The Flames
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As the evening fell, the many men of the Khormchak tribes raised vast feasting platforms around the base of the holy Khurvan mountains - beneath the tent of the Great Khan.
The full wealth of every tribe was on display: imported hardwood furniture, exotic spices and wines, and finely-crafted gold and silver bowls filled with wine and arkhi spirits. Slaves served roasted pigs, mounds of fried rice with raisins, spiced lamb dumplings, and freshly baked bread topped with seeds.
Nariman moved between camps with his men as the hour of the khans’ gathering approached. He ate sparingly and refused wine or arkhi, but focused on the council's matters. Many khans pledged their voices—Adilet of the Isty, Aidar of the Tama, and Shamil of the Sharkesh among them—offering lavish gifts of gold, horses, and slaves.
Khan Alishir, a man with nine wives, offered unsolicited advice. "A man needs a wife," he said, "and you, Nariman-mirza, need one more than most. An heir must continue the White Khan's line."
The comment stung the first son of Aqtai, but he held his tongue and his fists from lashing out at the khan - Alishir-khan commanded ten thousand riders beneath his banner, and held sway over three other tribes whose voices were needed now more than ever.
“Fate has given me ill luck with wives. Which poor woman would you have me marry?” Nariman said, forcing a laugh.
At sixteen, he wed his first wife, a girl from the Qara-Isyqs, as part of an alliance. She died a year later from a wasting disease that also claimed their unborn child, and the alliance with her people. His second wife, a fragile princess from Tan Ninh, died in childbirth along with their stillborn son. Nariman had loved both as a true husband should, but love only made burying them in the ancestral hills that much more agonizing.
Twenty-five years on, it was a curious thing for the first-born son of the White Khan to remain unmarried - but it also presented a valuable chip in the diplomatic games of the khans. One which Alishir clearly sought out.
“I have a daughter,” Alishir said, reclining on silk pillows. “Beautiful and wise, with good hips to bear you a strong baghatur for a son. If she doesn’t please you, I have three others.”
Nariman tried to imagine life with Alishir’s daughter. But when he closed his eyes, he once again only saw biting, lashing flames. They were growing stronger, more vivid, more hungry as the night passed.
“I’ll meet your daughter after the kurultai,” he said hastily. Alishir nodded and shook his hand firmly.
Outside the tent, the cool night air greeted him. His siblings were hard at work as well at shoring up their allies. Talgat spoke in hushed tones with Arman-khan of the southern tribes, while Gulsezim danced and entertained three khans whose names eluded him. With forty tribes gathered at the Khurvan peaks, Nariman knew he couldn’t reach every khan before the council began.
When Gulsezim finished speaking with the three khans, she strode toward Nariman, proud and regal in a red-and-purple dress adorned with small gold discs. Her waist was wrapped with a silk sash, a gift from their father, studded with nine black gemstones.
“Brother,” Gulsezim greeted, sipping wine from a golden goblet. “How goes your hunt? Have the khans gotten tired of throwing their daughters at you yet?”
“Only one so far,” Nariman replied, taking the goblet from her with a frown. “Don’t let the festivities dull your mind. I need you and Talgat sharp. Haven’t you noticed Naizabai hasn’t appeared?”
Naizabai’s host had arrived hours earlier—ten thousand under the Quanli banner, supported by another twenty from allied tribes. Yet despite the ongoing festivities and the looming vote, neither Naizabai nor the other khans had emerged. His camp remained on the edge of the Valley of Milk, detached from the mingling tribes.
It must be a trick, Nariman thought. Some kind of ruse. How can he just sit there and hope to bring allies to his banner?
Earlier, one of his keshiks had managed to slip into the Quanli camp, but his reports only bred more questions. “All they’re doing is building bonfires, my lord,” the man had said. “And other strange matters too - the men are painting their doors with blood. Every yurt I saw has one of these-”
The keshik had drawn a strange shape in the dirt: a cross topped with a triangle. Nariman had swept the mark aside - whatever new traditions the Quanli had were of little concern. Again, he demanded of the keshik, “And what of Naizabai? Did any of the khans enter his tent?”
“No, my lord. Only a woman. Strange one, too.”
“Speak plainly. A shaman? A wife? A whore?”
“I don’t know. But she was beautiful - almost frightening. It was like all the colors of the world went away when I looked at her. And when she looked at me I felt like my heart would stop. Magic is all about her, I reckon.”
The gray woman. Could it be? The thought came to him just now. Nariman shook his head. No, she was no more than a nightmare. More likely Naizabai had taken into his company a new Ormanli shaman of some sort - if she had the Sight, then perhaps it was by her advice that the Quanli lingered close to their own camp. But what concerned Nariman more was that the woman had never appeared in any of his own visions - none should be able to evade the Sight, so what was going on?
His thoughts broke with the deep booms of shamans’ drums. From the Khurvan peaks, shamans knelt, beating leather drums as another raised a horn, its roaring call summoning the khans to the kurultai.
Too late. Now comes the moment of truth.
Nariman clapped Gulsezim’s shoulder, emptied the goblet onto the ground, and made for the White Khan’s tent. Around him, men left their fires to join the stream heading for the vote—keshik guards with gilded swords, shamans whispering advice, and slaves carrying carpets and furniture for their lords.
At the mountain’s base, common men and slaves gathered in solemn silence as the khans ascended. Among them, Nariman spotted the allied Quanli leaders speaking in hushed tones. Yet still, there was no sign of Naizabai.
Nariman stepped into his father’s waiting tent - a gigantic manor of felt and silk enough to house ten families within its walls. The stream of khans both lesser and greater slowly trickled in, seating themselves in a great circle around the tent’s central fire and beneath the watching eye of the White Khan.
Aqtai, Great Khan of the Khormchak Horde, sat on a golden throne elevated above the gathered nobles. Clad in a simple white silk robe with gold fastenings and a modest felt headdress, to an outsider he might have seemed humble compared to the other khans adorned in vibrant colors and bedecked with jewelry. Yet, his presence at over seventy years old was overwhelming. The room fell silent under his gaze, and none dared meet his eyes as they quietly took their seats. At that moment, Nariman believed even the more hesitant khans were sure to cast their votes in the White Khan’s favor out of fear.
Nariman moved to his place near the throne, scanning the room. Slaves waited patiently at the far side of the room with wine, and among them was the qadi’s man - a Son of Al-Qadir dressed in shabby rags, with his eyes fixed to the ground.
But still, there was no sign of Naizabai.
As the khans settled, the crackling central fire filled the tense silence. Then, the wooden platform creaked as Aqtai rose from his throne and stepped into the center of the assembly. The firelight highlighted his piercing eyes as they swept over the khans. A thin smile crossed his face, and he spread his arms wide.
“Look at you all,” said Aqtai, his voice hoarse with age. Nariman saw the khans glance at one another, puzzled. “Look around, brothers. Forty tribes, forty khans—gathered here, beneath one roof. I have traveled far, seen a thousand sights that most men could only dream of: Tan Ninh’s mountain fortresses, Khaysong’s water-temples, and Huwaq’s sun-altars. Yet none compare to this.
“Years ago, when we were still young, this was unimaginable—khans of Isty beside Sherkai, Tama with Ketai, Kerdai with Tazan. A united steppe was a dream, distant and fragile. Yet here we are.
“How did we achieve this unity, my brothers? Through conquest and the fires of conflict that tested us all. This was no gift; it was earned with blood and sweat, with a vision once mocked as impossible. I remember when we were like wild stallions, roaming aimlessly, fighting each other in endless feuds. Khormchaks killing Khormchaks over cattle, wives, or paltry plunder. Are the lives of our sons worth so little?”
“NO!” shouted the khans, fists pounding the floorboards.
“No!” repeated Aqtai, seeming to grow taller and prouder as he walked about the circled khans. “Look at what we’ve achieved by turning our swords from one another’s throats to a united cause!”
Aqtai gestured to the walls of the yurt, from which hung the many trophies of broken and conquered nations - a gilded blade from the forgotten emirate of Tigrinistan, a sun banner from the subjugated Huwaqis, a decorated metal shield from the kingdom of Mouru, now only a kingdom of dust and skulls.
“These are not mere trophies but proof of the future we’ve forged. United, we’ve gained more wealth than our ancestors ever dreamed—silks for our women, coins in our purses, abundance in every home. These are the rewards of casting aside division and raising one khan, one ruler, one horde.
“But prosperity must endure - the Qarakesek have led the charge into the future, and we will push on! Give me your voices, and our bounty will be without end!”
“AQTAI!” came the shouts from many of the khans, their voices swelling into a single, booming call. “AQTAI! AQTAI! AQTAI-KHAN!”
Nariman watched, his skin tingling from the speech. He had forgotten how his father was able to stir men into a fervor - he had forgotten the power in the voice that had once rallied the other tribes to the Qarakesek. The khans allied with Qarakesek shouted first, then others joined, convinced this kurultai would end as the last had.
Only a few khans remained silent—the Shaprats, Jalarin, Bura, and Oshkan—whispering among themselves, their numbers too small to sway the outcome.
Spirits…we’ve done it. We’ve won.
Nariman and Gulsezim and Talgat prepared to join their voices to the swelling call when, sharp as a blade, the sound of a great horn split through the air.
It was a terrible sound - a wailing call filled with rage and pain. Nariman covered his ears as the call grew louder, shrieking so strongly he swore he felt the floorboards and roof of the yurt begin to shake from the noise. He tried to yell out for the guards, to his siblings, but could not even hear his own voice over the horn’s call. It filled the whole world, and crushed over every man in the tent.
Nariman feared the sound would never end. And then it stopped.
The yurt’s flap rose, and a lone figure entered—Naizabai, the Blackwind.
The Quanli khan’s boots clacked against the wooden floor as he strode forward.
He is not the same, Nariman thought.
Five years ago, Naizabai had been cast at his father’s feet by traitorous men, old and worn from years of war under the open steppe sky. But now? This was a different man.
Though his face remained hollow, his beard grayer, but his eyes were alive with a dangerous light that Nariman had not seen in ages. He wore a dark silk robe with a red sash, adorned with a symbol of iridescent shards—a howling face wreathed in flames. At his belt hung long horn, carved from a cracked and gnarled piece of blackened ivory. Nariman had no doubt that was the horn which had sounded Naizabai’s arrival - he sensed strange and dark whispers flowing out from the horn even from where he sat, whispers that promised powerful, dark energy to its wielder.
Behind him followed a silent figure cloaked in black, their head encased in a silver demon-faced helmet. The same whispers followed in the foreigner’s wake - and Nariman knew then that it was the gray woman wrapped beneath the black robes.
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What kind of heretic has he brought into our domain? Nariman wondered, noting the uneasy whispers of the other khans. He fingered the handle of his knife, but the woman simply stood in silence by the Quanli khan.
“Naizabai,” said Aqtai, his arms open wide. Only the White Khan seemed nonplussed by Jrighadai’s appearance. “Brother. We had thought you changed your mind about putting your name forward in the kurultai.”
“I see,” sneered Naizabai 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 courage to stand and yell. “The khans have spoken, and you are too late! Aqtai-khan is our leader!”
"Is that so?" Naizabai glanced at Adilet, then at Aqtai. "Then surely my words won't matter—unless you fear your khans might change their minds."
Aqtai remained silent, and Naizabai turned to the assembly.
"Great khans of the Hungry Steppe," he began, "you’ve heard my horn—now hear my words."
He pointed a crooked finger at Aqtai. "I was once this man’s blood brother. I sheltered him as a boy, pledged my sword when he sought allies, and stood by him when we dreamed of uniting the steppe. When the tribes resisted, who brought them to heel? Who led the vanguard against the Qyzylkurans and shed blood to make this Horde a reality?
“It was me. My brother speaks inspiring words and makes promises of a better future, but he forgets a simple fact of our people: words mean nothing unless backed by steel. Without my riders, my banners, my strength, this Great Horde would never have existed.”
To this, several of the khans began to mutter bitterly as they continued to listen to Naizabai’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!” Naizabai shouted, his sudden fury causing some of the khans to shrink. “Look at what my brother had turned the great khans of the Hungry Steppe into! My brother would have us fattened on tribute, and blind to the daggers our neighbors sharpen. He would have us pull back our armies, abandon the old ways and become merchants, bookkeepers, and artists - tamed dogs who forget how to ride. And once our sons and daughters have forgotten our ways, the sniveling cowards who give us tribute now will make us into slaves.
Naizabai’s voice rose like a storm. "But we are Khormchaks! When united, nothing can stop us. Why settle for scraps? My brother would have you be content with 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 cities of Yllahana, the mountains of Bukhara, the valleys of Khaysong, the Sunset Isles, the dunes of Sanu. We will take it all.
"My brother stopped us short because he was afraid. But I am not. I say we grind everything into dust, until no kings, no emperors, no princes remain—only one Great Khan to rule all and claim all!"
“Naizabai!” Rose the cry from one side of the tent, led by the allies of the Quanli. But as they shouted, a few others joined their call - emboldened by the Blackwind's words. “NAIZABAI! NAIZABAI! NAIZABAI-KHAN!”
When the fervor subsided, Nariman stood to face Naizabai, his tone biting. “Has age robbed you of sense, Blackwind?” A few khans chuckled at his jibe. “You seem to forget that you lost the battle for the steppe, even if it took ten years. How can you hope to win the world when you failed to win over your own people? How can you hope to win when the gods themselves forsook your cause?”
Naizabai did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned to the figure that stood by his side. A murmur rippled through the tent as the foreigner reached beneath the folds of her robes and withdrew a long, sheathed sword. The blade’s very presence seemed to darken the air, as if the room itself recoiled.
Nariman tensed. The keshiks that stood by at the edges of the yurt braced for violence, but Nariman raised a hand, motioning them to wait. The Blackwind was old and bitter, but he was also cunning; he would not write his own death so easily.
Naizabai’s weathered hands steadied as he drew the sword. The blade that emerged from the sheath was blackened and crooked, and its surface was inscribed with strange runes that appeared to have been seared into the steel.
“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.” Snarled Naizabai as he raised the sword to the sky. The runes flared, and by their red light the shadows in the yurt began to twist and turn, flooding towards the center of the tent and to Naizabai's feet like water.
“I found this god not in the blue skies of Tengri, but in the stars that have silently guided our people for a thousand years.” The gathering shadows erupted upward, twisting into the shape of a clawed hand whose fingers crept along the walls and stretched toward the yurt’s ceiling, as if clawing for the heavens. “Behold His shadow now! Gandroth, the Lord of Flame! This is a god who will take peace from the world, who will grant us the destiny my blood-brother denied us all! This is a god who will burn away the weak and the faithless from our ranks, and reforge our people anew!”
The khans erupted into chaos. Some shouted for their guards, others decried the heresy of the Blackwind…but Nariman saw many sat frozen in awe, transfixed by the terrible burning runes and the promises within them. Nariman thought of the visions 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 his knife free to end the nightmare himself when the glow from the runes began to flounder and fade away, shrinking back into the blackened blade.
Naizabai lowered the sword and sank to his knees - coughing and shaking from the effort the blade’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 Jalarin, the Bura, the Oshkan, the Shaprats, and now over a dozen other khans - nearly half of the kurultai in all - were shouting their allegiance to Naizabai, or shouting the name of Naizabai's new god in a strange frenzy.
GANDROTH! GANDROTH! GRANDROTH!
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 a howling frenzy, and it seemed only a matter of time until violence took hold.
Nariman stepped into the centre of the tent and helped the shaking Naizabai up off the ground with an offered hand. The arguing khans settled into a tense silence as Nariman raised Naizabai to his feet.
“Well spoken, Blackwind,” said Nariman, keeping his tone light. “You have said your piece. My father had always spoken of your…fervor, and I can see he was not wrong. You truly are a blood-brother of the White Khan.”
“I do not need your praises.” hissed Naizabai, his face twisted in embarrassment. Whatever magic had possessed him had fled - now it seemed he was once more just an old man, past his prime. See? Even your new god has abandoned you.
“But I will offer it nonetheless,” Nariman continued. He turned to the other khans. “Now, does anyone else wish to speak?” Silence and shaking heads answered him. “Then let us drink to the glory of my father and Naizabai before casting our final votes—not as beasts, but as men.”
Aqtai glanced at his son questioningly, but said nothing as Nariman called for the slaves. They emerged with silver bowls and arkhi, serving each khan in turn.
Nariman’s slave filled his bowl, and he held it carefully, eyes flicking between his siblings, his father, and Naizabai. Talgat and Gulsezim watched him closely, their tension mirroring the room’s. Though they knew he was planning something, but whether out of family honor or simply over-caution, neither spoke.
Both his father and Naizabai studied each other cautiously as they stood together in the center of the tent. The qadi’s man gave to both of them a decorated golden bowl, followed by arkhi from the same flagon.
Once everyone was served, Aqtai raised his own bowl high. “To the Horde!”
“The Horde!” The khans replied as they lifted their own bowls, though their call was hesitant - their sense of unity already frayed by the chaotic mess of the kurultai.
As Nariman lowered his arkhi he could have sworn Naizabai’s silver-helmed follower was looking at him. The empty eyes of the mask were pointed directly at him over the bowl’s silver edge. Does she…no, how could she? Can you See as I do?
With one hand, Nariman placed the bowl to his lips and drank. His mouth instantly filled with the smooth taste of the liquor, every gulp drowned his gnawing anxiety in his gut. He drank to the bottom of the silver bowl, and wiped a stray drop from his mouth.
Talgat grimaced at the taste, drawing a faint smile from Nariman. Same as the first time he tasted it. Some things never change.
Naizabai, however, was midway through his drink when he coughed, spraying arkhi onto the floor. He swallowed again and coughed harder, his body shuddering.
“Struggling to hold your drink, old man?” Shamil-khan taunted with a sharp edge in his voice.
“Quiet, you…” Naizabai rasped, his retort broken by a fit of coughing. “All of you…you…”
Alinur-khan of the Jalarin leaned forward, concern etched on his face. “Naizabai-khan?”
The Blackwind tried to sip from his bowl again, but the pale arkhi spewed out, tinged with crimson. “I…I can’t…”
“He’s been poisoned!” came the shout from one of the khans.
Alinur-khan pushed through the crowd to steady the swaying Naizabai, who was on the verge of collapse. Shamil-khan gagged into his own bowl, fearing contamination, while another khan called for healers or shamans. Guards stormed in, swords drawn, searching for an assassin as in the growing chaos of panicked nobles.
Naizabai fell, dragging Alinur-khan down as he flailed for support. Aqtai rushed to his side, bellowing for the crowd to back away. Naizabai clawed at his throat, opening long, bloody gouges as he struggled for air. Blood and vomit poured from his mouth, his face darkening.
He is dying…he is dying at last. Nariman felt an eerie 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 crowding around Naizabai while others rushed to escape the tent - only to be forced back by the White Khan’s keshiks. Other khans fell, and were trampled by their peers 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.
Only Naizabai’s silver-helmed follower remained still, watching dispassionately as his master convulsed on the floor.
Then, the choking ceased.
And Naizabai-khan was dead.
Nariman pushed through to see for himself. Over Aqtai’s shoulders, he saw the lifeless body, lying in a pool of blood and bile.
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. Aqtai knelt in bitter silence as well, cradling his old oath-brother’s body as his keshik guards stood over him awaiting their orders.
Nariman crouched to examine Naizabai’s dropped bowl. Both Naizabai and his father had shared the same wine—so how had only Naizabai been poisoned? Running a finger along the bowl’s edge, Nariman felt a fine, sand-like powder. Wiping it on his robe, he rose and pointed at the assassin.
“Seize him!” he shouted with false rage. “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 the father did not reply they obeyed the son. One keshik quickly grabbed the son of Al-Qadir before he could bolt for the tent flap. Two more armored men pinned him to the ground as the khans from both sides shouted for the man’s head.
Naizabai’s body was quickly forgotten by everyone save Aqtai as the others turned their fury on the captured man. By the time Nariman was able to push his way towards the assassin, he was already nearly dead - several of his teeth were shattered by a powerful blow from Adilet, and one of his eyes was awash with blood.
Not yet. I still need a name. A villain everyone may blame to put this matter to rest.
Nariman drew his knife, and pulled the slave up by the chin. Pressing the blade to his throat, he spoke coldly. “No matter what happens here my friend, you will die. The only choice you have is when, and how.”
Yllahana. That is all you need to say.
“Confess who sent you, and I’ll make it quick,” Nariman continued, silencing khans who clamored for a slower, crueler fate. “Refuse, and I’ll leave you to these men, who are far more creative.”
The slave opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a cry rang out.
Nariman turned. His heart stopped as he saw his father scrambling away—away from Naizabai, who now stood upright, as if nothing had happened.
No…no…nonononononononononono.
The khans shouted in shock. Even the keshiks, stunned, released the assassin to gape at Naizabai.
This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening.
“I told you all…I have found a new god. And His chosen do not die so easily.” A new voice sprung from Naizabai - one that sounded like scraping glass and dripped with deadly malice. Nariman wanted to press his palms against his ears to shut out Naizabai’s voice, but he found his body refusing to obey. All he could do was collapse to his knees, his chest growing tighter and tighter as though an invisible fist were crushing him in its grasp.
Naizabai 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 black crystal shards jutting out from Naizabai’s heart. And when the Blackwind turned to look at Nariman his eyes were no longer dull gray, but burning with a blinding golden light.
“Gandroth, Bright Lord of Flame and Stone. Accept this sacrifice of flesh in your name.”
The firepit in the middle 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 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 form was set alight and being consumed by flames.
Fire. Fire everywhere. So, so much fire.
Then the first son of Aqtai began to scream.