The Quanli khan’s shined boots clacked against the wooden floor of the tent as he strode forward.
He is not the same, thought Nariman.
He had last seen Jirghadai five years ago, when the Quanli khan was thrown at his father’s feet by his own treacherous men who had grown tired of the civil war. Jirghadai had looked old then - as old as his father - with gray-streaked hair and a haggard, sunken face worn down by a hard life of battle and living beneath the open steppe sky.
His face was still as sunken as ever, and his beard and moustache had only grown more gray, but there was a strange, dangerous light in the old khan’s normally dull gray eyes.
As he neared, Nariman saw a strange decoration was woven into the Quanli khan's dark robe - a symbol formed from shards of iridescent glass, depicting a howling face wreathed in flames. Hanging from his belt Nariman saw Jirghadai carried a long horn, carved from a cracked and gnarled piece of blackened ivory. He had no doubt that was the horn which had sounded Jirghadai’s arrival - he felt strange and dark whispers flowing out of the horn even from where he sat, whispers that promised powerful, dark energy to its wielder.
Even more strange than the khan and his horn was the person who entered the tent after Jirghadai, trailing softly behind him. A figure covered head-to-toe in black robes, their head encased within a large silver helmet that bore a face mask cast in a sharp scowl. The guards did not move to stop Jirghadai's follower, and the cloaked figure silently stood off to the side far from the gathered khans - peering at them all through the empty eyes of their armored mask.
What kind of heretic has he brought into our domain? Wondered Nariman, and he saw the other khans were thinking the same as they whispered to each other and pointed at the approaching khan and his follower.
“Jirghadai,” greeted Tsaagandai, his arms open wide. Only the White Khan seemed nonplussed by Jirghadai’s appearance. “My brother. We had thought you changed your mind about putting your name forward in the kurultai.”
“I see,” sneered Jirghadai as he cast his gaze over the other khans in the room. “But here I am - and I have yet to give my own voice.”
“You should have come to speak when it was your time!” shouted Adilet-khan, who found the guts to stand. “The khans have spoken, and you are too late! Tsaagandai-khan is our leader!”
“Is that so?” said Jirghadai as he looked first at Adilet, and then back at Tsaagandai. “Then you would not mind an old friend saying his piece - unless you fear your loyal khans might have a change of heart.”
When Tsaagandai did not reply, Jirghadai turned to face the circled khans.
Let him speak, thought Nariman. There are too many on our side still. Let him ramble, let our men laugh, and let us win.
“Great khans of the Hungry Steppe,” boomed the Blackwind. “You have heard my horn, now hear my words.”
The Blackwind pointed one crooked finger at Tsaagandai. “I was once this man’s blood brother. When he needed shelter from slavers as a boy, I helped him hide. When he sought allies for war against the Qyzylkurans, I was the first to pledge my sword to his fight. When we shared our dreams for a united horde, I stood by him, and shed my blood in an oath of brotherhood without second thought.
“And when the Qarakesek and Quanli stood together to bring the many tribes of this land under our shared banner, who was it that brought the small-minded and the dissident into line? Who was it that fought and bled the most to forge the united horde into a reality? Who was it that led the vanguard into battle against the men whose trophies my brother now decorates his walls with?"
Jirghadai thumped one fist against his broad chest. “It was me. My brother spoke inspiring words and made promises of a better future, but he forgot a simple fact of our people: words mean nothing unless backed by steel. Without my sword at his side, my brother’s dream for a united steppe would have gotten him torn to pieces by many of your own ancestors - whose minds only changed when they saw my might at Tsaagandai’s back. Without my riders, the Qyzylkurans would have crushed our alliance in our first battle, and left my brother’s dream for a united steppe rotting out in the fields for the crows. Without my banners and my strength, there would have been no Great Horde. Yet how did my brother repay me? With treachery. He seduced the tribes with promises of easy wealth, then he stabbed his own blood-brother in the back and gave you all golden muzzles to keep our people peaceful.”
To this, several of the khans began to mutter bitterly as they continued to listen to Jirghadai’s words. The Blackwind cast his gaze about the room, looking over each of the khans as his face twisted in disgust.
“Look at yourselves, all!” Jirghadai shouted, his sudden fury causing some of the khans to shrink. “Look at what my brother has turned the great khans of the Hungry Steppe into! He would have you content to grow fat and weak off of the tribute from the lands around us - table scraps their kings and princes and emperors claim to be grand gifts while they bide their time to rebuild their walls and sharpen their blades. My brother would have us all pull back our armies, and turn our attention towards growth and peace - to abandon the Old Ways and become merchants, bookkeepers, and artists - until our sons and daughters are so far gone they forget how to sit a horse."
Jirghadai let his words settle into the crowd for a moment. Nariman thought on the Quanli Khan's words as well: had his father done the right thing, ordering their armies to pull back instead of conquering beyond the lands Jirghadai had led them through? The Quanli's conquests had been enough to frighten many of the other nations around them into quickly arranging for tribute, enough to force their emperors and kings to bow before the Great Khan.
The Horde flourished with tribute and trade, but it could just as quickly lose everything if it's neighbors decided they no longer feared it's armies. But what was the alternative?
Jirghadai continued, “My brother wants us to become tamed dogs - and once our sons and daughters have forgotten our ways, the sniveling cowards who give us tribute now will make us into their slaves.
"But we are Khormchaks - and when we are united, nothing can stop us. My brother gives you tribute won by the point of a quill…but by the point of the sword, I would give you the world. The jungles of Tan Ninh, the great cities of Yllahana, the mountains of Bukhara and the valleys of Khaysong, the shores of the Sunset Isles and the dunes of Sanu - everything! I tell you to not settle for the skimmings of our neighbors’ wealth, but to take it all as we deserve. I tell you to look beyond the borders of the steppe once again, and to take the world with fire and sword! I tell you to seize the destiny my brother had robbed you of when he stopped our armies short - to ground everything and everyone into dust beneath our charge until the universe knows no kings, no princes, no emperors - only a single Great Khan who shall rule all and claim all. My brother has brought you victories - but I would bring you conquest.”
“JIRGHADAI!” Rose the cry from one side of the tent, led by the allied khans of the Quanli. But as they shouted, others joined their call - emboldened by the Blackwind's words. “JIRGHADAI! JIRGHADAI! JIRGHADAI-KHAN!”
Eventually, the fervor of the voices for Jirghadai died down. Several of the khans who had voiced their support for Tsaagandai now looked to each other and muttered among themselves. Nariman sensed more of their own ranks were beginning to slip away from their fingers. They could not afford to lose more voices.
“Jirghadai, has age caused your wits to take flight?” He spoke, earning a few chuckles from the khans. “You seem to forget that you lost the battle for the steppe, even if it did take nearly twenty years. My father crushed you at the Ongainur, and my brothers killed a dozen of your noyans. How can you hope to win us the world, if you cannot even win over your own people?”
“I lost the battle for the steppe due to treachery, and the spurning of the gods,” spat back Jirghadai. At the mention of the gods, a clamor rose from the seated khans who sensed the Blackwind's skirting of heresy. “It is true: I lost the favor of our gods, for they are fickle types whose favor can easily be swayed by the shamans. Our gods would not see us rise above my brother's plans for our destiny because they fear us, because they are afraid of what we would become with our weaknesses purged, our true potential unleashed upon the world. Our gods will not give us the strength to take the world…and so I have found new gods.”
Jirghadai pulled the horn from his belt, causing Nariman and several others to jerk instinctively back as he did so. But the Quanli khan only raised the horn to the sky - and as he did so, strange runes began to appear on the blackened ivory, shimmering bright red with fire.
“I have traveled far and wide to search for answers, to search for a god whose will shall carry us beyond the comfort of the steppe and plunge us into greatness and conquest.” The runes burned ever brighter until they filled the entire room with a terrible red light. Nariman saw the shadows begin to twist and turn, flooding towards the center of the tent and to Jirghadai's feet like water.
“I have found this new god. Not in the blue skies of tengri, but in the stars that have silently guided our people for a thousand years.” The flowing darkness exploded outwards, twisting around the roof of the tent to form a great clawed hand of shadow that grasped for the open night sky above.
Jirghadai's eyes were bright with fanatical will as he shouted, “Gandroth, of Fire and Suffering! The Lord of Flame and Lash, whose fire will sear away the rot infesting our domain, and whose cruelty will flay the weakness from our people as it has from me, so we may ascend beyond our mortal bonds! This is my new god! This is who shall bring forth our destiny!"
The khans were shouting over one another, some calling for their guards, others screaming heresy…but Nariman saw many of the khans sat completely still in awe, transfixed by the terrible burning runes and the promises within them. Nariman thought of the images that had haunted him for days: visions of terrible flames that would wash over the entire world, swallowing up everything and choking the sun’s light from the sky with ash.
No…no…this cannot come to pass.
Nariman slowly brought a hand to the knife tucked into his belt.
He was about to pull the steel blade free to end the nightmare himself - consequences be damned - when the glow from the runes began to flounder and fade away, shrinking back into the blackened husk of ivory.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Jirghadai lowered the horn and sank to his knees - coughing and shaking from the effort the horn's magic must have demanded of him.
Immediately, the khans' insults and cries grew louder as each man tried to shout over the others. Some jeered at the kneeling Quanli khan, others were screaming for his head to be mounted on a pike for his heresy. But the khans of the Zhalair, the Bura, the Oshaks, the Suan, and now over a dozen other khans - nearly half of the kurultai in all - were shouting their allegiance to Jirghadai, or shouting the name of Jirghadai's new god in a terrifying frenzy.
GANDROTH! GANDROTH! GANDROTH!
Nariman stood up from his seat and placed a hand on Talgat’s shoulder as his brother made to stand up alongside him. It was time for this frightening chaos to end - both sides were now stirred up into such a fervor that it seemed only a matter of time until violence took hold.
He stepped into the centre of the tent, and helped the shaking Jirghadai up off the ground with an offered hand. The khans settled into a tense silence as Nariman raised Jirghadai to his feet.
"You speak well, Blackwind,” said Nariman, his tone soft and respectful to set both sides at ease. “My father often spoke of your valor and will, and I can see his praise was true. You truly are a blood-brother of the White Khan."
“I do not need your praises.” hissed Jirghadai, who shrugged off Nariman’s hand.
“But I shall tell them all the same. Now, is there anyone else who would step forward?” called Nariman to the other khans, only to be met with shaking heads and silence. The religious mania that took over the Quanli alliance died down with Nariman's soft words, and their realization that Jirghadai was still just a mortal man - a weak, old man who was hardly able to stand upright after his great speech of godhood. “Then let us all drink to the glory of both my father and Jirghadai, before we cast our voices for the final time as men, not as howling beasts.”
"Hear, hear!" said Adilet-khan, followed by the assenting voices of the other khans.
Tsaagandai gave his eldest son a questioning look, but did not stop him from summoning the slaves who emerged with decorated bowls and arkhi to serve the khans.
Nariman’s own slave poured a whole flagon of liquor into his silver bowl, and he held it carefully with both hands as his eyes flitted from his siblings to his father and Jirghadai.
Talgat and Gulsezim looked just as tense as the rest of the khans, though Nariman felt their eyes fall directly upon him as they were served. They both knew he was planning something, but whether it was a sense of familial duty or merely over-caution, neither his brother nor sister said anything as they stared down at the milky contents of their own bowls.
His father and Jirghadai studied each other cautiously as they stood together in the center of the tent. The Yllahanan’s pet gave to each of them a decorated golden bowl, followed by arkhi from the same flagon. Nariman tensed up, wondering whether the senator had anticipated such a turn, but it was too late to act on any second thoughts. He relaxed, forcing his roiling fear and anxiety into a small, ugly ball that he could pretend was merely a stomach ache.
Once everyone was served, Tsaagandai raised his own bowl high. “To the Horde!”
“The Horde!” The khans replied as they lifted their own bowls, though their shout was hesitant - their sense of unity frayed by the chaotic mess of the kurultai.
As Nariman lowered his arkhi he could have sworn Jirghadai’s silver-helmed follower was looking at him. The empty eyes of the silver mask stared directly at him over the bowl’s silver edge. Does he…no, how could he?
With one hand, Nariman placed the bowl to his lips and drank. He felt the drink drowning the gnawing anxiety in his gut with every thirsty gulp, and savored the smooth, slightly savory taste as the liquor went down. Nariman lowered the bowl only when he saw its silver bottom, and wiped with his sleeve a small bit of the liquor that dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
Talgat made a sour face at the taste of the arkhi as he lowered his bowl - despite the tension in the room, his little brother’s expression brought a small smile to Nariman’s lips. Same as the first time he tasted it. Some things never change.
Jirghadai was halfway through his own bowl when he suddenly coughed, spraying droplets of the arkhi onto the floor. He took another swallow and coughed again, this time more violently.
“Having trouble holding your drink?” spoke Shamil-khan with his mocking tongue.
“Be quiet, you…” Jirghadai tried to respond, but his insult was cut short by another cough. “All of you…you…”
Alinur of the Zhalair - Jirghadai's closest supporter - looked on with concern. “Jirghadai-khan?”
The Blackwind tried to take another drink from his bowl, but the pale arkhi came spewing back up tainted with crimson. “I…I…I can’t…”
“He’s been poisoned!” came the shout from one of the khans.
Alinur-khan shoved past several other khans as he rushed towards the center of the tent and supported the swaying Jrighadai who was about to fall. Aidar-khan began to retch into his bowl, thinking his own might have been poisoned. Another khan began to shout for a healer, or a shaman, while several others yelled for the guards who came storming into the tent with their swords drawn - searching for an assassin in the growing chaotic throng of panicked nobles.
Jirghadai collapsed to the ground, pulling Alinur-khan down with him as he flailed for support. Tsaagandai dropped his golden bowl and rushed to Jirghadai’s side, holding his hand as he roared for the other khans that crowded the Blackwind to get back. Jirghadai’s spindly fingers tore open long, bloody gouges into his throat as he struggled to breathe, all while more blood and vomit spewed from his mouth. His face was growing darker.
He is dying…he is dying at last. Nariman whispered in his mind. He felt a strange calm come over him as the rest of the tent descended into further chaos. Every one of the khans was now on their feet, some of them surrounding the dying Jirghadai while others rushed to escape the tent - only to be forced back by the White Khan’s keshik guards. In the chaos some khans fell, and were trampled by others in the growing animal terror that took hold. Talgat and Gulsezim were also in the crowd, yelling for their father’s guards to bring order to the stampede of silk-clothed nobles.
The only person who had not moved was Jirghadai’s silver-helmed follower, who looked on dispassionately as the Quanli khan began to violently seize on the floor.
Then, the choking stopped.
And Jirghadai-khan was dead.
Nariman shoved past the other khans to look over Jirghadai’s body - to see for himself the Blackwind was dead. He peered over his kneeling father’s shoulders, and saw Jirghadai’s limp corpse lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood and bile - no longer a god, or even a khan. Just an old, wrinkled man who died like any other.
It had to be done…it had to be done…
As the cold, numbing reality of the situation set in, the khans all fell silent - unsure of what to say, who to accuse. The death of a khan during a kurultai was unheard of - and the killing of one a great sin that could never be forgiven. Tsaagandai knelt in bitter silence, cradling his old blood brother’s body as his keshik guards stood over him awaiting their orders.
As his father mourned, Nariman crouched down and examined Jirghadai’s dropped bowl. Both his father and Jirghadai drank the same wine, so how was it that the Yllahanan had been able to only poison one?
Nariman swept his finger around the edge of the bowl, and felt something like sand along the golden inside. His finger came away covered in a fine, almost imperceptible powder that he hurriedly wiped off on the front of his robe before standing to point at the Yllahanan’s slave.
“Seize him!” Nariman shouted with rage that he convinced even himself to be true. “Seize that one! He poisoned the Blackwind’s bowl!”
The keshiks gathered in the tent looked to the White Khan for their orders, but when he did not reply they obeyed his son - quickly grabbing the Yllahanan’s pet before he could bolt for the tent flap. Two armored men fell upon the slave and pinned him to the ground as the khans from both sides shouted for the slave’s head.
Jirghadai’s body was quickly forgotten by everyone save Tsaagandai as the khans rushed to beat and question the poisoner. By the time Nariman was able to push his way towards the assassin, the man was already nearly dead - several of his teeth were cracked by a powerful blow from Adilet-khan, and his nose was twisted and broken where another khan must have kicked him in the face.
Not yet. I still need a name. A villain everyone may blame to put this matter to rest.
Nariman crouched as he drew his knife, then pulled the slave's lowered head up by the chin so he and the beaten man were eye-to-eye. He pressed his blade against the slave’s quivering throat, and said in a quiet tone, “No matter what happens here, you will die. The only choice you have is when, and how.”
Belnopyl. That is all you need to say.
“Confess to us who sent you, and I will cut your throat here and now,” Nariman continued, to the objections of some khans who called for a painful and slow demise. “Otherwise, I will give you to the rest of these fine men, who have far more creative ends in mind.”
The Grand Prince! Belnopyl! Say it!
The slave opened his mouth to speak - and then there came a cry from behind Nariman.
He turned to look over his shoulder, and his heart stopped as he saw his father scrambling backwards on the floor - scrambling away from Jirghadai, who had risen to both feet as though nothing were wrong.
No…no…nonononononononononono.
The other khans shouted in surprise, and even the keshiks, dumbfounded, let the Yllahanan slave fall from their grasp as they looked on at Jirghadai.
This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening. The poison worked, I saw it myself. How? How? How?
“I told you all…I have found a new god." A new voice sprung from Jirghadai's standing corpse, one that sounded like scraping glass and shrieking metal.
Nariman wanted to press his palms against his ears to shut out Jirghadai’s voice, but he found his body refusing to obey. All he could do was collapse to the floor, his chest growing tighter and tighter as though an invisible fist were crushing him in its grasp. The other khans fell as well - some collapsing as he did, while others went to their knees and prostrated themselves before the Blackwind in terror or devotion.
"Our gods are content to let their followers live and die as mortal men. But this new god...his chosen do not die so easily.” Jirghadai wiped off a small droplet of blood from his mustache, then loosened his robe - letting it fall to the floor.
In the light of the flickering fire, Nariman saw six black shards of crystal jutting out from Jirghadai’s heart. And when the Blackwind stared at Nariman his eyes were no longer dull gray, but shining bright with a terrifying golden hue.
Jirghadai's scratching, deafening voice filled the entire tent as he spoke. “Gandroth, He of Fire and Suffering. Accept this sacrifice of flesh in your name.”
With a wave of Jirghadai's hand, the central fire of the tent erupted with a blinding light. Blazing hot wind blasted forth from the fire pit, and Nariman raised his eyes to shield them from the light.
The sound of roaring flames, and the screams of the other khans and his siblings filled his ears.
When Nariman opened his eyes, he saw his robes were burning. His hand was burning. His entire world was set alight and being consumed by flames.
Fire. Fire everywhere. So, so much fire.
Then the first son of Tsaagandai began to scream.