirin. Everything he did. Everything the old mon trained him on made sense. He wished he could say the words there and then but not with Hyrin present. Instead he shook his head, waved Hyrin to continue and settled into his seat.

The windows rattled in the desert wind. Hyrin’s baritone rumbled the wood.

But Cirin did not listen. He remembered.

It had started five years ago.