Spirits
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A soft gust of wind caused the assassin’s robe to flutter as his corpse lay in the middle of the field. Yesugei squinted at the dead man as Targyn raised his lantern higher over the body.
In the darkness of night, six cold corpses broke the swaying silhouette of the steppe grasses. Flies had already begun to set on the dead men by the time Kaveh fetched Targyn and Kenes from camp - and Yesugei wrinkled his nose at the rank smell of death that rose off one of the assassins as he leaned in close.
The assassins’ eyes lost their yellow hue, fading into mundane brown and black as they were cut down by their arrows and blades. Yesugei would have thought the glowing eyes a strange trick of the light or perhaps the work of his overactive mind had he not heard much the same from Kaveh and Sergen. He peeled back the loose leather mask that concealed one assassin’s face, and was surprised to see a long, narrow, rough-shaved, but ordinary human visage. The corpse’s tanned skin and high cheekbones called to mind Yesugei’s memories of when he had first met Sergen, and he glanced from the dead man to the shaman. There was no doubt about it.
“These killers are modkhai,” muttered Yesugei as he stood up, pushing aside the leather masks of the other corpses lined up off the side of the road. Each of the dead men bore similar, striking features as the first assassin - some of them even wore small beaded charms in their hair which rattled as their bodies shifted. “Sergen, did you know these killers?”
Targyn, Kenes, and Kaveh turned to look at the shaman who didn’t respond at first - seeming deep in thought as he sat cross-legged and studied the circle of bloodless, mutilated corpses. Only after a moment of silence had passed did the aged shaman stand up and turn to look at the Yesugei and the others.
“Nonsense. I left the Mother Woods a long time ago.” said Sergen as he moved to pass by Kaveh.
“But-” Kaveh placed one hand on Sergen’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “We still have questions.”
“Your people are a solitary lot, aren’t they?” Yesugei stepped closer to Sergen, keeping one hand on the crystal-encrusted pommel of his shamshir. “From what my father told me, you were the first to ever leave these ‘Mother Woods’ in decades. So what would drive six of your folk to not only leave, but gather up and cross two thousand miles to practice their blood magic on Quanli land?”
Sergen scowled, and spit to the side as he pushed himself back off of Kaveh’s shoulder. His bloody antler-knife glinted silver in the moonlight as it dangled from his belt.
“I don’t like your tone, boy. You question my loyalty? I’ve been in service to Tsagaandai-khan since before you could even mount a horse,” the shaman hissed, his eyes piercing daggers at Targyn and Kenes as they slowly drew forward in front of Kaveh. “If you really think I sold you out to these cursed men, then by all means, go ahead and take my head and plant it before your father’s throne. But it’ll be the stupidest mistake you’ll ever make.”
“Cursed?” The word sounded strange to Yesugei. “You mean their golden eyes?”
“Yes, cursed,” sighed Sergen, placing his hands on his hips as he contemplated on what to say. “I’d only heard stories from the wise men about this, but my people had dealt with something of the sort before. A sickness of the mind, spread by creatures that tainted our lands long ago.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” chuckled Targyn as he drew his hand to the long dagger at his belt. “You’d say anything to save your wretched skin. Naizabai-khan was a sworn blood brother to the Great Khan even before you crawled out from the woods - look how that turned out. Treachery surrounds our khan everywhere - and you look mighty suspicious in my eyes, modkhai..”
But something in the shaman’s words - the way he had suddenly sobered and grown ever more serious since they had first seen the curse sigil - caused Yesugei to feel a shift in his heart. He had always heard stories of magic: the sun-worshippers to the distant west who called upon the life-giving sun to enact miracles, the southern elves who dwelled in high towers and plied their trade with the blood of slaves, and the northern forest-dwellers who danced wearing animal skins in sacred groves. But to talk of curses and monsters with such certainty seemed absurd - yet Sergen seemed ready to stake his life on it. What if he was correct? was the thought on Yesugei’s mind.
“Tell me more about this curse,” Yesugei blurted out. In the darkness he saw Targyn and Kenes turn to look at him in incredulity. Kaveh looked back as well - Yesugei knew his half-brother had his doubts, but he also knew that Kav trusted his senses, and knew Yesugei to be the more reasonable between them for years. He cleared his throat, then spoke again. “What creatures? Explain. What does all this mean - the bodies, these killers?”
“These bodies…they’re part of an old heretical ritual, carried out by kin of the Modkhai to invoke evil spirits.” Sergen reached up to his messy braided hair which was decorated with faded charms and strange crystals. From deep within one of the greasy locks he pulled out a strange black gem - it resembled a small pit of darkness, and swallowed up the soft orange glare of Targyn’s lantern as Sergen presented it to the four men. “The wise men said the spirits emerged from black crystals like these during a time of war between two tribes. Spirits which brought ruin to our lands, and made gold-eyed slaves of our people. They disappeared many eons ago, when the gods heard the suffering of our people and drove them back into the distant north where no mortal men could live. Our shamans told us these crystals from which the spirits were born could protect us from their curses and rot - the eldest son from each family has one of them braided into his hair, so he might be able to resist and fight the spirits if they were to ever return.”
Yesugei beheld the black gem Sergen held - its eerie, swirling darkness - and found his thumb drifting over the black crystal eyes of the silver horse’s head on the pommel of his sword. The weapon had been given to him by his father when he had become a man, when he had taken his first life in combat against the Quanli. The gems were so small he had never given them much thought - believing them to be onyx or dark agate. But he now studied the dark eyes closer, feeling as though he was truly looking at them for the first time, and within them saw that same swirling void - one from which neither lantern nor moonlight could escape.
“Yes, you see it now, don't you?” Sergen said quietly as he watched Yesugei studying the handle of his shamshir. “Tsagaandai-khan saw fit to give not just his eldest, but all his true-born children trinkets to ward you from the curse - bought them at no small expense from my people, back when you and Kaveh were still little children. I told your father the same stories I told you now - and he listened, that he did.”
Yesugei saw Kaveh shift his spear into his offhand as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a soft white square of silk, decorated with golden embroidery and studded with a dozen tiny black gemstones along each edge. He had seen the silken scarf only a handful of times - it was the last gift Kav’s mother had passed down to him before she had perished from a fever ten summers ago. Yesugei searched his mind, trying to recall the gifts his siblings had all received - his oldest half-brother Nariman, who received a gilded suit of lamellar; his sister Gulsezim and her broad sash of layered silk; all thirteen of Tsagaandai-khan’s true-born children and their gifts of adulthood. Did they all bear these small crystals, these little dots of darkness? He had never noticed, never given them much thought in all his years.
Yesugei’s mind spun with half-remembered memories, but his thoughts were interrupted by the jingling of metal plates as Kaveh clapped one hand on Kenes’ armored shoulder, setting the keshik at ease.
“We can stand around and accuse one another of things all night long-” Kaveh paused, giving a wide, loud yawn as he scratched underneath his felt cap and placed the silk square back into his pocket. “But I’d much rather we do all the accusing and magic-talk sitting around a nice, warm fire in a yurt - wouldn’t you?”
“Aye, I’d be amenable to that,” said Sergen. “And if you’re going to gut me, I’d at least like a drink - I’d say I earned it today, didn’t I?”
Targyn offered little more than a half-hearted grumble before stepping away, followed by Kenes and Kaveh as they summoned their exhausted horses to ride back to camp. Yesugei followed suit, as did the shaman who breathed a sigh of relief and gave an appreciative nod to him as he mounted his steed. The prospect of coming to a warm fire seemed overwhelmingly enticing to Yesugei as well - and only made him more aware of the dropping temperature as the steppe began to freeze beneath the dark speckled skies.
The five of them rode back to camp in relative silence - Targyn’s lantern bobbing up and down as he led the way back to their finished camp. A humble yurt decorated with furs and the symbol of the Qarakesek sat just next to a low ridge, and once inside Yesugei immediately sank onto the carpeted floor with a tired sigh. Kenes quickly set about setting a fire, and soon the small handful of embers that glowed on a bunch of dried grass and sticks became a flickering, crackling flame that filled the yurt with a homely warm glow.
Yesugei’s stomach growled for sustenance, and he winced as he tried to sit up and braced himself too harshly on his injured arm. The wound’s pain had softened into a dull ache, but every errant movement or flex of muscle sent a sharp knife of pain twisting through his entire left arm - his strong arm. He grunted in annoyance as he unbuckled one of his satchels, and pulled out a hunk of wrapped cheese and dried meat.
The salted meat and cheese caused Yesugei’s tongue to burn as he ate, and he washed it down with a sip of arkhi from Sergen’s wineskin before tossing across the yurt to its former owner. Sergen caught the wineskin clumsily, and raised an eyebrow at Yesugei as he sloshed the contents in the leather container.
“In moderation,” warned Yesugei. “I want you in shape to ride and explain more at first light.”
Sergen gave him a crooked-toothed smile before taking a hearty gulp from the wineskin. As the shaman drank, Yesugei had half a mind to ask him more about the creatures and curses he spoke of, but already his eyes struggled to remain open in the comfort of his bedroll and the warmth of the fire. He gave a wide yawn, and half-heard a conversation between the keshiks and Kaveh on who would keep guard. If they had been traveling with a larger host and more soldiers they would have held shifts, but five men moved in greater stealth, and risked less chance of being caught out in the day by roving bands of bandits or tribal warbands looking to settle a blood feud with the Qarakesek. After a few mutterings which faded in and out of Yesugei’s hearing, he saw Targyn step out of the yurt with his bow and lantern in hand to take the first watch.
As Yesugei snuggled into a more comfortable position on his bedroll he saw Kaveh resting on his back, examining the silk handkerchief once more. Yesugei’s own mind drew to his shamshir, and he pulled the sheathed blade closer to examine the silver horse’s head. He found himself strangely drawn in by the little black pools of darkness that were embedded in the horse’s eyes - the way the darkness seemed to write and twist behind the sheer, carefully-cut crystal face. As his eyelids grew unbearably heavy, Yesugei let himself fall away into a deep slumber, letting the sheathed shamshir rest by his side close at hand. Before his eyes closed, he cast one final look at the gemstones and their mysterious darkness.
A face…?
For a moment, the nomad princeling could have sworn he saw the twisting darkness form into a feminine visage. And then, nothing, as the heavy cloak of sleep cast itself across Yesugei.
***
The next morning, Yesugei opened his eyes to the sound of sizzling meat. The heavy smell of garlic, lard, and spices wafted out of a small iron pan as Kenes stabbed at a thick, wide slice of red fermented sausage and passed it over to Kaveh’s waiting plate. Yesugei rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up straight, seeing Kenes, Targyn, and Kaveh sitting cross-legged around the yurt’s central fire. Outside, he saw Sergen kneeling and muttering prayers to the open steppe.
“Shit, he woke up.” said Kaveh in between bites of sausage and hard bread.
“Eating sudžuk without your brother?” sighed Yesugei, shaking his head in disapproval as he reached into the pan and fished out a slice. “Have you no respect at all for your elders, Kav?”
The sausage slice exploded with juicy flavor as Yesugei popped it into his mouth, flooding his tongue with burning peppery heat and the pungent taste of garlic mixed with fatty lamb. Targyn poured tea into a fine porcelain cup and offered it to him as he savored the taste of the sausage in the morning light that filtered through the top of the roof. For a moment, everything seemed peaceful - even the insistent ache of his injured arm subsided as he rested in the comfort of the yurt with its colorful, carpeted walls.
But as with all things, the comfort was not to last. When the morning light was well upon the Hungry Steppe once more, their small band saddled their horses and continued on their way, giving a wide berth to the cursed road and the bleak incantation upon it. Sergen went on for a while ahead of the others, spying the main westward road for any Quanli patrols or caravans and steering them beyond any watchful eyes.
Hours went by in that confounding game - two princes of the royal blood, skulking like outlaws through their own father’s empire! Yesugei gritted his teeth, but went on nonetheless by Sergen’s guidance - the ills of the last day set him on edge, and he did not wish to tempt fate by running into a band of Quanli riders on the open road. As they went on further west, the flat lands gave way to gentle earthen slopes and stony ridges, with many small streams snaking their way through the land.
“We can find some cover there,” Sergen said as the day grew short, pointing out to a small hill surrounded by a smattering of trees, and topped by a rocky outcrop. “And some more answers, besides.”
“Speak plainly, shaman,” Yesugei muttered. “You still owe me for saving your hide last night.”
Sergen turned his horse about, and pointed with his whip at the hill’s rocky crown. Yesugei squinted against the falling sun, and saw a small scrap of red fabric twisting in the breeze between two of the weathered stone pillars. As the shaman led them closer to the hill he saw that hidden within the rocky outcrop, nestled between the rocks, was a small nook covered by a roof made of branches. Many colored scraps of fabric hung at the threshold of the Ormanli shrine, woven with worn beads that clacked softly in the wind.
“Your father came to this very shrine once, before the battle at Ongainur,” Sergen spoke as he dismounted from his horse. The others followed suit - Targyn and Kenes began unloading their camp supplies once more as they scouted for a place to rest, while Kaveh went on with Yesugei and Sergen. “He had searched for answers of his own - a sign from the heavens whether he would triumph against Naizabai before the battle.”
“And he sought it out here?” Kaveh smirked. “In this little shack at the edge of the steppe? I call it more of an outhouse than a shrine.”
Sergen’s eyes flashed with anger, and for the first time Yesugei felt something stir about the shaman - it was a feeling like seeing a snake coiling to strike. Yesugei placed a hand on the shaman’s shoulder, and the moment passed - Sergen scowled, stepped past Kaveh, and paused at the threshold of the shrine, as if listening. After a moment, he turned to look at the two princes, judging them with a renewed keenness in his eyes that set Yesugei on edge. An invitation.
Kaveh shrugged his shoulders and walked off, shaking his head. “I've had enough of this business with spirits - I’ll help guard the camp. Don’t let that doddering fool pull you into his web, brother.”
Yesugei looked back to Sergen. Then he set aside his bow and sword, and stepped into the waiting shrine.
The inside of the ramshackle shrine was dark, lit only by what dim light of the fading day filtered through the criss-crossed branches of the roof. The standing stones on either end formed a dim, twisting corridor barely wide enough to accommodate one man, and within the pockmarked walls Yesugei saw small charms and stones painted with Ormanli runes. A strange hush fell upon the world within the shrine - all noise from the outside world bled away until Yesugei was suddenly aware of the sound of his own heart, each pump like a beat upon a prayer drum. He crept deeper into the shrine, treading as softly as he could upon the weathered stone floor.
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The gloom grew heavier as he went in - he saw vaguely aware of the slope in the ground, drawing him deeper into the earth. Above his head, he saw the silhouettes of hanging skulls against the fading light - the skulls of bulls, wolves, and horses. The light played strange tricks on him in the darkness, it seemed to him that there were small pinpricks of light inside the hollowed eyes, and that the skulls were peering down at him. But for judgement, or guidance?
Yesugei did not know how far he had gone, only that eventually, he reached the end of the corridor. Waiting for him there was a weathered altar protruding from a sheer rock face, and hanging from the rock face was a strange banner, tattered and worn by the elements. The dye had all but faded from the worn cloth, but the princeling’s eyes could just barely make out the symbol of a winged serpent - a local spirit perhaps. Ormanli scripture faded to time lined both sides of the hanging banner, but the Khormchak manner of praying was simpler.
Yesugei went to his knees before the hanging banner, and the judging eyes that looked down on him. “Gods of the Blue Sky, great spirits of the land. I bow before you, grant me wisdom. Grant me Sight.”
His body felt light - impossibly light - and then he was falling…falling away from himself. His vision remained, pulling itself free from the mortal form as he rose higher and higher, grasping for the threads of light that shone through the roof of the shrine until he was riding with the wind, rising high above the stone spire atop the hill. The Sight was something that all the blood of Aqtai-khan possessed - a talent taught by the Ormanli shamans with whom their ancestors had bonded and trained in the olden days. Not all of Aqtai’s sons were equal in their skill; his eldest son Nariman was the greatest, one to rival even true Ormanli shamans, while Kaveh only managed to make himself dizzy and nauseous in his attempts.
For Yesugei, his Sight served well enough. At first, he could see little - mists and clouds were his world, and only the barest of shadows made themselves apparent. Clouds of his own mind - he forced himself to remember himself, remember his task. Give me wisdom…let me See.
To the west, the sun was falling beneath the horizon to shroud the land in darkness. Then…it halted. The sun began to rise once more, rising from the west to its zenith, then falling in the east. It went on rising and falling, moving, spinning - days passed into night faster and faster, and the world below seemed to roll and shift. He felt he was on the cusp of losing himself - but then he saw the passage of the riders, small as ants so far below. They were a large band - some forty strong - and nestled in the midst of the marching column was a horse-drawn palanquin. The man inside was barely a shadow - hidden by the curtains - but unmistakable in his nature.
His world shrank - the visions came to him in flashes, bright living images. The smell of sweat and horseflesh, arkhi and blood. The walls of a city rose up before him - the lightning sigil of the Quanli tribe shone proudly atop a horsehair banner.
The sun hung low when the Qarakesek stood before the walls of Bayan, thick with the grime of a long road in the open steppe.
A threat left the lips of a keshik, eyes burning with arrogance and indignation, his sword drawn and pointed to the sky. "Open the gates at once! The blood-sworn of Aqtai-khan demand it!"
The threat fell upon deaf ears - the Quanli guards that stood atop the walls did not move, an answer in itself. Yesugei felt the rage building in his chest as though he were there. We should climb his walls and cut that pig's throat, came the thought, unbidden. The smell of blood was in the air...but nothing came to pass. A younger Ormanli keshik from the ranks spoke softly, and his comrade glared at him but did not strike.
The tension fell away like mist under the sun. The riders went on, leaving the city of the Quanli in the dust, and Yesugei’s Sight followed after them, drawn by a force he did not fully understand. Westward they rode into hills that grew darker with shadow. The air seemed heavier, the sun’s light dimmed. Then came the smell - the acrid stench of blood and sweat, of smoke and charred earth.
The flashes grew more vivid. He saw a fire sputtering in the wind, the sharp edge of a blade. A woman’s scream cut through the night, followed by silence. The shadow grew deeper, pressing against his mind, and he felt his Sight faltering, unraveling.
Then, it was over. He screamed back down and into himself, and he was kneeling once more. He fell flat on his face before the altar, and for a long while he lay there, feeling the cold stone floor against his burning face, lying as if struck by lightning. His heart thundered in his chest - the smell of blood and fire lingered on his nostrils, and the scream still rang in his ears.
Eventually he forced himself onto his back, staring up at the lifeless cloth. A low breeze whistled through the corridor as Yesugei rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered out from the shrine, one hand upon the stone wall to guide him. The first breath of fresh air was sweet as a kiss. Then he felt the ground trembling, and the sweetness turned to ashes in his mouth. The thunder of distant hooves, drawing closer.
Kaveh caught him by the shoulders, his eyes wild. “Riders!” he said hurriedly. “Approaching from the north! They know we’re here, brother.”
Behind him, Yesugei saw Targyn and Kenes preparing for a stand, bow and glaive in hand as they fetched their tied horses and led them hurriedly up the rocky, uneven slope of the hill. Yesugei assessed the terrain. To flee and give up the hill would open them from attacks in all directions, and pursuit across the open steppe in enemy lands was suicide. If it came to a fight the stony ridge would serve them well; the slope would protect them from arrow-fire, and riders would need to dismount or risk having their horse shot out from under them as they ascended the hill. If it came to the worst, they could retreat to the shrine, where numbers would mean little in such confines.
Sergen came scrabbling up the ridge, his own steed in hand. “There’s a dozen of them, they bear the banner of Naizabai-khan!”
By the time Yesugei scrambled up the stony ridge he was able to see the horsemen in the distance - a dozen warriors clad in metal scales and leather with each guiding two extra horses laden with supplies. The riders' leader bore a large banner of his own. Thrust directly towards the sky, the white horse-hair banner fluttered wildly in the growing wind while the silver lightning sigil of the Quanli glinted threateningly.
Less than six years ago, that banner had been raised in battle. Yesugei himself bore witness to the Quanli battle standard - he drew his first blood against Quanli, and took a hoard of silver for himself from the tent of their slain noyan in the last year of the war between Naizabai and his father.
Let us hope this story ends differently from the White Pinch, thought Yesugei. He cast a glance over to the rest of his companions. Targyn and Kenes looked on ahead, their faces still and their eyes hardened for battle. The two keshiks were among the most junior of Tsaagandai-khan’s bodyguards, but out of the five of them, they were by far the most battle-tested from punitive raids against the Klyazmites and skirmishes with lesser tribes. Kaveh clutched his spear tightly in one hand as he fiddled with a small wicker shield in his other hand - Yesugei gave his brother a reassuring nod, and steeled his resolve.
Behind them, Sergen knelt on the ground. The shaman’s fingers twisted along a small charm as he began to chant a prayer in a harsh Ormanli tongue, and drew from his pack a wide, round drum of stretched deer hide.
“Better take a shield, shaman!” Targyn yelled as he pulled an arrow from his quiver. “Never known drums to be much damn good against an arrow!”
Tseren continued his prayer, kneeling back as he raised the drum to the sky and struck it so hard Yesugei felt his heart skip a beat. The pounding grew louder and faster as Tseren’s growling prayer flowed into a wordless, guttural song that Yesugei heard before - the call of the shamans to the spirit realm. Yesugei felt bumps appear on his skin as the prayer continued, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rose up as the very air seemed to become charged, filled with a strange energy that was both mystifying and frightening. The staccato pounding of the drum soon merged with the sound of the galloping riders as they came boiling over the horizon.
The riders approached with hoots and howls, drawing to a stop forty feet from the ridge. The steel blades of the Quanli glaives and swords - ugly and pitted from use - glinted in the dying. At first glance none of the men among the riders looked green or infirm, and their armor was of simple, sturdy design.
The look of killers. Veterans. Yesugei thought as he silently took count and measure of the riders. Perhaps some of them will recognize me.
Yesugei pulled his sword free from its sheath, and stood firm as he called out to the band. “You stand before Yesugei, son of-”
“I know who you are, boy.” interrupted the Quanli leader. He came on alone - a thin man dressed head-to-toe in iron scales, his voice dripping with thinly-veiled poison. “Ninth son of Aqtai-khan. I saw you at the kurultai. And at the White Pinch before then.”
So he was there. Visions of battle flashed in Yesugei’s mind as he searched for a face, but all he could recall was the dust, sweltering heat, and the feeling of terror mixed with blood-rage during his first battle raiding the campgrounds of the Quanli vanguard. Faces were blurred, melted into the uniform swirl of dark brown and crimson.
“You know me, but I do not know your name, baghatur,” replied Yesugei, keeping his voice even, and his hand grasped tightly on the handle of his shamshir. “Tell me who you are, so we can speak as equals. As men and warriors.”
“You speak in the presence of Börijan, noyan of the Bayan myndyq.” One of the other riders announced with a puff of his chest.
A horse whip flashed through the air, and the rider recoiled with a cry as the Quanli commander’s leather whip bit into his cheek for the profound crime of speaking out of turn.
“A myndyq…” mused Yesugei as he studied the commander named Börijan. “You must have done well to earn command of a thousand Quanli riders, Börijan-noyan.”
“I thank you for your praise, Yesugei-mirza.” Börijan tilted his head downwards as a show of respect, but he didn’t bother to hide his distaste as he spat out the royal title.
“What business do you have with the blood and blood-sworn of the Great Khan?”
“Just a small matter, really,” said Börijan with a wolfish smile that sent a chill down Yesugei’s spine. “My men were patrolling the road when we came across a foul incantation - bodies of Quanli women and children piled like so much meat. And Ormanli in queer clothes - some foul witches. I heard of a band in our lands travelling off the main road with an Ormanli shaman, and I mean to have answers. So come down from that hill, and we may speak properly. As men and warriors.”
“And what answers do you seek, noyan?” Yesugei called back. “I’m afraid your search ended before it had even started.” He gestured sharply to the west, toward the scene of carnage they had left behind. “We were ambushed by those same Ormanli heretics. We slew them all and left them to rot. We did your patrol a service, or would you rather we had let them live to strike at your kin again?”
Börijan snorted, his thin lips curling into a sneer. “A convenient tale. But what I saw, Yesugei-mirza, were dead Ormanli alongside dead Quanli women and children. If you were there, if you slew the heretics, why did you not burn the bodies and leave proper markings? Why slip through the back trails like cowards if you’ve nothing to hide?”
The riders murmured among themselves, hefting their weapons - their bitterness was real, at least. Under the Great Khan’s law, such butchery had not been seen in many years - and blood magic even further back. Kaveh shifted uneasily behind his brother, the tip of his spear dipping slightly. Yesugei raised one hand to steady him, and kept his voice firm.
“Because we have no time to waste on burial rites,” he replied, locking eyes with the noyan. “We are on a mission from the Great Khan, and we move with haste. Besides, the heretics are dead, their magic is snuffed out, and the debt of blood is paid - what more would you ask of us?”
Börijan snorted, and gestured with his horse whip towards Sergen. “The shaman. He will come with us. We will see if his tongue tells the truth, or if our own shamans find the taints of blood magic on his soul.”
Yesugei bristled. “We both know the shamans’ ‘tests’ of the soul are guesswork. What if we refuse?”
A laugh came up from Börijan, and his men followed suit like baying dogs. A few of them clashed their arms together, filling the world with the sound of rattling, screaming iron. “We have you two to one, princeling. I needn’t ask.”
Before Yesugei could reply, Targyn’s voice rang out from behind the rocks, low and calm. “Set one foot upon this hill, noyan, and it’ll be your last.”
Börijan’s head snapped toward the voice with a snarl. Targyn leaned out from cover, his bow creaking as he pulled back a black-feathered arrow. His face was an impassive mask, but his eyes had a cold certainty that Yesugei found unnerving. “Threaten the Great Khan’s shaman or his blood again, and you threaten the Great Khan. Threaten the Great Khan, and it’s this arrow you’ll answer to.”
The riders shifted uneasily, tightening their grips on reins and weapons. The Quanli noyan’s expression twisted in fury, but he hesitated, his gaze flicking between Targyn, Yesugei, and the others that peered over the lip of the ridge.
With a snarl, Börijan muttered, “Someone must answer for this - the Great Khan holds close ties with the wood-dwellers, and the dead are laid out in the ulus of the Quanli. Naizabai-khan will demand satisfaction.”
“Then your khan may, come the kurultai,” said Yesugei. “He needn’t wait long - I hear the tribes have already begun to convene at Khurvan. But until then, it is not the place of a noyan to make demands of the Great Khan, or his sons.”
“You forget your own place,” spat Börijan as he sharply turned his steed towards the ridge. “You dare to insult a noyan on the lands of his own people? Such behavior from the Great Khan or the Crown Prince might go unanswered, but you are no Great Khan and no heir. Do not make me laugh with how you pretend to be one of note, ninth son of Aqtai-khan.”
Yesugei resisted the urge to draw his bow and put an arrow through the exposed throat of the Quanli commander, even as he paced slowly, enticingly just fifty feet before him. But it was all posture - if Börijan had wanted to, he would have already commanded his men to storm the hill. With his final insult, some of the Quanli were already beginning to turn back to Bayan.
“Mark my words, Yesugei, son of Aqtai-khan,” Börijan growled as he turned his steed north. “Someone will answer for this slaughter. If not the shaman, then perhaps you, or that fool Dagun.”
Wait. Bayan. He is in command. Yesugei nearly stumbled over his words trying to get them out in time. “You were the one who turned our emissary away from the city?”
Börijan barked a laugh. “Emissary? A piss-soaked drunkard is what your man is! Perhaps you and your shaman can join him in Tosont, drinking in the reek with bandits and whores for all care!”
Yesugei’s mind spun as he contemplated Börijan’s final words, and he flashed a quick glance downwards to the keshiks and Kaveh - seeing the noyan’s words were not lost on them either.
Klyazmite settlers formed small outposts for trade and Khormchak messengers every dozen miles - they had assumed Dagun would have wanted to travel quickly, efficiently, which meant a direct path from the capital city of Khurvan to the border. It never struck him until now that perhaps Tseren wasn’t the only one of his father’s subjects who liked easy food and drink - and where there were inns, there would be answers as to Dagun’s whereabouts, surely. He brought his attention back to the Quanli riders as they slowly began to disperse, following after their commander who rode off in a huff - his face preserved with one final jab at the Qarakesek.
But then, there was a grumble from the heavens. A bright flash exploded from the darkened skies, followed by the deafening roar of thunder that seemed to shake the world. Yesugei jumped, and saw before him several Quanli horses startle violently, throwing their riders from their backs whilst others dropped their lances to keep their steeds from rushing off. Börijan’s armor jingled loudly as he gave a cry and was bucked off from his dark steed, landing painfully on his back. Yesugei and the others allowed themselves a chuckle as they watched the Quanli struggle to rein in their mounts, swearing and cursing the spirits while their horses trampled and dirtied the tribal banner that lay in the middle of the frightened herd.
The silver lightning sigil of the Quanli now looked nowhere near as impressive - thrown from its proud place in the sky by the rumble of very real lightning from the heavens.
When the Quanli had fully dispersed and disappeared over the horizon, only then did Yesugei sheathe his sword and step back to the camp. The darkness was well and truly upon them by the time Kenes had erected their yurt, Targyn roused up a fire, and the trembling left Yesugei’s fingers.
“You know he won’t let that slide, right?” said Kaveh as he sat down next to Yesugei, gently cradling a teapot. “I’d say we’d best give him a wide berth during the kurultai.”
“The dog can yap all he wants,” Yesugei sneered. “Naizabai would shut him up himself - otherwise he’ll be the one to look a fool, letting such butchery happen in his lands.”
Kaveh nodded, pouring out two cups of rich, dark tea.
“To another great victory for the Qarakesek!” said Kaveh as he raised his cup to Yesugei, a wide smile on his face. “Won by the finest of Aqtai-khan’s blood - his tongue as barbed as his arrows!”
The two of them laughed, then drank. Yesugei felt his heart stir as he savored the tea - he still drew breath, and now he had a path, a trail to Dagun, shaky and vague as it was. Tosont lay perhaps a day’s ride to the west - and there, Dagun was certain to have left a trail.
But still, he could not find peace of mind. The remnants of his Sight lingered - the smell of fire and ash, burnt flesh. And the darkness, the suffocating, drowning darkness of the west from which he heard a woman scream. His Sight had never shown him visions so abstract, so dreamlike in their manner.
He took another sip of tea, and closed his eyes, chasing away the remnants of that terrible sight.
Spirits, protect me.