Whispers

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The ninth son of Aqtai-khan was feeling particularly philosophical as he dismounted his horse and looked out over the sea of swaying golden grass that lay before him.

He listened to the wind as it played a thousand sighing whispers on the steppe and imagined that if he could just listen hard enough, he might receive advice from the spirits of the land. But no such advice came, it never did. The steppe remained the steppe: harsh, silent, and unforgiving even to its own children who were both blessed and cursed to wander her beautiful vastness. Save for the whispers of the grass in the wind and the occasional calls of distant birds, it was almost completely silent out in the Hungry Steppe.

“You spot anything?” came a voice next to Yesugei’s ear, startling him out of his reverie.

Chuckling, Yesugei’s half-brother crouched down next to him in the tall grass, bracing on his silver-decorated spear for support. To the stranger’s eye, the blood-bond between the two sons of Aqtai-khan seemed almost non-existent. Where Yesugei was of pure steppe nobility stock - black-haired, short, stocky, and round-faced - his brother Kaveh seemed to take all his features from his mother, a noblewoman from the Emirate of Huwaq who was taken by their father during his conquest of the eastern deserts. His tall and lithe half-brother’s red hair, pale skin, and blue eyes marked him as a passing curiosity to most, a delightful beauty to women, and a seeming alien to the steppe despite having lived and breathed it since he was born just a year after Yesugei.

“You think if I spotted anything I’d still be sitting here, scratching my ass?” grumbled Yesugei as he stood up and shoved Kaveh to the side, causing his half-brother to stumble across the ground.

“Shaa, you certainly looked so fucking wise sitting over there!” laughed Kaveh as he dusted off his green tunic and adjusted the knife tucked into his belt. “All you needed to do was stroke your beard and you’d be like Sergen.”

As they walked back to their horses Kaveh twisted his face into an imitation of their guide, Sergen, and began stroking the messy wisps on his chin as if he were a wizened shaman. Yesugei allowed himself a wry smile as he mounted his horse, adjusted his felt cap and surveyed the lands that lay beyond the low valley he had been looking over. In the distance, he saw the spindly-thin silhouette of the aged Sergen quaffing from a wineskin, whilst even further away two of his father’s keshik bodyguards were galloping back to rejoin the rest of the search party.

“Look at us,” he muttered darkly to Kaveh, who was busy wiping the sweat from his brow. “Blood and blood-sworn of the Great Khan, and we can’t even find hide nor hair of three dozen riders in this damned waste.”

Yesugei contemplated the task his father had given him: finding any trace of Dagun, the ambassador who had failed to return from the western Klyazmite city-states. For nearly a week, he, Kaveh, and their men had scoured the Hungry Steppe in vain. Dagun, a loyal supporter of Aqtai, had ridden under his banner during the Qarakesek's rise to dominance. The idea of him abandoning his post with the Klyazmite tribute was unthinkable. That left Yesugei with two grim possibilities.

One. The princes may have killed Dagun and his guards. Such an act would be reckless to the point of suicide, but it was possible. Those princes, once crushed beneath the Horde’s heel during its war with the Quanli, had lived in peace for nigh on six years. Perhaps a coalition had formed to resist the Horde, or some foolish princeling had forgotten his people's survival depended on their tributes. If true, the consequences would be catastrophic: the Horde would retaliate with a punitive war, razing cities, slaughtering populations, and leaving the rivers choked with corpses—a devastation so total that no voices would remain to mourn.

The second, and more likely, possibility haunted Yesugei: Dagun and his men had been seized by Naizabai-khan, whose lands they had likely crossed en route to Klyazma.

Yesugei’s oath-uncle was like a shadow. He had seen Naizabai only once as a child before the bitter rift with his father. Stories of Naizabai’s blood bond with Aqtai were legendary - two men from middling and impoverished tribes, risen to unify the steppe tribes for the first time in five hundred years. Yet their visions for the Horde had clashed irreparably.

Aqtai sought prosperity through tributes and trade, while Naizabai pursued endless conquest, his ambition knowing no bounds. When Yesugei’s father attempted to halt the ceaseless wars, Naizabai rebelled, drawing half the steppe tribes and the Klyazmite princes of the west into the conflict against Aqtai. The result was catastrophic - raids and skirmishes between tribes were one thing, but never such devastation, such organized slaughter turned inwards.

Though Aqtai emerged victorious, the Horde’s strength was shattered. Old tribal feuds reignited, and countless veterans were lost, leaving wounds that would never fully heal. And confoundingly, Yesugei’s father had shown mercy to Naizabai - granting him dominion over the western ulus. Despite the trappings of submission, the bitter old man and his Quanli had managed to recover well under his father’s graces - Naizabai now held a vast ulus in the west, and surely still inspired loyalty from the minor tribes that once saw fit to declare him Gur-Khan: Universal Ruler of all Khormchaks.

And no amount of clemency could extinguish Naizabai’s ambition, not in one who had risen so high once before. With stolen Klyazmite gold, he could buy loyalty from smaller tribes and threaten the fragile peace.

All the more reason to root this treachery out swiftly, Yesugei thought. The longer they wandered the steppe, the more time their enemies had to prepare. If the Great Khan appeared weak, even allies might consider raising a rival banner.

No. Not while I’m here. Yesugei’s face darkened as he gripped the reins tightly. I am the blood of the White Khan. The Scourge of Three Gods. We will not fall.

He spurred his horse forward, leaving Kaveh mid-bite into an apple. Frustration burned in his chest as he approached Sergen, who was still guzzling from a wineskin. Years of indulgence dulled the once-sharp hunter into a shadow of himself, a doddering fool who could hardly tell the sky from the earth. A doddering old fool who was driving them in endless circles across the steppe while his master’s empire could fracture at any moment.

Yesugei dismounted and kicked the wineskin, spilling its contents into the dust.

“What’s the matter with you, boy?!” wheezed Sergen, scrambling up.

Yesugei shoved him back down, his hand resting on the hilt of his silver-decorated shamshir. He felt his stomach turn violently at the sour smell that came off Sergen - a mix of sweat, vomit, and spoiled horse’s milk. “You can still speak? If you have time to drink, you have time to scout. Now get moving, or I’ll make a waterskin from your hide.”

Sergen muttered drunkenly as he climbed to his feet, dusting off his faded kaftan.

The sound of approaching hooves turned Yesugei’s attention to his father’s bodyguards. Targyn, a lean archer in a red silk robe and leather armor, spoke first. “My lord, no sign of riders having come through the south. If they tried to cross the mountains there-”

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The archer pointed to the distant peaks of the south - a treacherous crossing, but one that avoided Quanli lands and patrols. “-they’d have had to cross the Darmen river. No small feat with three dozen riders.”

“And impossible to cross back, I reckon.” added Kenes, a rotund lancer sweating in the summer heat. He held the Great Khan’s white standard, its presence a warning to any who dared attack. “No way they'd be able to brave the journey back across the mountains with tribute. Even if they had a thousand slaves and camels carrying it all.”

“They must’ve passed through Quanli lands,” Yesugei said, his gaze fixed westward. He grabbed Sergen’s collar and pointed to the horizon. “You see all that, shaman? That’s your work for the day. Find traces of Dagun-noyan, and don’t dismount until sundown—or else.”

He shoved Sergen toward his horse and watched as the shaman clumsily mounted and rode off.

“Look at him go!” Targyn laughed, tearing into flatbread. “Almost looks like a real Khormchak.”

“He’s Ormanli, barely Khormchak,” Kenes said, swigging from the abandoned wineskin. The Ormanli, hardy reindeer-herding folk of the northern forests, lived at the edge of the Sleeping Lands, where the bitter cold allowed little life. Though feared as sorcerers and cannibals, their unmatched survival skills made them indispensable as trackers.

And yet instead of getting an Ormanli who can speak with the wind, or turn into an eagle, we get a drunken fool, thought Yesugei.

The wineskin flew through the air again as Kenes threw it to him, and Yesugei took a sniff of its contents. The smell of fermented milk only brought to mind Sergen’s stench and Yesugei wrinkled his nose before throwing the skin to Kaveh.

His half-brother caught the skin deftly in one hand, and took a drink. He heard the three men behind him talking, laughing as they watched Sergen ride.

But as Yesugei looked out towards the west, all that noise of merriment seemed to drown in the whispers of the swaying grass.

***

By the time they struck camp under a purple-black sky, the sun had vanished beyond the horizon. Yesugei eased into a folding stool, exhaustion flooding his body. Nearby, Kenes wheezed as he and Targyn worked to raise the yurt, their movements sluggish under the weight of the day's ride. A chill breeze swept across the steppe, and Yesugei’s eyes began to close when the rustle of grass startled him upright.

Kaveh trudged past him, barely glancing as he dropped his saddlebags and collapsed onto his bedroll. The day’s relentless pace had left them drained, but progress at last replaced the frustration of their meandering search. If they pressed on tomorrow, they would reach the outskirts of the Quanli lands by afternoon, where answers—and Dagun’s trail—might await.

Yesugei reached for dried meat in his pack when Sergen’s voice cut through the evening stillness. The shaman was galloping toward them, his face twisted with fear.

“Come with me. Bring your blades.”

Groaning with fatigue, Yesugei and Kaveh saddled their horses and followed Sergen up a low ridge. By now the last rays of twilight had almost completely bled away from the sky, and Kaveh grumbled about missing the shaman’s usual drunken stupor. The sight ahead silenced his brother. Along the winding dirt path below, scattered shapes broke the earth’s silhouette—something lay there every hundred paces. As they drew closer, the shapes resolved into horrors.

“Pieces of bodies,” muttered Sergen. He dragged his finger across the landscape, from north to south. “There is part of a body over there as well. To the left are the hands. And there lies a head…”

Kaveh’s knuckles whitened around his lance. “Is this meant to frighten us? The Quanli’s work?”

Sergen’s tone hardened. “This is desecration. Anyone who walks this path is cursed.”

“We’re already damned,” Yesugei growled, gripping his bow. As they approached, a golden bracelet caught the last light of day, still clasped around a delicate, lifeless hand. Sergen dismounted to inspect the remains, confirming their worst fears.

“Women and children,” Kaveh whispered, his voice tight with nausea. “Demons tear me…who could have done this? And why?”

Yesugei’s stomach turned as he continued to examine the scene. Pieces of other shining viscera were scattered out in the grass - a flap of ripped muscle here, a shattered arm there. But the placement was too perfect - the grisly mess too orderly to have been the work of wild scavengers or predators.

“They were brought here,” Sergen said grimly, gesturing at the drained, bloodless flesh. “This was deliberate.”

Yesugei scanned the remains, searching for clues. The scraps of clothing were too soaked in dried blood to identify, and there were no tribal marks. “Travelers, maybe. Merchant families? I cannot tell.”

A part of Yesugei felt infuriated at the slaughter, but another felt relief - relief this was not where and how Dagun and his group met their end. He turned his horse away and walked a slow circle about the carnage. The bodies, days old, were tragic but irrelevant to their mission. The steppe claimed lives every day - from cold, from hunger, from thirst, and much else. But Dagun’s survival and the stability of the Horde outweighed all else.

Still, as he gazed at the grisly incantation, the shadows deepened, and the truth of the massacre seemed to retreat further into the darkness.

Yesugei sighed and turned to call Sergen back to his horse when the creak of a taut hempen rope split the silence of the steppe. Sergen’s face twisted in agony as he clawed at the looped rope choking him, blood welling beneath the rough fibers. Yesugei’s eyes tracked the rope’s other end to a hand and a figure rising from the grasses, cloaked in yellow-brown grass, with bright golden eyes gleaming through a tattered leather mask.

Yesugei’s cry rang out as he pulled back his bow, but before he could react further, a faint rustling in the grass was followed by a distant twang. Pain flared through his left arm as an arrow tore through his silk shirt, burying itself deep in his flesh. Gritting his teeth, Yesugei loosed his own arrow toward the figure choking Sergen. The shot found its mark with a wet impact, sinking into the cloaked assassin’s throat.

But there was no time to nock another arrow. His left hand trembled uncontrollably as he fumbled for a barbed arrow. The assassin who had struck him once aimed again. Yesugei swiveled, ducking low on his saddle, bracing for another agonizing strike.

“Qarakesek!” Kaveh bellowed as he charged, lance in hand. The thunder of hooves followed, then a sickening shlick as Kaveh’s spear pierced the second assassin’s chest. The man gurgled and fell, his bow clattering to the dirt.

Yesugei kicked his horse forward, circling Kaveh as more assassins emerged from the grass. Their surprise at the failed ambush turned to chaos, blinded by the dust kicked up by the horses. Yesugei pushed through the pain of his wound, nocking another arrow. He let it fly, the shaft piercing the leg of an assassin rushing toward him. The man fell, clutching the arrow, then Yesugei’s steed trampled him.

Kav’s spear flowed like silver water as matched two more of the assassins further on. They attacked like wolves, slashing high and low, but the princeling turned aside every blow. Yesugei shot an arrow into one man’s back, and that was all the distraction his brother needed to impale the second with a foot of steel and oak.

And just as quickly as it had begun, the fight was over - almost. The last golden-eyed assassin gave a muffled grunt as he and Sergen wrestled and rolled around in the dirt. Then a final, rasping breath sounded as Sergen’s carved bone knife found the assassin’s soft belly and ripped him from navel to breast like a slaughtered sheep.

The steppe fell silent. Yesugei slowed his horse to a stop, dismounting with a wince and landing hard on one knee. He reached for the arrow with a trembling hand as Sergen appeared at his side, smelling of sour herbs, and helped pull the shaft free.

“Spirits preserve us,” Sergen muttered, inspecting the arrow before pulling out a roll of cloth. “No poison. Wrap it tight, I’ll tie it.”

Yesugei gritted his teeth as he wrapped the cloth around the wound, but Sergen’s firm hands tightened the knot with a brutal yank, sending another jolt of pain through the prince’s arm. Sergen opened another pouch, unleashing a sharp scent of vinegar that made Yesugei’s eyes water.

“I will need to purge the wound of infection,” he heard the shaman’s voice through the pounding of his own head. “It will hurt.”

The agony came a moment later - like a hot iron driven into the arrow-wound. Yesugei clenched his jaw until he felt his teeth would break. And then, it all snapped - the exhaustion, the anger, the frustration, and the confusion of the last few days all snapped.

The ninth son of Aqtai-khan screamed into the sky beneath the cold, unfeeling stars.