‘When the blue sky above and the dark earth below were made,

then were made between them both the sons of men.

Over the sons of men set themselves, my forebears

Bumïn khagan and Istämi khagan…’

–Bilgä khagan VIII CE

Prologue

Everything was eerily calm. No wind was blowing, which was strange for the open steppe, and no birds were singing, although it was early morning. Nearby, the trees in the forest stood ever still. It seemed as if Tengri himself, up there in the heavens, was holding his breath, anticipating what was to come.

Bumïn knew they would approach from the west, only he didn't know when. Yesterday his scouts reported seeing the vanguard of what appeared to be a massive horde about four leagues in the southern direction. They were dragging carts and tents, women and children with them. Bumïn's deepest fears came true. This was no mere army; it was a mass migration with a certain, palpable goal in mind. They did not intend to back down and they were willing to risk it all.

He felt restless as he looked far into the distance. He positioned his six thousand troops — every single one atop a healthy steed, with their backs to the cliffs. He knew his men took it as a sign not to run, but he and his brother had an entirely different thought in mind. A plan that even now left him filled with doubt.

A young man covered in sweat galloped to his side leaving a cloud of dust behind him. He took a moment to catch his breath and spoke with a gentle but confident voice.

'I found them.'

'Are there children?'

'There are, sir. Many.'

'Drop the sir, Böri.'

'No can do, unfortunately,' said Böri, a sly smile creeping onto his face, 'You are my commander now, Tümen.'

The prince seemed to appreciate the joke for he let out a chuckle somewhere behind them. Bumin looked at Böri disapprovingly.

'To Erlik with you. Was Istämi calm?'

'He was, but his lieutenants seemed far from it.'

'Just barely men, the lot of them.'

'Quite so. One even threatened me when I delivered your orders,' he said smiling, 'Are you sure it's going to work?'

'Truth be told, I wouldn't bet on it.'

'And you would win,' said Böri.

Bumïn shifted in his saddle uneasily. It must work. Too many young lives are at stake here. He and Istämi thought of this strategy for a long time. Ever since they rode to Altai with their orders. It didn't help to concentrate with the prince and his convoy occasionally laughing at their rear.

'They are in good spirits at least,' remarked Böri, looking over his shoulder.

'They are here to gloat,' Bumïn said, 'And to run away at the first sign of trouble,' he added after a short pause.

'They sure are,' a subtle smile crossed Böri’s face.

'Why even come here in the first place?'

'Maybe he wants to see you fail with his own eyes, or if you prevail take all the glory.'

'You might be right. I wouldn't put it past him to stoop so low.'

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Although, in this situation Bumïn’s mind was occupied by other thoughts more.

The late chieftain's son scanned as many brave riders beside him as he could. Trying silently to partake in what they might have felt at that moment. He whispered a voiceless prayer. He asked the All-Mother to watch over them today. And to watch over their adversaries, many of whom were their kin who lived and served under the same khagan. Served until about two moons ago that is. Now they were all rebels. Rebels whom he was ordered to subdue and subsequently punish. 'Bring me their heads!' were the last words his liege khagan bellowed as Bumïn bowed in an obligatory show of respect and left the royal tent.

With a heavy heart and a restless spirit, he called upon his men to converge on the Altai mountains where his clan forged and kept hordes of sabres and mountains of chain mail. That made his men better equipped than the Wei Emperor's imperial soldiers or any other city-dwelling king in the known world. Rigid soldiers they were, as well as shepherds and hunters. He only saw a few of them who seemed unsure and justifiably frightened. They could be forgiven though, most of them turned men only a season ago. Many of them now had suckling babes and young wives waiting for them to return to their yurts safe and able-bodied. Bumïn felt devastated whenever he thought about how only a portion would come back from this crucial battle.

Nomad's life was harsh and unforgiving. It could be considered a blessing if the wife of a fallen warrior was taken in by one of his relatives but in the event of him not having anyone or if the family wasn't willing to do so, despite the millennium-old custom, life for them would surely turn into a constant fight for survival.

Something similar happened to his childhood friend Böri whose mother and two younger siblings were left alone by his father's family after he fell in a raid on an obscure Chinese town. They strongly disapproved of his choice for a wife and did not back down even in that most horrible of situations. They didn't see her as a suitable companion for the heir of the Ashide. Even though she gave them two sons and a daughter they desecrated the unspoken law of the Steppe and left them to the wolves and the vast untamed grasslands with no livestock. Bumïn's father took them in, fed and clothed them. He gave them work to occupy them and a new family to bond with. Bumïn remembered now and then the deeds and words of his late father. More than ever, they gave him solace in the face of this pivotal moment.

He had to prove not just to his men but to everyone else that he was ready to lead. Many still doubted him inheriting the chiefdom of his clan and the title of Tümen of the great and fearsome Rouran Khaganate. This was his moment. This was the beginning or the end of his hitherto untold tale. If Tengri willed it, they would triumph today and give him a chance to make a name for himself. Which in turn would set in motion the plan he had been devising since he left the khagan's tent. Nevertheless, if he were to die today he hoped he would do so with a weapon in hand.

He found it, however, hard to focus with khagan's son pestering about every little thing as he usually did.

'Where are the rest, Bumïn? I thought they might have arrived by now,' he said, trying to appear amusing. 'Are you not the commander of ten thousand?' he mocked. 'Or are you afraid to lose them all?' he let out a subtle chuckle, delighted with himself.

'They are here, my Tegin,' Bumïn answered as calmly as he could.

'Do not call me that!’ he suddenly bellowed. ‘I am no mere Türk, Tümen. You would remember well to address me in my language... Understood?’

He liked to ridicule Bumïn by calling him Tümen. In his eyes, a commander of ten thousand was far below a prince who could beg an army from his father. He was in the end a very simple creature.

'Apologies, my prince. It was not my intention to offend you,' he said without taking his gaze off of the horizon.

'Well, you did and they are not. I fail to see all of your men. Fewer than a half are here with us. Did they desert, I wonder? Did they have so little faith in their commander?'

'They are here,' Bumïn repeated himself. He did not like to do that. Repetitions are for the simple-minded, he believed. They waste time.

'Well, I hope you know that if you fail, I will take no shame in returning home with my retinue... To tell my father of your heroic defeat, of course,' he mumbled after a pause.

'I know,' in the end, he did not expect anything more from him. He was his father's son after all. The one who took the throne by cunning and bribery and who now played the king. He was a walking shame to his ancestors, and his dishonourable offspring did not stray far.

'I heard you came to Ötüken last summer.'

'I did, my prince.'

'Such a shame I wasn't there. We could have wrestled. I always found explicable joy in dropping you to the ground in our youth.'

He rarely was victorious yet he loved to boast unjustifiably. Whenever Bumïn overcame him, he would run in tears to his father's side to complain. Since early childhood Bumïn and his brother spent more time with them than they would have genuinely preferred. The only time they truly enjoyed it was when they travelled with their mother to her yurt. It stood there still in the direction from which the rebellious horde was coming to assert its freedom. Oh, if only Bumïn could join them and march all the way to imperial capital and finally taste the long-awaited liberty. How easier life would be if he added his ten thousand men to an already formidable host of Tiele.

It was too late, however. He could not bring himself to sully the name of his clan and ancestors by breaking the already-given oath. They watched him now atop the cliffs behind him, lurking in the shadows of the trees nearby, riding the wind masterfully like they once did stallions. Unnoticed, they followed his every step, his every decision. For the nomads honour meant everything. Without it, you could not be trusted; if you could not be trusted, you were as good as dead. He was now a dead man with a host. Loyal servant plotting in the depths of his heart — an orphan trying to find his place in this unforgiving world.

As Bumïn locked eyes with Böri, both men felt the weight of the moment. It was not just about victory or defeat, but a defining juncture that would shape the destiny of their people. The future hung in the balance, and as he gazed towards the horizon where his destiny awaited, Bumïn felt the breath of the gods on his neck, urging him forward into the annals of history or into the embrace of oblivion.