Gharkan was not convinced. The Gadalians had decayed into a weakly bunch. Although their training and skill were excellent, their customs and traditions had gotten the best of them. And yet, he could not deny the call for battle. He had been promoted as the leader of the Heavenly Serpent Archer Battalion due to his superior fighting skills. It was time to prove his abilities and lead his men to victory.

Their great army was mobilized, expecting the return of the young woman the Gadalian called leader. Was she really the leader of the Gadalian nation, or a self-appointed ruler? To Gharkan it seemed like the latter. From what he had heard, her tribe consisted of eleven people.

Anyway, he was a warrior, he did not care much for reasons. Chieftain Mundzuch stayed back, an old man as he was. But they rode on.

Gharkan’s division moved ahead, and the other three mounted groups advanced close to the sides in their journey south. They camped early every night, he stopped his moving yurt amid his warriors. He was proud of them. Most of them were seventeen and eighteen, and eager to go to battle, with no fear even for the first battle of their lives. He sparred with them, led training drills on how to defeat Itruschian phalanxes, practiced archery and his favorite: catch-wrestling, at which he had never been beaten.

image [https://i.ibb.co/fDNmbNR/neander55-tv-still-from-the-80s-anime-show-three-mongolian-ride-4498cf40-2a8d-41ec-986b-b0f28f62510c.png]

Gharkan was shorter than average, but since his childhood, he had dreamed of being a soldier like his late father. And a wrestler. Now, it had to be the first of many victories.

He was used to hard work, and was determined to make his goal come true. One day, he would be Supreme Commander of all Hunatian divisions. A Commander General for the whole tribe.

The hordes advanced for a few days, stopping near the river, until the day on which they were supposed to reach the Varalkian camp. Instead, they saw burnt grass in the distance, mounds of earth and a few half charred yurts and tipis made of hides and animal skin. The other three mounted hordes had stopped around the place. He followed.

“Halt!” he ordered, raising his hand, his eyes trying to understand what he was seeing. For an instant, he thought those were the remains of a merchant group sacked by bandits, but the area they covered was too vast, and the number of their tents, or their remains, was big enough to call them a tribe. From afar, he saw human figures timidly standing up, very few, like survivors of a carnage, and hungry vultures circling above and feasting below.

On the side, a portable wooden fence extended for many yards, shielding only corpses of cattle and again, feasting scavengers.

The other generals signalled for a gathering, and Gharkan guided the bridle of his horse to face them.

“What is that?” one of Gharkan’s soldiers asked behind his back. The brother had dismounted and taken off his helmet, narrowing his eyes and glancing at the vast killing field while the wind shook his long black hair.

“I hope it’s not what I think it is,” Gharkan said. “I’ll be back soon, my brothers,” he said, looking at his troops, some on their horses, some dismounting to rest.

Gharkan spurred, riding fast on his Eastern stallion, coming close to the other generals. But he knew. They, the noble Varalkians part of the race that had made the Empire shake to its core, had once again been massacred. He felt strangely disappointed, that famous general they were supposed to meet had surely fallen by the sword. Another woman. The horror before his eyes meant only one thing, the state of warrior tribes after years of decay, after lending their leadership to women.

“You look excited, my brother,” said Arman from afar, the other young general, as Gharkan approached.

“What is going on, comrade?” Gharkan asked, with a frown facing the camp.

Uncle Rackhsa greeted them with a nod, up on his horse, with the long red crest of his helmet fluttering in one direction. He trotted to approach them. His horse was as big as an ox, of a Hunatian breed long forgotten. Gharkan would have liked one of those. It would make him look taller. If the loot of that battle was good, it would be the first thing he would buy.

“Their camp was attacked,” Rackhsa said, reaching them, along with Changkai the Elder on a dark horse. “Remain attentive. The people there may be the perpetrator.”

“Uncle, there’s no need to be that wary. I think they’re just survivors,” Gharkan said.

“Gharkan boy, you are a great fighter, but you haven’t seen much. Traps and ambushes are the most treacherous things, now go and bring some men, and let’s explore this place.”

Gharkan rolled his eyes. “Aye,” he muttered.

Gharkan threw a glance at the charred camp. Trap? Impossible. There was no danger, even if the camp was full of hidden archers, there was no way more than a thousand armed men could hide in that pile of rubble. He went back to his men and told them to remain in position, he selected five men and rode with them into the camp. The other generals also had their own group, and advanced, closing in from different angles. What the shapes revealed shocked him for an instant. A woman lay with her intestines split open, a little child with his head against the grass on her side, at the foot of a huge yurt that had been consumed in flames, partly charred. Luckily, the vision was interrupted by the hungry vultures that crowded around them.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

As Gharkan approached, he was struck by the salty, pungent smell of death. That horrid stench. The thing he hated the most about it was that it stuck to everything that drew near, it would linger in his throat and hair.

Behind him, one of his elected scouts, a very proficient archer, leaned to the side on his horse and vomited. The reaction was as expected. Someone had to do it every single time. Gharkan himself shielded his nostrils with his leather gauntlet.

They advanced through the yurts with their eyes open and ears attentive. The crackling of vultures and a few consuming fires were the only noises.

“There!” one of the soldiers said, extending his gauntleted fingers. A figure sneaked in and out of a yurt. Gharkan spurred, his horse trotted gallantly and stopped in front of the yellow yurt. He held his spear, just in case, and dismounted.

“Come out, we come in peace," Gharkan said.

A gray-haired face peeked from behind.

“Thank the Red Sun!” said the man, crawling out of his yurt and kneeling in front of him. “Thank the gods that you came!”

“Thank them later,” Gharkan said. “What happened here?”

“The Itruschians came and slaughtered, they came and killed, young, old, they did not have mercy,” the man sobbed.

“How many survivors are there, old man?”

The man looked up, the sun reflected in his eye, reflecting joy and thankfulness.

“Praise the gods! There are about a dozen. See that pole?” He pointed at a tall totem that stuck out. “That’s where they are. Follow me, I shall take you.”

Gharkan signaled the other generals and their scouting sections, and they followed the man through the camp littered with half-rotten bodies. Inevitably, some of the comrades vomited, trying to aim away from their saddles, then leaned weakly against their horses’ necks. Luckily, the more they moved toward the center, the less the smell. Soon, they found out that the survivors were gathering bodies and burying them in the ground, trying to gather the belongings of the fallen. From what they had seen, it would take them a long time.

As they passed, they glanced at the bewildered survivors doing the job, some covering their noses and mouths with scarves and shirts. The area around the menhir was different. A tall cauldron rested on metal bars, over reddened ashes and whitened coal. Six people sat around it, two women, one of them with a crying baby in arms, and four men of different ages. One of them wore the plain clothes of an Itruschian slave. The group stood in awe as soon as they saw the approaching horsemen.

“Who is in charge?” Rackhsa asked, pulling the reins to brace his horse.

“Blessed be the gods!” One of the old men stepped forward and fell to his knees.

“We have no leaders nor masters,” said the woman with the crying baby.

“Please, take us!” said the man who had fallen to his knees, he was so thin that his ribs were visible. “Take us with you, as we have lost our land and people. Take us with us, we shall serve you, but please.”

Gharkan and the generals exchanged a glance.

“These people lost everything,” he said.

“You have a leader who waits for you in the West,” Rackhsa said. “Now, gather your people, we can share some of our rations with you.”

“We were foolish, if only we had marched with the woman!” the man on his knees said.

“You old fool,” another said, fat as a whale, and accompanied his words with a spat. “If we were cursed and abandoned it was because of those bastard traitors.”

“What happened to the Adachians?” Gharkan asked.

“They were taken captives,” answered the fat man.

“And, that famous leader abandoned them, see?” Gharkan asked.

“Gharkan, Changkai, Rackhsa,” Arman said to them. “Tell your people we will set camp here, let’s listen to them and gather information.”

“Aye, sire,” they said.

Gharkan turned around on his horse and rode toward his horde. His men waited attentively, unmolested by the blazing sun.

“What is going on?” asked one of his frontline soldiers.

“The Itruschians did this. The famous commanders who were going to advise were taken captive and are probably hanging from a cross right now.”

“Oh.” The soldier stared at the dark horizon. “Well, what can we do?”

“Come on, people, get moving. Start assembling the tents. We’ll pitch them here.”

“Aye,” they replied, dismounting from their tired steeds.

***

A great bonfire burned at the centre of the new camp, away from the putrid stench of death and the disgusting birds that enjoyed it, and the sun slowly set. The yellow flags of the Sons of Hunaz stood proudly under the crescent. Gharkan joined the other generals, they sat on the ground, surrounding the survivors, who were dressed with clean clothes, gleefully feasting on dried meat and yogurt.

The survivors related the account of their suffering. One of the men beneath the idol, the one who was dressed in Itruschian clothes related a most unlikely tale. He was not Gadalian, nor did he belong to that specific tribe. He was a man from the West.

“That girl saved our lives,” he said.

“So you’re saying that those three women and a young boy killed twenty-five soldiers?” Gharkan asked with a chuckle, and took a sip of liquor from a wineskin. “Brothers, the battle will be easy!” he announced, turning his face toward the crowd. “Itruschians are so feeble that three women killed twenty-five.”

Arman also chuckled beside him. His long eyes blinked twice, then he silenced himself to not offend his superiors.

The Varalkians in attendance, however, clenched their teeth in annoyance. They did not like his jokes. But he did not care.

“Now, don’t be such wimps, how can you deny it? Women? Is that the army that conquered the West? By Tengri, it’s going to be easy.”

“Shut up,” Rackhsa silenced him. “Now, you, what’s your name, slave? What was your name?”

“Kavros, sire.” He cleared his throat. “The borders are not particularly well guarded as of now. They concentrated most of the forces in the village itself. They won’t be able to summon enough troops to defend the border against your powerful army.”

“That sounds favourable,” Arman muttered. “Good for us. What are the resources in Adachia?”

“That I know not, aside from soil for pastures and fields. Mistress Alana told me that the Itruschians burnt the forest, and there’s pastures the Adachians used for cattle, that’s it.”

“Please!” cried the old man who had spent most of the day on his knees. “Please avenge our people, we will serve you, but please avenge them.”

“We shall not take slaves from our allies,” Arman said, then turned toward the other generals. “What shall we do? Should we return to our elders?”

“We cannot waste any more time,” Rackhsa said.

“My friend was taken captive by them, we were both serving the Empire.”

Rackhsa caressed his long beard. “Changkai?” he asked, tapping on the knee of the oldest general.

“Let us ride.”

Gharkan narrowed his eyes. It was a rash decision on their part, but he agreed. It was the reason why he had decided to take his hordes, even in a foolish cause. He wished to prove himself in battle. He felt a surge of energy, like a thunderbolt in his veins.

As soon as the sun soon rose, they picked up their belongings, mounted and marched behind the yellow banner of Tengri.