Suffer, and Live
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As Yesugei stood in the midst of the cold steppe watching one of the druzhinniks butcher a horse, he could only be thankful the brutes did not capture Kaveh’s steed. The warriors cursed and spat as they performed their bloody, clumsy work - wasting most of the meat and leaving the choicest cuts to rot.
Yesugei staggered on before any of the warriors saw him smiling at their misfortune. Ahead of him, the caravan creaked onwards again as Vasilisa’s wagon was heaved off the rutted path. Seven days on foot caused the freezing cold of the sunless days to sink deep into his bones - and his legs had never ached so much in his whole life out on the steppe. The road was grinding him down - slowly, painfully - and escape seemed beyond impossible even if the opportunity did rear its head.
But even if the strength to run did not desert him, he had nowhere to go. The falling ash had turned the land harsh and cruel. Without provisions, he and Vasilisa would die of hunger or thirst, assuming they weren’t run down by Stribor’s raiders. And worse still was the other fate that the stone marker’s grinning countenance warned him of - the Kangar.
If his bruised face did not ache with every twitch, he would have laughed. Where once he searched for escape—a loose knife, a careless guard—he now prayed Stribor’s men made it through the plains unscathed. The boyar’s men beat him and hurled their mindless, bitter insults to his face, but they dealt nothing more than bruises since Hecellon was reprimanded. If the Kangar caught him they would kill him in such creative ways that only people of the steppe could imagine.
Soon they left the stone marker in the distance, and traveled ever deeper into the heartlands of the lost tribe.
A gods-damned fool you are, Yesugei’s thoughts came to him as he staggered along behind the rearmost wagon of the column. You could have been sipping wine surrounded by silks and song if you had just kept your mouth shut.
It felt like an eternity since that cool summer day when he had cornered his father in his yurt during their ride to the Khurvan mountains—a lifetime ago.
Let me go, he begged then, a young fool hungry for glory. No - not glory. What called to him more than anything was the chance for his father to look upon him as a son - for the White Khan’s eyes to look upon him with anything but that impassive stare as if he were a buzzing fly in front of his face.
Let me go. With two good men, a guide, and Kav to keep us from boredom, I would bring Dagun back before the moon’s turn.
I will not fail you, my khan, he had said before falling to the White Khan’s feet. That memory stuck with him the most. My khan were the words he had said. Not father - never father.
And what do you have to show for your Great Khan? needled the harsh voice of his own mind. What does the prodigal son have to show for his beloved father?
NOTHING.
His mouth felt dry, and the whispers of the grasses seemed to hang in the air, bleeding.
NOTHING.
The noise of the plains became unbearable. But when he closed his eyes to retreat into his own mind, the memories waited.
Targyn’s eyes, bloodshot and bulging as the curse choked the life from him.
Kenes lay ripped in half, his viscera spilled onto the black earth.
Sergen’s body, wreathed in flames - a shadow against the roaring inferno.
And then the worst of them all. Kaveh’s green eyes stared at him through the darkness, kind and jovial. His mouth twisted into a familiar smile, and his voice came out so clear it was as though he had never gone.
What’s the matter, brother?
Yesugei felt heat trickle down his face, tracing a slow, winding path along his hollowed cheeks. His brother’s smile faded into worry.
This is the first time I’ve seen you cry.
Yesugei opened his eyes, and for the first time let his tears fall free.
Nothing. I found nothing. Nothing but death - death all round.
“Ah, so the big, scary Khormchak does weep,” came a haggard voice from behind him.
Yesugei turned to see an old woman hunched nearly double, staggering along with the help of a stout branch Stribor’s warriors had spared for her. Yesugei himself was surprised that she had made it this far, still keeping pace with the shuffling of the others even when the healthy fell to the ash. She went on as if the spite Hecellon, who had been so assured she would be the first to die.
And what more, something about her was off—not just her vague end-time ramblings. As the old woman grinned at his drying tears, he realized it was her eyes.
“You are the only one without hope in your eyes,” Yesugei remarked to the woman as he slowed to match her hobbling stride. “Yet you still go on.”
“Feh,” the old woman replied as she wiped her nose with a crooked finger. “What good is hope? You cannot spread it on bread or wrap it around your shoulders. I would sooner have a good, warm blanket than hope.”
“Without hope you may as well die,” he replied, his tone sullen. “They will march you until you die - none of you will survive to Pemil in this cursed weather. Our only hope is to find escape - or else we march like sheep to the butcher’s knife.”
The old woman chuckled, then said, “So it might be, and the young weep and struggle against their fate, as they should. But you learn things in your old age, and from a life harshly-lived.”
The woman closed her eyes, as if savoring a breeze that only she could feel. “If you let go of it all - your soul can spread its wings and fly high above all your troubles. You need only to look down from time to time to see your meat and creaking bones still moving, still breathing, but your mind can soar high and fall away to a better place…”
The woman’s eyes opened, and in them Yesugei saw she dreamed of better times - perhaps of times when she was younger, and the winters were short, the summers not too hot, and the springs seemed like they would never end. “Once you find your better place…then you realize death does not seem so bad, especially for one whose time is so near its end. Because your body rots in the ground, but by then you are not there, not truly.”
Yesugei felt a chill run down his spine. She has the luxury of retreating inside. The luxury of no loose ends, no one left to rely on her.
“I cannot do that.”
He remembered his words - remembered the taste of the last sip of arkhi as it lingered on his tongue, sour and tinged with iron. I swore an oath. I cannot die. Not now.
The old woman’s nearly toothless smile gleamed with cunning. “Then suffer, young man. Suffer, and live.”
They marched on - the young nomad of the earth, and the old wise woman whose soul soared through the clouds, far above the ugliness of the world.
***
As the day grew long, the warband came to a stop near a small stream that twisted westwards, feeding into a great river that carved through the plains like a giant scar. Beyond the river’s northern bank, Yesugei saw the high grasses once more gave way to ash-covered forest - the boundary of Kangar lands.
When they stopped, Yesugei sat on a rock, trying to ignore the growling of his stomach. The warband did not lack for food, but even so they fed their captives only the bare minimum to keep going. Yesterday’s meal of two heels of stale bread and half a sausage sparked a scuffle among them like dogs, much to the amusement of Stribor’s weary men.
One of the warriors must have heard his growling stomach, for Yesugei saw a lancer reach into one of the burlap sacks on the supply wagons and ride up to him. The cavalryman leaned down and held up a thin strip of dripping horse meat before him - and it took all his effort to resist the urge to leap up and devour it from the man’s hands.
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The warrior grinned as he waved the flesh in front of his face, sprinkling him with stinking blood.
“Want a taste, Khormchak?” the man laughed, holding the flesh just out of reach. “If you do some tricks for me perhaps-”
A familiar whistle cut through the warrior’s words like a knife. Yesugei stiffened as hot blood splattered his face. When he opened his eyes, he saw the lancer slumped in his saddle - his eyes wide in surprise at the arrow sticking through his throat.
“Archers! Down!” came a shriek up ahead of the column. A rain of hissing arrows fell upon them all, thudding into wagons, horses, and men. Chaos erupted to the screams of injured warriors and steeds, and then there was the clamor of drawn swords.
“Shieldwall! Shieldwall! Get your shields up!” roared the druzhinniks as they trampled along the column.
The lancer in front of Yesugei slipped from the saddle and crumpled to the dirt. He searched frantically for Vasilisa, and saw her atop her mount, turning in confused circles - looking for the archers, or perhaps for him.
The thrums of a dozen bowstrings now sounded crystal-clear, and the air filled with arrows once more. Yesugei grabbed a longknife from the dead lancer, then threw himself under one of the wagons. When the iron rain passed, he slashed at the chafing rope around his neck.
In three feeble strikes the rope fell apart - and for a moment he felt as though he could truly fly.
“There!” shouted someone over the chaos of the terrified herd of warriors. “There, in the grass!”
The earth trembled as several druzhinniks tore out across the plains, their destriers throwing up clouds of dust and ash. He squinted his eyes into the distance, and saw a dozen figures leap up from the high grass and break before the armored charge - screaming and howling in Khormchak.
No…he thought as he saw the druzhinniks rushing for the bowmen. This was not right. Even the Kangar would not send out lone archers to attack.
“Stop!” cried Stribor at the druzhinniks, but they were too far, or too enraged to care. For an armored cavalrymen, a gang of fleeing archers was too enticing a prey to let flee. “Stop, you fools!”
Another volley of arrows struck from the flank, cutting through the armored riders before more Kangar rose up from the high grasses, bringing their resting horses to the ready. The ambushers and those who fled loosed arrows from all sides, felling the druzhinniks one by one until none remained.
“Wagons! Circle the wagons!” came the cry from Stribor’s lieutenant - the pox-scarred one who had the sense to see the trap. Yesugei scrambled out from his hiding spot before the iron-shod wheels could crush him.
All around, screaming and panicked whinnies sounded, punctuated by the thudding of arrows into shields and wagons as Stribor’s men rolled their caravan into a crude fortress. The Kangar - clad in sheepskin, armed with lances and bows - swept in from all sides, shooting arrow after arrow at leisure into the panicked fray. Their shots fell deadly and accurately - Yesugei saw one spearman take an arrow to his unprotected neck, and another through the eye slit of his helm.
"Torch!" Hecellon shouted, struggling to control his bucking palfrey. "Torch! Someone give me a torch!"
Amid the chaos, a druzhinnik cracked open a barrel and tossed him an unlit torch. Hecellon caught it midair, then bit into his wrist, spraying blood. The oil-soaked rag ignited instantly, casting a fiery tail as Hecellon swung it like a blade and aimed at the charging Kangar. Another volley of arrows streaked overhead as the sorcerer whispered and hurled the torch.
Yesugei's eyes followed the spinning flame. Some riders faltered at the sight, but the charge pressed on.
Cracks formed along the torch’s shaft, spilling a red light before the whole torch flashed as bright as the sun. A deafening roar followed as it exploded into a thousand burning splinters, raining fire on the horsemen.
This time it was the Kangar who screamed rose as dust and ash swirled. Yesugei glimpsed riderless Khormchak steeds trampling in every direction while their masters writhed on the ground. The splinters seared through robes and flesh like wax under flame.
Hecellon doubled over in agony, clutching his bleeding wrist and coughing from the strain. The Kangar riders slowed briefly, assessing their losses, before their leader barked out orders - pointing out the sorcerer in the Klyazmites’ midst. As Hecellon prepared another spell, an arrow pierced his palm, pinning it to his shoulder. A second shot to his chest dropped the sorcerer from his saddle. Exhausted, he crumpled to the ground, unable to scream.
A retreating spearman dragged the sorcerer to the safety of the wagon-fort as the Kangar laughed. Their leader raised his sword, and the survivors charged anew.
“Yesugei!” Vasilisa’s shout snapped him back to the moment. She galloped toward him on her courser, and he knew there would be no time to act but now.
Nearby, the dead lancer’s horse was walking off and snorting in confusion, dragging its master’s body by his stuck heel. Yesugei pulled the dead man from the stirrup, and mounted his stallion as the rest of his captors rushed to save their own hides.
When he sat atop the horse, it felt more than familiar.
It felt like home.
The other captives huddled like sheep, too terrified to move. The mule that pulled the wagon their necks were bound to lay dead in the grass, and even the strongest of the men were too feeble to rip free from their bonds. Galya’s child clung to her, wailing into her tattered skirt, while the old woman stood defiant, clutching her branch as if she meant to clobber the Kangar if they came near.
“Please, help!” cried the blond man who had first spoken to him in the pen. He was trying to gnaw through the rope around his neck when he looked up at Yesugei. There it is. Terror. Hope.
“Take us with you!” cried someone else from the pack.
There were nearly a dozen of them, but he had only one knife. The window to run was shrinking. Yesugei hesitated briefly, then threw the knife before the blond man.
“Save yourselves, all of you!” he shouted to the dirty, terrified faces that peered up at him. “The tribesmen want Stribor’s food and treasure, not his starving slaves. Run for the river, the woods, and the nomads will bother to follow you.”
He looked to the old woman, who was already rubbing her neck as the blond man cut her free. Suffer and live…
And then he snapped the reins, and did not look back.
Vasilisa met him halfway along the arrow-strewn road, and Yesugei marveled that neither of them had been struck in the Kangars’ deadly hail. The dust and ash kicked up by charging horses formed a swirling cloud, and he nearly collided with the princess as they drew together. Ahead he glimpsed Stribor’s men in formation - shining helmets, spears and axes clashing their shields - daring the Kangar to give charge.
“We need to break for the river,” Yesugei said, squinting through the dust at Vasilisa. “Let the starving wolves tear each other to pieces.”
“What about the others?” she replied, shielding her eyes from the swirling clouds.
“The Kangar do not lack for slaves. And if times are to be hard, they do not need more mouths to feed.”
Vasilisa hesitated, studying him, but time was running short, and the princess knew it. She nodded reluctantly, then turned her own horse towards the riverbank.
They began their mad dash together, and Yesugei crouched low in the as stray arrows hissed overhead, one so closely he felt the fletching brush his back.
The Kangar moved as a single thundering wave at the Klyazmite footmen, howling “Kill! Kill! Kill!” in Khormchak. The spearmen braced their shields as they prepared to meet the charge - only for the Kangar to veer parallel to the bristling spearwall, loosing their arrows a foot away. A tactic as old as time - and one which several of Stribor’s greener men paid dearly for as they fell.
None of the Kangar seemed interested in pursuing the two riders fleeing from the battlefield as they wheeled for another charge, but then Yesugei saw Vasilisa turn away from him. Before he could call her back, she galloped toward the circled wagons and Stribor, who trotted his destrier in a slow circle, rallying his men with three arrows lodged in his chest.
Yesugei jerked his horse to a stop, preparing to rush to Vasilisa’s side as he saw the princess ride up behind the shouting boyar and yank his dagger free from his belt. Before he could shout, Vasilisa slashed the silver blade through his throat in a red blur. As the boyar toppled from his saddle, Vasilisa rode off with the Apostle’s cleaver, its leather cord twisting wildly in the wind.
If Stribor’s men saw their lord fall, they valued their own skin more than avening their master. No-one dared to rush out of the shieldwall for Vasilisa as the Baskords turned to charge once more.
Vasilisa turned her face from his furious gaze as she urged her horse forward. “I could not let him keep it. Not while we still need proof of what’s coming for us all.”
Yesugei bit back a scathing reply. They could argue later, once they reached the safety of the rolling, endless woods. Behind them, the battle raged - and then Yesugei realized he heard hoofbeats drawing closer.
A Kangar horseman appeared at his side, his bow at full draw. The nomad's arrow whistled through the air, and Yesugei’s stallion screamed as the arrow struck home, slipping from its gallop before collapsing.
His whole world tilted violently in a moment that seemed like it would never end - and then both he and the stallion came crashing down.
The taste of blood sprang to his mouth, and when he opened his eyes he saw the Kangar archer was drawing closer - eager to capture easy prey as the rest of his comrades pinned Stribor's men. Yesugei tried to turn over on the ashen ground, but the weight of his collapsed horse rooted him to the earth.
Vasilisa…where-?
He gritted his teeth through the pain as his blurry vision danced across the open steppe. He saw a courser in the distance - dapple-grey - and its rider - a spotty figure in a gray mantle decorated with pale suns that fluttered in the wind.
He saw Vasilisa look back and turn her horse, the Apostle’s blade in hand.
“NO!” he bellowed, the cords in his voice straining. “Vasilisa, run! RUN!”
Whether she heard him or not, he didn’t know. With the last of his strength he clawed at the ground, trying to free himself, but the weight held him fast. His strength ebbed as he slumped in defeat, brushing one hand along the dry, cracked earth.
The Kangar horseman's shadow loomed over him, sneering. "You are far from home, Qarakesek."
The last thing he remembered seeing was a flake of ash coming to rest on his open hand, and then he closed his eyes.
The ash came down and down - its fall neverending.
I swore an oath.
I cannot die.
Not now.