Tell us that story again," rang the voice, sounding muffled as it drifted through the half-closed window.
"Which one?"
"Rovetshi - the one with the skeletons, you damn sot," cackled a woman. "What, did all your wits drain out of your ears?"
"Alright, alright, if you insist," said the heretic in this begrudging tone - yet no matter how disapproving he sounded, he always spoke the heresies so sweetly, and with such delight. "But it's thirsty work, telling a story. Might need a pint - or three, heh."
The man who listened from inside the house turned away as the drunkard peasant began to regale the gathered crowd the same story he had told a dozen times over across every winesink and little marketplace in the city. They were disgusting stories, preaching the false idol whose roots had dug deep into the city and begun to strangle the life from the old ways. The bald, fat peasant was one of several who had accompanied the whore princess and peddled her stories, but he was by far the loudest. And it was the tallest grass that they would cut first.
At the shabby table, the others went about their preparations. Each of them had come together for the same terrible purpose - that which the wise priests were too afraid to carry out. But it was the voice of the Earth-Mother that they answered to - and the earth called for blood, for vengeance against the false idol and those who had brought her into the city.
There is much work to be done, the holy man heard the Earth-Mother’s words even now. Purge the city, break the false idol.
The holy man’s mind shuddered suddenly, a terrible, rending twist that made him dizzy. He felt as though he heard a voice screaming in the distance, a prisoner in the corner of his own mind. He felt his heart begin to race. His body was not his own, his mind not his own. What was this madness-
A cooling touch softened those thoughts, and his mind stilled once more. He could feel the Earth-Mother’s hands on his shoulders, her gentle presence at his back. He shook off the delirium, and turned to join the others in prayer, not daring to tell them of the sudden madness that had come over him.
There was a small tree in the courtyard of the house they seized for their own - an oak, scarred and withered, its branches naked and dying. He made a mark of blood upon the gnarled trunk, and knelt with the others. They prayed for what was to come - they prayed to Perun for strength; Simargl so they might tell true hearts from false; Xors to return his light to the darkened city when the righteous work was done; Dazhbog so prosperity and plenty might return when the false idol was cast down; the Earth-Mother to restore life to the scoured land. And lastly, they whispered prayers to Veles to guide them and the faithful well in the underworld, for death was a certainty. The followers of the false idol were many, and evil would never allow itself to be shepherded meekly back into the darkness. No - blood needed to be spilled, the city needed to be reminded of the ancient things in the world, and of heaven's wrath.
When all the holy words were said, the man gathered the others together in the common room of the home. Thirty-five they were, a holy number - five from each of the cults, for Heaven's reach was of seven hands, seven gods, not one. He did not know any of their names - only the symbols they were on their long, threadbare coats.
"The Fangs will seize the granaries," the holy man spoke to Simargl's chosen. "Kill any who stand in your way, but spare the men from Ruryev - their lord is faithful, and he has sworn to us."
Such went on the rest of the tasks he laid out - they were to seize the granaries, the gatehouses, and the ports of the city at the turn of the guard, when they were most vulnerable. Crowds would surely gather by them - word had already begun to spread of the Grand Princess’ rejection of the holy men of the faith, and those who cleaved to the old faith would doubtless support Heaven's cause. The bloodletting would be over before the citadel could awake, and then those of their order that might survive the chaos could disappear into the teeming masses - all the better to fill the false idol's heart with fear, if she saw Heaven's wrath in every face, every whispered word.
The Hand of God would fall, and they would lead the charge.
When the orders were given, there was little else that remained to do. They filed out from their ramshackle meeting place quickly, pulling down hoods over their faces as they stepped into the dying light of the evening. The holy man was the last to leave, and with a nod of the head his men followed quietly, pushing through the crowds along the darkening streets like a vessel along the Cherech, dragging a rickety wain that leapt at every bump in the path. At length, they found the fat man surrounded by a group of itinerants - his face flushed with drink and laughter. His expression sobered quickly enough when he saw them approaching.
"You are Marmun, of Yerkh?" asked the holy man, more a courtesy than anything else.
"Yes…and who asks?" replied the fat peasant, sweat beading his brow as his small eyes darted about, searching for escape where there was none.
"A man of god."
In a rush of flapping cloaks and clubs, Perun's chosen surged over the small gathering. Most of them ran off, screaming bloody murder, and those who were foolish enough to stand before the fat man lay beaten and groaning on the cobblestones a moment later. The holy man grabbed the fat peasant as he tried to cry for help, and forced him to the ground.
"You are guilty of heresy," the holy man bellowed, letting his voice carry through the streets as other folk began to gather around, though none moved to help the heretic. "You and your southerner ilk have brought darkness to our godly city, and raised up a false idol to call the Hand of God, to infest the court with savages, evil, and debauchery, and to spit upon the faces of the gods. This, the gods have said."
Two of the chosen raised the fat man to his knees. Sweat and blood dripped from his brow, pooling in the folds of his neck, glistening in the last rays of sunlight.
"Recant," the holy man commanded. He gestured out to the crowd, which had now swelled to twice its size, filling with whispers. "Tell these people the truth. Tell them you are a liar, and that the whore-princess you follow is nothing but a blight upon this land. I offer you this one chance, heretic."
For a moment, Marmun seemed as though he might comply. His eyes darted frantically, flicking between the grim faces of the men around him, and then out to the crowd. His lips parted again, and a choking, half-formed sound escaped him. The holy man felt the faintest flicker of satisfaction. Perhaps the fool will repent after all...
But then Marmun’s eyes narrowed, and something defiant flickered behind them, a spark of stubbornness born not from bravery, but from fear and desperation. His voice, when it finally came, was weak, but filled with something that surprised even him.
“I will not... I will not lie,” the peasant muttered, his voice hoarse but steady. “I have seen her works. I have seen her power. I will not lie. You fools are the heretics. Are you so blind? She has saved us all twice, thrice over - and you want to destroy her? Madness, madness and treason…we will all be lost, you damn fools.”
The words, as feeble as they were, hung in the air like an accusation, and for a moment silence reigned in the square. The holy man’s expression hardened beneath his hood. "So be it."
The axe was heavy in his hands, its shaft and steel head decorated lovingly with the runes of the Lightning-Lord.
It was heavy, but the holy man wielded it deftly.
Screams and shouts rippled through the crowd, and the heretic's fat head hit the ground - his body surrendered to the earth a moment later. The trickle of blood turned into a steady flow of crimson that soaked deep into the cobblestone, and the holy man turned to the crowd of onlookers as the other chosen began dumping the contents of the wain into the square.
“People of Belnopyl!” the holy man cried, raising his voice high above the murmurs. “This is the righteous fate of all heretics! You have seen the rot that has taken hold of this city! The false idol, the boyars, and all her heretics have poisoned this land - they turn ever more of our folk against the gods, all while the sky grows darker and the common man starves! But today, the true gods give us salvation.”
As if on cue, two of his followers tipped the last of the wain’s cargo onto the ground, and the loud clatter and scrape of steel echoed through the square. Chipped axes, rickety spears, and dented swords - the remnants of the battle outside the city walls, the refuse of the soldiers who had fallen against the heart of evil - lay in a tangled heap, glinting faintly in the dying light.
The holy man stepped forward. He spread his arms wide to the roiling heavens, and the feeling in the air was one of growing lightning. The Lord of Heaven, that is his voice, his will. This is good - this is just.
“Take these weapons, my countrymen!” the holy man roared. “A gift from the Lightning-Lord - they are yours, yours to strike down the heretics! Take up arms, and the light will return. Bread will fill your bellies. The false idol will fall, and the gods will bless this city with plenty once more. In the name of the Lightning-Lord, in the name of the Earth-Mother, in the name of the gods of your fathers and their fathers before - fight! Kill!”
A ripple went through the crowd, a flicker of hope or anger - it did not matter which, as long as it spread. And spread it did.
"Yes!" someone shouted from the back. "For the Lightning-Lord! For bread!" A man stepped forward, eyes alight with righteous fervor, and he snatched a beaten axe from the pile. His actions broke the dam, and suddenly more surged toward the weapons, hands grabbing at swords, spears, and daggers with the wild desperation of the starving, the sick, the trodden meek. Cries of "For Perun!" and "For the gods!" erupted from the square as men and women armed themselves, taking up the divine wrath.
By the holy man’s words, the crowd surged out into the streets, howling for the old gods and for the blood of the heretic. He watched them go on, his pulse quickening.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
Then the voice of the Earth-Mother whispered to him, her voice rising up from the cobblestones. There is much work to be done…
“Find the Khormchak!” shouted the holy man to the crowd. “Find the Khormchak and bring me his head!”
The bloodletting had begun, and there was much work to be done.
***
It was amazing what kind of places survived disasters. In the kingdom of the Tan Ninh, Yesugei heard tell of how a flood had once swept away every building in a village save for the paifeng gate to a half-built shrine. The local peasants had proclaimed the gate protected by the water spirits and their god, and villagers from many miles around had come to seek blessings and give offerings to spirits in the years that followed. In Belnopyl then, it seemed the Dancing Bear inn was bound for its own destiny as a holy site for ale and blessings of drunkenness.
The inn had sat upon a raised plateau in the city, and was nestled tightly within the heart of a district surrounded by workshops and trading houses which had taken the brunt of the flood - thus the Dancing Bear was the only inn whose casks of ale had not been spoiled or destroyed by the raging Cherech, and thus every night it seemed half the city descended upon the small inn whose only story of note before had been some legend of a dancing she-bear. The crowd was unimaginably tight and loud, a suffocating press of soldiers, laborers, and merchants packed wall-to-wall that reeked of sweat, oak varnish, and drink. Yesugei barely managed to force his way through the teeming horde, and dressed as he was in his Khormchak rags, he trailed a wake of angry murmurs and cold glares.
“Little Khormchak with a big sword!” wheezed one particularly burly and ugly man that Yesugei passed by.
Alnayyir’s dark thoughts swirled around Yesugei’s own, and he brushed them aside as he went on. A disgusting pit of humanity, the Apostle muttered. Look on at what you are saving, son of the White Khan. Take a good, long breath of it.
Yesugei’s eyes darted about the packed common room, and there he spotted Kargasha seated at the farthest end from the door, peeling an apple. He pushed past a crew of staggering, red-faced guards, and with a weighty thud laid out the crow’s gift onto the beaten round table.
“Consider my debt paid.”
Kargasha paused mid-peel, the curved knife frozen in his hand. His eyes flicked to the sword resting on the table, then back to Yesugei. The noise of the inn pressed in from all sides—the roar of voices, the clatter of mugs, the stomp of boots on wood. Slowly, the crow set the knife down beside the half-peeled apple and reached for the sword. His fingers traced the contours of the wooden pommel, the crow's head finely carved, each little feather etched with care. He let out a low whistle.
"This... is a fine sword." His voice was measured, careful, as though weighing the craftsmanship. "Too fine for the likes of me, I think."
Yesugei shrugged. "You said I owed you one. And I am not the kind to leave debts unpaid."
Kargasha lifted the sword, testing its balance. The silver inlays glinted in the dim light of the inn, casting pale shadows across the table. He drew the blade from its decorated scabbard and pointed it to the ceiling, letting the dim light dance along the steel. Satisfied, he slid it back into the scabbard with an easy smile on his lips. "You’ve more than paid me back, Khormchak. Almost makes me forget you melted the last one.”
Yesugei took a seat next to the warrior as Kargasha set the blade aside. “Is this you getting your affairs in order?” asked Kargasha at length.
“Of a sort. I’ll soon be leaving this place,” Yesugei confessed, leaning back in his chair. “I've…seen enough of this land - it's too humid, too hilly, too forested for my liking. And it's been far too long since I've gone back home.”
“Surely the people here are better than those out east,” Kargasha said, his tone light, but his expression grim. “Last we heard, the new Khan’s looking for your head. Seems a bit unwise to just leap straight into another wolf’s jaws right after killing one, isn’t it?”
“Jirghadai’s strength will only grow the longer he is allowed to rule alone over the steppe,” Yesugei replied. “And you forget - my father’s domain has many folk besides Khormchaks, and not all of them will be so quick to fall in line with the new order. Huwaqis, the Ashqarans, the Saqavars…they had little love for my father, but they have much hate for the Blackwind.”
“That’s a long journey.” Kargasha smiled. “Probably real lonely out on the open roads to the east. Is this where you beg me to come along with you - bribing a crow with a shiny trinket of a sword?”
“Hardly.” Yesugei huffed, crossing his arms over his chest. “And don't forget - you weren’t the first to tag along with me.”
He looked to the crowd once more and saw the girl-shaman pushing her way through, swatting aside groping hands as she came to their table. With an annoyed grimace Tuyaara pulled up her own seat, muttering to herself in Khormchak.
“Savages, are we?” Tuyaara scoffed as she sat down, dusting off her hands. “Feh, Klyazmite, Khormchak, they’re all the same - get to drinking, and they’ll feel up anything with two or four legs.” Her sharp eyes darted over the heaving mass of patrons, her lip curling in disdain as another round of raucous laughter echoed through the inn.
She turned her attention to Yesugei, her expression softening only slightly. “I found the horses,” she said, getting straight to the point. “Though I can’t say I’m pleased about it. Prices have tripled since last year. I had to settle for ponies over palfreys.”
Yesugei nodded, unsurprised. “They’ll have to do.”
“They’ll have to,” she agreed, though her tone suggested that she would’ve preferred to haggle down the merchant’s throat if she had the chance. “Supplies are gathered, though we’ll be traveling light. Food, firestarter, some medicine, and little else. That little sock of silver you gave me stretched as far as it could.”
Kargasha, who had been listening with half an ear while polishing his new sword with the edge of his sleeve, suddenly spoke up. “Ponies, huh? Sounds like a poor ride for a grand journey across the steppe.” He leaned back, his grin spreading wide across his weathered face. “Lucky for you, you’ve got me. I’ll be tagging along at least as far as the God-Spine.”
Yesugei’s eyes flicked up from the table, narrowing slightly. “Homesick already?”
“Exactly,” Kargasha said, his tone far too casual. “Chernogorsk’ll be needing fighting men to clear out the foothill tribes, and I’ve never been one to miss out on a good brawl. Besides”—he gestured broadly at the crowd—“the company here’s not quite my taste. Bit too soft for my liking.” He chuckled. “I’ll see you to the mountains, but who’s to say I won’t go further?”
Yesugei smirked faintly. The crow was simply making a show of things - all in hopes of impressing the girl-shaman who had been commanding his eyes since their meeting at the willow tree. Lovesick fool, he thought. A useful lovesick fool. “You’re not fooling anyone,” Yesugei muttered, his tone laced with mild amusement.
Tuyaara snorted, crossing her arms. “You’d better bring your own rations and horse. I only haggled for two.”
“I’m a hero of the city, don’t you know?” Kargasha replied with a wink. “I’m sure the Grand Princess wouldn’t mind parting with a few small things here and there. And besides that, I’ve some coin of my own.”
With that, the Klyazmite called up one of the servants and had a meal of meat pies and a thin soup brought in for the two Khormchak guests - and plenty enough ale to see them through the night. As they spoke of the path ahead, Yesugei allowed himself a brief moment of calm, his mind briefly untangling itself from the dense web of plans and worries that had kept his mind in a vice grip. The pact was fulfilled - Vasilisa had come home. Now it was his time to return. The madness of the Herald was infectious, but he could do little against Vasilisa’s own mother. No - for the time being, he needed to turn his mind to matters elsewhere, until the woman he loved would remember who she truly was.
For the time being, he needed to enjoy the rare, fleeting peace amidst the noise of the Dancing Bear. Peace of a kind he hadn’t felt in what seemed like years.
Yet even this peace felt strange - unnatural, like a river stilled by a sudden freeze.
Outside, the city had its own rhythms, but the Khormchak prince had lived too long on the road and battlefield not to notice the subtle shift. The noise was changing. The once-boisterous laughter and chatter of the streets beyond the inn were morphing into something darker, a low and menacing hum like the angry buzzing of a hive of insects set astir.
He ignored it at first, focusing on the food and drink before him, but after a time, he felt it—the slow thinning of the crowd inside the inn. The laughter, once loud and raucous, fell into an uneasy hush, and Yesugei’s sharp eyes scanned the room. Faces that had been flushed with drunken warmth were now tight with tension. Men murmured among themselves, eyes darting nervously to the windows and doors.
Something was wrong.
Then, the door to the inn burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud bang. A man stumbled inside, breathless and wide-eyed, sweat running down his face. “They’re killing people in the streets!” he shouted, his voice shaking. “They’re coming down the street, hundreds of them!”
“Calm down, man!” roared the ugly brute who had stood athwart Yesugei’s path through the crowd. “Who’s killing who? What’s going on?”
The man pointed out the door. His eyes were wild, bloodshot. “Some kind of purge - they’re out there killing anyone who follows the Grand Princess. And they’re yelling for the Khormchaks!”
The words hit like a slap to the face.
Instantly, the eyes of every patron in the room swiveled toward the table where Yesugei, Tuyaara, and Kargasha sat. The weight of those gazes pressed down like a physical force—fear, suspicion, and hatred all coiled together in those looks. Yesugei felt a surge of Alnayyir’s power stir within him, the dark whisper of the Apostle’s voice urging him to act, to strike first. Flames crackled along his arm beneath the leather of his glove, a bitter heat rising up through his chest as the familiar scent of slaughter filled the air.
You feel it, don’t you? Alnayyir’s voice purred, dripping with malevolent glee. This is what you were made for, son of the White Khan. Let the fire rise.
Yesugei clenched his hand into a fist.
But before he could act, Kargasha stood to his feet, his face a still mask. He placed a hand on the hilt of his new sword, and spoke in a voice calm and bored, yet loud enough to carry across the room. “Well,” he said. “Looks like it’s getting late. I think it’s about time we retire for the night, don’t you, Yesugei?” His eyes flicked meaningfully to the crowd.
The tension in the air was palpable, the kind that preceded a brawl—or worse.
“Yes,” Yesugei growled softly, rising from his seat. His eyes, cold and sharp, scanned the room, gauging the threat. He could feel Tuyaara tensing beside him, her hand resting on the small dagger at her side, though she knew it would do little good against a mob. They were outnumbered ten to one, at least.
Kargasha tilted his head slightly, still keeping his calm demeanor. “Come now,” he said to the crowd, his voice smooth and easy. “No need to get yourselves into a frenzy over some rumors. You know how these things start—some drunkard slurring nonsense after too much ale.”
But the tension didn’t ease. The faces around them remained hard, eyes fixed on the two Khormchaks.
“Yesugei…” Tuyaara’s voice was low, her eyes wide with alarm. She sensed it too.
Outside, the noise was growing—the sound of a city on the edge of madness. The distant shouts of angry voices, the clash of steel, the panicked screams of those caught in the chaos. It was spreading.
Kargasha glanced at Yesugei, his smile slipping slightly, just enough to betray a hint of concern. “Let’s get out of here before this gets ugly,” he muttered, low enough for only the two Khormchaks to hear.
Yesugei’s eyes narrowed. “Too late for that,” he replied, his voice quiet but firm. “Do you smell it? Blood’s already in the air.”