Gods of Mine

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Yesugei leaned in his saddle and brushed one hand through cool, lapping waters as his horse trotted through the shallows of the Jigai river.

Where the road split, so too did the landscape: the flat, dusty steppe faded into the rocky, uneven terrain of the northern borderlands. Dizzyingly-tall pines formed a dark sea in the distance, and as Yesugei guided his horse through waist-high water, he saw the yellow steppe melt into the green forestry. A rough dirt trail wound through the trees, marking the way to Tosont.

He halted at the base of a low hill, staring into the dense woods. The trees were so tightly packed that the canopy blocked nearly all light, casting the road ahead into shadow even at midday. Yesugei recalled tales of cannibals and sorcerers who lived here, unafraid of Khormchaks. But it wasn’t the stories that unnerved him—it was the sense of primal fear that rose in his chest, as if the very forest itself were pressing towards him. The same primal, animalistic fear that struck him in his vision filled his soul again.

He turned to see his companions behind him, equally uneasy, eyes scanning the treeline. Sergen, the shaman, rode up and pointed toward the road. "Do you feel it?" he asked. The shadows before them seemed more than mere darkness—they appeared to have a life of their own, swirling and shifting.

“A curse lies ahead,” Targyn muttered, spitting to the side, his fear apparent. “Dark woods like these are no place for our people.”

“Yes,” said Yesugei. He patted his horse on the side, and felt the great beast nearly startle beneath his gentle touch. “Something there scares even the horses.”

“Is this the path Dagun-noyan would have even taken?” Kaveh questioned, scratching his chin. His half-brother shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “He could have taken the road to the south-”

“The road south would wind along the mountains,” said Sergen with a shake of his head. “And there are precious few stops along the way. And besides that - come with me, the four of you.”

Reluctantly, Yesugei’s horse moved forward, followed by the others. Sergen dismounted and pointed at the ground. “Look here.”

Yesugei saw a line of smudged hoofprints in the dark soil—Khormchak horses, by their look, not the destriers of the west. “Several dozen riders,” Sergen said, “likely Qarakesek. It rained five days ago. No other tribes would send so many men through foreign lands.”

Yesugei’s gaze drifted back to the dark path ahead. “Are you sure?”

“I am.”

His mind whirled with possibilities. The nearest outpost was days away, and if Naizabai-khan had truly seized Dagun, the search seemed pointless. Yet they had carefully followed Dagun’s path past Bayan, and saw no sign of battle in Naizabai’s lands. Did Dagun and his men encounter the same curse here, then? His thoughts were consumed by the shadowed trail. He wondered if the shadows had greeted Dagun and his men as they passed, or if they had only appeared recently, like the incantation left by the Ormanli. And if the shadows did lurk and twist around them, would Dagun have even been aware?

Only the Sight had revealed the darkness of the west to Yesugei, and Dagun had not travelled with a trained shaman, nor one who possessed such a talent. Perhaps there was some evil magic at work, concealing things that when revealed, appeared to have been there all along.

“Yesugei,” called Kav gently, pulling his horse forward so they stood side-by-side. “Where do we go next?”

They had been standing at the border of the shadowed woods for near half an hour now - a group of five battle-tested warriors raised in the unforgiving Hungry Steppe brought to a stop by a mere forest. Yesugei’s own will was faltering - he found himself searching for excuses and other options when the path ahead seemed plain as day - even if none of them wished it to be so. He gathered his spirits and tightened his hold on the reins of his horse, feeling the leather creak beneath his grip.

“We keep moving. Our search is not finished until we find Dagun-noyan - dead or alive.” Yesugei urged his horse forward, and crossed into the darkness.

As they ventured deeper into the forest, the outside world—the windswept steppe and its wide-open sky—faded into eerie silence. No birds, no rustling of leaves, just the low, haunting howls that slithered between the gnarled trees. Every step seemed to take them further from the living world, and Yesugei’s skin crawled. Occasionally, Yesugei heard the rustling of leaves and tree branches up above, even though no wind blew across the ground.

They traveled slowly through the woods, with Sergen keeping a careful eye on the dimly-lit, snaking dirt trail. Yesugei realized what caused his skin to crawl - more than the strange howling of the woods, all life seemed to have fallen silent. No insects buzzed, no critters lurked along the forest floor, no birds rustled their feathers in the midst of the creaking branches.

“How much further to the outpost?” whispered Kenes, sweat dripping from underneath his helmeted brow.

Sergen halted, casting a quick glance about the forest as he searched for landmarks. “We passed by the moss-grown boulders…an hour ago? We should be nearing Tosont soon - by my recollection, it lies near a great, stony valley.”

“Maybe they'll have sunlight—and answers,” Kaveh muttered, clearly disturbed. “If I ever return here, I’ll bring an army to burn this place.”

“Don’t let your fear cloud your judgment Kaveh,” said the shaman, shooting the princeling a dark look. “The spirits of these woods are good and you know it. This darkness is not their doing - it is heretical magic which has tainted their realm, drained it of color and life.”

“Then let's find these heretics and kill them already,” growled Targyn, summoning anger to mask his fear. “It is not right for mortal men to have this kind of power. But they are only mortal, and their blood will spill as easily as any others.”

“Then let’s keep moving.”

The rest of the journey through the woods continued in watchful silence.But as they neared the forest’s edge, Yesugei felt the wind begin to pick up. Up ahead, the light of day pierced through the dense woods. They hurried their pace, quickening to a fast trot, and emerged from the shadows into crisp highland air that struck them head-on.

Yesugei savored the sight of the open, gray skies before looking down at the sprawling valley. At the valley’s base, a settlement sat nestled by a winding stream, the Klyazmites’ homes scattered along its banks. Within the heart of the settlement, the sight before him beggared belief

A gigantic black stone jutted out from the walled town centre, like the shaft of a great arrow shot from the heavens. The great stone radiated a twisting darkness that looked wrong, alien, like they had been painted by some divine hand against the forested landscape. The tendrils lapped at the streaming daylight like so many hungry tongues, swallowing, eating the light and leaving behind hypnotizing, sinking nothing.

“Gods…what is that?”

Yesugei felt the urge to turn back and run, on foot or on horse, but his body refused to obey - he felt his hands shaking as he held the reins in a death grip. His eyes refused to tear themselves away from the yawning void of nothingness that radiated from the jutting stone.

“The legends are real,” Sergen whispered, his voice laced with fear. “The legends are real. They are coming to life, and they will swallow us whole.”

Kaveh’s face twisted in confusion and terror. “What legends?”

“The Harvest,” Sergen murmured, and the word struck Yesugei like a knife. The terrible weight of it hung in the air, unspoken yet understood by all.

Though fear gnawed at them, Yesugei’s resolve remained. He forced himself to rip his gaze from the obelisk, and scanned the settlement once more for movement. Nothing remotely human stirred down in the valley - only the lapping waters and long highland grasses.

“We need to get closer,” said Yesugei. “Look for survivors, records, anything. Then we leave this place.”

Kaveh balked. His half-brother’s face was pale as snow, his eyes wide and his breathing uneven, rattling. “Are you crazy? We need to leave now. This place—this thing—is cursed.”

“No. We need to find proof - bring it before Father, the other khans at Khurvan.” Yesugei looked to Sergen. “Shaman, you said our father believed you when you spoke of these legends?”

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“Resolutely enough to arm and armor his sons and daughters against this evil, yes.” replied the shaman.

Kaveh gestured towards the trail leading back through the darkened woods. “So why not leave now? If Father believes us-”

“-then he will look a fool in front of the other khans,” Yesugei shot back. “And they will call him a madman for believing the terrified words of a drunkard shaman and his ignorant sons.”

“We don’t need the other khans to believe us. We have fifty-thousand riders under our banner.”

“And the other tribes combined have more. Eighty, ninety-thousand? What do you think they will do when the Great Khan sends his warriors after a fairy tale while Naizabai gathers his own allies and wealth at the kurultai? No, we need the other tribes to realize that we’re dealing with here. We need something solid, like a piece of that stone. Only then will they see the danger.”

To this, Kaveh seemed to have no reply. Instead, his half-brother looked once more at the stone and shivered as the darkness matched his gaze.

“Damn it all, fine. But we spend no more time than we absolutely need.”

Sergen moved forward, and Yesugei followed. Just before passing Kaveh, his half-brother grabbed his arm.

“No longer than we have to,” Kaveh said, his voice low. “If we tarry, I’ll leave without you.”

Yesugei almost believed him. He pulled away and rode after Sergen, hearing the cawing of crows overhead. He wondered if they were returning to their roosts in the thatched roofs as he descended down the valley. As they crossed the stream and neared the outpost, Yesugei saw what had drawn the crows.

There were at least fifty of them - strong and infirm, young and old, and children as young as three. The bodies of Klyazmite peasants piled high around the base of the gargantuan obelisk. The smell of fresh blood was overwhelming. Chopped and cut apart by cruel blades, many others were swinging from ropes and hooks, gutted and skinned like so much meat. A festival of flesh and cruelty decorated the silent town.

Severed limbs lay scattered like fallen leaves. Something moved in the dirt near one of the limbs, and then Yesugei saw a black, squirming worm appear from a chopped, pale hand.

No…not a worm.

Blood, coagulated and black from age, slowly inched its way along the ground. Yesugei saw other pools of blood about the outpost square slowly pulling themselves across the ground as well, inching closer towards the corpse pile like carrion maggots in search of food, draining the severed limbs white.

As his eyes followed one of the grisly black trails, Yesugei realized that among the slain were others. Kaveh saw it as well, nudging the others, “Look closer.”

Piled alongside the dead were warriors of the White Khan’s ulus, their perfect armor tarnished with streaks of gore. His breath caught as he scanned the pile around the obelisk again, where the slaughter was at its worst. He did not recognize Dagun at first, so cruelly rendered and left to rot as the khan’s envoy was. The envoy lay sprawled on top of the dead, his jaw grotesquely forced open around a heavy stone. His eyes were gouged out, and his once-proud face was smeared with blood and filth.

Yesugei shook as he slipped off his saddle. Pale and wide-eyed, his companions followed suit and drew their weapons. The obelisk loomed above, its dark surface seeming to drink the sunlight. Crows cawed again, mocking them.

An unbearable weight felt like it was rooting the nomad princeling to the ground as he drew to a stop just outside the outpost entrance. His mouth felt suddenly dry. His heart raced with fear.

Then with a soft breath, he stepped through the gate.

***

Vasilisa’s eyes shot open.

She took another gasp, yearning for another lungful of fresh air, but all she tasted was the scent of blood. The vibrant outdoors faded, replaced by the drab interior of a commoner's home. The cheerful bird song died, replaced by the rising crescendo of distant cawing crows. And when she turned to look back, she no longer saw the stone doors or serpent, but an uneven wooden wall behind her.

Inside the house, an overturned table and shattered bedframe stood among the debris. A snuffed cooking fire sat in the middle of the home, waiting cold and damp for an owner that would never return. Her bleeding hand tightened around her saber as muffled voices reached her ears.

Peering through a crack in the walls, Vasilisa saw several figures walking through a wooden gate, and her aching chest tightened with fear as she saw the glint of steel. Weapons. Armed marauders.

Her gaze elsewhere, trying to figure out where the stone doors had transported her. Vasilisa’s eyes landed on a pile of corpses stacked at the base of a stone obelisk. Dead eyes—old men, young girls—stared through the wall and back at her. She recoiled, feeling sickness rising to her throat.

One of the marauders whispered in a guttural tongue, prompting Vasilisa to press herself against the wall. She watched as the armed band approached the obelisk. All five were Khormchaks, doubtlessly, but their examination of the dead made it clear they were not the perpetrators of the slaughter. As her heart raced, Vasilisa turned her attention to the dark, towering obelisk. Within its dark core swirled lights and disturbing violet clouds.

Gods…I’ve never left. This is still a dream, it must be.

The stone seemed to radiate darkness, consuming all light around it. Within the core of the twisting void, Vasilisa saw specks of light and swirling hints of the mauve and violet clouds. The crystals in her chest hummed uncomfortably, sending a soft pulse through her chest that carried to the bone - did they sense something she did not?

She stiffened as the Khormchaks’ attention turned toward her. One of them spoke a short, pointed word that could only have been an order. The sound of armored footsteps grew louder. Panicked, she wildly searched for an exit - a window, a hole in the wall through which she could crawl - but found nothing. As the warrior neared, Vasilisa ducked behind the overturned table, holding her breath. The door creaked open, and the warrior’s presence filled the room. Silence hung heavy before another noise cut through the silence. A sound Vasilisa heard many times watching her father’s guards in the training yard: the sharp whistling of a soaring arrow.

The armored man stumbled out of the house to meet an unseen foe, and shouts filled the air. Vasilisa waited for a moment before peeking out from behind the table and beyond the opened door.

The Khormchaks scrambled into fighting formation as hissing arrows fell around them. From other houses, black-cloaked figures wearing silver masks emerged—more of Chirlan's killers. She saw the red-robed archer swiftly bring down two masked archers, while the tall spearman blocked a greataxe with his wicker shield and drove a foot of steel and oak through his attacker’s unguarded stomach.

More and more cloaked cultists streamed out from the houses - they seemed an endless river of black that bore down upon the Khormchaks. Vasilisa saw an opening to flee, but then she hesitated as doubt clouded her mind. The Qarakesek, the Khormchaks, were allies - that was what her mother had said. She tried to silence that incessant part of her mind that was too smart for its own good, but could not.

A dozen silver-masked killers surrounded the Khormchaks, stepping around and over the bodies of their dead or dying comrades. Blood snaked across the ground beneath the Khormchaks’ feet, trailing towards the stone obelisk. The black aura swelled as it fed on the carnage, drinking from the fallen.

As Vasilisa spotted an opening, she heard a cry come from the surrounded Khormchaks - a looped rope fell around the neck of the armored glaive-wielder, pulling him to the ground. Chirlan’s killers descended upon him like steel-clawed wolves.

Yesugei, a blue-robed Khormchak, charged to help, forcing back two of Chirlan’s as he freed his comrade. He fought fiercely to cover Kenes’s retreat, cultists moved quickly and silently, shifting in battle with the fluidity of water. They surrounded Yesugei. The nomad swordsman fought one against three, and soon a sword found the back of his leg - another cut across his chest. He fell to the ground, blood staining his elegant robe.

Vasilisa moved swiftly, drawing her saber. Three cultists hovered over Yesugei, and one raised a sword to finish him. Vasilisa threw all her weight forward and carved a jagged red line across the cultist’s spine. She struck a second man across his leg, severing his tendon. As she plunged her sword into the crippled man’s stomach, the third and final cultist fell to Yesugei’s blade.

The injured nomad muttered something at her in Khormchak. Vasilisa gave a nod to the nomad as the two of them caught their breath. Understanding passed between them - the killers with silver masks were both their enemy, and that was all that mattered for now.

The four other Khormchaks fought like cornered, tired animals. The archer, wounded, defended himself with a long, curved knife. The spearman, back edging against the obelisk, blocked blows from an axe with a cracking shield. Kenes spun his glaive, fending off the killers from himself and the cowring shaman, but was slowly pushed back, tripping over the stacked bodies around the obelisk.

Yesugei drew his bow and released a swift shot, bringing down an axe-wielder. A second arrow struck a swordsman, who collapsed to the ground. Vasilisa advanced, but suddenly one cultist broke away to charge at her. She slashed at him, but her saber hit the wooden shaft of his spear, not the man. Before she could react, he kicked her in the stomach, knocking both spear and saber from her hands.

Gasping for breath, she felt cold hands grip her throat. Golden eyes glinted menacingly at her behind a twisted, demonic visage, and she struggled to free herself. Desperately, she tried to claw at his face, but her hands slid uselessly over the polished mask’s surface. The pressure on her throat grew, and her vision blurred - the silver visage twisted and warped before her eyes. The sounds of battle around her faded away, replaced by the low, constant buzzing of the crystals in her chest.

Warm blood splashed onto her face as a silver fang pierced through the cultist’s flowing robe. The cultist’s grip on her bruised throat weakened, and a hand took hold of the dying man and shoved him aside to the dirt.

Yesugei’s face appeared before Vasilisa, and he offered his hand as she gasped for breath. Just as she was helped up, the ground rumbled. Both Khormchaks and cultists paused as the earth trembled beneath them. Vasilisa looked up at the obelisk, now nearly consumed by darkness, its tendrils swallowing the sun.

A burning symbol appeared with a flash on the polished face of the stone obelisk. The sigil burned furiously, giving off a blinding light, and then the flames died down to reveal a smoldering sign - a twisted, feathered serpent eating its own tail. No beginning, and no end.

"Master Chirlan…" croaked a dying cultist. Blood poured from his chest, from his mask, twisting and slithering toward the obelisk. "Gods of mine... fire... earth... stars. Deliver us."

The last coil of blood vanished into the pile of corpses. The roiling darkness suddenly retreated with a roar, violently sucking back into the obelisk.

Cracks began to spiderweb across the smooth face of the black stone. And then it shattered.