《God Within Us [Psychological Dark Fantasy]》


 A Glossary of Terms

    Baghatur - a Khormchak title of honor, ¡°hero¡± or ¡°great warrior¡±


    Boyar - title for noblemen, used in Klyazma.


    Druzhina - the personal bodyguards and retinue of a Klyazmite boyar/prince. Members are called druzhinniks.


    Keshik - the personal bodyguard of a Khornchak khan.


    Khan - title for tribal leaders, used in the Great Khormchak Horde.


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    Knyaz - title for feudal rulers, used in Klyazma. Synonymous with "prince".


    Kurultai - a council of Khormchak nobility and khans, used to elect military and imperial leaders.


    Myndyq - Khormchak term for ¡°a thousand households¡±. Alternatively: a military unit of a thousand warriors.


    Noyan - title for nobles and military commanders in the Great Khormchak Horde.


    Posol - a Klyazmite term for emissaries, particularly from the Great Khormchak Horde.


    Qadi - a judge, or wise man. Used in Huwaq.


    Ulus - territory under the rule of a khan. E.g. the ulus of Naizabai = lands under the rule of Naizabai.

 Chapter -300,000: The Last Book

    The Last Book


    Recorded by the Black Scribe Thu¡¯ban


    <hr>


    Chapter 13


    1 Of the coming of the prophet, 5 Of agony, 9 Of resplendence


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    1 And lo, I shall unfurl my sign, a comet bright as blood,


    2 To rend the heavens, shake the earth, and loose the coming flood.


    3 For in that day the Vessel shall arise, from death and shadow born,


    4 To bear eyes to mortal sin and herald time¡¯s new morn.

 Chapter 0 - Prologue

    Prologue


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    "We are not far now,¡± reported Huslen as the sun began to dip below the horizon. ¡°Tosont should be no more than three miles away.¡±


    ¡°Good riddance,¡± sniffed Dagun, taking a swig from a wineskin before continuing. ¡°A man my age should not be sleeping out in the wild.¡±


    The fact the Khormchak envoy spoke from within a great horse-drawn palanquin of silver and silks seemed to be lost on him, and Huslen allowed himself a small smile when he was sure Dagun-noyan was not looking. Even in the darkening hours the midsummer woods about them were oppressively humid, and with the coming dark the flies that fell upon those not riding in the palanquin were unending in number and spitefulness. The tail of Huslen¡¯s horse swished to and fro, slapping away handfuls of the wretched biters, but all the keshik bodyguard riding it could do was grit his teeth and uselessly wave his hand before his face.


    ¡°I dislike this country - more so at dark,¡± complained Baiju, who rode at the head of the column. ¡°Who did that noyan think he was, ordering us out like that? We should scale his walls and cut that pig¡¯s throat when we return.¡±


    Huslen shared the lancer¡¯s sentiment, and saw Dagun nodding along, entertaining the idea with a smile. The horsehair banner that Baiju held stiff in his stirrup should have set all men on their path to their knees in respect for the Great Khan¡¯s envoy. Such had been the case, until they had come to the city of Bayan. There, the local noyan of the Quanli tribe had barred the gates and set archers along the walls. And so instead of spending the night drinking and feasting as guests of honor, they now found themselves hurriedly making their way across the border and towards the next town along their path before dark, at Dagun¡¯s request.


    The Quanli tribe and their noyans could afford to be defiant, but the subject Klyazmites certainly could not - if one of their boyar lords turned their band away, then the entire country would bleed white just as it had twenty years ago. Even the bandits who plagued the forest roads knew better and scattered before the white banner. And besides the looming threat of the Great Khan¡¯s wrath, the envoy Dagun was in the company of thirty keshiks, the khan¡¯s own bodyguards. Iron and leather-clad was each man, with a lance at his side and a bow holstered close by - they were all veterans of a hundred battles, and they feared nothing beneath the Eternal Sky.


    Until now. Something felt strange to Huslen, tromping through the darkening woods of the Klyazmite borderland. A chilling breeze blew along the tops of the trees, and when their branches rustled it sounded as though they were whispering. Ever since they had left the native steppe, it felt as if a heavy pall were hanging over their heads - or perhaps a sword, dangling from a fraying string.


    No one else in the company seemed put off; but then again, none of them had the blood of the Ormanli forest people running through their veins as Huslen had. None of them could see the world as he did. They didn¡¯t perceive the spirits who lingered in every clump of soil and every blade of grass. Those same spirits that were at present strangely silent - as though they had fled¡­or died. And worse than the silence of the earth, Huslen felt that he, and everyone in their column, was being watched.


    It was not the spirits, always kind to Huslen and indifferent to everyone else. The presence that Huslen felt was a terrible force that loomed suffocatingly vast, yet was unseen - still, he felt it, like a giant predator lurking just out of sight. His head was on a swivel all through their ride in the woods, and while he could bring himself to forget about it for a time, the presence always came back, creeping in from the corners of his mind.


    A darkness. A terrible, drowning darkness, lingering in places cold and unkind to men.


    The sudden sound of thundering hooves set him on guard, and a dim splash of color came up around a bend in the forest trail. Huslen only let his breath loose when he saw it was the plume of the herald they¡¯d sent on to announce that the illustrious Dagun-noyan, envoy of the Horde and tax-collector of the Klyazmites, was in a foul mood and expected wine, a bed, and a girl - and that any delay would be punished by steeper tithe. But the look on the messenger¡¯s face as he rode up to the palanquin was not that of a man who¡¯d been sent kindly on his way.


    Both messenger and horse were exhausted, and there was a look of fear in the man¡¯s eyes as he pulled up beside Dagun. ¡°My lord¡­something is amiss at Tosont.¡±


    The old noyan poked his head out from the palanquin window, scowling. ¡°Speak up, man! What¡¯s wrong now?¡±


    ¡°Everything¡¯s¡­silent, my lord,¡± spoke the messenger, wiping the sweat from his brow. ¡°Everything¡¯s¡­dark. It¡¯s all strange, dark as night, and I heard no voices, saw no men on the walls. The gates were left swinging open, my lord.¡±


    Huslen felt his blood run cold, and the aged leather of his gloves creaked as he gripped the reins of his horse. He did not bother to hide his fear now, but Dagun took no notice.


    ¡°Feh,¡± sneered the envoy as he shifted in his seat. ¡°Does the sight of an empty village unman a keshik? The rats are probably hiding - their lord probably fled.¡±


    The envoy made to take another swig from his wineskin, then frowned as it came up empty. Scowling again, Dagun tossed it aside. ¡°Either way, I tire of making camp beneath the stars. We ride on - and if there are any Klyazmite rats we can scare up, there will be hell to pay.¡±


    Huslen set his mouth in a hard line as the messenger fell back into line with the column. They had all served under Dagun-noyan long enough to know he was not a man that listened to the counsel of those beneath him. There was nothing they could say - the order was given, and the blood-sworn of the Great Khan were bound to follow.


    As they went on, what little light remained quickly died away. And in the growing gloom of the evening, the darkening sky seemed to be split in two by a thin, pale line that cut across the heavens. The falling star that marked their trail had burned across the sky seven days ago, yet the tail lingered long after that brilliant flare had disappeared, guiding them all west.


    By the time the column rode into view of the waiting town, the world had become nearly pitch-black, illuminated only by a few stabs of moonlight through thick clouds, and the bright tail across the sky. Huslen loosened his sabre in its sheath as the silhouette of the wooden ringwall came into view. His heart froze when he and the company saw the gates, creaking loudly on their iron hinges as they swayed.


    ¡°What¡¯s going on?¡± came the call from within the palanquin as Dagun poked his head out once more. ¡°Why have we stopped?¡±


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    A loud neigh came up from the column, followed by an angry shout. One of the keshiks called back, ¡°My lord, something has spooked the horses - they won¡¯t go further!¡±


    Dagun tilted his head up to look at the walls, the swaying gates. Neither words nor defending arrows came down from the battlements - there was just¡­silence.


    Huslen dismounted from his steed, patting it on its muscled neck as he pulled his bow and quiver free from their holsters. Ten other keshiks followed suit, donning their shields and drawing sabres, maces, and axes to the ready. He signaled for them to walk by his lead, and then treaded carefully towards the open gates, squinting in the looming dark. The ten of them passed by the gates without a sound, and Huslen tilted his head up to look into the guard towers on either side. Empty.


    A chill came upon the keshik as a breeze blew against him, but even when the wind had passed, the cold lingered. The wind blew with it a rank smell, one the warriors were all familiar with - the smell of death, though no corpses could be seen, yet. The streets of the town were empty, and Huslen spied no lights, not even a candle, flickering in any of the windows. All was dark against the horizon, the buildings all blending into a single gloomy mass. Only one shape broke the silhouette of the empty town - that of a tall, sharp spire that loomed over the rest of the peasant hovels.


    No - there were no great towers in Tosont.


    The hairs on Huslen¡¯s arms and neck stood up as his heart thudded in his chest - the wardrum of fear beating so strongly it felt as though his chest would break apart. Dagun-noyan was calling, but his voice suddenly sounded muffled, as if he were many miles away.


    The flies had disappeared.


    ¡°Everyone!¡± hissed Huslen, shouldering his bow and drawing his sword. ¡°To me! Now!¡±


    There was the slither of iron plates and the creak of leather as the keshiks drew ranks together, their shields raised all about them as their eyes darted everywhere. They all felt it now, he saw it in their eyes. There was a heaviness over them - the darkness about them was not of nature¡¯s will, else the stars should have shone in the clear skies above.


    The darkness pressed in closer about them, creeping along the ground like flooding tar. Consuming. Suffocating. The keshiks shuffled like huddled sheep back towards the gates as Huslen brought up the rear. The silence was pressing in about them as well. He could hardly hear the sound of his own panicked breathing, but he heard the call of his fellow keshik when the voice piped up from behind him.


    ¡°Huslen," his comrade called - the great warrior¡¯s voice sounding small and scared. ¡°The gates are closed.¡±


    Huslen spun around to look upon the town gates, and saw the iron-banded doors were shut, fast. Immediately, one of the keshiks fell upon the door, straining as he tried to push the great doors apart. Two, three men went to help, but they might well have been pushing against a mountain for all the good it did.


    The darkness was drawing closer, lapping at the edges of their huddled group. Baiju thrust his lance into the approaching darkness, as if it were some wild beast to be warded with steel. Where the tip of his lance scraped the darkness, black tendrils exploded out from the spreading pool. A thousand tiny arms wriggled hungrily up along the shaft - but before they could touch the keshik, Huslen wrenched the weapon free from his hands and cast it into the darkness, where it was swallowed without a sound.


    ¡°Climb the gate!¡± shouted one man. ¡°Start climbing!¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s too high up!¡±


    ¡°Damn it all, keep pushing! Get these fucking doors open!¡±


    Huslen helped Baiju up to his feet when he saw a tendril - thin as wire but pulsing like a vein, coiled around the leather and holding him fast.


    ¡°It¡¯s got me!¡± the lancer shrieked. He kicked and stomped, but the darkness didn¡¯t loosen - it pulled. Then, faster than blinking, it sprang. Tendrils shot up from the pool in a sickening blur of movement. They wrapped the keshik¡¯s ankle, his legs, his chest.


    ¡°Huslen, pull me out, pull me-¡±


    Then the darkness yanked, and Baiju disappeared. Swallowed whole without a sound - as though he had never existed.


    The terror rose to the keshik¡¯s heart - primal, like a fox escaping a flooding burrow. It consumed the others too - each man began to push and shove, screaming for help that would never come. Huslen shoved his way to the gate as the others fell into their mad panic. He slammed his fist against the wooden doors, and roared, ¡°Aruktai! Tahar! Someone, anyone, help! Get this damn gate open!¡±


    Silence.


    The voice came like a knife. It cut an icy line through Huslen¡¯s heart, and silenced the shouting throng of keshiks clamoring at the door. Huslen turned to look, and saw something stirring in the black expanse. The voice. A face - no, a mask. A leering face surfaced from the void, followed by a body as the darkness folded itself into the shape of a man - tall and lithe, angled and bent, unnatural in shape, like something trying to imitate a person.


    Do not flee from beauty. The voice echoed inside Huslen¡¯s mind, clear and sharp. Do not flee from salvation. Come, come with me. Come, and see.


    Two arms detached themselves from the darkness, fingers crept up along the surface of the mask.


    Come, and see.


    The mask came off, and a brilliant flare of pale light turned night into day. Huslen blinked the scattered dots out of his eyes, and saw the face beneath the mask - a window of starlight. Swirling colors, shimmering clouds of dust, and in the space between spaces, brilliant dots of light that seemed close enough to touch, yet hopelessly far. He grasped towards the enthralling sight, even as another part of his mind struggled to pull him away.


    Come and see.


    That part of his mind which screamed against his own body was failing. In the corners of his sight, the keshik saw the heavy shadows pressing in all around him. His men had fallen silent - had they even existed? Nothing seemed to matter, not Dagun-noyan, not his men¡­not the tendrils that he half-sensed curling around his chest, pulling him into the shadowy embrace of the thing. Nothing else mattered except the divine sight before him. And then¡­nothing at all. Nothingness became his whole world.


    The keshik closed his eyes.


    ¡°Spirits, protect me.¡±

 Chapter 1 - The Posol (New)

    The Posol


    <hr>


    ¡°Vasilisa!¡± Mariana¡¯s sharp voice shattered the tranquil hum of the outdoors, commanding immediate attention. Even the birds seemed to pause, as if cowed by her authority.


    Vasilisa frowned, turning away from the window to meet Mariana¡¯s familiar scowl. The elderly woman¡¯s expression, etched deeply into her face, was as constant as the sunrise.


    ¡°What are you laughing at, girl? The Horde¡¯s posol will arrive any moment, and you¡¯re daydreaming!¡± snapped Mariana.


    ¡°And why does it matter to me, nyanya?¡± Vasilisa replied as Mariana entered, trailed by five handmaidens each carrying an armful of finely-tailored dresses.


    ¡°I thought Father would be holding court without me again!¡± Vasilisa exclaimed, but her words fell on deaf ears as Mariana began to order the handmaidens about.


    ¡°Well, this time you finally get to see the posol yourself!¡± sighed Mariana as she stood Vasilisa up. "My lord wishes you to join today - now stand up straight!"


    The handmaidens paraded the assorted dresses before the old woman''s critical eye. One by one, she dismissed them with a click of her tongue. ¡°Too short. Too tight. Too plain.¡±


    Finally, she settled on an emerald green dress with an embroidered belt. ¡°At least this one hides those bullish shoulders,¡± Mariana muttered.


    To Vasilisa, ambassador of the Great Khormchak Horde was less a man and more a dark symbol of the nomad yoke. Every few years, he came to demand tributes in exchange for the Charter that allowed her father to rule under the Great Khan. Perhaps fearing the envoy might take an interest in his daughter, her father had always kept Vasilisa hidden. Over the years, she had caught only a fleeting, hazy glimpse of the posol''s entourage¡ªnow little more than a half-forgotten memory.


    Now she was a grown woman of twenty summers - already well into marriageable age, as her father constantly bemoaned. Then the suspicion dawned on her as to why her father had a sudden interest in presenting her before the posol.


    Before she could voice her thoughts Mariana was already fitting the emerald dress to her frame. Each attempt at conversation was silenced by a click of the tongue or a wayward prick of the matron¡¯s needle. Her work stretched from minutes into what felt like hours, broken only by the sound of labored footsteps and a heavy knock at the door.


    Ilya, chief of her father¡¯s druzhina bodyguards, stepped inside, his burly armored frame filling the doorway. Despite his gruff appearance, he greeted Vasilisa with a warm, grandfatherly smile. "Good lady Vasilisa, your father requests your presence in court soon.¡±


    ¡°In a moment!¡± scowled Mariana as she reached into a jewelry chest. The matron withdrew the final piece of the imperious doll Vasilisa of Belnopyl was transformed into: a jeweled garland, set with fine emeralds and rubies. It weighed heavily settled on Vasilisa¡¯s head - and the lingering doubts in her mind became crystallized. Marriage. He means to marry me off.


    Mariana grasped Vasilisa''s wrist tightly as she led the princess out of her room, then passed her off to Ilya. Vasilisa''s skin began to crawl, and her heart thumped so anxiously in her chest that she held in an urge to vomit. Marriage, so soon, so suddenly? How? Why?


    Ilya didn¡¯t take her hand, but it only made the sense of looming dread even worse as she walked down the hall with him. Her mind raced at a thousand thoughts a second as she walked behind Ilya, her every step guiding her closer and closer to seeming oblivion even as her mind screamed to stop, halt, run, go anywhere but here.


    The prospect of being exiled to the steppes, a pawn passed between houses in a political game, filled her with dread. Such marriages were always a reality among the nobility of Klyazma - marriages for alliances, for gold, for titles. But she had always thought herself different - her family, the House of Belnopyl, above it all. She clenched her fists, forcing herself to focus. Think! Think!


    ¡°Ilya?¡± Her voice suddenly sounded so small. She set aside the deafening thoughts, then spoke more firmly. ¡°Ilya, what do you know about this posol? I¡¯ve heard much about him, but I¡¯ve never even seen him, much less met him.¡±


    Her father¡¯s man grunted, one gloved hand clenching into a fist near the size of Vasilisa¡¯s head. ¡°The posol normally comes and goes within the day. Your father and I usually have his tribute gathered already so he, busy man that he is, can depart as quickly as possible.¡±


    ¡°Is that not the case this time?¡±


    ¡°No, unfortunately,¡± muttered Ilya as he rubbed the back of his neck and adjusted his gilded helmet. ¡°He and his men are planning to stay as our guests in this manor for a while. Your father¡¯s told me to say little else on the matter, my lady.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡±


    ¡°Indeed.¡±


    The sun shone dazzlingly against Ilya¡¯s armor as they stepped out onto the open bridge that ran between the eastern wing and the Great Hall. Yet the sunlight did not feel warm - at least, not warm enough to chase away the chilling fingers that wrapped themselves around Vasilisa¡¯s shoulders. She looked over the railing, thinking for half a moment of the height and the fall, but the thought faded as fast as it came.


    Then she looked out further, past the curtain walls of the keep where her father¡¯s city lay sprawled magnificently along the Cherech - the city¡¯s lifeblood and its greatest treasure. The high midsummer sun caught the river''s surface and turned it into a sheet of molten gold. Tents and wagons crowded the banks, while merchant ships from Pemil and Gatchisk swayed in the waters. For a fleeting moment, home seemed more beautiful than ever - but something felt amiss.


    ¡°Ilya,¡± she said, hurrying her pace to walk alongside him. ¡°If the posol is coming, then where are the others? Should the princes of Pemil and Gatchisk not come to pay their own respects to the Great Khan?¡±


    Mariana''s arrival had taken so by storm, the absence of the usual pageantry only struck her now. Law dictated the princes of Belnopyl, Pemil, and Gatchisk were to gather at the Klyazmite capital to honor the posol and the Great Khan. Usually, the princes brought with them armies of followers that turned the city into a bustling hub - yet now, they were ghosts in the wind.


    ¡°Gvozden of Gatchisk is ill as ever, you know this,¡± Ilya replied. He paused, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "As for Svetopolk...it is curious that he has not arrived."


    "Curious?" She pressed. Surely if she was to be married off, all the princes of the realm needed to be gathered?


    "The posol would not look kindly on Pemil''s absence," Ilya muttered. And neither would your father, was the part left unspoken. Then, with a dismissive wave of his massive hand, he added, "But it is not our concern. Svetopolk''s share of the tribute was already gathered in the spring. If the Great Khan is angered, then the axe will only fall on the heads of Pemil''s folk."


    A chill ran down Vasilisa''s spine. She remembered all too well the last time such an "axe" had fallen. All of Klyazma had borne the scars for a decade - much of the countryside in Gatchisk to this day remained empty of souls and settlements. And of course, Klyazma¡¯s greatest cities and their princes now bore the yoke of the Great Khan, paying tithes in silver, furs, and honey.


    And daughters, came the thought, unbidden.


    As she tried to think of something, anything else to say or ask, even just to distract her from thoughts of her future, they had already arrived at the doors to the great hall.


    The guards, Stavr and Pyotr, gave Ilya a nod and bowed deeply to Vasilisa as they opened the doors. She had grown up with them, hearing their crass jokes and watching their squabbles over dice games. Now they regarded her like a stranger, a foreign princess, sparing only the briefest of glances. The Great Hall felt alien¡ªa stifling temple of stone, filled with blurred, half-familiar faces.


    The doors shut behind them with a muted slam.


    The great hall where her father usually heard the complaints and concerns of the city¡¯s foremost merchants and landowners was transformed into a nauseating spectacle. Colorful streamers danced across the wooden rafters, great crimson carpets cut along the stone floors. And standing like watchful sentries above it all, the towering idols of the gods.


    Mokosh, Mother of the Earth. Guide my destiny. But the Earth-Mother¡¯s serene wooden face, decorated with silver flowers, offered no words of wisdom.


    Perun, Lord of Lightning and Heaven. Steel my will. But the Lightning-Lord¡¯s divine golden visage offered no words of comfort nor inspiration.


    Igor of Belnopyl stood on the raised platform, barking orders at the servants as his graying mustache twitched. Behind him, an artisan worked on a life-size painting of Vasilisa in maiden-whites, her eyes replaced by two drilled holes. Once the final strokes were applied, Igor motioned for two servants to lift the board and slot it into an alcove behind the thrones.


    Igor¡¯s stern gaze broke into a warm smile as he spotted Vasilisa approaching. His heeled boots clacked loudly on the stone floors as he drew forth to take Vasilisa¡¯s hands into his own.


    ¡°Ah, Vasilisa¡­you look as beautiful as ever,¡± he said as he gave her a hasty look over, his eyes never meeting hers. Indeed, beautiful enough for the posol? Beautiful enough for whatever khan you¡¯d have your only daughter marry?


    Though her father normally stood a few inches taller than her, the Prince of Belnopyl seemed smaller today. His hunched, defeated posture brought him level with his daughter¡¯s face as she studied him. He looked drained, his skin a sickly gray. Deep worry lines marred his face, along with a jagged scar on his jaw where a Khormchak¡¯s saber had nearly cleaved his head in two.


    Does it hurt, Father? Giving your daughter as a bride to your old foes? Vasilisa bit down the urge to yell at her father. They take your gold for tribute, your people as slaves, and now your only child for a bride.


    ¡°Where is mother? Will she be with us in court?¡± At the very least, perhaps her mother might be willing to say the hard words Igor seemed unwilling to say.


    Her father¡¯s shoulders slumped. Ah, perhaps there is at least one who disapproves of this match.


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    Cirina of Belnopyl was the adopted daughter of the Quanli khan, who ruled over the western regions of the Horde. The fierce character of her mother was unlike that of most other noblewomen, and her foreignness quickly earned the disapproval of her father¡¯s court, especially Mariana.


    Even after marrying Igor of Belnopyl, Cirina had little interest in court life, preferring to ride and falcon-hunt over tending to the household. When Vasilisa showed interest in her mother¡¯s past as a Khormchak noyan, Cirina eagerly taught her to wield a dagger and saber - to defend her honor and avenge wrongs against her kin.


    If her honor must be defended, we have guards and Ilya for that! Her father had blustered when he heard of Vasilisa¡¯s brief training.


    And what if there are no guards? Her mother had replied. You can¡¯t keep her locked away forever. What will she do when there are none? No, my daughter will fight¡ªboth for her honor and for the honor of her family, including you, husband.


    It seemed her destiny was set, but maybe she could convince her mother to reason with her father. Her father would yell and puff out his chest as always, but he often caved to her whims, mindful of his wife¡¯s powerful family.


    But then again, what if her mother had already resigned herself to this? Or worse, what if this whole idea had come from her? Cirina was as ruthless in politics as she was in battle, a clever advisor to her brash husband who thought only with the mind of a warrior.


    Yet Cirina had always held a special affection for Vasilisa, a love even her husband rarely shared. It had never been Cirina who urged Vasilisa to court powerful princes or practice the harp and weaving.


    Vasilisa¡¯s expression hardened with her resolve to seek out her mother.


    Her father sighed, ¡°Your mother will be here shortly. She¡¯s busy organizing the festivities for the posol and his merry band. But when he arrives, you¡¯ll be the finest example of womanly virtue¡ªthe posol is a discerning type.¡±


    Her father¡¯s expression grew grimmer with each mention of the posol, as if the title itself was a bitter poison he had to endure.


    ¡°You¡¯re slouching. Straighten up.¡± He pushed her shoulders back and stood tall. ¡°Turn around. Yes, Mariana¡¯s needlework remains fine. You look¡ª¡±


    ¡°Regal,¡± Cirina¡¯s voice echoed from the archway, light yet commanding, with an edge of danger. Today she wore Khormchak aristocratic attire: a blue silk vest, gray skirt with golden embroidery, and a jade charm at her belt. ¡°You are a vision, Vasilisa. Beautiful, yet strong. I could not ask the gods for more.¡±


    ¡°She could stand to show more refinement, like her mother,¡± said Igor, glancing at his wife. ¡°But she still has much to learn¡ªand little time.¡±


    Cirina moved with a dancer¡¯s grace, taking Igor¡¯s hand as they assessed Vasilisa. For a moment, thoughts of the steppe left her mind. Then, her mother looked to her father. ¡°I think it is best I speak with Vasilisa privately, love.¡±


    Igor nodded and joined a group of merchants as Cirina led Vasilisa into a small alcove, where courtiers could converse away from prying ears.


    For a brief moment, there was nothing but silence. Then, her mother spoke, her gaze hardened, her expression serious. ¡°You know your father and I love you more than anything else in the whole world.¡±


    ¡°Then why are we doing this? Why are you presenting me before the posol?¡±


    ¡°It is a test, Vas¡¯ka. The posol will want to see the heiress to Belnopyl - he will want to see who will reign once your father and I are gone.¡±


    The scratching anxiety building within Vasilisa¡¯s chest took on a new focus. ¡°What do you mean? Surely my husband will be the one to take over - Father¡¯s always been pushing for marriage. Isn¡¯t that what this is all about?¡±


    Her mother¡¯s brow furrowed, whether in confusion or upset at Vasilisa¡¯s comment, she could not guess. But before she could respond, the sound of the heralds¡¯ cry and the noise of approaching procession broke the still silence of the alcove. Her mother took her hand, held it tight.


    ¡°I need you to be strong, Vasilisa. There will come a time when you will be without us, and I need you to be strong in our stead, in our name, and for your own honor.¡± Suddenly, there was something cold in Vasilisa¡¯s hands. As her mother let go, she uncurled her fingers to find a piece of black crystal in her palm. It was about the size of her thumb, and its jagged edges so sharp they threatened to cut into the skin of her hand with even the slightest errant movement.


    But the strangest thing wasn¡¯t the sharpness of the crystal. In the afternoon sun that filtered through a thin slit in the alcove wall, the crystal seemed to swallow all light around it: a void of darkness given form. She found herself staring deep into the darkness of the crystal - within it lay no beginning, and no end. Only the great, bleak, nothing.


    A second blast from distant horns marked the posol¡¯s procession drawing ever closer to her father¡¯s manor, snapping Vasilisa from her reverie. Her mother, still standing in the archway, cocked her head towards the great hall which had begun to fill with courtiers, servants, and the city¡¯s foremost merchants, all gathered to bow before the Great Khormchak Horde¡¯s envoy.


    ¡°What does this mean? Where did you get this?¡± blurted Vasilisa as she gingerly nudged aside her kaftan and placed the terrifying crystal into a small pouch tied at her belt.


    ¡°When the posol arrives, you will know. You, your father, and I have much to speak of, my little sun. But know this: the Khormchaks are allies on this day, and the days to come. Not our foes.¡±


    With that, her mother disappeared around the archway, silent as the breeze.


    A third blast from the horns, this time from the inner walls of the city. The procession drew ever closer. Vasilisa re-adjusted her kaftan and hurried out into the great hall, carefully flitting past the great hall¡¯s many guests and slipping past behind her parents¡¯ thrones. If not to give her away for marriage, then why all this preparation? And why did her mother, normally disdainful of the evasive language of her husband¡¯s courtiers, now speak to confuse her own daughter?


    Vasilisa stepped carefully into a small doorway adjacent to the wooden wall behind her, and then into the alcove covered by her painted portrait. Within the alcove, the noisy whispers and chattering of the gathered crowd became muted. She could barely even make out the rumblings of her father who sat a few meters away, stroking his mustache anxiously.


    ¡°The Qarakesek¡­they were the enemies of your people, weren¡¯t they?¡±


    Her mother responded, ¡°Once, perhaps. But did your father and his father before him not war with the princes of Gatchisk and Pemil? And yet, the three of them took to the field as allies against Aqtai-khan-¡±


    ¡°Those were extraordinary circumstances. Back then, your father made it sound like the end of the world.¡± Igor huffed, shifting in his seat and leaning closer to Cirina.


    ¡°Who¡¯s to say these ¡®extraordinary circumstances¡¯ are only to happen once?¡± her mother responded, and Vasilisa strained her ears to listen as Cirina leaned closer toward her husband. ¡°But this time is different. It¡¯s not just a matter of a khan needing reassurances from his vassals¡­¡±


    And Vasilisa could hear no more. She wanted to stomp her feet in frustration. What is this game of cat-and-mouse? Why was her mother toying with her? She felt her cheeks flush with anger.


    But then, all thoughts of frustration with her mother evaporated as the fourth blast from the heralds sounded, and the heavy doors to the great hall opened with a groan.


    Vasilisa watched, breathless, as the heralds entered and moved to the sides. The ambassador of the Khormchak Horde stepped forward.


    The posol towered all others in the room, yet he walked with such grace that he appeared to float. His copper-toned skin gleamed faintly in the light, contrasting against his flowing black robe that dragged on the carpet. It was his face¡ªand the long hair framing it¡ªthat held Vasilisa''s gaze. His raven-black hair, streaked with white, cascaded past his waist like a silken veil. His features were a striking mix of sharp, high cheekbones, full lips, and a slender jaw, leaving her uncertain whether she was looking at a man or a woman.


    The posol drew closer, and behind him followed three guards: figures clad in the same dark robes as their master, faces obscured by beautifully-forged helmets with faceplates, each one depicting a harsh, demonic visage. A silver-chased saber dangled from each guard¡¯s belt.


    Vasilisa had expected a decrepit, elderly man, as the same posol had been collecting tributes since her childhood. Yet his attire and the simplicity of his entourage was too foreign and strange.


    She glanced at her parents and froze. Her father sat upright, gripping the armrest of his throne, while her mother¡¯s cold expression betrayed hints of fear. The entire hall had fallen silent. Merchants, courtiers, and guards all turned to watch the posol with awe.


    As if put under a spell. Vasilisa thought. Gods, what have we invited into our home?


    The posol walked silently to the end of the great hall and lowered himself to one knee before Igor and Cirina. His robes pooled unnaturally on the floor, seeming more liquid than any cloth - like dark ink slowly spreading across the bright crimson carpet.


    Her father stood to his feet, sweeping aside his ermine cape to reveal the sword tucked into his belt. ¡°You are not the Great Khan''s envoy! Who are you, and how did my guards let you in?¡±


    He gestured to his druzhina waiting in the wings, but no one moved. The men at their posts stood motionless, as they had when the black-clad stranger and his guards arrived. Vasilisa realized the entire hall was silent, with no one shifting or speaking. The only movement came from the streamers drifting in the breeze.


    ¡°Move!¡± her father shouted, his neck swelling red with anger. ¡°Seize them!¡±


    ¡°Chirlan.¡±


    Vasilisa¡¯s mother spoke, her voice just barely loud enough to hear.


    The foreigner¡¯s bowed head slowly rose to look up at Cirina. He bore a twisted smile on his lips that seemed to sit wrong on his face - as if he were some creature merely wearing the skin of a man. His eyes glimmered in the light of the sun: two pools of molten gold with black pinpoints in their center.


    ¡°Khariija.¡± responded Chirlan, his voice high and soft like a singer¡¯s. ¡°You have changed so little.¡±


    ¡°Call me Cirina. It is the name I chose.¡± her mother interjected, her voice now sharp as a knife and dripping with malice. Something dangerous and vast seemed to have taken control of her mother, causing even Igor to shrink slightly.


    From within the alcove, Vasilisa stood as still as death - afraid to even breathe, afraid a single false move might cause the tension that hung in the air like a taut, creaking rope to snap.


    ¡°What do I care? You are you - whether Khariija or Cirina - and you have not changed one bit,¡± chuckled Chirlan. ¡°How long have we not seen each other? It''s scary to even think¡­¡±


    ¡°I had hoped to never see you again.¡±


    ¡°But I was looking for you.¡±


    ¡°And I was not.¡± Cirina breathed, and suddenly a Khormchak knife appeared in her hand¡ªlong at the hilt, needle-sharp at the tip. ¡°Leave. I don¡¯t know how you¡¯ve come back, but I¡¯ve killed you once before. Do you need another gift to send you off for good?¡±


    Her grip on the knife was steady and trained. Igor¡¯s sword, decorated with the symbols of the seven gods, hissed as it left its sheath. Her father stood firm.


    Even in their middle age, both Cirina and Igor were among the greatest warriors Vasilisa had ever seen, able to best any three guardsmen in sparring. Yet here stood Chirlan, an unarmed foreigner, casting a shadow over them. Why did they feel like sheep staring down a wolf, defiant but doomed?


    ¡°There¡¯s one gift I want, Cirina, and then I shall be gone forever.¡± Chirlan rose slowly, the long sleeves of his robe fell away to reveal arms wrapped in twisted golden jewelry. His hands were covered by gauntlets of gold filigree, each finger ending in a golden talon.


    Suddenly, the grim stranger¡¯s golden eyes locked onto Vasilisa¡¯s, piercing past the painted wall and straight into Vasilisa¡¯s soul. His stare twisted through her mind like a knife. The floor beneath her feet began to shift, and she struggled to stay upright. Her heart hammered deafeningly in her chest as she fell forward, out of the alcove and into the throne room.


    What¡¯s happening? She wondered, her mind seeming to take flight from her heavy, weary body. What¡¯s happening? Where are you taking me?


    ¡°Home. Where you have always belonged,¡± said Chirlan as he spread his taloned fingers wide and drew closer.


    The soft crimson carpets rushed up to catch her. She could hear her mother and father shouting something and tried to cry out to them, but her voice was failing, choking in her throat.


    The last thought that burned through the mind of Vasilisa of Belnopyl was of the birdsong she had heard in the early morning, already an eternity past.


    Now I will never hear it again.

 Chapter 2 - Whispers (New)

    Whispers


    <hr>


    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¡ªa 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-¡±


    A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.


    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¡ªor 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¡ªand Dagun¡¯s trail¡ªmight 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¡ªsomething 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.

 Chapter 3 - The Serpent (New)

    The Serpent


    <hr>


    Vasilisa¡¯s mind slowly stirred. In the darkness of her half-consciousness she felt a strange sensation of floating, of weightlessness. The kind of feeling that she had often dreamed of, but which her mind could never chase down to recall in the waking world. Was this a dream, then?


    Her eyes opened - and her heart stood still.


    She was surrounded by a black void dotted with countless gleaming lights. Far and near at once, clouds of mauve and violet swirled, pierced by pale blue streaks of lightning that wove intricate webs before fading. Silence pressed on her, suffocating and absolute. Even her own breath made no sound.


    Looking down, she gasped. Her hands, her sleeves, her hair¡ªeverything dripped and melted into the void, only to reform, like paint reshaped by an unseen artist. Her body seemed liquid, her dress a shifting wave of color barely winning the fight to maintain its form. All-consuming fear took her¡ªit felt as though one wrong movement might scatter her entirely, dissolving her into this endless astral sea.


    Her breath came faster, her body paralyzed. If she moved, would she lose herself? Her mind raced, unable to grasp how she had come to this place. The worries of the past day¡ªif it had been a day¡ªnow seemed trivial. Marriage to a khan was nothing compared to this alien terror. She thought to pray but faltered. What god could reach her here? Perun, Mokosh ¡ª names once powerful now felt meaningless in this realm of endless, silent light.


    Suddenly two of the gleaming dots of light across the void began to move. As the blackness of nothing began to take shape around the shining stars, Vasilisa saw the gleaming dots become pools of molten gold.


    Do not be afraid. Chirlan¡¯s soft voice echoed through her mind. His face emerged from nothingness, and parts of the void began to peel away, taking shape into a long, formless robe speckled with lights. Above, constellations traced golden lines before fading, revealing clawed, gold-tipped fingers within their glow. Chirlan drifted toward her, his cloak trailing faint golden traces in the void.


    Where have you taken me? Vasilisa¡¯s thoughts cut sharply, charged with malice to mask the terror gnawing at her. When the sorcerer drew nearer, she instinctively jerked back, expecting the sorcerer to do her harm.


    Instead, she felt the cool touch of his golden hand clasping hers gently. Opening her eyes, she saw her form solidify, no longer bleeding into the void. The sorcerer¡¯s touch, unexpectedly tender, strangely stirred curiosity rather than fear. Before she could react, Chirlan pulled her through the darkness, her kaftan¡¯s feathered trim leaving faint golden trails behind.


    Why speak, when I can show you? Chirlan¡¯s voice echoed in her mind. Flying effortlessly across the void, her hand in his, Vasilisa gazed at distant clouds and shimmering stars. Terror melted into wonder as she listened to faint, whispering voices trailing off as they soared onward.


    Those stars¡­I can hear them speaking, whispered Vasilisa in her mind. What is this place?


    The stars are not speaking. They are dreaming. And soon, they will awaken.


    What will happen then? Vasilisa focused her hearing, trying to catch hints from whispers, but it was futile to focus on any single voice. So many lights¡­so many dreams. But whose? Who are they?


    They are all children, existing in this realm and yours, spoke Chirlan. The bond between their minds ran both ways - Vasilisa could feel a tinge of sadness upon the sorcerer¡¯s thoughts. Though they have not visited ours in an age.


    The astral landscape shifted as Chirlan carried them further. The scattered mauve and violet hues suddenly enveloped everything, as they plunged into a swirling cloud. Tiny crystals danced across her vision, reflecting blue streaks that flowed through the mist like strokes of a quill. Then gradually, their flight slowed until Vasilisa¡¯s feet touched something solid, though she saw only endless clouds below.


    Crystal-clear glass, she wondered. What is this place, truly?


    She looked up to the sorcerer, who towered over her his shifting liquid robe. His expression was suddenly grim - he was looking further ahead, focusing on something beyond the drifting colors. With a wave of his gauntleted hand the clouds swirled aside and a blinding pale light flooded the cloudy domain.


    A bright, pale sun burned before her eyes, casting Chirlan into shadow as he released her and walked towards the burning sun. As Vasilisa¡¯s eyes slowly adjusted to the light, she noticed something circling the sun.


    Her eyes followed the pointed tip of a stone mass, which grew into a long trail of segmented, smooth rock. Her eyes continued to follow the trail until the sun¡¯s zenith, where it ended at a strange, malformed rock. As she dared to open her eyes further, the realization of what she was looking at dawned upon her - a long serpentine spine, ending at a great skull.


    The massive stone skull looked burned, even melted in some places where sharp edges gave way to smooth, flowing curves cracked by heat. Hollow eye sockets, scarred and empty, stared at her with a lifeless gaze. An aquiline beak, locked open in a silent cry, jutted forward. Dark imprints along the base of the skull resembled feathers, haunting echoes of a disappeared feathered might.


    She felt a strange sensation in her head as she beheld the monstrous skeleton - as if something was scratching at the inside of her skull. She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples, but the feeling only seemed to worsen. Vasilisa lowered herself to one knee as the pain in her skull magnified by a thousand, and she cried out silently into the void.


    Chirlan turned to face her, but all she could see were the molten pools of gold framed in shadow. Shadows began to inch and creep across the landscape and the burning sun until her world fell into darkness once more - and all she saw were the two golden eyes staring at her agony without pity.


    She screamed into the shadows again as the scratching inside her skull ravaged her mind, carving with white-hot claws that brought her to the ground writhing in anguish. She screamed until her lungs burned and her throat felt as though it would rip, and dug her fingernails into her forehead. She imagined if she could burrow into her skull, she could tear out the scratching, thrashing monster - to die would be preferable to the scorching-hot pain that lanced through her body.


    Something cold slipped between her ribs, and suddenly the pain stopped, replaced by an icy feeling that spread from her heart through her chest like flowing water. Vasilisa gave a rasping breath and her eyes flew open, matching Chirlan¡¯s own golden eyes. The sorcerer was kneeling over her, so close she could almost feel his tense heartbeat in the suffocating silence of the void. She looked down at her chest to see the source of the cold that radiated through her body, and saw one of Chirlan¡¯s clawed hands buried up to the wrist inside her chest - just next to her left breast, clasping her heart.


    But strangely, she felt no pain - only a calming sense of cold and drowsiness. Whatever solid floor held her firm in the clouds seemed to disappear, and once more Vasilisa felt herself floating gently through the black abyss. She focused on the sorcerer¡¯s visage, traced the faint lines on his face with her eyes as Chirlan¡¯s dark, flowing form closed in around her, and the sorcerer¡¯s other golden-clawed hand held her tight. She tried to grasp at the golden-clad wrist, wrench the hand free from her heart, but her fingers felt leaden, unresponsive. As her grasp slowly slipped from Chirlan¡¯s wrist and the drowsy cold spread through her soul, she saw the sorcerer¡¯s lips part.


    A soft, whispered phrase cut through the silence of the darkness before Vasilisa¡¯s eyes slid shut.


    ¡°Gods of mine: fire, earth, and stars above. Accept my blood, my spirit, and my love.¡±


    ***


    Cool waves lapped against Vasilisa¡¯s body, pasting her silken clothes to her skin as they washed over her and receded. A cold breeze blew, sending a violent shiver through Vasilisa as she awakened.


    The echo of water droplets and the gentle lapping waves reassured her of reality, but for a long while she kept her eyes shut. Her mind still burned with the vision of the blinding star, and the hollow pits of the skull that leered at her with its dreadful gaze. To open her eyes and see it again would destroy her.


    When she finally opened her eyes, she saw Chirlan above her, his face framed by darkness. His eyes were no longer golden, but ordinary hazel-brown, staring lifelessly. His head was bowed low, resting just over her own - she was resting in his lap. Her mind flashed to the vision of his claws buried in her heart, filling her soul with drowsy cold. A moment passed, but the sorcerer said nothing - and Vasilisa realized with a jolt of panic that she was lying in the embrace of a corpse.


    She scrambled upright, splashing in the cold, knee-high waters of the cavern pool she awakened in. Morning light streamed in through a hole in the domed ceiling, casting a beam onto the sorcerer¡¯s body. His bare chest was exposed, revealing a yawning hole where his heart had been. The wound was fresh - crimson streams bled into the water, staining it red bit by bit. Her own chest burned with fear as she recalled the vision - was her heart gone too?


    She ran her fingers over her soaked dress and felt a sharp pain on her finger. Pulling back, she saw a small cut and shakily pulled down her dress as far as it allowed, squinting at her chest.


    A dozen crystals protruded from her chest, as if erupted from her heart. They rose and fell in time with her breathing - sucking away the morning light, revealing visions of the suffocating nothing within their cores.


    One crystal, fist-sized and and lodged right in the center of her breast, overshadowed the rest. Though she felt her chest rise and fall with her panicked breathing, she felt no lively thrum of a beating heart beneath her skin. Her mind still whirled from the visions of the astral sea - Vasilisa felt the urge to scream, but her voice failed her - the chords of her throat felt sore. Did she scream in the waking world as in the dream? Was it even a dream?


    This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    She looked at the unmoving Chirlan, his head bowed low. His heart was missing, and her own was replaced with an abomination. Fury and despair swirled within her. She wanted to shake the sorcerer, slap him across the face for answers, but knew that she¡¯d find none in his cold flesh. Her world spun as she looked down at the crystals once again, her hand curling into a fist over her impaled chest. Panicked tears welled in her eyes, overwhelming. What would she do? How was she still alive? Where would she go?


    Anywhere but here, she thought to herself. She rose shakily, stepping out of the pool. The dim morning light revealed the sharp hewn walls curving into a narrow passage, sloping deeper into shadow. She redid her dress, forcing thoughts of survival and escape over the abomination of her own heart.


    She recalled Chirlan¡¯s guards - the cloaked figures with silvered masks and sabers. Her fingers brushed her belt, and she was relieved to find her pouches intact. Carefully, she retrieved the crystal her mother had passed to her an eternity ago - a fragment of the same kind that pierced her heart.


    I am still alive. I still draw breath. Gripping the shard tightly, the edged bit into her hand, drawing blood. The thought of dueling one of Chirlan¡¯s guards with such a tiny weapon seemed absurd in her mind, but it was all she had.


    With hesitant steps, Vasilisa went on into the passage. Silence pressed in all around, broken only by the faint dripping of her clothes and her slow, scared breathing.


    Her left hand traced the weathered stone walls as she descended, soon darkness swallowed the last of the morning light at her back. She became acutely aware of the deepening slope of the hallway, and wondered if she was coming down from a mountain, or plunging deep into the bowels of the earth. Just as she began to despair that she¡¯d walk forever, she noticed a flicker of light up ahead.


    The room she entered was circular, and illuminated by a single burning incense stick that lay in a golden bowl atop an altar. The sweet, floral scent filled the whole chamber, and around the altar lay a dozen other extinguished sticks, their ashes scattered.


    The room was ringed by the shades of other archways. There were a dozen - each identical and unmarked, betraying no sign of their paths. The crushing feeling of being completely lost crept over her, only to be interrupted by a small voice.


    ¡°You most certainly do not belong here.¡±


    Vasilisa startled at the sound of the soft voice. It came from her feet, as if someone had crawled up to her on all fours. She imagined Chirlan¡¯s leering face emerging from the shadows and stepped back, pointing her crystal dagger downwards.


    As her eyes adjusted, she saw no human figure, but rather a tiny serpent slithering along the ground - no thicker than her index finger, no longer than half a foot. It twisted itself into a small coil, and fixed gleaming black eyes onto her. To her shock, the voice came from it.


    ¡°Human,¡± the serpent regarded her flatly, as if it were a normal thing for a serpent to address a human. ¡°You seem lost.¡±


    Her head throbbed as she grappled with the insanity of it - and the insanity of her replying.


    ¡°I am. A man brought me here. His name is- was¡­Chirlan,¡± she whispered, grimacing as she heard every syllable bouncing down the shadowed hallways. ¡°I need to get out of here. Do you know the way, little serpent?¡±


    The serpent flicked its tongue, tasting the air. In the brief moment that passed Vasilisa caught herself from marveling at the strange, scintillating scales that the serpent bore - every scale seemed to shine a different color in the dim orange light of the incense stick. Finally, the serpent uncoiled and answered.


    ¡°I do know the way. But it is so very far, and we serpents move slowly.¡±


    ¡°I can carry you.¡± Vasilisa said quickly.


    ¡°Then the matter is settled.¡±


    Vasilisa carefully kneeled down, offering her left hand. The serpent slithered onto her finger, its scales sleek and glossy on her skin. The serpent slowly coiled around her pointing finger, then turned to face her once more. ¡°A pact - your gentle hand for my endless wisdom.¡±


    ¡°Seems a fair trade,¡± Vasilisa smirked. Already the terror of the dark was receding ever so slightly. Speaking, even to a snake, breathed new life into her soul. She was alive - alive enough to quip, to breathe, to fight her way out.


    The serpent pointed itself towards one of the middle archways, acting as an extension of her hand. She followed, her left hand outstretched with her guide, and her right prepared to strike with her dagger. Without a free hand to steady herself on the walls, her steps felt clumsy and uncertain, and she nearly smacked into a wall as the hallway turned sharply.


    A low breeze blew down the hallway, sending another shiver through her as the wind pricked a dozen needles of cold through her damp clothes. Yet the wind carried a promise - escape, sunlight, and open skies. Fighting the urge to rush, she whispered to the serpent the question that lingered in her mind since it first coiled around her hand.


    ¡°Why are you helping me? Did your masters treat you poorly?¡±


    ¡°Certainly not,¡± replied the serpent, coiling to the left as the hallway took another turn. ¡°And they are not my masters. You simply do not belong here - I want to guide you to where you should be.¡±


    ¡°And that would be?¡±


    ¡°Outside. Free to roam, sing, write, and think all manner of things you humans do. Not rot here in this stone coffin, grim and dim.¡±


    The serpent¡¯s reply only bred more questions, but they were cut short by muffled footsteps, and the ring of metal.


    ¡°Someone comes. To your left!¡± the serpent hissed.


    Vasilisa groped blindly about in the darkness until she felt the stone walls to her left give way to a small nook. She pressed herself into it as three candle flames appeared. Their glow revealed the silver mask of one of Chirlan¡¯s guards. The helmet¡¯s demonic visage, twisted into an even further by the dancing shadows, revealed two glowing golden eyes. The rings of the guard¡¯s sheath rang rhythmically as the guard marched down the hall.


    He will see me once he crosses, surely. The thought tightened her chest. Her breathing halted, and she squeezed the crystal even tighter, emptying her mind of all thoughts as the clinking rhythmic footsteps drew nearer.


    My daughter will fight. The words of her mother came to her mind, became a low mantra as blood dripped from her wounded hand onto the cold stone. My daughter will fight.


    The footsteps grew closer - candlelight crept around the corner of the tight alcove.


    My daughter will fight.


    I will fight.


    Vasilisa of Belnopyl sprang from her hiding place at the last moment, and slammed the guard with all her might into the stone wall. He grunted, cursing in a hissing tongue. She punched the crystal under the rim of his helmet and into his throat, burying it deep through silk and flesh.


    The candle-holder fell with a loud clang, and a guttural cry sounded from behind the silver mask. Vasilisa ripped the crystal free, and hot blood rushed out from the guard¡¯s throat, soaking her hand.


    The guard, grunting like a stuck pig, lashed out with an elbow and knocked the air from her lungs. As Vasilisa doubled over and gasped, she saw the guard staggering, one hand clutching at his bleeding neck while the other fumbled for his sword.


    The blade hissed free, its tip pointed at her. The guard advanced, life ebbing as blood pooled beneath him. Desperate, Vasilisa¡¯s gaze darted about¡ªand landed on her left hand.


    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, little serpent!¡±


    Vasilisa hurled her hissing, scaled guide at the advancing guard. The serpent squarely on his chest. The guard recoiled, glancing down in alarm, and she lunged forward, scooping the candle-holder off the ground.


    A loud clang sounded as she smashed the candle-holder into the guard¡¯s face, denting his mask. She then smashed his hand, cracking bone and causing him to drop his sword. Vasilisa caught the heavy saber and cleaved through silk and flesh, splitting the man from shoulder to hip. He collapsed in a lifeless heap, the fight leaving him with a final croak.


    Panting, Vasilisa loosened her grip on the unwieldy saber, far heavier than the balanced swords she trained with under her mother and Ilya. The searing pain of the crystal in her hand forced her to return it to its pouch. She wiped her bloodied hand on her drying dress, wincing as the open cuts grazed the coarse fabric.


    Just in front of the guard¡¯s bloody corpse the serpent uncoiled itself from a tight ball and fixed Vasilisa with its impassive, animal stare.


    ¡°Are you hurt?¡± Vasilisa whispered, kneeling to examine it. ¡°I¡¯m sorry for throwing you at him.¡±


    ¡°The choice was between throwing me or dying,¡± mused the serpent, its tongue flicking in and out as it tasted the metallic air. ¡°I bear you no ill will. Had I been the one with legs and you without, I¡¯m sure I would have done the same.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t hate me for it?¡± asked Vasilisa, a faint, self-conscious smile curling her lips at the absurdity of asking a serpent such a question.


    ¡°Of course not. Your survival matters far more than the survival of a lowly serpent - wouldn¡¯t you agree?¡± said the serpent as it coiled around her offered hand. ¡°They say we serpents are ill creatures - the servants of deceit and ruin. But come now, your freedom is almost at hand.¡±


    Vasilisa tucked the saber with its sheath into her belt, then allowed the serpent to slither higher onto her arm. In her other hand she held up the candle-holder, whose lights continued to burn. The hallway ahead rounded another corner, and she nearly tripped as the ground dropped into a short flight of stairs.


    The candles illuminated a large, circular chamber supported by a dozen pillars as she stepped inside. Across the room, a pair of tall stone doors stood ajar, and through the gap a blinding ray of sunlight struck her directly across the eyes.


    A breeze blew in, snuffing out the candle flames. She dropped the holder and rushed for the doors, pulling desperately at one. Her tired muscles ached in protest, but she dug her heels in and heaved with all her might. The door ground loudly against the stone floor as she pulled it further and further open, flooding the room with sunlight. Finally, with a resounding crash with a final crash, the doorway stood fully open.


    Her injured hand continued to drip blood, but the pain numbed for a brief moment as she stood and greedily drank in the fresh air from the world beyond. Then, she felt a weight fall from her arm. The serpent had uncoiled itself and landed softly on the floor.


    ¡°Go now, while you have the chance,¡± muttered the serpent.


    ¡°Are you not coming with me? I can take you,¡± replied Vasilisa, shifting her weight from one foot to another as she beheld the serpent in the light of day.


    ¡°We serpents have poor vision and many hunters on the outside,¡± said the serpent as it slowly turned back to the darkened hallways. ¡°Here, it is nice and dark - comfortable and quiet.¡±


    ¡°So this is farewell?¡±


    ¡°For a time, perhaps.¡±


    Vasilisa took a few steps towards the intoxicating glow of the outside world. She heard the distant calls of birds, the chittering of unseen insects, and the whispers of the wind playing along tall grasses. She turned to say a final goodbye to the talking serpent. But when she looked back it was already slithering away, retreating into one of the many winding, shadowed halls of her prison.


    As Vasilisa stepped across the threshold of the stone doors she heard a final call at her back before the noise of the outside world drowned out all else.


    ¡°Farewell, Vasilisa.¡±

 Chapter 4 - Spirits (New)

    Spirits


    <hr>


    A soft gust of wind stirred the assassin¡¯s robe 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 gathered, and their buzzing made Yesugei wrinkle his nose as he leaned in closer.


    The assassins¡¯ eyes lost their yellow hue, fading into mundane brown and black in death. Yesugei would have thought the glowing eyes a strange trick of the light, but Kaveh and Sergen had the same.


    He peeled back a leather mask to reveal a rough-shaved, but ordinary human face. The corpse¡¯s tanned skin and high cheekbones reminded him of Sergen, and as he inspected the others, the resemblance became undeniable.


    ¡°These killers are Ormanli,¡± muttered Yesugei as he stood up, looking over the dead assassins. Each one of them bore similar features, and had glass beads in their hair. ¡°Sergen, did you know these killers?¡±


    The shaman sat cross-legged, studying the bloodless, mutilated bodies in silence. At length, he stood and replied, ¡°Nonsense. I left the Mother Woods a long time ago.¡±


    ¡°But-¡± Kaveh placed one hand on Sergen¡¯s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. ¡°We still have questions.¡±


    Yesugei stepped closer, one hand on the pommel of his sword. ¡°Your people are solitary and shy, are they not? My father said you were the first to leave the Mother Woods in a decade. What would drive six of your folk to cross two thousand miles and practice blood magic on Quanli land?¡±


    Sergen scowled, pushing Kaveh¡¯s hand away. 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 served Aqtai-khan before you lot were all born.¡±


    The shaman¡¯s eyes pierced daggers into Targyn and Kenes as they slowly drew in front of Kaveh. ¡°If you really think I sold you out to these cursed men, then by all means, come and take my head. 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. ¡°My people faced something like this long ago - a sickness of the mind, spread by monsters that tainted the Sleeping Lands.¡±


    ¡°Monsters? You expect us to believe that?¡± Targyn scoffed, one hand straying 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, Ormanli...¡±


    But something in Sergen¡¯s demeanor gave Yesugei pause. The shaman¡¯s sudden seriousness since seeing the sigil unsettled him. Magic dwelled in their world¡ªthe sun-worshippers in the west, the elves of the south, and the northern forest-dwellers who danced in animal furs and howled at the moon¡ªyet it had always seemed distant. But curses and monsters? Sergen spoke as if staking his life on the truth.


    What if he is right? Yesugei wondered.


    ¡°Tell me more about this curse,¡± Yesugei blurted. Targyn, Kenes, and even Kaveh turned to look at him in surprise. 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. Clearing his throat, he pressed on. ¡°What creatures? Explain. What do the bodies and these killers mean?¡±


    ¡°These bodies¡­¡± Sergen began, his hand reaching into his braided hair adorned with faded charms and crystals. Buried deep within one braid, he pulled out a strange black gem that seemed to swallow the orange glow of Targyn¡¯s lantern. ¡°They¡¯re tied to an old heretical ritual by kin of the Ormanli to invoke evil spirits. The wise men said the spirits emerged from black crystals like these during a time of war between two tribes, awakened by suffering and blood.


    ¡°They made golden-eyed slaves of our people, until the gods heard our suffering and drove the spirits to the Sleeping Lands, where no mortal could live. Our shamans told us these crystals could protect us from their curses and rot. That¡¯s why the eldest son of each family carries one, braided into his hair, to fight the spirits should they return.¡±


    Yesugei beheld the black gem Sergen held, swirling darkness commanding his gaze. His thumb drifted over the black crystal eyes that were set into the horse¡¯s head that decorated the pommel of his sword. It was a gift from his father when he had become a man. 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, truly looking at them for the first time, and within them he saw the same void-like darkness.


    ¡°Yes, you see it now, don¡¯t you?¡± Sergen said, watching Yesugei closely. ¡°Aqtai-khan gave trinkets to all his true-born children to ward off the curse. He bought them from my people at no small price when you and Kaveh were still boys. I told him the same stories I¡¯m telling you now, and he listened.¡±


    Kaveh shifted his spear and pulled a white silk square from his breast pocket, its edges studded with tiny black gems. It was a gift from his mother before her death. Yesugei searched his mind, thinking of his other siblings: his oldest brother Nariman and his gilded lamellar armor, his sister Gulsezim and her broad silk sash¡ªhad all their gifts contained these dark crystals? He¡¯d never noticed until now.


    His thoughts were interrupted as Kaveh clapped a reassuring 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 to yawn as he scratched underneath his felt cap and pocketed the silk square once more. ¡°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 up for that,¡± said Sergen. ¡°And if you¡¯re going to gut me, I¡¯d at least like a last drink. I¡¯d say I earned it today, didn¡¯t I?¡±


    Targyn grumbled but stepped away, followed by Kenes and Kaveh as they summoned their exhausted horses for the ride back to camp. Yesugei mounted his own steed, nodding at the relieved shaman, and the group rode back to camp in silence, crossing hurriedly as the steppe began to freeze beneath the dark skies. Targyn¡¯s lantern bobbed as he led the way to a modest yurt decorated with furs topped by the Qarakesek sigil. Inside, Yesugei sank onto the carpeted floor with a tired sigh while Kenes started a fire, its crackling glow quickly filling the yurt with warmth.


    Yesugei¡¯s stomach growled. Bracing on his injured arm, he winced t the sharp pain that flared with each movement. He pulled out a wrapped hunk of cheese and dried meat, eating slowly as the salt burned his tongue. A sip of arkhi from Sergen¡¯s wineskin dulled the taste, and he tossed it back to its owner.


    ¡°In moderation,¡± warned Yesugei. ¡°I want you in shape to ride and explain more at first light.¡±


    Sergen grinned before taking a hearty swig. Yesugei briefly considered questioning him about the creatures and curses but found his eyes growing heavy in the fire¡¯s warmth and the comfort of his bedroll. Half-hearing the keshiks and Kaveh decide on the night¡¯s watch, he noticed Targyn leave with his bow and lantern for the first shift.


    Settling into his bedroll, Yesugei watched Kaveh examine his silk handkerchief. His mind drew to his sword, and he pulled it closer to look at it once more. 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 sword rest by his side close at hand. Before his eyes closed, he cast one final look at the crystals¡¯ unsettling beauty, and the shifting darkness within.


    A face¡­?


    For a moment, the nomad princeling could have sworn he saw the twisting darkness form into a feminine visage. And then the heavy cloak of sleep cast itself across Yesugei, and he remembered nothing else.


    ***


    The next morning, Yesugei awoke to the sound of sizzling meat and the smell of garlic, lard, and spices. Kenes passed a thick slice of red sausage to Kaveh¡¯s plate. Yesugei rubbed his eyes and saw Kenes, Targyn, and Kaveh sitting around the fire while Sergen knelt outside, muttering prayers to the ground.


    ¡°Shit, he woke up,¡± Kaveh said between bites of sausage.


    ¡°Eating without your brother?¡± Yesugei said, shaking his head as he reached into the pan and fished out a slice. ¡°Have you no respect for your elders, Kav?¡±


    Juicy heat and the taste of garlic filled his mouth with every bite. Targyn poured tea into a porcelain cup and handed it to him. The comfort of the moment lingered, and even the ache in his arm seemed to fade.


    But as with all things, the peace was not to last. When the morning light fully hit the Hungry Steppe the ground saddled their horses and continued on their way. They gave a wide berth to the cursed road, and Sergen led them ahead, spying the westward road for any Quanli patrols or caravans.


    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.


    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.


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    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 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.¡±


    Yesugei saw Targyn and Kenes preparing for a stand, grabbing their horses and leading them up the rocky slope. Yesugei assessed the terrain. To flee the hill would leave them vulnerable in the open, so a stand was all they would hope for. The stony ridge would serve them well; the slope would shield them from arrows, and riders would need to dismount or risk having their horses killed on the ascent. If the battle worsened they could retreat to the shrine, where numbers meant little in such close confines.


    Sergen arrived, dragging his steed. ¡°A dozen of them, with Naizabai-khan¡¯s banner!¡±


    Yesugei spotted the horsemen in the distance, a riders armored in metal and leather and guiding extra horses laden with supplies. The riders'' leader bore the silver lightning sigil of the Quanli, thrust proudly up into the sky.


    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 remained still, their eyes hardened. Kaveh gripped his spear and fiddled with a small wicker shield. Yesugei gave him a reassuring nod. Behind them, Sergen knelt, his fingers twisting along a small charm as he began to chant a prayer in a harsh Ormanli tongue. From his pack the shaman drew 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 arrows and lances!¡±


    Sergen ignored him, raising the drum to the sky, the pounding growing louder. The air became charged with a strange energy. Yesugei witnessed such a prayer before - the call of a shaman to the spirit realm. Bumps appeared on his skin as the prayer continued, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rose up as the skies began to darken.


    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 light.


    The look of killers. Veterans. Yesugei thought as he silently took count and measure of the riders.


    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 the 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 against the Quanli scouting party. 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. ¡°Tell me who you are, so we can speak as equals. As men and warriors.¡±


    ¡°You speak in the presence of B?rijan, ruler of Bayan, and commander of a myndyq.¡± One of the riders announced with a puff of his chest.


    B?rijan¡¯s whip lashed out, biting the cheek of the rider who spoke out of turn. Yesugei studied the commander.


    ¡°A myndyq¡­¡± he mused. ¡°You must have done well to earn command of a thousand Quanli riders, B?rijan-noyan.¡±


    ¡°I thank you for your praise, Yesugei-mirza.¡± B?rijan 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 B?rijan 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, and Ormanli in queer clothes - witches. And I heard of a band in our lands travelling off the main road with an Ormanli shaman, so I mean to have answers. 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?¡±


    B?rijan sneered. ¡°A convenient tale. 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 and blood magic were forbidden, and had not been seen in many years. 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 B?rijan. ¡°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?¡±


    B?rijan gestured with his horse whip towards Sergen. ¡°The shaman, he will come with us. Our shamans in Bayan will see if his tongue tells the truth, or if there is the taint 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 B?rijan and his men. A few of them clashed their arms together, filling the world with the sound of rattling 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.¡±


    B?rijan¡¯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, and you threaten the Great Khan. Threaten the Great Khan, and it¡¯s this arrow you¡¯ll answer to.¡±


    The riders shifted uneasily, gripping their reins and weapons. The Quanli noyan glared in fury, but he hesitated as he eyed Targyn, Yesugei, and the others that peered over the lip of the ridge.


    ¡°Someone must answer for this,¡± B?rijan snarled. ¡°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 let him, 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 demand anything from the Great Khan or his sons.¡±


    ¡°You forget your place,¡± spat B?rijan as he sharply turned his steed towards the ridge. ¡°You dare to insult a noyan on the lands of his own people? The Great Khan or the Crown Prince might get away with such disrespect, but you are no Great Khan and no heir. Do not make me laugh with your talk, 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 thirty feet before him. But it was all posture - if B?rijan had wanted to, he would have already commanded his men to storm the hill. Some of the Quanli were already beginning to turn back to Bayan.


    ¡°Mark my words, Yesugei, son of Aqtai-khan,¡± B?rijan 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?¡±


    B?rijan laughed. ¡°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 considered B?rijan¡¯s words. 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 Sergen wasn¡¯t the only one of his father¡¯s subjects who liked easy travel. Tosont was a little ways off the main road, a small town with an inn and little else. If Dagun had stopped by there, the locals would surely have taken notice - the trail would be fresh once more.


    As B?rijan and his men began to leave, a grumble came 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 several Quanli horses startle, throwing their riders. B?rijan¡¯s armor jingled loudly as he was bucked off from his dark steed, and landed on his back. Yesugei and the others allowed themselves a chuckle as they watched the chaos unfold, the Quanli swearing and cursing the spirits while their horses trampled and dirtied their tribal banner.


    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.

 Chapter 5 - Gods of Mine (New)

    Gods of Mine


    <hr>


    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¡ªit 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¡ªthey 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¡ªKhormchak 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¡ªthe windswept steppe and its wide-open sky¡ªfaded 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¡ªand 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¡ªthis thing¡ªis 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?¡±


    This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.


    ¡°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¡ªold men, young girls¡ªstared 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¡ªmore 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.

 Chapter 6 - The Apostle

    The Apostle


    <hr>


    In the roiling dark clouds, violet and mauve webs of light arced violently like lightning.


    Tosont was silent once more as pieces of the obelisk began to fall apart, revealing a shadowed nook. Cultists and Khormchaks stood frozen in terror as a scream tore from the great crystal. Yesugei covered his ears, the piercing scream was like scratching glass, and it grew unbearably loud. Then abruptly, the screeching ceased.


    As Yesugei opened his eyes he saw a figure standing before the crystal.


    It resembled a human, but only by shape - the differences were more terrible than any legend, any inscriptions Yesugei had seen. The creature¡¯s cracked, gray skin resembled heat-blasted clay, and twisted, rope-like muscles bulged and tore through the fissures. It bore a gray, lifeless face that resembled a stone mask crumbling along chiseled lines. Long, greasy black braids hung down to its waist - and its naked form was covered only by an ancient patchwork skirt of leather. Narrow slits where its eyes should have been revealed only small windows into twisting darkness.


    ¡°The time has come.¡± The monster¡¯s voice sounded like cracking, crunching glass as it spoke the Common Tongue in a stilted, uneven tone.


    The girl who had saved his life moments before collapsed, clutching her heart and choking. The monster moved slowly toward the courtyard, and its first step dropped the cultists nearby to their knees.


    Blood flowed from beneath their masks in a torrent, draining the living and the wounded until their bodies crumpled. The creature beheld the dead for a moment, then waved one arm over the corpses.


    The bodies stacked by the obelisk and littering the town square began to twist and melt. Flesh, skin, bone and cloth twisted into a viscous, colorless mass that slithered into the creature¡¯s hand as it walked. The mass reshaped into a massive, grotesque cleaver - its handle a twisted spine, and its blade two parallel lines of jutting, yellowed human teeth. Long fingers ending in pitch-black nails tightened around the handle as the cleaver solidified in shape - its blade as long as a man stood tall, and a foot wide.


    Yesugei snap out of his terror - only he, his companions, and the unconscious girl now remained.


    ¡°Targyn! Kenes! Get back!¡± he cried, readying his bow. But as he aimed, his grip weakened and his vision clouded in darkness. Merely looking at the creature seemed to sap his strength.


    Targyn collapsed with a strangled cry, blood spurting with renewed force from his wounded side. His veins swelled and blackened, crawling like tendrils across skin that turned gray as stone. The keshik went on all fours and vomited a wave of blackened blood and pus. Moments later, he fell limp at the creature¡¯s feet, his keen archer¡¯s eyes now bulged and bloodshot.


    Kenes stumbled backward, nearly tripping over Sergen, who trembled and clutched his bone idol in fear. Abandoning the shaman, Kenes drew back towards Yesugei and Kaveh, his gaze still fixed on Targyn¡¯s corpse. The three warriors stood frozen - Yesugei wanted to run, but his feet felt as though they were nailed to the ground.


    The monster extended an arm towards the three, and with a small flick of its wrist Yesugei heard the wooden gates slam shut behind them. From afar, the monster''s finger traced a flaming symbol onto the wooden doors - a clawed hand that burned with baleful energy.


    "Spirits of the Black Havens, abjure this abomination from our midst!" cried Sergen, raising his carved idol to the sky. But the spirits were silent. The shadows of the standing houses and the towering trees bent unnaturally toward them all as the monster approached. When the monster was almost upon him, the shaman''s braids suddenly began to smoke. The black crystals in Sergen¡¯s hair began to crack and hiss, and fell free from his braids. The monster halted in its tracks, suddenly wary of the circle of smoldering crystals.


    "Khariija!" cried Sergen, throwing his arms to the sky as he chanted the name. "Savior of the Mother Woods! Hear the prayers of this Ormanli, I call on you once more for your divine aid! Save us!"


    The creature faltered, sinking to one knee at the name. Yesugei felt his terror ebb away as the crystals in his sword began to hiss as well, emitting a pale-green smoke. The intense heat warped the horse¡¯s head on his pommel into a grotesque shape, and the weapon hissed with spite, its smoke a barrier against the tide of death that rolled off the monster¡¯s body. More smoke rose out from underneath Kaveh¡¯s tunic as his brother pulled out the handkerchief and tied it around the shaft of his spear.


    The monster strained under the weight of its own unnatural body. They would not get a chance like this again.


    "Brothers!"


    The three of them surged forward, weapons at the ready. Kenes kept close to Kaveh¡¯s shield, glaive and spear aimed as one. Yesugei fanned aside the pale-green smoke, nocking an arrow as Sergen¡¯s words flooded his chest with new warmth.


    "The time has come!" The monster cried, throwing its gray hands into the air as it struggled to stand.


    A barbed Khormchak arrow struck the monster in its chest, between the cracks of its hardened skin, but the creature only faltered briefly. It continued to rise.


    "The time has come!" the monster growled again as it pulled the arrow from its chest.


    A second arrow pierced straight through the monster''s cheek but was pulled out just as quickly at the first. The gaping wounds left by the arrows suddenly began to close as the monster''s face and chest stitched themselves together.


    Yesugei felt terror begin to eat away at the corners of his emboldened spirit, as Kaveh and Kenes bore down upon the creature. Kenes roared, his glaive flashing as the keshik struck it deep into the monster¡¯s neck, but the creature barely budged beneath the blow.


    Kenes gasped. The monster¡¯s cleaver of flesh and bone whistled through the air. The massive blade drove through iron plate, flesh, and bone as if it were all paper, cleaving Kenes apart. The keshik¡¯s lifeless body splattered into two dripping, quivering pieces as he hit the ground.


    Blood drenched Kaveh from head to toe, and he stood, frozen in horror.


    Yesugei felt his own surging spirits drain, and his fingers hastily reached for another arrow only to grasp at thin air. His quiver was empty. The crystals in his sword were shrinking faster, and those around Sergen were reduced to tiny, sand-like grains.


    ¡°The time has come!¡± came the final shout from the monster as it ripped the glaive from its neck, flesh closing in an instant.


    ¡°Sergen!¡± The monster pointed a clawed finger at the shaman, who continued to pray with the desperation of the damned. ¡°The Bright One demands your sacrifice, Ormanli slave!¡±


    A light flickered inside the monster''s chest, spilling out through the cracks in its hardened skin. Then a bright, red-orange bloom exploded from the pointed claw. A great torrent of flame erupted and all Yesugei could do was close his eyes as the heat took his world, and the air warped and screamed. When the eruption subsided, he saw a black mark in the dirt where Sergen had knelt. Fragments of bone protruded out from the ash, flesh and fat rendered and fused into unrecognizable nothingness.


    The monster gave a rasping laugh as the smell of burning flesh rose into the air.


    ***


    Vasilisa felt as though she were on fire. The crystals in her heart were burning. She scrunched her eyes shut in pain and screamed. The crystals felt as though they wouldn¡¯t stop burning until they melted through her.


    But then the agony subsided, replaced by an icy coolness. Vasilisa opened her eyes, and saw two of the Khormchaks sprawled on the ground, bleeding and mutilated while a gray monster loomed over them. The smell of scorched flesh filled the air. The monster, wielding a massive, bone-lined cleaved, laughed as it stood before the frozen spearman.


    ¡°Even the name of a slave to the Majesties has more power than your spirits,¡± the creature barked in the Common Tongue, laughing at the burnt remains. Whispers rose from the earth, the blood-soaked dirt, and the looming shadows of the trees. They called for more blood - more sacrifices of flesh and bone to the gods.


    Yesugei threw his bow to the side and rushed the creature with sword in hand, but he was too far. The monster gripped the gigantic cleaver with two hands to split the terrified spearman in half.


    ¡°Stop!¡± Vasilisa cried as the blade whistled downwards. The cry came to her throat naturally, but left her lips sounding like cracking, scratching glass. No sooner than her cry had sounded, the cleaver came to a sudden halt mid-swing.


    ¡°What magic is this?¡± the monster exclaimed, turning its cracked face to look at Vasilisa. Its stony expression was set in terrifying serenity, but behind the crafted skin sensed it was shocked. Frightened. ¡°You speak the song of the stars?¡±


    Vasilisa felt a buzzing strength rise from her chest as the crystals thrummed with power. She suddenly felt as though she could move the heavens out of alignment, and bend the shadows of the forest to her command. But more than that, she felt a strange sense of connection to the gray monster - one of master and servant.


    ¡°Leave.¡± Her command thundered like a mountain echo. In her mind¡¯s eye, she saw herself thrusting the monster back into the dark crystalline alcove from where it had emerged. The creature suddenly dug its heels into the ground, as if resisting an invisible hand pressing against its chest.


    ¡°You are not among the Vessel,¡± growled the monster in the same, grating tongue. ¡°Yet you call on their power. Thief.¡±


    Yesugei snapped his comrade out of his paralysis, and the two of them stared at her. Vasilisa noticed their weapons bore crystals, but their power was ancient and fading, the last captured breaths of a greater thing long gone from the world. The crystal teeth within her chest surged with new, youthful vigor, and Vasilisa focused her thoughts into pushing the monster further away from the two men.


    The monster resisted with a strained huff, digging its heels deeper into the dirt. A great pounding exploded in her mind, like fists hammering on glass. She faltered for a moment, and the monster broke free from her hold. It fixed her with a deadly glare - and then a speartip stabbed one of its swirling dark eyes.


    ¡°Focus!¡± shouted Yesugei in the Common Tongue as he and the spearman threw themselves in front of her and into the attack.


    The monster reeled from the stab to its eye and swung its cleaver, but the two nomads dodged aside as they called to each other in Khormchak. Yesugei slashed at the exposed, knotted muscles of the creature¡¯s chest, while the spear free from the creature¡¯s eye and impaled itself through the monster''s knee. The monster bucked under the attack, and its wounded flesh seemed to struggle trying to seal itself.


    Vasilisa shook off the pounding in her head. She reached out with her left hand, and focused her mind on the Apostle¡¯s cleaver as it swung out at the Khormchaks. She could not stop the blade¡¯s path, but with a surge of will she nudged its trajectory just enough for it to miss. The blade buried itself in the ground with a thunderous crack - the Khormchaks weaved away and past the monster like dancers as they hacked and stabbed away at it.


    Vasilisa¡¯s eyes fell upon a pile of debris - the ruins of a peasant¡¯s house. With a wave of her hand the scattered bricks and logs went soaring through the air, smashing the monster off balance. The Khormchaks seized the opportunity, and ripped into the creature again. Black blood soon gushed from a dozen different wounds; the two nomads¡¯ weapons were soaked in darkness, but still the monster fought - its focus torn between the nomads mauling its body and the magical assault.


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    ¡°ENOUGH!¡± it roared, the force of its voice startling the nomads into retreat. With a sharp motion, the monster hurled its massive cleaver skyward. The blade hung in the air for a moment, then spun down like a scythe, slicing toward her.


    Vasilisa leapt aside as the cleaver tore past, burying itself deep into the ground. The cleaver twitched, then jumped free into the air again after her. Panic gripped her as she fought to wrest control of the blade from the monster¡¯s invisible grasp. It was a battle of wills, but her strength faltered. The cleaver vanished¡ªand a white-hot agony erupted in her neck.


    Her left arm hung useless as she reached with her right hand, feeling hot blood gushing over her fingers. She traced a long row of teeth and tried to pull them free, but only succeeded in falling to her knees as the staggering weight of the cleaver dragged her down.


    She gasped for air. Her throat tightened and she tasted bubbling iron in her mouth. The world blurred¡ªthe nomads and the monster melted into soft, bobbing colors - blue, green, and stone-grey crashing into one another.


    I¡¯m dying, she realized, her blood pooling beneath her. The thought wasn¡¯t terrifying - merely a certainty. She pressed her scarred right hand against the dirt as she slowly fell forward, bracing herself. Wouldn¡¯t want to hit my head, would I?


    Somehow, this didn¡¯t seem like a bad way to die. She felt her breathing slow - the rough ground pressed small marks into her face. She stopped trying to breathe. The pain dulled, and her thoughts shifted.


    This didn¡¯t seem like a bad way to die. Fighting free from mysterious captors. Talking to animals. Fighting alongside brave warriors against strange monsters. It was the kind of adventure they would sing of in her father¡¯s court - heroic, if brief.


    Unanswered questions faded, none of them distinct enough to focus on. Dying felt less like how she imagined death, and more like falling asleep. Or was dying just like falling asleep, only to never wake again?


    Falling asleep¡­


    Falling¡­


    Fall¡­


    ***


    The sorceress collapsed to the ground - the gray monster¡¯s cleaver of flesh and bone dragging her to the dirt where she gurgled her final breaths.


    Yesugei¡¯s heart sank as the girl fell. She appeared like a well-needed prayer - and her magic, like Sergen¡¯s had kept them on even footing against the monster. Now she was dead, leaving only the two sons of Aqtai-khan.


    The crystal-decorated handkerchief and Yesugei¡¯s sword left trails of smoke in the air as they clashed against the monster. Their weapons leapt out high and low to bite and rip into bleeding muscle and sinew beneath hard, cracked skin. The creature circled ponderously, but its every move was becoming faster and faster as the girl¡¯s magic was faded. Panic gripped Yesugei. They had struck the monster two dozen times over yet its wounds healed again and again as if stitched by invisible threads.


    The head. We need to hack the head off - fully. Without the head, the body will fail.


    ¡°Kaveh!¡± Yesugei shouted, ducking under a swipe by the monster. ¡°Take the leg!¡±


    His brother spun, driving the tip of his spear into back of the creature¡¯s knee. Kaveh learned into the shaft - forcing the towering beast to lower itself just enough.


    Yesugei lunged as the creature threw one hand to the ground to balance itself. Its distracted gaze turned back to Kaveh. Gripping his sword with both hands, Yesugei swung.


    The blade bit an inch deep into the creature¡¯s neck. Blood hardly began to well from the wound before Yesugei tore his sword free struck again, hacking as if with an axe. The monster dropped to all fours, its thick neck straining as pain finally showed. There still remained an impossible barrier of cursed muscle, and already it began to crawl closed around the shamshir¡¯s blade.


    Gritting his teeth, Yesugei planted his boot on the blade and drove his weight down. ancient flesh and muscle rent in twain by shining Khormchak steel. An enraged screen escaped Yesugei¡¯s lips, but it sounded muted to his own ears, drowned out by the deafening war-drum of his heart.


    Then came a gasp, and Yesugei¡¯s blade tore free.


    The monster¡¯s long braids wrap messily around its head as it fell free from the body, landing in the dirt. The ground lapped happily at the poisonous blood as it seeped from the monster¡¯s severed head, which was followed shortly by the body as it fell with a thud.


    A twitch. A shiver. And then silence.


    Yesugei dropped to one knee, his sword slipping from his weakened grip. The blade, riddled with cracks, stuck into the dirt beside him. The hissing of the crystals was the only noise that sounded in Tosont - now littered anew with the bodies of fallen allies.


    Kaveh¡¯s tired hand fell upon his shoulder, and Yesugei braced himself against his brother as he rose to his feet, his eyes glued to the massive corpse. A bleak tide of sorrow washed over his exhausted heart as he looked over at the scattered others.


    Sergen, the old shaman disgraced and redeemed. His ashes were already scattering to the wind, along with whatever answers he might have had of the nightmare.


    Targyn, whose body was already set upon by the crows as they descended from their seats on the roofs.


    Kenes, who lay so mangled his own kinsmen would scarcely recognize him if they brought him back to the Qarakesek ulus.


    And the strange girl, who appeared as if from nowhere. Who bought them time to finish the monster when she could very well have fled and taken their horses. A girl whose name he didn¡¯t even know, who saved his life twice and was repaid only with her own death.


    Yesugei bent his head down before the fallen, and brought forth a small prayer. ¡°Spirits of the White Heavens - may these brave souls find peace in the Blue Sky.¡±


    The prayer rang empty, lifeless as the rest of Tosont. Yesugei¡¯s thoughts turned to the loved ones left behind: Sergen¡¯s grandchildren, Targyn¡¯s two wives, and Kenes¡¯ younger brother training to join the keshik guard. Their bodies would need to be returned to the steppe, or their souls would linger in foreign lands, denied the Eternal Sky. The girl though - she was Klyazmite, judging by her dress and features. There would be no kin to mourn her in the Qarakesek kurgans. Yesugei resolved to bring her to her own home. If she had kin, he would use his own personal hoard to see to it they would live without want.


    The black crystals in his sword hissed one last time, then fell silent. The horse¡¯s melted head sat eyeless and still, and Kaveh untied his scorched handkerchief from the shaft of his spear, scattering lifeless crystals into the sparse grass.


    ¡°Legends come to life, hm?¡± Kaveh muttered, coughing as he adjusted his grip.


    ¡°At least they can be killed.¡±


    Yesugei staggered forward as Kaveh coughed again. His fingers brushed through the fallen monster¡¯s greasy, shining black hair. Its head was twice the size of his own, and weighed as if it were made of stone and lead. But they had their proof for the khans at the gathering kurultai to the east. A sign of the Ormanli legends coming to life. Exhaustion threatened to overtake him - he let the head fall back to the ground.


    Kaveh¡¯s coughing worsened, violent and hacking. Yesugei felt a strange itch come to his chest, and a sharp burning sensation spreading through his lungs. It felt like insects were erupting from inside his throat. He coughed, then coughed again when the itching did not cease. Panic set in - he clawed at his neck and felt the veins bulging beneath his touch. Tendrils of rot were crawling up his face.


    No¡­the monster is dead.


    Yesugei collapsed, his body convulsing with coughs as the fiery pain in his lungs spread across his body. His veins writhed visibly under his skin, and invisible legs seemed to skitter under his flesh. He looked toward the monstrous corpse in horror. Tendrils of black blood oozed from the cracked earth, wriggling back into the stump of its severed neck.


    No.


    ¡°Yesugei!¡±


    A fleshy crunch sounded from behind him. The giant cleaver rose up, dragging the girl¡¯s lifeless body with it before slipping free. Then the cleaver spun through the air again, travelling in a lazy, lethal arc. Yesugei threw himself to the ground. Kaveh, bent over and unaware, reacted too late. The cleaver shattered his brother¡¯s shield, sending him tumbling aside with his left arm broken. Deflected, the cleaver landed softly in the dirt near the gray corpse.


    The black worms buried in the creature¡¯s neck crawled into the empty eyes and dead flesh of the severed head. He reached for the greasy braids, but the snaking blood pulled the head away from him. The two stumps connected, and then the jagged wound was closed as if it had not been there at all. The monster¡¯s chest heaved with a hollow breath.


    Yesugei tried to cry out, but his throat tightened as veins bulged, threatening to burst. In desperation he clawed at his neck - if he could pop the veins, perhaps the pressure would relieve itself. Perhaps the agony would stop. He felt his skin crack, bleed, and then peel away as he scrambled to rip out the swelling rot as it suffocated him. And through the pain, he saw the hulking gray corpse one hand on the cleaver to steady itself.


    ¡°Foolish animals,¡± the monster boomed, its grating voice sounding just as it had before. As though he hadn¡¯t just ripped off its head a few moments ago. ¡°There are no legends - only truth.¡±


    Yesugei''s legs spasmed as he gasped for precious air, fingers clawing at the dirt in search of his sword. The monster stood tall, turned to Kaveh, and lifted him by the collar. With a single motion it slammed him into the wall of a house, shaking the whole wooden structure. Crows cawed above, chanting a single refrain: suffering, suffering, suffering.


    ¡°May the gate be opened!¡± cried the monster, raising a clawed finger to the sky. ¡°My Lord Gandroth, accept this sacrifice!¡±


    Its black claw tore through Kaveh¡¯s robe, then pressed against his chest, pressing deeper and deeper until it drew a single drop of blood. The claw shot downwards, ripping through Kaveh¡¯s chest as the monster traced a crimson cross and triangle into his skin. Kaveh gasped and thrashed uselessly, but once its bloody work was done the monster released him - dropping him like a discarded toy.


    ¡°Now, suffer. And be enlightened.¡±


    The carved sign flashed with fire, and Kaveh screamed as the flames turned black and spread across his body.


    Yesugei¡¯s fingers wrapped around the handle of his sword, and he staggered to his feet with a desperate roar. Kaveh¡¯s screams tore through the air. The black flames transformed him into a living shadow as the air filled with the smell of burning hair and flesh. Yesugei lunged for the monster, swinging madly.


    His slash halted mid-air at a flick of the monster¡¯s finger, the blade frozen, his hand immobile. As the crushing pressure on his chest grew, Yesugei glared at the monster, his heart split with rage.


    The creature pinched its bloodied fingers together, and Yesugei¡¯s sword trembled. He struggled against the invisible force that held him, trying to reach with his other hand so he could gouge out its black eyes and rip into its throat. Then his sword shattered, shards exploding outward. Silver fragments pierced his arm, chest, and throat, drawing black and crimson blood.


    The monster flung him across the courtyard. As Yesugei crashed to the earth, something snapped in his back. Sensation drained from his legs.


    He managed at last to take a single gasp of breath through a mouthful of blood, then spat out a glob of black and crimson. His body knew he was injured, that shards of his own sword pierced his gut and his neck, but he didn¡¯t care.


    It would be so easy to die, to surrender and ascend to the blue, endless steppe of the heavens. Perhaps his death was set in stone the moment the monster, or when he decided to enter Tosont - or even when they left the Qarakesek ulus to search for Dagun. But none of that mattered.


    Sergen, Kenes, Targyn, and now Kaveh were all dead. The only thing that mattered now was hurting the creature as much as possible - to draw as much blood as he could, even if it meant he would be shattered. Even if the monster would heal and go on to reap its human harvest anyway. All that mattered now was giving one final, desperate, stupid fight.


    The girl lay just off to the side. Yesugei crawled towards her limp form, reaching for her saber that lay just out of reach as the monster stomped towards him. A giant hand grasped the back of his robe. Something lay in the dirt, tucked in the folds of the girl¡¯s ripped dress. Yesugei seized at his final, desperate insult as the monster lifted him into the air.


    ¡°Very good,¡± the creature rasped. As it raised its claw to carve another sign, twisted in its grasp. Bracing himself against the monster¡¯s arm, he struck as hard as he could with the black crystal that was in the girl¡¯s pouch.


    A heart-rending howl filled the outpost, scattering the waiting crows to the sky.


    Yesugei hit the ground, watching with a sick grin on his face as the monster clutched at its smoking chest and its foul, wretched heart. Staggering backwards the monster tripped, and as it fell, its cracked gray skin, knotted muscle, and greasy hair dissolved into black ash, scattering on the ground.


    Yesugei let his head fall back, and he stared up at the gray clouds.


    It was over. The nightmare was over. The monster lay dead, his vengeance was complete, and he could finally die in peace.


    He felt the flow of his life essence from his wounds slow to a steady trickle as he let his breathing still.


    As his life ebbed away, he thought of his grandfather, a grainy memory of falconry. He thought of his mother, lost to a rival tribe. Their faces were blurred, faded by time. He hoped to see them again in the Eternal Sky, but remembered where he lay - alone, cold, and forgotten in foreign lands. In the corners of his vision he saw the monster¡¯s flames were spreading, consuming the houses all around. Tosont would become a great funeral pyre, and they would all be turned to ash.


    His breath slowed, and his hands fell from his burning wounds.


    Another stir beside him drew his fading gaze. Through his dimming vision, a silhouette appeared over him - a woman in a bloodied, tattered dress. Long black hair brushed his face as she knelt down.


    Yesugei¡¯s eyes widened. He met her gaze - two bright pools of molten gold.

 Chapter 7 - Thirst for Life

    Thirst for Life


    <hr>


    Vasilisa jolted awake, her chest burning as she took gulped in the cool, alpine air.


    Was this another dream? She remembered the cleaver in her neck, and choking on her own blood as she struggled to breathe. Her eyes looked up at the gray clouds slowly hovering above the towering pines, and then she felt her neck for a wound. Instead, there was only a small scar, like the seam on a dress.


    Gods¡­gods¡­what happened to that monster? The gigantic black obelisk still stood in the middle of the outpost, but the sounds of battle were gone, replaced by the incessant cawing of carrion crows and the crackle of fire. The town was burning - buildings were beginning to crumble, their thatched roofs sagging and collapsing inward.


    Vasilisa sat up, dizziness washing over her. The Khormchaks lay scattered - flies and birds had already settled on two of them. A black corpse charred beyond all recognition lay against the wall of a burning house. Nearby, Yesugei lay on his back - his chest and throat pierced by glinting metal shards.


    Next to the swordsman lay a great pile of black ash, shaped like a fallen man. A gust of wind scattered the ashen pile, revealing a tiny crystal - her mother¡¯s crystal - smoldering and darkening its surroundings. Everyone lay dead: the monster, Chirlan¡¯s guards, and the Khormchaks. No. Not all of the Khormchaks.


    Yesugei¡¯s chest rose and fell erratically - his skin was as gray as the clouds above. Vasilisa rushed and knelt down to examine his wounds. The nomad¡¯s eyes widened as he saw her - his lips moved soundlessly. Vasilisa hushed him and gingerly lifted his head into her lap. A deep wound in his neck trickled blood, but he was still breathing. Vasilisa tore one of her sleeves and packed the wound, ignoring the nomad¡¯s weak thrashing.


    ¡°I need you, my friend,¡± she muttered as she glanced at the metal shard in the nomad¡¯s chest. It had struck him just near the heart, missing by only an inch. ¡°I need you to guide me home. You aren¡¯t dying today, and you aren¡¯t dying here.¡±


    Yesugei gasped sharply, grabbing her arm with a bloodied hand. With the other, he pointed toward the ash pile¡ªand the cleaver still lodged in the ground.


    ¡°Warn¡­warn them.¡± He managed to gasp in the Common Tongue. ¡°The kurultai¡­warn them...¡±


    The short utterance took everything the nomad had, and he collapsed back into Vasilisa¡¯s lap, breathing slowly but steadily. How much longer would it last? Would it be a cruelty to leave him alive, lingering like this on the edge of death?


    ¡°Who do I warn?¡± Vasilisa demanded, gingerly trying to rouse him. ¡°I need you to guide me back home, to my family. They must also be warned. Do you understand me?¡±


    Her thoughts flashed to her father¡¯s throne room - the false posol Chirlan and his masked guards. If Chirlan had carried her away from Belnopyl, it would have only been over her parents¡¯ dead bodies. The image of her mother and father lying cold and bloodied in the throne room filled her with horror, but she forced her fears down. Perhaps tricks had spared them, just as he had put her to sleep. She resolved to mourn only when she saw their bodies, and would leap with joy and promise to never argue with them again if they were still alive.


    But regardless, Belnopyl was in danger. The other princes - Gvozden of Gatchisk, Svetopolk of Pemil - needed to be warned of the silver-masked invaders and their gray demons. She imagined more black crystals falling from the sky, impaling Klyazmite land to spill out death and darkness across the world. She could not imagine Ilya or her father¡¯s druzhina - the armored pride of the city¡¯s army - standing against monsters who cut through iron and flesh like cloth. Yet this nomad and his band killed one - even if it cost them nearly their entire company.


    She needed to know how, and she needed to warn Belnopyl.


    The nomad¡¯s eyes were unfocused. His throat moved faintly as he swallowed down blood and spittle between breaths. Vasilisa wasn¡¯t sure if he had even heard her.


    ¡°Belnopyl! Do you know where it is?¡± she asked, nudging him gently.


    The nomad¡¯s eyes closed, and Vasilisa¡¯s heart sank, fearing the worst. She felt his wrist for a pulse and breathed a sigh of relief - it was strong, filled with desperate life. For now. But she would not get any answers from him any time soon.


    The heat and smoke were becoming unbearable - if they lingered any longer, the town would become their pyre as well. The fiery sigil burned into the outpost gate had faded, and outside Vasilisa saw the Khormchaks¡¯ horses were tied to a tree. She stood up and dragged the nomad out from the burning town, then propped him up against a moss-grown rock. His bleeding had stopped, and she felt again for his pulse. Still alive.


    The horses were beginning to panic - whether from the scent of blood or the spreading fires, she did not know. She gently approached the sturdiest - a chestnut-colored stallion with a marked saddle. The Khormchak horses were smaller than the destriers her father¡¯s men rode - more like large ponies than real horses. She wondered whether it would even be able to support two riders.


    She softly patted the horse¡¯s shoulder, and let it sniff her hand. When the sniff was followed with an aloof turn of the head, Vasilisa softly whispered to the horse in the Klyazmite tongue. Did Khormchak horses even understand it? Did horses understand language at all?


    Rifling through the saddlebags of the others she gathered supplies - salted meat, cheese, bread, and a pouch of silver coins. She left the Khormchaks¡¯ horsehair banner by a tree. After she packed the chestnut stallion¡¯s saddlebags to bursting, she untied the remaining horses and sent them trotting down the valley, away from the raging flames.


    Leading the stallion to the unconscious nomad, she coaxed it to kneel as she carefully heaved Yesugei¡¯s body onto the saddle. Tying him securely, she mounted behind him. The horse buckled slightly, but soon trotted forward, steady and strong.


    The nomad¡¯s lips moved but made no sound as he settled against her back, still unconscious. Vasilisa thought back to his words of warning, then looked back at the burning town and its scattered bodies.


    No, one last thing.


    She dismounted and rushed back into the smoke-filled town. The fires were rising high, and cinders floated thick in the air. Through the haze, Vasilisa spotted the giant cleaver still lodged in the ground, blood-slick and gleaming. Grasping the handle, she yanked it free as easily as pulling a weed, then ran back out of the town. She slung the heavy blade across her back with a rope - it was uselessly heavy, but it was all that remained of the madness that consumed the town. Even the most untrusting among the boyars and princes of the west would have to give pause on seeing such a sword, held together by strange magic beyond even the foulest blood-sorcery.


    Back on the horse, Vasilisa scanned the forest for bearings. Snow-capped peaks loomed unfamiliar, and the winding stream might mislead her for days before she could find any landmarks. Then she spotted a moss-covered pine and heard Stavr¡¯s voice from her childhood echo in her mind: See there Vas¡¯ka? If you aren¡¯t scared, go touch the face of Leshy! She remembered playing with the boys in her father¡¯s hunting grounds, fearing the mythical guardian of the woods. But Stavr¡¯s teasing had also taught her a grain of truth - Leshy always looks north!


    The dark green moss grew thickest on the darkest sides of the pine trees, always to the north where the sun shone the least. Orienting herself, she chose a trail westward. The Khormchaks¡¯ presence suggested she was in the eastern borderlands, somewhere between the Klyazmite principalities and the Great Horde. For hundreds of years before the Horde came screaming out of the east, the dense woods had marked the boundary between the steppe peoples and the settled Klyazmite folk. If she traveled far enough west, she would reach the open plains - from there, a village, and from a village, a city.


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    Clicking her tongue, she urged the horse forward. The nomad murmured in his sleep, his head resting heavily against her back as they disappeared into the dense woods.


    ***


    Beneath the gray skies, the princess of Belnopyl and her nomad charge traveled slowly. Every few miles Vasilisa had to readjust her seat, or check on Yesugei whose feverish murmurs soon faded. Occasionally, she dismounted to ease the horse¡¯s burden, leading it by the bridle as she scanned the side of the dirt path for medicinal plants. Despite the vast, blooming greenery, the forest yielded little of use - only a few black leaves of ¡°wound healer¡±, as her old handmaid Mariana had called.


    When the sun set, she mimicked her father¡¯s trackers to set up camp: clear the ground, arrange stones, gather wood and grass, and pray to the gods the tinder would spark. By the time she had managed to coax a tiny ember with flint from the Khormchak saddlebags, Vasilisa felt too tired to do much else besides sleep. As she searched through the saddlebags for food, Vasilisa heard a groan from Yesugei and shuffled over to check on him.


    Laid out on a bedroll near the fire, the nomad¡¯s face resembled a skull. His features had sunken, his skin remained sickly gray. The veins in his neck and face swelled visibly from underneath his skin, reminding her of a condemned man she saw hanged by her father¡¯s order. She wondered again whether her healing was having an effect - or whether it was just prolonging the suffering, loosening the noose of death, but not breaking it.


    She knelt by him, removing his robe. The wounds had completely stopped bleeding and showed no signs of infection in the firelight. She thoughtfully chewed on the wound healer leaves, then spit the pulp into a cloth and pressed it to his wounds. The nomad hissed at the sting, and Vasilisa remembered crying when Mariana did the same for her, tending to a bite wound from one of her father¡¯s hunting dogs. She missed the old governess¡¯ steady presence, her sharp advice.


    ¡°Why¡­do you do this?¡± Yesugei rasped weakly.


    Vasilisa startled briefly. ¡°You saw that monster, same as I. And you killed it-¡±


    ¡°-and soon, it will kill me,¡± said Yesugei with a hacking cough. ¡°A pointless trade.¡±


    He curled his fingers tightly around her hand, and Vasilisa¡¯s breath stopped. Her mind expanded. She saw vast, shimmering steppes that stretched for thousands of miles in all directions. The great tide of horses and traveling yurts of the Khormchaks, cursed and blessed to forever be on the move. Faces flickered before her: half-remembered ancestors, siblings older and younger, brothers of blood, and brothers of oath. Targyn with his falcon, Kenes with his scars, Sergen and his unfulfilled promises. Black teeth of night swallowed the lantern-light on a dark day of blood, and the black tendrils that swallowed the sun.


    She felt everything¡ªthe pain, the helplessness. But she also felt a powerful, inhuman black hatred - not directed at her, but outward to the entire world, vast and unrelenting. She felt the desire to plunge it all into the depths of a great pit, and to weep for loved ones and gods that never were.


    The nomad¡¯s hand uncurled from hers, and the sensation faded.


    ¡°This¡­these wounds¡­it is not pestilence.¡± Yesugei shivered, and his head dropped back, weakened. ¡°It is a curse.¡±


    Yesugei tried to smile, but only clenched his teeth in pain. Hanging on with what little strength he had left, while the black rage ravaged his body like a wildfire.


    ¡°A curse, yes¡­the wise men say spirits curse those who kill them. Legends come to life¡­and so does their hate. You feel it, don¡¯t you? Endless hate - to blot out the sun, to swallow the sky and the stars.¡±


    Yesugei struggled to keep his eyes open. He was fighting against sleep, not sure if it would be his last. Death and sleep - how well they went hand-in-hand.


    ¡°Black crystals¡­the teeth of night¡­they will save you. They will kill them,¡± Yesugei¡¯s tone grew desperate, and he grabbed at Vasilisa¡¯s sleeve, as if hanging onto her could stop him from falling back into slumber. ¡°Don¡¯t be afraid. Do not let yourself be afraid. Teeth of night¡­they will save you. They will kill them¡­¡±


    Yesugei fell back into oblivion mid-sentence, his grip slackening. Vasilisa covered him with a blanket and sat on a small log, trying to clear her mind. Strange birds whistled in the distance, and a low breeze whispered among the trees that loomed overhead like spears pointed to the heavens. Her scarred hand bushed the crystals nestled in her chest, feeling their pulse. Her curse.


    They will save you. They will kill them.


    Or was it salvation?


    Yesugei¡¯s question swirled in her mind as she stared at the flickering fire, hoping to find answers in the flame.


    Why do you do this?


    By the time the fire had died and the sun began to rise once more, she still did not find her answer to the dying nomad¡¯s question.


    ***


    The gray clouds returned with the daylight, bringing with them rain, thunder, and lightning. The storm of frigid rain soaked with Vasilisa and Yesugei, who remained half-lucid, muttering in the Khormchak tongue as they continued to travel. He barely shivered from the cold, his lips turned pale, and his gray skin began to flake off and crack. Soon, his mutterings fell silent.


    Eventually the rain slowed to a trickle, replaced by strong gusts of wind that chilled Vasilisa to the bone as the towering pines began to grow sparse. She almost wept at the sight of the familiar Klyazmite plains when they yawned out before her beyond the treeline. Trotting the steady-footed stallion out of the woods, she scanned the horizon for villagers or traveling merchants. As she looked on, Yesugei begin to shake violently in the saddle.


    Vasilisa reached out, but he slipped from her grasp and fell with a quiet moan. She dismounted and turned him onto his back.


    Why do you do this?


    His blue robe was torn to tatters, and crusty with blood and dirt. The nomad¡¯s chest barely rose and fell now, and his dry, cracked lips released a deadly breath.


    Why do you do this?


    Vasilisa tore open his robe and saw a large patch of darkness spreading across Yesugei¡¯s chest, crawling out from the metal shard stuck in his breast. Instinctively, she took hold of the metal shard and slowly slid it free, trailing dark crimson and viscous black as she pulled it out. She dropped the cursed shard when it burned in her hand. Yet the spreading darkness didn¡¯t stop - it slowly inched across Yesugei¡¯s chest, crushing his breath.


    The curse was overwhelming. Vasilisa felt it - a dark smoke choking out all life around it with its unending hatred. Yesugei writhed in silent agony.


    Why do you do this?


    She took the nomad¡¯s hand, and his feeble thrashing slowed. She opened her mind once more, trying to show to the dying nomad what she could not say.


    She let her pain, her fears, her sorrows bleed out. But from them, she found herself wanting to live more than anything else. Wanting this total stranger, whom she had only met a scant few days ago, to live. A thirst for life bloomed from her chest - it washed over the land, the sky, the wind, and the distant villages and cities. Tiding over soldiers, lords, and peasants alike. Everything that she knew and loved was to fall into the great pit of hatred, and the only thread that held it, that prevented the world from falling into the abyss forever, lay within her heart.


    She loosened her dress, letting the cloth covering her impaled breast fall from her shoulder. The crystals hungrily drew in the light of day.


    It was so quiet, out in the Klyazmite plains.


    She didn¡¯t understand what she was doing, not entirely, as she took hold of the cursed metal shard. She stifled her wince of pain as the hateful metal burned in her grasp. Then she slowly slid the pointed tip into her chest, just beneath the smallest of the crystals.


    Vasilisa froze for a moment. A voice in her head told her she was on the verge of the abyss. Whatever happened now-


    You can never go home. Never again.


    She hesitated only for a moment.


    Dull pain flowered in her chest as she dug the metal shard deeper into her chest, slowly scraping free the smallest crystal. She let the blood from her wound drip free and was surprised by the strange feeling of lightness that came over her as she pulled the crystal out.


    The light-swallowing fang hissed in the presence of the cursed wound - into it she charged life, passion, desires and imagination, and a thirst for living. She dropped the cursed metal blade, and placed her free hand on Yesugei¡¯s chest, steadying herself.


    The words came to her on their own as she placed the hissing crystal inside Yesugei¡¯s torn wound.


    ¡°Gods of mine¡­¡±


    Vasilisa fell backwards, breathing heavily as she felt a sudden, crushing weight release itself from her shoulders. Confusion crept into her still heart as warm blood continued to leak from the hole in her chest. She heard that same voice in her head. Its tone rang with resolute determination in her mind.


    And so it is done, and so it shall be.


    Gods of mine¡­


    Fire, earth, and stars above¡­


    Accept my blood, my spirit, and my love.

 Chapter 8 - The Son

    The Son


    <hr>


    The sun crested past the Khurvan mountains, casting the Valley of Milk in shadow as it sank behind the high peaks. From his vantage on the mountain slopes, the first son of Aqtai-khan watched the lengthening shadows consume the sprawling sea of yurts below, like a serpent swallowing its prey.


    The Valley was covered by a boundless city of felt roofs and cloth tents - a chaotic sprawl of tribal camps and market stalls unconfined by walls or gates. The Great Horde took a hundred great cities in its conquest - the marbled desert cities of southern Huwaq, fortress-towns of the eastern Tan Ninh, and the great temple-cities of the western elven republic. But to Nariman, none of the great cities¡¯ ordered opulence could compare to the raw, beautiful vastness of the growing kurultai.


    Two dozen tribal banners fluttered in the soft wind, though more and more trickled in every day. Beneath the banners, lanterns and torches awakened to dispel the mountain¡¯s shadow, illuminating a flowing patchwork of different faces, colors, and attire. Sunset Islanders in vibrantly-colored shirts, long-haired Vinh Huo merchants clad in silk robes, ruddy river-farers from distant Newo Gardas, and even pale elven blood-sorcerers from Yllahana accompanied by eunuch slaves - all mingled among Khormchak nomads. The foreign merchants and emissaries buzzed about, seeking to lower tariffs with the tribes whose lands their caravans crossed, or hawking goods from across the known world.


    Satisfied with the calm outside, Nariman ducked back into his own yurt nestled halfway up the Khuvan slopes. While the other tribes and their men filled the Valley below, only the Great Khan and his kin were allowed to occupy the sacred Khuvan¡¯s heights from which flowed the Jigai - the greatest of rivers, the lifeblood of the Hungry Steppe. Inside the yurt, Nariman gave a brief nod to father¡¯s keshik guards, who silently withdrew.


    Of all the family yurts, Nariman kept his luxuries second only to his father¡¯s, as was the unspoken rule. Patterned carpets from Huwaq adorned the purple hardwood floor imported from Vinh Huo. Gifts from courtiers and merchants lined the shelves: a golden statue of a philosopher from Tan Ninh, a black komuz lute from the southern mountain tribes, and a miniature horse carved entirely from ruby, gifted by an Yllahanan senator. The opulence was all a far cry from his childhood in a plain, drafty yurt, when the Qarakesek was little more than a footnote among the Khormchaks. Now they stood at the top of the world, and the great nations tripped over one another to bequeath their gifts to the Great Khan and his heirs.


    Said heirs turned to look at Nariman as took his seat at the head of the dining table. A slave quickly brought a drinking bowl and filled it with arkhi wine, then was dismissed.


    ¡°Pace around any longer, and you¡¯ll wear down those carpets you¡¯re so fond of,¡± remarked Gulsezim, her nose buried in a merchant¡¯s ledger. ¡°The kurultai won¡¯t disappear into thin air when you¡¯re not looking, brother.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s not the tribes I¡¯m worried about.¡± sighed Nariman, adjusting his coat. He was fidgeting again - an infuriating habit when nerves overtook him. ¡°Yesugei still hasn¡¯t returned. He hasn¡¯t even sent a messenger.¡±


    Yesugei, the ninth son of Aqtai from his third wife, had always been quiet, blending into the background at court. The number nine held special meaning, and so the shamans, citing the luck of Yesugei¡¯s birth order, had foretold great achievements. But his younger brother¡¯s record had been unremarkable¡ªno great conquests, only the slaying of a ragged Quanli noyan during the war against Naizabai. It baffled Nariman why their father had sent Yesugei and Kaveh, another vanishingly unimpressive sibling - and a Huwaqi half-breed at that - to pursue Dagun-noyan, a man of such importance.


    ¡°They¡¯re probably just lost.¡± Talgat, their father¡¯s second son, quipped. ¡°Watch - Dagun will end up back here on his own before those two fools figure out their heads from their asses.¡±


    Nariman, Talgat, and Gulsezim stood to inherit the lion¡¯s share of their father¡¯s holdings, while younger siblings such as Yesugei, Kaveh, Inkar, and Erasyl would receive minor holdings - certainly not enough to threaten the stability of the greater Qarakesek. But despite all potential for the Qarakesek to fracture into squabbling factions on their father''s death, the three true-borns of Aqtai-khan got along well enough - sleeping, hunting, laughing, and crying all together. But with Dagun¡¯s disappearance, it was as if a heavy pall were now hanging over all of them - despite Talgat¡¯s attempts to make light of it.


    The Qarakesek emissary going missing would normally be of little consequence. But with the approaching kurultai, any sign that could be misconstrued as weakness would be catastrophic. Their oath-uncle Naizabai¡¯s return to prominence meant tribes would scrutinize how the Great Khan handled the shifting balance of power. Nariman recalled his father¡¯s wisdom: When you break a man, you must offer him a hand to stand back up. Otherwise, you¡¯ll need to take the head of every man who defies you. Such a khan will find no friends¡ªonly fearful subjects eager to turn or flee.


    Even now, after half the world bowed to the White Khan, Nariman questioned if sparing Naizabai had been the right choice. In the fractured Hungry Steppe of old, spilling blood or even wiping out a tribe required little justification. But under the White Khan¡¯s rule and peace, tribal wars were a relic of the past. Peacetime had brought wealth to all the khans¡ªand stakes too high for unchecked violence.


    It was no great crime for a khan to surround himself with friends, nor was it a crime for any khan to put their name forth in the kurultai - the election for the next Great Khan. Yet as much as everything felt legal, it did not feel right. With too few guaranteed votes, Naizabai¡¯s only chance lay in exploiting perceived weakness in their father - perhaps through the disappearance of a protected envoy. As much as his father spoke of loyalty and friendship, friendship to most Khormchak khans was a fickle thing - steadfast allies could take flight if they sensed the winds of change against them.


    Frustration gnawed at Nariman - he had grown too complacent, too focused on his lands and succession to notice the Quanli plotting in the shadows. He sighed and turned to Gulsezim.


    ¡°What news do your scouts bring of our favorite uncle?¡±


    Gulsezim closed her ledger, giving her brother a sly, questioning look. ¡°You know brother, I¡¯d say with-¡±


    ¡°What do your scouts say?¡± Nariman interrupted, raising one hand. ¡°I¡¯m not interested in playing your games.¡±


    His sister sighed, frowning bitterly as she replied. ¡°He and his horde were spotted near Balai a day ago - he should arrive here sometime in the evening. Just on time for the feast.¡±


    ¡°And his allies?¡±


    ¡°Traveling with him. The Jalarin joined him at Ongainur, and the Shaprats and Oshkan at Isfalal.¡±


    Nariman rested his chin on his steepled fingers as he thought aloud. ¡°Three tribes. Then I assume the Suyan will be joining him separately. They must be¡­how many? Twenty, thirty thousand?¡±


    ¡°Thirty-five, pushing forty. My spies say he¡¯s also taken into his company several foreigners - advisors from out west.¡±


    ¡°What¡¯s this interest in our uncle, Nariman?¡± piped Talgat. ¡°A war just before the kurultai is bad form, you know.¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t be stupid.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯d hardly say it''s a stupid question when you¡¯re having Gulsezim screening his party every step of the way,¡± responded his brother, sitting back on his own stool as he studied Nariman. ¡°You think I haven¡¯t noticed you mobilizing your own men? Planting them throughout the camps, the markets? What¡¯s your plan, brother?¡±


    ¡°You¡¯ve spent too much time in Huwaq¡¯s nest of vipers, Talgat.¡± Nariman sneered, but inside he felt a mix of pride and fear.


    It had been a while since he had last spoken with Talgat - before his brother had headed out to govern the southern desert-cities as a noyan. Clearly time spent in Huwaq¡¯s courtly intrigue had imbued his dim-witted brother with a certain perception for cunning. If only Nariman had known sooner, perhaps he could have involved Talgat in what was to come. But it was too late now.


    ¡°This is promising to be the largest gathering of Khormchaks in ages. You think all of the men here will leave their grudges back home just because it''s a kurultai? My men are out keeping order among the tribes - making sure we don¡¯t suffer a war in camp before the feast.¡± It was only a half-lie he fed to his brother - the warriors were given orders to keep the peace and punish thieves, but several of his own blood-sworn were given a different task.


    Even now they were putting the final touches together - keeping a watchful eye on who clasped hands with whom, who feasted whom, who drank with whom. For seven days now they watched, they recorded, and they learned which tribes and noyans could be relied upon. Who would stand firm by the Qarakesek if chaos were to erupt. Whose throat to slit and whose yurt to burn if violence did take place.


    Talgat seemed unsatisfied, but said nothing. Between Gulsezim¡¯s knowing smile and Talgat¡¯s questioning, Nariman felt the walls closing in on him. Looking up through the open crown of the yurt, he saw the skies beginning to darken. Only a few hours remained before the feast and the arrival of Naizabai¡¯s host. His entire plan, so carefully laid out, suddenly felt as though it were built on a foundation of twigs. Doubt cloud his mind - and when he closed his eyes he only saw a thousand different ways things could go wrong. And in all of them, he saw blood. And fire. So, so much fire.


    His father often said that, were he not the White Khan¡¯s firstborn son, that Nariman would have made a fine shaman. Unlike this siblings, his Sight did not just allow him to cast his vision across distance - his Sight granted him visions of the future, myriad and confounding. Those visions had guided him, always showing him the path ahead to avoid doom - hidden paths to bypass enemies, places to conceal troops, even uncovering an assassin¡¯s knife at a feast. He had learned to distinguish the likely from the unlikely and had been more often right than wrong. But this time was different.


    Every time he tried to focus on how to forge a path ahead, what future lay in store for him and his kin, all he saw was blood and fire. And then nothing. He revised his plans endlessly, checked with spies, and even observed the gathering tribes himself. By now he had rehearsed the plan a thousand times in his mind, and prepared every contingency. Yet why then did the creeping sense of failure refuse to leave him?


    Why did his visions of the future never include himself?


    Nariman felt himself spiraling. He vaguely heard Gulsezim and Talgat as they spoke of other matters that didn¡¯t concern him - they may as well have been a thousand miles away. Nariman strode out of the yurt, beckoning the two keshiks that stood guard by the entrance.


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    ¡°Fetch my palanquin. I¡¯m heading out.¡±


    ***


    In the shadow of the Khurvan mountains, two bald slaves led the palanquin¡¯s path with oil lanterns while a dozen more slaves hoisted the long palanquin poles on their shoulders. Ten of Nariman¡¯s own keshiks, clad in gilded suits of steel lamellar plates, flanked their blood-sworn brother.


    Through the small window bars of the lacquered-wood-and-gold palanquin, the scents of countless different spices, perfumes, and foods mixed into a single queer smell that was unlike any other in the world. Nariman took in the sight of the yurt-city as it passed him by, silently observing the flowing patchwork of the Horde¡¯s subjects up close.


    A Tan Ninh merchant with a long beard nodded in agreement with an Yllahanan elf and his slave translator.


    A small Khormchak girl, no older than four, ran past the legs of adults holding a fabric doll.


    Two Solarian priests, their heads shaved in the strange manner of their sect, proselytized to traders from Newo Gardas.


    A woman with cracked, gray skin stared at him through the crowd with glowing yellow eyes.


    Nariman bolted upright as he felt a stab of terror through his heart. He moved up close to the windows of the palanquin, hoping to get another look at the gray woman, but only saw more of the milling, murmuring crowd. His eyes scanned through the shifting sea of bodies, but the gray woman was gone - if she even existed to begin with. Perhaps the sleepless nights were finally beginning to take a toll on him, and he had finally started seeing things in the waking world as well as in his dreams. Nonetheless, he checked the curved knife tucked into his belt.


    Soon the palanquin came to a gentle stop, and Nariman drew out into the open air. Before him stood a tall tent marked with the purple and red colors of the Yllahanan Republic - the largest of the elven slave-states to the distant west. The elven folk of the Republic were normally a proud, sneering folk who derided all folk that were not of elven blood - seeing them only as natural-born slaves. Yet the elves hungered for wealth and gold as much as any human, and so they sent out emissaries to trade for spices and slaves, and to spy on the Horde. This particular tent however, was different.


    A pair of young, gaunt Klyazmite slave girls opened the tent flap before Nariman. As he stepped inside, he was hit by a wall of sickly-sweet scent. A half-dozen incense burners hung from the poles of the great merchant¡¯s tent, drowning out all other smells from the outside and soaking every piece of furniture with the same sweet odor. A pair of shaved eunuchs bowed forth and offered to take Nariman¡¯s gold-chased shamshir, but he waved them off. He focused his attention on the two stately figures that sat at a large wooden table before him - their faces lit by candle-light.


    ¡°I was thinking you¡¯d get cold feet.¡± said the first of the two - a man with high cheekbones and the light bronze skin of the Huwaqis. The dancing candlelight betrayed the man¡¯s mocking smile - one that did not reach his emerald eyes, which looked on him with disdain.


    The other person seated at the table, a middle-aged man with a neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and a scarred face, quietly pulled forward a chair for Nariman. As he lowered himself to sit, a young slave boy no older than twelve appeared at his side with a tray bearing chilled fruit and wine.


    ¡°I had other arrangements to take care of,¡± said Nariman. He pushed the offered wine and fruit to one side as he carefully eyed his companions. ¡°Naizabai-khan will be arriving soon.¡±


    ¡°Wonderful!¡± sighed the younger Huwaqi with a clap of his hands. On one long, slender finger sat a golden signet ring bearing the sunburst of the shah¡¯s royal house - the last remnant of that first empire crushed underfoot by the Horde. ¡°As much as I am fascinated by all of this gathered¡­culture, I would much rather return to my nest as soon as I can.¡±


    ¡°You will want to make yourself scarce soon then,¡± replied Nariman. ¡°Naizabai brings forty-thousand riders with him to the kurultai. I have my men in place, but there is always the risk of things spilling out into a skirmish. And a Huwaqi-Shah looks much like any other man in the chaos of battle.¡±


    To this, the older gentleman who had remained silent thus far allowed himself a small chuckle. He wore a simple brown kaftan fastened with a wide belt, but underneath it Nariman saw a slip of a maille shirt. A qadi of the Sons of Al-Qadir went about with arms and armor always, and served until death.


    ¡°You keep your concerns to yourself,¡± sniped back the young shah. He gave a sidelong glare at the qadi. ¡°And you, old man¡­they¡¯ll be hunting after your kind, not mine, if things turn sour.¡±


    ¡°The Sons of Al-Qadir will not fail, princeling,¡± said Qasim. The aged man was one of the Brotherhood¡¯s qadis, a lieutenant to the Silent Father himself, and under whose direction were two dozen of the cold-hearted, fanatical youths that made up the ranks of the Brotherhood¡¯s hired blades. ¡°And if fortune should seem against us, it is the will of the Silent Father. All paths before a Son of Al-Qadir lead to Heaven.¡±


    Nariman fought off the urge to scoff at the wise babble of Qasim. The lowest ranks might genuinely believe in the powers of their Silent Father to deliver them to paradise, but the qadis who helped their sect leader spin his lies certainly knew better, else their paths to Heaven were queer indeed - paved in so much gold from employers from across the known world who needed the services of the world¡¯s greatest killers. To bring Qasim into his plot, Nariman had spent a mountain of gold almost as large as those upon which the Brotherhood¡¯s fortresses sat.


    And yet, there was also an element of vengeance, to be sure. When the Horde burned and trampled its way through the mountain passes west of the shattered Huwaqi Shahdom, it was Naizabai¡¯s vanguard who waged bloody war against the Brotherhood. Ten long years of ceaseless siege had seen the Silent Father''s valleys scorched and his people slaughtered in untold numbers, but the mountain fortresses held, and qadis lived to seek their vengeance.


    On the other hand, the Huwaqishah¡¯s motivations were more plain. The exiled Huwaqi nobility - those who had the good sense to flee before the Horde¡¯s advance - had been scattered across the world, reduced to mercenaries or merchants trading on the fading prestige of their lineage. Rostam, however, had refused to fade into obscurity. His Huwaqiyya, the last remnants of his father¡¯s personal honor guard, had swollen into a force to be reckoned with, and their incessant fighting and raids into Khormchak territory was an ever-present thorn over their rule of Huwaq.


    And yet, raids were all the fading Huwaqiyya could do - Talgat had fortified the region too greatly, and the armies in the south were too vast to be broken by the plucky few. In exchange for his good service, Nariman had promised to restore Rostam to the Huwaqi throne - as a vassal of the Great Khan, naturally - but to an exiled prince, a crown of any sort is better than none at all. And no matter his bluster, it was plain to see how the fruitless years in the saddle had treated the crownless prince. To Rostam, the Huwaqi throne was his world. Talgat could always be sent to rule some other part of the Horde¡¯s domain - he would doubtlessly protest, perhaps even hate Nariman, but in the end he would see reason.


    With a small wave of his hand, the qadi summoned a Huwaqi man, perhaps twenty years of age. Flowing dark hair framed a handsome, thin face, and beneath the clothes of a household servant the man had the slender body of a dancer, or perhaps an acrobat. But when Nariman looked into his eyes he saw no light, no hint of life or soul within the slave.


    ¡°Your assassin, our tool,¡± said the qadi. ¡°Hot irons, drowning, the breaking wheel¡­whatever tortures your men can come up with - this one will endure, for all pains are a trifle to one who knows he will find Paradise in the next life.¡±


    ¡°Are you certain?¡± asked Nariman as he sized the assassin up. The Silent Father was said to be a sorcerer - one who could show his Sons a glimpse of paradise, and guarantee them a place in it if one was to do his bidding. For the young, impoverished lads the qadis recruited from the mountain villages, that glimpse and promise of heaven was enough to make them as obedient as dogs - and just as vicious.


    ¡°You think to question me now?¡± sighed Qasim. ¡°It¡¯s too late - you either take this one, or you can do the job yourself.¡±


    Nariman studied the man once more, then stood up and pulled his shamshir slowly from its sheath. He felt the qadi¡¯s and Rostam''s eyes on him, as well as the scared looks of the other slaves in Rostam''s tent. As he drew the sword free, Nariman commanded the Son of Al-Qadir to remove his shirt.


    The man did so obediently, exposing a bare, hairless chest. Nariman placed his blade against the slave¡¯s flesh, expecting at least a flinch, but the man continued to stare ahead.


    The man didn¡¯t flinch even when Nariman pressed the blade deeper, swelling a droplet of blood from his left breast. The man continued to stare ahead, his breathing remaining slow and steady as Nariman gently drew the biting blade across his chest from left to right - slicing a thin, bleeding gash that cut through his nipple. He remained standing to attention, as unmoving as a corpse - and Nariman felt a chill run down his spine as he averted his eyes from the assassin¡¯s blank gaze.


    The qadi¡¯s smile was thin and frightening. ¡°Satisfied?¡±


    Nariman reached into his robe and dropped a sack of coins onto the table ¡°Yllahanan solidi - our man¡¯s pay. Enough for the life of a Great Khan.¡±


    ¡°It¡¯s almost tragic, isn¡¯t it?¡± mused Rostam with a thin smile as he took a sip from a silver cup of wine. ¡°The oath-brother of the Great Khan killed by a poison meant for his liege, just as they had made amends.¡±


    ¡°The tragedy of this tale doesn¡¯t concern me, only that it is believed.¡± Nariman said as he wiped the man¡¯s blood from his shamshir with an offered cloth from one of Rostam''s other servants.


    To poison Naizabai alone would immediately bring suspicion down upon the Qarakesek - suspicion that would ignite a costly, internecine civil war that would only weaken the Great Horde and embolden their conquered subjects to rebel. Yet a treacherous scapegoat - especially one as wealthy as the Yllahanan Republic, whose senators long looked upon the growing Horde with alarm - would provide a convenient external foe to mobilize the Horde''s strength against.


    Some of Naizabai''s allies might find the timing of the convenient failed attempt on the Great Khan''s life suspicious, that was certain. But most of those that would doubt the story of the failed assassination would go along with the lie regardless if it meant partaking in the sacking of the wealthy spire-cities of the Yllahanans. And if there were those who would choose to react immediately at the news of Naizabai''s unfortunate death - perhaps to take revenge against the blameless Qarakesek - Rosman''s Huwaqiyya and Nariman¡¯s own keshiks were scattered throughout the yurt-city, sword sharp and at the ready to cut down any flowers of rebellion before they could bloom.


    He studied the clean blade, honed to a razor¡¯s edge. In the polished steel¡¯s reflection, the face of the dutiful first son of Aqtai-khan gazed back - his stare hard and resolute.


    ¡°If your pet is ready, then so are my men.¡± Nariman sheathed his sword as he prepared to leave. His mind spun in anxiety of the growing plot - the reality he had planned for months now crept up on him with every passing moment, and all he could feel was fear. He cast one final glance at his gathered co-conspirators - the ambitious and easy to read Rosman''s, and the qadi Qasim. As much as they too had a stake in this plot, he felt nothing but loathing for the two.


    ¡°I do not wish to see either of you again - once Naizabai is buried, we are nothing more than strangers.¡±


    Nariman left his half-threat hanging in the sickly-sweet air of the tent as he stepped back out into yurt-city. He felt as though he had just appeared out from the underworld, and took a deep breath of scented air that felt light and crisp in comparison to the oppressive perfumes of the Huwaqishah¡¯s abode. He closed his eyes for a moment, and felt a terrible pain bolt through his skull - the visions flooded his mind as they had never before.


    Fire. Fire everywhere. He saw a surging river of flame pour from the Khurvan, consuming the Valley of Milk and the yurts below.


    For a lingering moment, Nariman wished he had never come to the divine peaks. He wished the Qarakesek had never risen to its dizzying heights above the squabbling tribes. He wished that years ago, he had the courage to defy his father''s commands and slit Naizabai-khan''s treasonous throat when he had the chance.


    By now, the sun had fully set below the horizon. In the dark skies above, Nariman saw a thousand heavenly eyes staring down on him. Watching. Waiting. Whispering.


    Whatever happened next, whatever his visions told him, he could only be certain of one thing. The age of blood-oaths and loyalty, of birthright and security earned on the back of his father''s conquests - would soon come to an end.


    This would be an age of starving wolves.

 Chapter 9 - Wolves and Crows

    Wolves and Crows


    <hr>


    The moon shone with sickly-pale light. Vasilisa ran. The air was cold, and her throat burned from the chill as she flew past endless rows of dark trees that stood like great spears jutting out from the soft, black earth.


    Behind her, she could feel them. Things chasing her in the dark - bounding, whispering, salivating - out of sight but always close. She felt great jaws snap at her heels and her fluttering skirt, cold breath from snarling mouths blew against her back as she continued to sprint through the infinite woods.


    Above her head she saw four crows take flight, their beating winds silhouetted against the dead moon. Soaring away. Abandoning her to her fate. As they flew, the crows seemed to laugh at her - cawing, ¡°Gods-gods-gods!¡±


    She felt the snarling tide at her back fall behind a few paces, and hazarded a quick glance over her shoulder.


    Through the darkness, she saw three pairs of shining lights bobbing in the darkness - golden eyes reflecting the dead moon of a starless sky. As her pursuers passed beneath the rays of light that filtered through the black sentinel trees, she saw the stalking wolves.


    The first of the pack was a white she-wolf with a split face, the two halves of its jaws and snout hanging limply to opposite sites. The she-wolf¡¯s enormous hanging belly - bulging with unborn pups - nearly dragged along the dirt as she chased after Vasilisa. Black briars curled out from underneath her fur, wrapping the pregnant she-wolf in a suit of thorns.


    The second wolf that led the pack was an old, grizzled male with patchy red-brown fur. Large, bloody sores dotted the old wolf¡¯s body, smelling of burned flesh and sulfur. As he charged after her, the wolf gave a great howl that surged through Vasilisa¡¯s bones with a shock.


    The final wolf lagged behind the other two, its black fur causing it to blend into the woods even under the moonlight. Its jaws hung open, and from its mouth escaped a very human laugh. The erratic staccato of its cackling seemed directed as much at its pack as at Vasilisa, and she willed her tiring legs to push ever harder as the laughter seemed to close in around her from all sides.


    The solid earth suddenly began to wobble. Before she knew what was happening, she felt the rush of cold water twist a knife through her burning lungs as the ground at her feet suddenly became a dark, freezing sea. She fell face-first, trying to hold what little breath she could in her chest, but the cold clawed it out of her. Vasilisa felt herself sinking fast, and in the darkness of the drowning sea the only thing she could make out at the bottom were thousands of small, white points that looked like glittering stones.


    No, not stones. Stars.


    As she continued to sink to the bottom Vasilisa suddenly felt herself ripped free from the ground¡¯s watery grasp. She fell deeper towards the glittering stars beneath her - spinning uncontrollably through the darkness - and landed on a featureless plain devoid of trees and snarling wolves.


    The stars that were beneath her were now above her, stretched out across the dark, moonless sky from which she had fallen. As she adjusted her footing she saw that with every slight movement along the void, ripples formed and expanded as if she were standing on water. For a moment there was nothing but the sound of her own breathing, and a sense of hushed wonder as she looked upon the majesty of the stars - stars which felt so close she felt as though she could reach out and touch them.


    The fading waves of another ripple traveled underneath her feet - someone was striding behind her. She turned to look, and gave a gasp as she saw a towering figure looming over her - all she could make out was a dark robe¡­and glittering golden claws.


    Vasilisa tried to step back, but suddenly the golden claws grabbed her and Chirlan pulled her close to his chest - sealing her cry of alarm with a kiss. Cold, bruised lips took her breath, and she felt her heart curl in terror and disgust as she squirmed against the sorcerer¡¯s grasp and twisted free.


    ¡°Bastard!¡± she cried as she shoved the sorcerer - and with her shove the sorcerer fell backwards into the void at their feet, swallowed without a sound.


    She still felt the strange, creeping cold of his lips lingering on her own. Then came the laughter, just over her shoulder, followed by another voice - one that sounded of grating, scraping glass.


    The stars above began to glow brighter.


    ¡°Wake up, Vasilisa.¡±


    As the stars¡¯ glow spread, illuminating the sky above, she realized she was not staring at stars at all, nor at stones.


    ¡°Wake up, Vasilisa.¡±


    The many glowing lights were nestled inside of yellow-white sockets. Skulls - thousands of them - packed together into a single, flat expanse above her head. Their glowing eyes stared down at her. Watching. Waiting. Whispering.


    ¡°Wake up.¡±


    ***


    She opened her eyes in the eastern Klyazmite plains, lying on her back. Hovering just in front of her face, the steel tip of a blade glistened in the morning light.


    Yesugei stood over her with a hunting knife. The color had returned to his face once more, and the rot that bloated his veins had all but retreated from sight. His slightly gaunt face was twisted in a mix of fear and anger as he looked down on her.


    ¡°What are you?¡±


    His question hung in the air, unanswered. Vasilisa struggled to come up with an answer as she felt the memories of the last day rush back up to the forefront of her mind. Her hands had seemed to move on their own accord - she had felt like she had moved more on some deep, remembered instinct rather than any kind of logic or reason. The hole in her chest felt raw and stung with every breath she took - and it reminded her of the warning she heard from the voice in her mind.


    You can never go home. Never again.


    Who was she now? Belnopyl lay forty miles from the borderlands, but it may as well have been a thousand for all the good her noble blood would do her out in the open plains. She wondered how her parents - if they were still alive - would react to their daughter and her silent, crystal-pierced heart. Would they still take her in? Would they hug her if they were to see her again, or would they look at her with the same fear in their eyes as the nomad who stood poised over her - looking at her as if she were something other. Less and more than human at once.


    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.


    She felt her healed wound, and traced the thin line from the back of her neck to her collarbone. Was she still human? Humans did not survive gigantic cleavers stuck in their necks - they bled out and died the same as all other beasts of the earth. She had heard stories of men - warriors, mostly - who were blessed by the gods and able to survive mortal wounds. But the gods whose names she invoked were not the Lord of Lightning, nor the Mother of the Earth - not even Veles, who reigned over the damp and grassy underworld. Gods of fire, earth, and stars were whom she had evoked - nameless, but somehow so much more real and ancient than the divines she had prayed to all her life at her family¡¯s Elder Oak.


    She propped herself up on her elbows and studied Yesugei¡¯s face - the confident way he now stood over her with a knife in his hand.


    ¡°Are you a witch?¡± asked the nomad. ¡°Or perhaps a blood-sorcerer? Whatever you are, tell me - what have you done?¡±


    With his free hand, Yesugei pulled open his dirtied robe to reveal the dark fang nestled deep in his chest, just over his heart. Where the tendrils of darkness once twisted out from his wound, there was now only healthy, muscled flesh - the ravenous curse pierced and anchored by the crystal. Her crystal.


    As the final tinges of haziness from sleep faded from her mind, she recalled how she carried the dying nomad on horseback and tended to his festering, cursed wounds. Now he stood above her - healthy, angry, and with a knife jabbed at her face. Vasilisa felt herself grow flushed with anger. Who was he to jab a knife at the woman who saved his life?


    ¡°What have I done? You¡¯re asking me what I¡¯ve done, you ungrateful ass?¡±


    The nomad seemed taken aback with her reply, and the tip of the hunting knife lowered slightly from her face. She looked down and away from the knife, and saw an opening.


    The nomad gave a strangled cry as Vasilisa swung her foot upwards as hard as she could - kicking up and between his legs. Yesugei staggered back and away from her as he wheezed and coughed in agony, and Vasilisa threw herself to the side. She rolled across the dirt and grass, then stood up as she searched the ground for something, anything. Her eyes settled on a large, gnarled tree branch the size of her arm, and she snatched it up as she saw Yesugei recover.


    The nomad winced and staggered crookedly as he closed in on her, only to draw back a few steps when he saw her holding the heavy club. She had half a thought to rush forward and bludgeon the nomad over the head, but the shining knife summoned an almost uncontrollable urge to back away.


    If they fought, it wouldn¡¯t be a duel between warriors - it would be an ugly, angry scrap between two exhausted dogs, and more likely than not both of them would end up dead. Again. She saw hesitation in the nomad¡¯s eyes as well, and the two of them stood in awkward silence - shivering in the morning breeze.


    ¡°I dragged you out from that massacre. I carried you for twenty-so miles through the Devil Woods.¡± said Vasilisa as she readjusted her grip to hold the club with both hands. ¡°I healed you, brought you back to health when I could have left you to die-¡±


    ¡°-who says I haven¡¯t died?¡± barked Yesugei as he gestured his knife at her. ¡°I no longer feel my heartbeat in my chest. I no longer feel alive. And now I have a Modkhai tooth of night stabbed inside me. So spit it out - what have you done to me? What am I?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what you are!¡± she shouted back. She felt the confusion that she had set aside in her mind since the cavern boiling over with her anger. ¡°I only woke up with these¡­these crystals in my heart two days earlier, and everything¡¯s been a gods-damned nightmare since!¡±


    ¡°What are you, then?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡±


    Vasilisa felt her shout become a roar, mixed with the sound of cracking glass. A voice that felt like it wasn¡¯t her own - one of terrible dread and power. She saw Yesugei¡¯s eyes widen with fear, and the nomad nearly dropped his hunting knife as he took a few more steps back.


    She let her voice soften. ¡°I don¡¯t know what I am - not anymore.¡±


    Her silent heart clenched with new sadness as she saw Yesugei¡¯s terrified face. He fought without fear against Chirlan¡¯s guards - yet now he stood like a trembling deer in front of her. How would others react?


    The people of her city - merchants, freeholders, and serfs - were as superstitious a lot as all Klyazmites were, and most had far less courage than a Khormchak swordsman.


    Would they also tremble when they heard this new voice of hers - thinking her a devil?


    Would they run from her, abandon their homes and leave her to rule over an empty, dead city?


    Or worse - would they turn against her to defend their homes against their liege lord¡¯s cursed daughter? She imagined the familiar faces of her father¡¯s court twisted in hateful scowls, swirling in a shouting sea of Belnopyl folk. She imagined merchants and freedmen and serfs throwing rocks, rotting food, and foul cowpies at her as they had when her father¡¯s men led a murderer to the gallows.


    You can never go home. Never again.


    But she had to try. If only to see her parents and her people once more - to know whether they would cast her out. The pain of not knowing, she judged, felt worse than the prospect of being exiled. She had to try. And she had to know.


    The nomad seemed to calm - seeing the fear in her own eyes.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know what I am,¡± she said again. ¡°And I don¡¯t know what you are, either.¡±


    She gingerly set the branch on the ground, keeping one eye on Yesugei and his knife. When she let go of the club, she brought her scarred hands up in peace.


    ¡°You have questions, and so do I.¡± The crystals in Yesugei¡¯s sword came to mind. The crystals that stilled her heart had caused the monster to give pause - had warded her and Yesugei from its rotting, hateful curse. The nomad had called them "Modkhai teeth of night" - it was as good a lead as any to find answers. ¡°It won¡¯t do us any good if either one of us is a corpse then, right?¡±


    Yesugei lowered the hunting knife to his side, and gave a slow, careful nod.


    ¡°Perhaps¡­¡± The nomad spun the knife between his fingers, then tossed it to one side a few paces away. ¡°...and perhaps you aren¡¯t a witch.¡±


    Vasilisa raised an eyebrow angrily in response. ¡°Pray tell, what led you to that conclusion all of a sudden?¡±


    The nomad made to dust off his boots, only to wince in pain as he tried to bend over.


    ¡°Witches don¡¯t kick people in the balls.¡±

 Chapter 10 - Blood-Oath

    Blood-Oath


    <hr>


    The fire crackled loudly as Yesugei gingerly shifted it about with a stick before sitting back, wincing slightly as he did so.


    Across from him, the girl¡ªVasilisa, as he¡¯d learned¡ªheartily gorged herself on cheese, stale bread, and flaps of salted meat. Their rations were meagre - far removed from the teas and sausages he¡¯d enjoyed just two days ago, but sufficient to stave off hunger for now. Nearby, Kaveh¡¯s exhausted stallion grazed on a patch of dry grass, reminiscent of the Hungry Steppe, and yet so alien.


    The memory of Kaveh cut through him like a knife. His thoughts swirled in exhaustion, a clash of feelings he could barely sort. Vasilisa had robbed him¡ªnot just of death, but release from fear, betrayal, and hatred. Yet another part of him was grateful for the second chance she had given¡ªto set right one of the world¡¯s great wrongs: the so-called Apostles.


    Where once his heart roared and tore at itself in black rage, there was now only a cold, resolute promise. He vowed to destroy the stone-skinned abominations, no matter how powerful or alien they seemed. The memory of the massacre at Tosont sent a shiver through him, but for all those it had killed, the Apostle itself was now ash on the wind. They were not gods - only monsters. Monsters that could be killed with shards of living darkness.


    Yesugei¡¯s fingers drifted to the crystal embedded in his chest - his flesh had already closed around the crystal, leaving a mess of scar tissue. With the fear and apprehension of his new unlife gone, he could sense the contained enormity of the curse that lay inside the crystal. The roiling hatred of the Apostle¡¯s curse had been like a heavy stone weighing on his chest, suffocating the life out of him. Now it was gone, but the memory still lingered like a phantom pain - a reminder of the life that was owed to fate, and dragged back by Vasilisa.


    She ate with a startlingly human hunger, unlike any undead spirit he¡¯d heard of. The golden glow in her eyes had faded since the moment she had shouted at him with the Apostle¡¯s ear-splitting, glass-shard voice. In that instant, her face had seemed stripped of humanity, revealing something inhuman and furious beneath. He suppressed a shiver at the memory and focused instead on the oddities he¡¯d been pondering since their uneasy truce began.


    ¡°A talking snake?¡±


    After they had set down their weapons, Vasilisa explained to him her story as he began starting a fire. At first, she spoke hesitantly - unsure whether he would believe her. But soon her words flowed, recounting: her lord father¡¯s city, the crystal her mother had given her, and the sorcerer Chirlan, who abducted her to his stone tomb. Despite everything she¡¯d described, the serpent stood out as too outlandish - even as he recalled that just three days ago, he had been doubting Sergen¡¯s stories of dark spirits.


    Vasilisa bristled at his question and spoke through a mouthful of bread, ¡°It spoke! It did! I swear by the morning light of Xors!¡±


    As the girl gestured out towards the morning sun, the eleven crystals that remained in her chest slipped into view. Vasilisa¡¯s face turned red, and she quickly covered up her now-bandaged chest. Despite all she had done, Vasilisa knew little of the crystals - only that they shielded her from the Apostle¡¯s miasma and that her mother, Cirina, had given her one before her abduction.


    The name Cirina struck a chord with Yesugei. She was the adopted daughter of Naizabai - though Yesugei did not speak of the man in front of his own granddaughter. If Naizabai¡¯s daughter knew of the crystals, could her father have known as well?


    His thoughts turned to Nariman and his siblings, gathering at the Khurvan mountains. He imagined another black crystal stabbing into the mountains, eclipsing the sun and swallowing the entire kurultai in shadows. Every single one of his siblings bore a crystal - enough to face the Apostles, to survive, to flee. But Nariman and the others had always scoffed at Sergen¡¯s stories, and their father had never bothered to correct them and teach them to listen - Yesugei wished now more than ever that he had.


    Harvest. That was the word Sergen had whispered in his horror at the crystal. He whispered it as though it was planned - or prophesied. Was that why his father had armed each of his children so, shrouding them with the invisible strength of the Ormanli crystals? The more he thought about the kurultai, about the crystals, and about his father¡¯s hidden protection, the more the path ahead looked clear.


    Yesugei stood up shakily, and readjusted his boots.


    ¡°I need to return to the steppes,¡± he muttered over the crackling of the flames. Vasilisa raised her eyebrows. ¡°If more of those demons were to appear at the kurultai, it would be a bloodbath. Nearly all of the steppe tribes are gathered there - the khans need to be warned, but more than that my father must learn about the Ormanli. Before he died, Sergen warned me about his exiled kin, and I wager that just because Chirlan is dead, they will not stop trying to raise more of these monsters.¡±


    ¡°And my family?¡± Vasilisa stood, her expression grim. ¡°I brought you west to help warn Belnopyl¡ªmy people. You¡¯re the only one who killed one of those things, and even a foreign man¡¯s word holds more weight with the princes and boyars than a noblewoman¡¯s when it comes to war.¡±


    If it¡¯s your family you seek, you would see them just as well out east, thought Yesugei. Your grandfather awaits at Khurvan, plotting against my kin.


    ¡°...and you¡¯re also in no shape to travel alone,¡± continued Vasilisa as she pointed at his ragged, blood-stained clothes. ¡°Qarakesek or not, you¡¯d be easy prey for slavers out on the steppe. I hear they¡¯re quick to take anyone, even nomad khans if they had the chance.¡±


    The girl makes a good point. Though Qarakesek law had outlawed the enslavement of Khormchaks,, many tribes still took and sold their own kinsmen as slaves whenever they could without arousing suspicion - selling them south along the Eagle¡¯s Sea to the Yllahanan slave-republics. Even under the White Khan¡¯s banner, he and Kaveh had traveled with the keshiks precisely to ward off any slavers from trying their luck. Now he had no banner, and no allies - no-one to watch his back for bandits tracking him, nor take watch while he slept.


    ¡°I¡¯m surprised a Klyazmite princess would know so much about the world,¡± Yesugei remarked. ¡°I thought the western princes kept their women all locked up in stone towers and ignorant.¡±


    Vasilisa huffed. ¡°My father wanted it to be so - my mother had other ideas.¡±


    ¡°A woman traveling alone out in the west isn¡¯t free from danger either, mind you.¡± said Yesugei. ¡°I might have never visited your lands, but rapers and slavers are a scourge across the entire world, not just the steppe.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps, but it¡¯s a much longer trip to the steppes than it is to the nearest city,¡± Vasilisa countered. Her wits were surprisingly sharp - though from her story of escaping Chirlan¡¯s men, Yesugei supposed it was to be expected.


    ¡°If I travel west with you, I¡¯d only be getting further and further away from the kurultai.¡±


    ¡°But if you go with me, you wouldn¡¯t need to return to the steppes alone.¡± said Vasilisa, picking up a stick. She drew three circles in the dirt, connecting them with a curved line - a river. ¡°I know these lands, and my father is overlord to many loyal houses.¡±


    She jabbed the stick at the center circle. ¡°My father rules from here, Belnopyl. If we are where I suspect we are, the city is two weeks¡¯ ride from here but-¡±


    The stick traced the snaking line to the circle south of Belnopyl. ¡°-Gatchisk is only a day¡¯s ride or so from the Devil Woods. The prince there is old and without sons¡­but he¡¯s been true enough to my father. If we can make it there, he¡¯ll see to it we¡¯re clothed, fed, and set on our way with an escort from his guards.¡±


    ¡°The prince would have men to spare for the ride? It¡¯s a long journey from here to Khurvan.¡±


    ¡°Prince Gvozden has two hundred armored riders in his druzhina,¡± said Vasilisa. ¡°They¡¯re young, eager for glory, and raised on tales of adventure in the steppe. Most would jump at the chance to help you, especially if it means fighting marauders. And of course, escorting a Qarakesek princeling would certainly bring some rewards, wouldn¡¯t it?¡±


    ¡°Hunger for glory or silver¡ªthey¡¯d get their fill of both,¡± Yesugei said. The thought of arriving late to the kurultai stung, but it would sting more to die on the way or be captured by slavers.


    He examined his torn robe. Beautiful blue silk decorated with cloth-of-gold was now completely caked and crusted with blood, dirt, and sweat from the days past. He smelled foul - like a corpse left to rot out beneath the summer sun.


    Vasilisa¡¯s words rang true - travelling west seemed the better option, at least for now. But there was one final matter that needed to be settled.


    As she spoke, Yesugei drew his hunting knife from its sheath. Vasilisa flinched but relaxed when he took a bowl, pouring the last of the arkhi spirit into it. Pressing the blade to the fleshy part of his palm, he made a shallow cut, squeezing his hand into a fist and letting blood drip into the bowl. The crimson swirls disappeared into the off-white wine.


    ¡°I¡¯m not sure what you are, but I owe you a blood-debt.¡± He flipped the knife around and presented the handle to Vasilisa, who looked at him with incredulity. ¡°We¡¯ll be traveling together for the time, and so I propose a blood-oath.¡±


    ¡°I thought only men could make such blood-oaths,¡± Vasilisa said, though she took the knife.


    ¡°Usually because they¡¯re the ones who earn them, by way of valor,¡± replied Yesugei. ¡°But you¡¯ve saved my life twice now, when others might have run away. Cut your own hand, and we can strike an oath - in honor of the blood spilled fighting the gray abomination, and to fight the golden-eyed bastards that did this to us.¡±


    ¡°This is ridiculous.¡±


    ¡°I insist. At the very least, a blood-oath means I¡¯ll be cursed by the spirits if I were to bring harm to you.¡± He fixed her with a determined look, blood still dripping from the cut on his hand. ¡°Won¡¯t the threat of curse set your mind at ease, traveling with a Khormchak rogue?¡±


    He saw the princess think on his proposal for a few moments, before she relented and brought the tip of the knife to her finger. With a small twist, she pricked out a few droplets of blood from her scarred right hand and let them fall into the arkhi.


    Yesugei sat cross-legged, and Vasilisa mimicked him as he lifted the bowl. He drank first. The arkhi tasted sour as ever, and was tinged with the taste of iron. He drank half, then passed it to Vasilisa, who hesitated before taking a careful sip. He saw the princess nearly gag as she took a careful first sip - but then her resolve hardened, and she downed the rest of the foul-tasting drink. The taste of iron lingered strongly on his tongue - the taste of the blood bond, binding him and the foreign princess before the morning sky and the watchful eyes of the spirits that dwelled in the western domains.


    ¡°Now we are bound, by blood and spirit.¡±


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    Vasilisa¡¯s sour expression softened, replaced by solemn determination as they stood up. The air felt charged, like the moment lightning had scattered the B?rijan''s Quanli riders days ago. The spirits whispered through the swaying grass, affirming the oath.


    He gave small thanks to the presences he felt dwelling within the grasslands, then snuffed out the dying embers of their fire. ¡°We should begin moving as soon as we can - the day¡¯s light will only carry us for so long.¡±


    The road off to the side from their hastily-set camp grew wider as it stretched out to the west - towards Gatchisk, and further away from home. Yet it would be traveling west that he could make it home in one piece, if the western princes were as loyal and eager to please as Vasilisa claimed.


    All the same, move swiftly, and with purpose.


    For the first time in a while, his purpose had never seemed so clear.


    ***


    They set off from the outskirts of the Devil Woods by noon beneath gray skies. Vasilisa shifted uncomfortably in saddle, trying to prevent the Apostle¡¯s - wrapped in a blood-stained bedroll - from sliding off her back. The cleaver was dreadfully cumbersome - and the rope strap was already beginning to cut into her shoulder.


    Yesugei elected to travel on foot to spare the horse, leading them along the western road - a dirt path that cut through the high grasses on either side. The border plains stretched unbroken for miles, ending only at the frigid taigas of Pemil and Wrangel to the north, and the shores of Shipbreaker¡¯s Tide to the south where the Band of Three and Yllahana fought wars of trade and ships. The Klyazmites feared the plains as the nomads¡¯ domain, while the nomads avoided the border to keep their back from the Devil Woods. As such, beyond the wagon and hoof-worn road, there was no other sign of man¡¯s presence upon the wild landscape.


    Eventually the road plunged into forest, the path began twisting unpredictably like a snake. Yesugei was accustomed to open skies and featureless steppe - and so it fell to Vasilisa to try and distinguish the main road from maze of hunting trails. At times the road vanished entirely, leaving her to fear they were lost, only to reappear a mile later - just before she considered turning them around.


    As they trudged on Vasilisa¡¯s thoughts wandered. It had felt like an age since she last stepped foot in Gatchisk lands. Back then, Prince Gvozden had still been strong, not yet bedridden.


    Back then, he still had a son.


    Even now, she shuddered at the memory of the Young Griffon. He had been handsome at fifteen, with curly black hair and sea-green eyes, envied for his swordplay by boys and admired for his Yllahanan courtly grace by girls. Yet, all that stuck with her was the wolf-like glint in his eyes the night he climbed through her bedroom window to take her at dagger-point.


    Though she escaped and summoned Ilya, the prince tried to explain away his actions as a romantic gesture¡ªclaiming he sought only a kiss from his love. Her father, Igor, was not deceived. Gvozden had long yearned for the days before the Khormchak yoke, before Gatchisk was sacked to the ground and left a shadow of its former power. When Igor refused to betroth her to his son and thus place the House of Gatchisk in line to inherit the title of Grand Prince, the Young Griffon sought to force the match by despoiling her at fourteen, leaving her father no choice but to consent. Igor exiled the prince¡¯s son, and only Cirina¡¯s caution against starting a war spared Gvozden himself.


    Despite the disgrace, Gvozden remained loyal, perhaps relieved his own head was not placed on the chopping block. Now, six years on, the old prince was bedridden and without issue, and his house was already being eyed by the boyars of the south.


    Vasilisa was confident the aged prince would help; he had nothing to gain by holding her up at Gatchisk should she arrive. If anything, he would likely send her back quickly and well-dressed, hoping for favor with Belnopyl - and assurances that his lands would at least pass on to some distant cousin or uncle rather than to one of her father¡¯s courtiers once he died.


    Horsed, bathed, dressed, and well-fed, Vasilisa thought longingly. Her dress - ruined by blood and grime - felt as though it were made of stiff parchment. And the idea of a warm bath to wash away the nightmare of the past two days was irresistible. Yet reminders lingered - the bandaged hole in her chest throbbed, though the pain had eased with travel. The crystals in her chest gave her pause - she wondered whether it might be wiser to ride for Belnopyl directly to avoid Gvozden¡¯s scrutiny, but two more weeks of travel under the open sky, sharing a beleaguered horse with Yesugei, seemed worse.


    The forest soon gave way to farmland, but something felt wrong. Off in the distance, vast fields of black tilled earth separated by wooden fences and low stone walls broke up the landscape. But though it was midday, the fields were completely empty. No peasants were working the earth, no horses or oxen were pulling plows. Not a single soul could be seen.


    Perhaps there¡¯s a festival? Peasants often held summer ceremonies to honor the gods - Simargl to protect their crops from pests, or Mokosh to bless their work with a bountiful harvest. Or perhaps the villagers were hosting their boyar, in which case they would be holding a feast in the village square.


    ¡°See the fields?¡± She pointed out to Yesugei, who squinted his eyes as he looked. ¡°We should be nearing a village soon. When we do, let me do the talking - the people of Gatchisk don¡¯t look too kindly upon those who burned their fields and killed their folk just six years prior.¡±


    Yesugei nodded in affirmation. ¡°There should be some silver in the saddlebags - if we¡¯re in need of it.¡±


    ¡°We needn¡¯t stay too long - just long enough for some directions.¡±


    ¡°And perhaps a bucket of water,¡± Yesugei appraised his own sorry state, and then looked her up and down. ¡°Or better yet, a tub. You look like shit. I look like shit.¡±


    She spurred the Khormchak horse onwards, trailing slightly ahead of Yesugei to scout out the village.


    Then she smelled it - the smell of smoke, burning wood, burning flesh.


    As she drew closer, she realized the dark fields were blanketed in a layer of ash. Further up along the road, past a bridge spanning a small stream, she saw the village. Or rather, where the village had been.


    The houses past the stream were blackened husks - their rising plumes of smoke from fading fires had been obscured by the canopy of the woods as they approached. Charred desolation reigned for a mile on, house after burned house. The corpses of men and animals dotted the fields barely distinguishable from one another - all were blackened by soot, and covered by a living wave of carrion birds. The bridge spanning the stream creaked beneath her horse as she slowed, letting Yesugei catch up.


    When he did, she heard him whisper, ¡°Smoke is still rising - this was done recently. Perhaps even last night. Walk softly.¡±


    She slid off the horse, tying the reins to a small tree that sat near the stream - the only thing that seemed to be spared from the fires that side of the water. Yesugei¡¯s hunting knife came out, and Vasilisa placed one hand on the bone hilt of the cleaver that weighed on her back. Even if it was too heavy to pull quickly, much less swing, it gave her some comfort to hold something as she and Yesugei drew closer to the village.


    The crows that swarmed over the dead nearby took to the skies in a squawking swarm as they slowly approached. Beneath the gray skies, the village that surrounded them was a mix of gray wood, black ash, and the occasional dull red from drifting embers or smoldering debris. Vasilisa breathed slowly, trying to steady her nerves and avoid breathing in the ugly poison of the ruined land.


    ¡°Who do you think did this?¡± she asked at Yesugei¡¯s back. The nomad didn¡¯t reply as he looked out past the village square towards a large manor sat atop a hill. The ruling boyar¡¯s manor was surrounded by a low stone wall, and still stood tall and unburnt amidst the ruins all around.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡± Yesugei seemed to sense the other, unspoken question. Was it your people who did this? ¡°It would make no sense to burn the place like this if it was just a simple raid. If it was food and livestock they were looking for, they could have killed everyone with arrows and lances and moved on - not torched the entire damn place. Though I suppose it could have happened by accident - a dropped torch, a broken lantern.¡±


    Silence lingered between the two of them as they peered into the burned houses nearest to them. Some seemed to have been abandoned before they collapsed. Others held the corpses of their former occupants - burnt to a crisp, their bodies curled up as if praying to the gods for a reprieve from the agonizing flames.


    She felt a sickness rise up to her throat - the smell and sight somehow seemed worse than the fight at the outpost. Without the blood-pounding terror of combat, all that was left was the misery and disgust and invisible poison that hung over the entire village like a cloud - the lingering spirits of the village¡¯s former occupants whispering with the breeze as it blew through the torched land.


    They fetched the horse once they were certain the area ahead was abandoned, and Yesugei led them onwards and upwards towards the boyar¡¯s manor - casting only a cursory look at the dozen other houses they passed by. When they were close to the manor¡¯s gates, she saw they were left ajar - the wooden exterior splintered and mauled by axes.


    When they slipped past the doors, she saw another corpse lying against a large wagon, its hands tied to one of the wheel spokes. The man was young, with a short, bloodstained beard and a shaved head - around the same age as Stavr and Pyotr, who guarded her father¡¯s court. He wore a beaten shirt of mail, his ring-covered chest punctured by three long arrows. His eyes were thankfully closed - and Vasilisa gave a sigh of relief before she guided the horse to remain by the damaged gate.


    Yesugei knelt close to the dead man - closer than she would have dared. Then he yanked out one of the feathered shafts from the man¡¯s chest.


    ¡°These arrows don¡¯t look like any I¡¯ve seen the tribes use,¡± Yesugei mused as he studied the arrow. He then turned his attention to the dead man¡¯s armor. ¡°A waste of good mail. They could have stripped him, but didn¡¯t. Might have been they were turned back, or moving quickly.¡±


    Before Vasilisa could protest, Yesugei untied the man¡¯s hands and quickly shucked off the mail coat, letting the corpse fall to the side in the dirt.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± she said instinctively, angrily setting the horse¡¯s reins aside as she approached.


    ¡°What does it look like?¡± Yesugei barely acknowledged her as he shook some loose dirt from the shirt, then pulled it over his head. ¡°He doesn¡¯t need it anymore.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re no better than the crows, stealing from the dead like this!¡± Her face burned with anger, as she looked at the dead man, now lying face-first in the muck. ¡°He died protecting his people-¡±


    ¡°-and maybe if we find who did this, we can avenge him,¡± Yesugei counseled, his voice even. ¡°But it won¡¯t do either of us any good if we¡¯re dead before then.¡±


    He rapped his knuckles against his armored chest - the shirt giving a jingle as the rings clashed against one another.


    ¡°Now, see if we can find a sword. Or better yet, a bow.¡±


    A sudden slam caused both of them to jump away from the dead man, and Vasilisa¡¯s hand flew to the handle of the over-heavy cleaver. Several ragged figures stepped out from the doorway of the boyar¡¯s manor: four men caked in grimey clothes. Each of them held a different farming tool as a weapon, save for one who held a winged boar spear. Their eyes had the hollow look of desperate, destitute men - men ready to kill.


    ¡°Who are you?¡± called the largest of the four, a fat, sweaty man holding a rusty hand-plow.


    She called to the men, ¡°We¡¯re lost - waylaid by bandits along the eastern road. We mean you no harm - we were just passing through.¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s many a lost soul out in the country by now,¡± spat another man holding a pickaxe. ¡°Few who look like your friend, though. What are you doing traveling with a Khormchak bastard?¡±


    Yesugei adjusted his grip on the knife as she saw him weighing his odds against the four men.


    ¡°Like I said, we¡¯re lost. We were both making our way to Gatchisk when we were attacked by some brigands. Might even have been the same men who destroyed your village.¡±


    ¡°Where were you headed from?¡±


    Vasilisa struggled to come up with a place. She saw Yesugei take a step back, and the four men each took a careful step closer.


    ¡°I don¡¯t think you¡¯re telling us the truth,¡± said the man with the spear softy. ¡°I think you and the Khormchak are just a bunch of filthy crows come to feast on the fallen - our fallen. Do you know what we do with crows that wear manskin?¡±


    ¡°Hang ¡®em.¡± came the reply from the smallest of the bunch, a stout man holding a sickle.


    She eyed the horse behind them. The armed men were thirty paces away - if they turned and ran as fast as they could, they might just make it onto the horse before they were hacked to pieces.


    ¡°Maybe we¡¯ll string them up on the gates - give the other crows something to gawk at so they leave us alone,¡± said the fat man as he adjusted his grip on the hand-plow.


    ¡°You¡¯ll do no such thing.¡±


    The voice called from behind the men, coming from within the manor. In the shadows, Vasilisa saw two figures stir, followed by the sound of staggering, heavy footsteps.


    The first person that appeared at the door was a young woman, her decorated dress covered in dirt and soot much like the armed men. She had an arm wrapped over her shoulder, and clumsily paused at the doorway before the fat man rushed over to help her.


    Together, the woman and the fat man helped out a ragged man covered in blood, his short dark hair and one eye covered by bandages that needed changing ages ago. The man gave a wheezing cough, shaking so hard Vasilisa thought he would fall dead right then in the arms of the two that carried him, but he quickly stood upright and tall. His one good eye focused on her, studying her face.


    ¡°Yes¡­you¡¯ll do no such thing, you fool.¡± The man said as he slowly hobbled from the manor towards them. As he approached, the others set their weapons down.


    ¡°Don¡¯t you see who you¡¯re talking to?¡± laughed the injured man. ¡°This is Vasilisa of Belnopyl, the Grand Prince¡¯s daughter.¡±


    The man struggled as he lowered to one knee, and his two companions lifted him back up to stand.


    ¡°You¡¯re a long way from home, my lady. And perhaps for the better. They say Belnopyl burns.¡±

 Chapter 11 - Letting Go

    Letting Go


    <hr>


    Boyar Vratislav gave a heavy sigh as he sat back on a rickety wooden chair, propping his bandaged leg up on a stool with a pained grimace.


    With the overcast skies the manor seemed a damp, drafty maze of shadows filled with the smell of mildew, sweat, and blood. Lady Nesha gently unwrapped the sticky cloth bandages from her husband¡¯s leg to reveal an ugly slice that ran along his thigh lengthwise - exposing gray flaps of muscle and fat.


    ¡°Easy, woman!¡± groaned Vratislav as his wife exchanged the ruined bandages for a new set that lay soaked in a bowl of wine. As the boyar¡¯s agonized groans filled the shadowed great hall Vasilisa saw the eyes of the other peasants were fixed on the ground, or elsewhere about the nooks and crannies of the room, but never looking her straight in the eye.


    Besides Boyar Vratislav and Nesha, there were seven others who had managed to escape the pillaging of Yerkh - the rest had either fled into the woods to escape the outriders, or burned alongside their homes. At Nesha¡¯s call, Marmun set aside his hand-plow and waddled over to help hold her squirming lord husband in place as she tightened the wine-soaked bandage around his injured leg. The large man who had been ready to cave Vasilisa¡¯s head in earlier could now scarcely meet her eyes as he stepped past her - treating her as a Grand Prince¡¯s daughter even as she sat at the longtable in torn rags sullied by blood and the dirt of the road.


    Eventually Vratislav was able to set his newly-bandaged leg down, his brow soaked with sweat.


    ¡°Gatchisk?¡± said Nesha as she wiped her hands clean with a wet cloth. ¡°The city lies a day¡¯s ride east of here, perhaps less.¡±


    ¡°Aye, but that was before this slaughter,¡± interjected Vratislav. ¡°With bandits roaming and burning half the damn country, the city might as well be on the other side of the world. You wouldn¡¯t make it far.¡±


    The attack on the village once called Yerkh had come at night. The raiders - clad in heavy maille, iron helms, and mounted on coursers - had moved so quickly that by the time Vratislav¡¯s soldiers had managed to get their armor on, half the village was already set ablaze. In their sally out, the boyar¡¯s guards were picked off by arrows as they struggled to bring peasants into the manor. At the gates, Vratislav himself took an arrow to the hand and a sword cut to his leg before Marmun and the spear-carrier Rudin dragged him inside.


    It was only thanks to the raiders¡¯ hurry that the manor and those inside remained unburned - their leader judged the manor too fortified to attack in their swift raid, and the riders disappeared left one of the household guards out in the courtyard as a warning before vanishing into the night.


    ¡°Those weren¡¯t no bandits, m¡¯lord,¡± spoke Valishin - one of the younger farmers who sat to the side of the longtable with his wife. ¡°I seen one of ¡®em waving a banner when they charged - never heard of bandits carrying banners into a fight.¡±


    ¡°Bandits also don¡¯t wear armor.¡± piped up Gastya, a smaller man who frightened off one of the raiders with a sharpened sickle.


    Rudin scoffed. ¡°Anyone can wear armor, stupid. Just because they wore armor doesn¡¯t mean they weren¡¯t bandits.¡±


    ¡°So you¡¯re saying they were bandits?¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± grumbled Vratislav. ¡°Bandits or not, they¡¯re armored and mounted. And they¡¯ll certainly be looking for easy pickings on the open road.¡±


    ¡°Staying here won¡¯t do us much better.¡± Yesugei rapped his knuckles on the longtable as he looked around the hall. ¡°Those riders could come back anytime they feel like finishing the job, and you have barely any food here. Pretty soon you¡¯ll be starving.¡±


    ¡°You don¡¯t know that!¡± The cry came from Khavel, a mason¡¯s apprentice from Gatchisk who was sent to work on the manor¡¯s outer wall. It was his cousin Doru who had stood against them in the courtyard with pickaxe in hand. ¡°Prince Gvozden can¡¯t ignore this! His druzhina will wipe away this bandit filth in a few days, and then we can go wherever we need to. But until the druzhina comes, we should stay!¡±


    ¡°Even you don¡¯t believe that,¡± said Doru, who gave his younger cousin a cuff on the ear. ¡°The Khormchak makes a good point - I¡¯d rather we hit the road and try to get a sturdier set of walls between us and these killers instead of starving here.¡±


    ¡°Or we end up running into them on the road by fate¡¯s wretched will, and then we all get killed.¡± pointed out Gastya. ¡°They have armor, we don¡¯t. They have spears and bows - only Rudin and m¡¯lord have real weapons.¡±


    ¡°Better than starving while waiting for help that might not even come!¡±


    ¡°What are you, a death-seeker?¡±


    ¡°What are you, a coward?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m the coward for trying to keep us alive?!¡±


    ¡°Alive long enough to starve to death!¡±


    The mens¡¯ voices rose as each tried to shout over the other, drowning out Vratislav¡¯s weak call for order. The horror and anger of last night reared its head in every man¡¯s exhausted eyes, and their words were laced with the bitter venom of those who had lost everything - family, home, and fortune, entire lives set to torch in a single night.


    They¡¯re not even trying to figure out what to do next, Vasilisa thought as the yelling continued back and forth between the men at the table. Their argument went in circles - stay or leave, who was the coward, who was the idiot - before devolving into nothing more than petty insults. Yesugei sat quietly with his arms crossed, unsure of what to say. Vratislav and Nesha had lost all control over their subjects.


    ¡°Everybody, listen!¡±


    Her own voice barely pierced the din of the shouting men, only adding to the noise. A sharp pain throbbed in her head, and Vasilisa thought of her father - whether he had to deal with the same strife between the merchants and landowners of his court. The memory of the noble court - the soft torchlight, the scent of the carved wooden beams - all of it now felt like a distant memory that only brought sorrow. Perhaps it would all remain just a memory - if what the boyar had said was true.


    They say Belnopyl burns.


    From Vratislav¡¯s talk, it had been a week since Chirlan had stolen her away. According to a merchant who passed through, Belnopyl lay in ruins, sacked by Khormchaks. The fate of the Grand Prince, his wife, or any of the gathered druzhinniks or boyars at court was unknown, for none had dared to venture into the destroyed city. Without the city isolated boyars, like Vratislav, likely clung to their fortified manors, cut off from news or aid, unwilling to risk sending out runners in a countryside teeming with murderers and bandits.


    Sorrow at Belnopyl¡¯s memory then turned to anger. Chirlan¡¯s smirking face taunted her mind, and she wished she could have killed the sorcerer herself. But he was dead - and in dying, he had cursed her forever. His followers had turned her entire world upside down within a day, conjuring legends and magic that stole everything she held dear.


    Yesugei knew the full truth; she was reluctant to share the same details with Vratislav, who would likely laugh her out of his manor if she filled his head with tales of talking snakes, stone-skinned monsters, and floating bone cleavers. The world, beyond what she and Yesugei had seen, remained ordinary¡ªmagic, a distant art of priests and eastern sorcerers, monsters no more than midwives¡¯ tales.


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    She thus remained mostly silent, listening to the confused, fragmented recollections from the villagers - scrambling to make sense of the past even as they struggled to comprehend their future without home and family. At first, she had been glad to remain silent while Vratislav and the peasants spoke. But now, as arguments erupted and with Vratislav hopelessly overwhelmed, her silence became untenable.


    This can¡¯t go on forever.


    She took a deep breath, trying to remember her father¡¯s booming voice which he had used so often on the battlefield and in court to bring men into line. Then she stood up from her seat, and spoke again - not as Vasilisa, but as the Grand Prince¡¯s daughter.


    ¡°Everybody, shut it and hear me!¡±


    Her voice rang through the hall, silencing the peasants, who turned to her in shock. The room fell so quiet she could hear the whistling of the wind as it blew through the gaps in the old manor¡¯s wooden walls.


    She scanned each of the peasants¡¯ faces - covered in soot, raw with loss and anger. ¡°I know all of you are angry and hurt, but the more time we waste fighting like children, the less likely we are to make it out of this mess alive - and who will bury the dead if not their kin?¡±


    ¡°What do you suggest, my lady?¡± asked Marmun, his beady eyes meeting hers. ¡°You heard what m¡¯lord said - trying to get to Gatchisk on foot or by horse is certain death with those riders about.¡±


    ¡°That is why I say we don¡¯t get there by land,¡± she replied. She recalled the last time she and her father had traveled to Gatchisk - how Prince Gvozden had boasted of his city¡¯s renewed wealth from trade along the Cherech, Gatchisk¡¯s lifeblood and much as Belnopyl¡¯s. ¡°We get there by river, along the Cherech. It flows through Gatchisk, does it not?¡±


    She looked to Rudin, Valishin, and the others. ¡°When my father and I last visited these lands, Prince Gvozden had some of his boats sail us south - we made port at some small town-¡±


    ¡°Balai!¡± exclaimed Gastya. ¡°We sell our harvest there!¡±


    ¡°Do they have ships of their own?¡±


    ¡°Yes, big ones!¡± continued Gastya. ¡°Big enough to bring cattle and grain up to the city.¡±


    ¡°They have walls as well,¡± Doru added. ¡°I worked for two seasons on the boyar¡¯s towerhouse there - you¡¯d need a big and proper army to take that hold. We¡¯d be safe there¡­or at least safer than here.¡±


    ¡°Balai¡¯s closer than Gatchisk,¡± said Marmun, nodding along as if he had just uttered something profound. ¡°Before, we used to drop off the harvest, get some roasted fish, and make it back home all before the evening.¡±


    But that was before, Vasilisa thought. Before, you probably had a well-fed horse, a sturdy wagon. And of course¡­


    She looked to Vratislav. In the darkness of the manor the young boyar looked half-dead already, barely able to support his own sitting weight. His leg, gray and smelling of pus, was no doubt infected - and it would only grow worse without a proper healer. Some part of her was tempted to leave the boyar in his home, but she chastised herself out of the notion: it was only thanks to him that she and Yesugei had avoided getting hacked apart by the mob. Besides that, she still needed his word if others were to question her identity - not all of the boyars in Gatchisk knew her as well, and for now she resembled the peasants of Yerkh more than any noble lady.


    ¡°We should still travel along the forests to get to Balai - mounted riders don¡¯t do well in dense woods.¡± She gave Vratislav¡¯s story of the attack on the manor some more thought. ¡°If they¡¯re so concerned about remaining fast, they¡¯ll steer clear of the deep forests anyways - there¡¯s more loot to be had attacking merchants on the open roads rather than poachers or hunters along the game trails.¡±


    Even Khavel, who had been the staunchest advocate for staying in the manor, began to relent, swayed by the villagers'' agreement and their enthusiasm for cover behind stronger, taller walls.


    ¡°What about the boyar?¡± asked Yesugei, speaking for the first time since the argument began. ¡°Look at him - we can¡¯t sit him atop a horse.¡±


    ¡°Well¡¯ll have to carry him,¡± she replied. ¡°Two of us can take turns if needed.¡±


    ¡°When a farmer was injured by a boar last summer, we carried him out on a litter,¡± Nesha said. ¡°Rudin, Marmun¡ªyou remember. We¡¯ll do the same. I¡¯ll cut up one of the curtains with Valka.¡±


    ¡°You speak as if I¡¯m not here!¡± Vratislav exclaimed. ¡°I can still stand, still fight.¡± He attempted to rise but collapsed back into his chair, his face flushed with fever and embarrassment.


    ¡°You¡¯ve done enough getting these people to safety,¡± Nesha said gently, holding his uninjured hand. ¡°Now do your duty as a husband and stay alive for me.¡±


    Vratislav grunted reluctantly, and Vasilisa nodded to Nesha. Another sensible woman¡ªwhy is it always the boyars¡¯ wives?


    Yesugei stood up from his chair as well, then rounded the longtable as he grabbed Marmun, Rudin, and Gastya. ¡°You three are with me, help me grab whatever supplies we¡¯ve left. Leave the killers nothing but rats and mold to take if they come back. The rest of you, I leave to the princess.¡±


    Chairs scraped as the villagers dispersed: Valka and Nesha to prepare a litter, Yesugei and his group to gather provisions, and the masons with Valishin to scout the woods for any signs of the raiders.


    Vasilisa breathed a sigh of relief as everyone began to set off. Yesugei gave her a small, approving smile before disappearing into the kitchen.


    Soon, only she and Vratislav remained - then the boyar said, ¡°Your father taught you how to command well - far better than most princes would care to teach their noble daughters.¡±


    ¡°He didn¡¯t teach me formally - but I learned enough by watching,¡± Vasilisa replied. ¡°I hope to thank him myself when I make it home.¡±


    ¡°You think your lord father and mother are still alive?¡±


    The question weighed heavily on her heart. But then she thought of the small crystal pressed into her hand - and the promises for answers left unfulfilled.


    She remembered the last time she had seen them both - her mother and father stood tall against Chirlan and his silver-masked guards, more noble and brave than the rest of the Klyazmite lords put together. More noble and brave than anyone.


    ¡°They have to be.¡±


    ***


    The gray clouds parted as they set out from the village, and Vasilisa saw the sun god Xors was already three-quarters through his journey across the sky.


    She had wanted to walk along with the others, letting the Khormchak stallion carry someone else more tired than her, but with her status both the peasants and Vratislav had insisted she ride. It struck her as strange how strongly they adhered to the norms and rules even when their entire world had fallen apart around them - though perhaps it was an anchor of sorts, a way to pretend things could still return to normal.


    But could they? Would they? She had asked as much to Vratislav before they set out, and the boyar pondered the question as he was picked up in his litter by fat Marmun and Gastya. How do you return to normal when you¡¯ve lost everything?


    Vratislav found his answer as they passed through the gates of his manor.


    ¡°I only had sixteen summers under my belt when the nomads burned and raped their way through this very land,¡± he said to her. The memories of the invasion were clear in his eyes when he paused, but then he blinked and lifted his head to continue. ¡°I was eighteen when Gvozden had raised me to boyar, when he told me to rebuild. It can happen, my lady. Slowly, surely, but people return.


    ¡°When this war ends it might take a year. It might take ten years. It might even take twenty, as it did for me - but we bury the dead, and we rebuild. And once our wounds are healed and become scars, we keep on living. Those who survive have to keep on living, otherwise hatred eats you alive. And then, well¡­then you have less than nothing left."


    His words echoed in her mind as their ragged band crept silently through the ruins of Yerkh, with Yesugei and Rudin scouting ahead for game trails. Once they were beyond the bounds of the village, the peasants turned for one last look at their destroyed homes. The plumed of smoke had begun to fade, but the charred buildings and bodies remained for the carrion birds. Marmun and Rudin watched in silence, while others, like Valishin and Valka, wept openly, whispering farewells to the dead and vowing to return.


    She could not fathom how anyone could rebuild after such destruction, after such loss - how anyone who had lived there before could stand the memories etched into the earth itself. She sensed the spirits that lingered in the fields and the streets, and shuddered before she turned her horse to trail after Yesugei.


    How do you live after this?


    By the time she had worked up the will to speak with Vratislav more, he had already fallen into painful, unconscious sleep in the litter. Perhaps it was for the better - in sleep, even restless, it would be as though he was transported by magic to the safety of Balai. She and the others would have to bear the struggle and misery of the road, dogged by ghosts and the lingering smell of burned flesh that hung over all of them long after Yerkh had disappeared behind the foliage.


    How do you keep on living?


    How do you rebuild?


    How do you let go?

 Chapter 12 - Falling Sun

    Falling Sun


    <hr>


    A heavy pall hung over the entire group as they traveled, seeming to weigh as heavily on the feet of the peasants as their morale.


    Yesugei led the way through dense woodlands, staying low and swift along the rutted hunting trails. The forests of Gatchisk, while less foreboding than the Devil Woods, were equally disorienting. Without the snaking paths, the endless maze of trees seemed to stretch without end, offering no landmarks to guide them. And the unnerving feeling of constantly being lost was not helped by the intense, suffocating humidity of the woods.


    Of the nine new stragglers they had taken on, only Rudin - a boar-hunter with nearly forty summers under his belt - knew to keep them on the right path, leading them by linking fading game trails. Despite his age the man moved with surprisingly agility, and he kept a good pace with Yesugei as they scouted ahead. The others carried supplies and the wounded boyar, who muttered to himself in feverish dreaming.


    The boyar¡¯s wife - Nesha - alternated between worrying over her husband and chatting with Vasilisa. For the first time since their departure from the Devil Woods, Yesugei saw Vasilisa relax as she spoke to the middle-aged noblewoman. They spoke of the history of the land, of a dozen different boyars and governors whose names made Yesugei¡¯s head spin, and of a young griffon - whatever that meant. Leaving them to their conversation, Yesugei pressed ahead with Rudin, keeping watch for any lurking dangers.


    ¡°We¡¯re not far from Balai now,¡± said Rudin as they passed by a large gnarled tree with two trunks growing from its base. ¡°This is the beginning of the Gray Boar¡¯s path, so we¡¯ll exit the woods south of the town.¡±


    ¡°This trail is quite far from the village,¡± Yesugei noted as he and Rudin carefully ascended a slick muddy slope. ¡°Farther than I¡¯d imagine any peasants from Yerkh would be permitted to hunt. Yet you know the trails even this far like the back of your hand.¡±


    Rudin bristled at that comment, but didn¡¯t reply until he was sure the others were beyond earshot. ¡°Gods didn¡¯t create the vast woods just so men could claim this bit and that bit for themselves.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps, but men also have this nasty habit of killing those who stray into their bits of land. Especially hunters hunting where they shouldn¡¯t be. In my land, they call them poachers.¡±


    ¡°If that¡¯s what you call a man who¡¯d rather risk the noose over seeing his kin waste away into nothing, then be my guest. But no-one from Balai ever complained about no missing pigs here or there-¡±


    Rudin suddenly crouched, motioning for Yesugei to do the same. Further down the trail, the earth split into a wide, shallow river. On the far bank was an old woodcutter¡¯s hut surrounded by tree stumps and mossy logs. But the hunter¡¯s attention was on the river, where two fat, pale swans floated serenely. They were oblivious to men¡¯s wars, burned villages, or monsters¡ªpeaceful, unaffected, timeless.


    Not for much longer.


    Rudin licked his lips, raised his spear, and threw it through the high reeds. A loud honking screech sounded as the spear found its mark. A white blur rose up the river as the second swan took flight, but Rudin was already pulling the first bird¡¯s feathery carcass onto land.


    ¡°There - now you¡¯re in the business of poaching as well.¡± Rudin huffed as stuffed the swan into a cloth bag. ¡°If they catch us now, we¡¯ll both be hanged. But at least tonight we¡¯ll have some roasted swan with your moldy bread and cheese.¡±


    The woodcutter¡¯s hut past the river was abandoned - long ago too, if the moss growing on the walls was any indication. However, its occupant had left the tool of his trade under his bed, and so they continued on with Rudin carrying his spear, and Yesugei a rust-covered double-bitted axe - still sharp enough to rend flesh or dent a helm, or at least leave a nasty infection barring all else.


    Soon they began to pass by more signs of civilization - a wooden trail marker here, a runic standing stone there. Near sunset, they finally emerged from the woods to see the town itself: a cluster of wooden houses behind a palisade atop raised earth. The boyar¡¯s stone towerhouse loomed in the west - right on the riverbank overseeing the pier, where the river Cherech shimmered in the fading daylight. Yet as the others slowly joined with Yesugei and Rudin, they noticed something odd about the town¡­


    ¡°I don¡¯t see anyone¡­¡±


    From where he stood atop a small rise at the edge of the woods, Yesugei could spy no movements of townsfolk along the streets, nor guards atop the walls. The houses¡¯ chimneys sat cold, and worst of all - no boats lay at the pier.


    ¡°Maybe everyone¡¯s hiding?¡± Gastya wondered aloud, readjusting his grip on the stretcher carrying the injured boyar.


    ¡°No signs of battle, and the gates are still closed,¡± Yesugei noted, squatting tiredly as he squinted at the silent town. ¡°I don¡¯t like this.¡±


    Vasilisa guided her horse alongside him and Rudin. With Vratislav still asleep, she was the closest thing to a leader the other peasants recognized - even though their deference to her as Grand Princess visibly discomforted her. Her eyes carefully scanned the quiet town, and her face betrayed the same unease that Yesugei felt.


    ¡°I don¡¯t like it either,¡± she admitted. ¡°But it¡¯s getting late, and we¡¯ll freeze in the woods. We should still take a look. A careful look.¡±


    Pressing her knees to Kaveh¡¯s stallion, Vasilisa adjusted the strap of the wrapped Apostle¡¯s cleaver slung across her back. The peasants had offered to carry her mysterious ¡®treasure¡¯ several times during their short journey, but she had always refused - for fear of frightening them if they saw the twisted flesh and bone of the weapon. But Yesugei also sensed a certain possessiveness over the blade, though it was too heavy to wield.


    The prospect of a roof over their heads and a fire to keep warm outweighed the others¡¯ apprehension about Balai, and their band emerged from the woods with Vasilisa at the head. When they got close, Valishin called out with a cry of kara-ooooooooo to hail anyone inside, but no answer came save the flutter of the town¡¯s flag on the gatehouse. Soon they were right in front of the heavy gates, but not so much as a sentry poked their head from any of the battlements.


    Doru stepped up to the gates, pickaxe in hand as he called, ¡°Hey! Someone, open the gates! We have women and injured here!¡±


    When no-one stirred from within the walls, the mason¡¯s apprentice raised his pickaxe and slammed it against the iron-reinforced gates. When he did so, a blinding flash erupted from the gates, followed by a terrible heat that washed over the entire company like a wave of fire. When he opened his eyes Yesugei saw Doru lying on the ground - frightened, but alive. His pickaxe lay nearby, the wooden shaft scorched and sharpened head melted into a misshapen lump of cooling iron. Khavel rushed to Doru¡¯s side, but the group¡¯s focus turned to a fiery symbol now burned into the gates.


    It was one Yesugei knew well - a fiery triangle atop a cross. The same symbol carved into Kaveh. Apostle magic.


    They were here¡­or at least one of their kind was.


    Vasilisa recognized the sorcery at work here as well, and shouted, ¡°Everyone stand back! This is blood magic; it will sear you alive!¡±


    ¡°D-do you think the boyar put it up?¡± asked Valka.


    ¡°No, or he did, then boyar Crahask is no friend of ours,¡± replied Vasilisa as she dismounted from the horse. ¡°We¡­we encountered something similar on the eastern road. It killed a good man.¡±


    ¡°How are we supposed to get inside, then?¡± asked Marmun. ¡°The walls are too high to climb, and we don¡¯t have any ropes.¡±


    As Marmun spoke, Yesugei heard something strange¡ªan eerie melody emanating from the burning symbol. The tune sounded strangely beautiful, like no other noise he had ever heard before - one part howling wind, and another part a thousand plucking noises like the strings of a harp. It felt wrong, yet beautiful in its complexity. Drawn to it, Yesugei moved toward the gates, ignoring Gastya¡¯s attempts to stop him.


    ¡°What are you doing?¡± came the question from Gastya, but Yesugei shrugged off the farmer¡¯s hand.


    ¡°Vasilisa¡­¡± he breathed as he drew closer to the gates, stretching out one hand until his fingers were nearly touching glyph. ¡°Vasilisa¡­you can hear it too, can¡¯t you?¡±


    ¡°Yesugei¡­¡± she murmured, awestruck.


    ¡°It¡¯s beautiful, isn¡¯t it?¡± Yesugei¡¯s mind felt like it was melting inside his skull, overcome by a swirl of strange and powerful emotions that he did not quite understand. It was as if he was listening to someone else¡¯s thoughts in a language both alien and intimately familiar.


    Just as his fingers brushed the gates, Gastya and others tried to pull him back, with a cry of, ¡°You madman! Get away!¡±


    You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.


    But it was too late. His fingers brushed against the symbol, and then he was no longer in the Klyazmite plains. His world shifted into a dark, flickering forest of shadows. A bright light cut suddenly through the darkness, and he saw a tall, naked figure stride past him. From the writhing shadows he saw the towering gates of the town, gray and drab compared to the burning light of the spirit. The figure pressed its lips to the doors - whispering into the earth and the walls a terrible, beautiful song of forgotten lands, a haunting prayer for fire, earth, and the heavens.


    Do they hear our prayers? Do they hear our cries?


    ¡°Yesugei!¡±


    Vasilisa¡¯s voice jolted him back into the world of the living, the suffering and the downtrodden. He opened his eyes to see the princess¡¯ worried face above him. Groaning, he staggered to his feet, his body aching.


    They were now inside the town¡¯s walls¡ªsilent, orderly, and lifeless. Behind him, men worked to seal the gates, securing them with a heavy wooden bar. Boyar Vratislav, now strong enough to stand, limped up to Yesugei as he stretched his aching back.


    ¡°How did you open the gates?¡± The boyar demanded, his look serious. ¡°Are you a blood-sorcerer, or just a lucky fool?¡±


    ¡°I just touched them, didn¡¯t I?¡± The memory of even reaching out towards the doors seemed as though it had been ages past, but when he looked up at the sky the sun was still just barely over the horizon. It could not have been more than two hours.


    ¡°You did, and then you collapsed in the dirt as if you had died.¡± Vratislav huffed. ¡°You had Lady Vasilisa worried sick and-¡±


    ¡°Boyar Vratislav,¡± interrupted Vasilisa with a gentle smile. ¡°I think we should just thank the gods that whatever fickleness was behind that spell ended up sparing him. For now, we have bigger worries to deal with.¡±


    ¡°Yes¡­yes we do.¡± The boyar nodded, before beginning to bark out orders. ¡°Gastya, Marmun, start searching the houses. See if you can find anyone - dead or alive. Doru, Khavel, get to the pier, and check if there are any smaller boats we can use, even a fishing boat will do. Rudin, you¡¯re with us - I want to take a look at the towerhouse. Perhaps Crahask left a message to tell us what happened here.¡±


    As the peasants reluctantly began to peel off in separate directions under Vratislav¡¯s command Vasilisa tilted her head down and whispered in a quiet voice, ¡°That song¡­what was it, exactly?¡±


    ¡°I¡­I don¡¯t know. A prayer? A dirge? Maybe even a cry for help, to anyone who would listen¡­¡± His mind strayed back to the memory of the song, and Yesugei felt his chest grow heavy with a strange, sentimental sadness. ¡°I saw a being. It whispered things into the walls and the town.¡±


    ¡°It drove the people out?¡±


    ¡°Perhaps. But the Ormanli needed butchery for their magic - I don¡¯t see any corpses here. It¡¯s like they all just¡­disappeared.¡±


    Vratislav called to them, already beginning to make his way up the towerhouse alongside his wife and Rudin. Vasilisa acquiesced to his call. ¡°We should go - an entire town doesn¡¯t just disappear.¡±


    The houses beneath the watch of the towerhouse cast long shadows onto their group as they crept up along the path towards the keep, with Rudin, Nesha, and Valka lingering behind the two of them. Yesugei saw Vasilisa¡¯s unease grow with every house they passed by - the empty town seemed even more frightening than the burned ruins of Yerkh.


    Why would hundreds of people disappear and leave behind all their possessions? In times of war, families took everything they could carry before fleeing in the face of an approaching army - here, days-old food still lingered at tables set for dinner, wagons packed with grain and cloth for the markets sat abandoned in the streets, and some hearths still clung onto fading embers. What scared them so much?


    The towerhouse¡¯s fortified gates were left wide open, groaning slightly with the wind as if beckoning them inside. In the boyar¡¯s courtyard, Valka set herself to filling a cloth bag with cabbages and carrots from the manor¡¯s garden while Vratislav rested with Nesha in the great hall among the griffon banners and empty seats of the boyar¡¯s table. Rudin, Vasilisa, and Yesugei ascended the remaining floors one-by-one, each as predictably abandoned as the one before.


    Unlike the clutter left behind in town, the armory of the boyar¡¯s druzhina was nearly stripped bare. All that was left was a nasal helm - claimed by Rudin - and a recurve hunting bow with barbed arrows, claimed by Yesugei. Vasilisa, still clutching her cleaver, gratefully accepted a long dagger they found wedged behind an empty spear rack.


    ¡°At least you¡¯ll have something to protect yourself,¡± remarked Yesugei. ¡°Don¡¯t all proper ladies carry small knives?¡±


    ¡°Have you met many proper ladies in your life, Yesugei?¡± bounced back Vasilisa as they climbed to the roof. ¡°I¡¯d love to hear about what other princesses you¡¯ve entertained.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯d be surprised - my father¡¯s court entertained proper ladies from all across the world, east and west.¡± He recalled a delegation from Tanh Ninh came - an emperor''s envoy who brought chests overflowing with silver for the noyans, gold for his father, and choice of one of the emperor¡¯s daughters for a wife. He and Kaveh had tried teaching some of the girls riding, only to be promptly thrown out of the royal tent.


    The memory used to fill him with a small sense of warmth - a reminder of when they were still both stupid boys, and the world had seemed so much larger, so much more. Now the world had grown small - and smiley Kaveh was dead. Every memory would be tainted with that knowledge, poisoned by the Apostles. He ascended the rest of the steps in silence.


    The wind pricked a thousand small cold needles to his face as Rudin opened the hatch to the roof, blinding them all with the orange-red light of the falling sun. Below the battlements, he saw the entire forest and countryside awash in the orange-red glow of the sun¡¯s light as though it were on fire - and then Yesugei saw that in some distant places, there was indeed fire, with thin plumes of smoke rising up from the woods and distant scattered holds.


    ¡°Demons tear me¡­¡± muttered Rudin, the maille curtain of his helm jingling as he adjusted it on his head to make out the view. ¡°Looks like half the country is on fire. The Lord of Lightning ought to be pleased that war''s finally come upon his people¡¯s lands again.¡±


    ¡°You forget Perun is as much the lord of justice as he is of war,¡± pointed out Vasilisa as she rested against the crenels of the tower¡¯s battlements. Her dark braid flowed with the howling wind as she cast her gaze upon the pillaged countryside. ¡°There¡¯s nothing just about this war.¡±


    ¡°Nothing just about any wars.¡± Rudin leaned his weight on the shaft of his spear as he talked. ¡°What happened to Yerkh happened a thousand-thousand times over - even the noblest of boyars like lord Vratislav pillage and burn whenever they take to the field. ¡®s just how war is. Lords and druzhinniks get all the glory, while everyone else suffers.¡±


    The sun¡¯s light glinted off of something hung around the flagpole of the towerhouse - a large wooden sentry¡¯s horn banded with silver. Yesugei snatched the horn from the battlements as he thought aloud.


    ¡°You speak too bluntly to nobility to just have been a peasant,¡± he remarked as he examined the silver runic bands of the horn. ¡°And you wield your spear like you¡¯ve used it to kill more than wild pigs and swans. Who are you, Rudin?¡±


    ¡°No-one important.¡± His face was concealed behind a curtain of maille, but Yesugei could sense the sad smile on the poacher¡¯s face as he spoke. ¡°Might have been I was once the one dealing out the suffering at the beck and call of some lord or other¡­but I left those ghosts of mine behind me, at Ongainur Field.¡±


    ¡°You were there?¡±


    The battle at Ongainur Field was a thing of wonder among the Qarakesek¡ªthe slaughter of Naizabai¡¯s Klyazmite allies, and the battle that brought Klyazma under the heel of the Great Horde. Fifty thousand Klyazmites died to Khormchak arrows and lances, and three princes with fifty boyars were butchered after surrendering. Yesugei¡¯s oldest brother Nariman, who had led the battle, made sure none of his siblings forgot that brilliant show of genius.


    ¡°Aye, I was. We chased you Khormchak bastards for what, five days? It¡¯s been six years, but sometimes when I close my eyes I remember things like they happened yesterday. I remember how I sweat like a pig beneath my armor - how fucking hot it was when we finally caught up to your warband. And the dust¡­it was everywhere, in your eyes, in your mouth, in your water, in the crack of your ass whenever you got off your horse.


    ¡°The dust killed more men than anything else - it blinds you, it terrifies you. It makes confused men scatter and bump, screaming and hollering to find each other while the boyars are trying to form up lines. And then someone gets hit by an arrow, someone else takes the fallen man¡¯s place, and some other brave idiots run out from the shieldwall trying to avenge their brother, only they get killed too. And the arrows just keep falling and falling¡­every volley you don¡¯t know whether it¡¯s going to keep coming or whether the Khormchaks decide to charge. You look around for your boyar, your banners, but all you can see is the man standing next to you - and then he lowers his shield to get a peek at the field, and gets an arrow in the eye for his trouble. You almost want the Khormchaks to charge, to see the bastards up close¡­¡±


    Rudin¡¯s wide eyes seemed to glow with the memory of that battle. Then the light faded, and turned to bitterness as he readjusted his helmet again. ¡°I never got to kill any nomads in the end - we ran back across the Jigai and into the woods once we heard the Khormchaks had Prince Yaropolk, Vadim, and Badan¡¯s heads on spikes, and that Yaropolk¡¯s son Igor had run off with whatever remained of his men. Three princes, fifty-thousand men¡­and the only ones who survived were the ones with the damn sense to run.


    ¡°And afterwards there was your nomads¡¯ peace. No-one needed craven fighting men without a lord. A career as a bandit would be short and ugly, and my old armor fetched a good price - enough to buy me a small plot and a home on the frontier. Now even that¡¯s gone¡­and I¡¯m too old to start all over again.¡±


    When Rudin finished speaking, it was like all the energy had evaporated from his body. He sat down on the roof, and for the first time his age seemed so apparent - as though the bottled-up memories were holding back the tide of time.


    Vasilisa was at a loss for words, as was Yesugei. He suddenly felt very uncomfortable standing on the roof, as though he were in Rudin¡¯s world as an intruder. Vasilisa¡¯s own discomfort at the mention of her father¡¯s retreat was etched plainly on her face, and the two of them exchanged a glance as Vasilisa hurriedly excused herself.


    ¡°Leave the horn with me,¡± said Rudin as Yesugei made to descend the towerhouse. ¡°I think I¡¯ll stay here - keep watch at least for a while.¡±


    Yesugei obliged and followed quickly after Vasilisa - leaving the old poacher to watch the sun fall beneath the horizon of his scorched homeland.

 Chapter 13 - Vraactan

    Vraactan


    <hr>


    The town was as dark as pitch by the time everyone fell back to the boyar¡¯s towerhouse to report their findings.


    ¡°Entire place is empty,¡± said Gastya as he and Marmun sat in the empty hall of the tower. ¡°Not even any mice left scurrying about. It¡¯s like everyone and everything just up and left. They still left their silver and other such things behind¡­¡±


    ¡°The big boats are all gone,¡± Khavel reported despondently. He and his cousin must have taken a dip in the water, because the two masons were dripping wet and shivering when they arrived.


    ¡°All¡¯s left is a river skiff, down in one of the workshops on the pier,¡± Doru followed. ¡°Looked like they were mending a patch in the hull and left it half-finished. I didn¡¯t see any problems, but I dunno if it¡¯s good for the waters if they didn¡¯t bother to take it¡­¡±


    ¡°We can take a look at it come morning,¡± said Vratislav, seated at the boyar¡¯s table alongside Vasilisa, Nesha, and Yesugei. ¡°Valishin¡­you helped repair a fishing boat once, didn¡¯t you?¡±


    The young farmer woke up from his dozing with a start. ¡°Wha-? Y-yes, my lord. Was my cousin¡¯s before-¡±


    ¡°Good. Come morning you can take the others and see if you can¡¯t get that boat sail-worthy. We either get to Gatchisk by boat, or not at all.¡±


    The burning of the countryside meant there would be no shelter to be found along the roads - or if there was, their occupants¡¯ willingness to host eleven travelers pathetically short of coin would be sorely lacking. And at their sluggish pace of travel towards Gatchisk, two days would easily turn into six - six days and nights sleeping in forests or plains, exposed to the cold nights and hard, rough ground.


    Yesugei wondered whether it would be easier to leave behind the peasants - now that they were within the safety of the walls and well-provisioned, it wouldn¡¯t be abandoning them if he and Vasilisa were to take off on their own. It would be easy to simply take their share of the supplies and head out - some of the peasants might object, but none seemed like they would try to stop them from leaving.


    He gave Vasilisa a sidelong glance as she listened to Vratislav speaking. He had noticed Vasilisa¡¯s growing attachment and sense of duty to the peasants even over their short travel to Balai, but something had changed in her demeanor after they descended from the tower¡¯s roof. It was in her eyes - she no longer looked upon the peasants as merely subjects, but as companions - people to whom she owed loyalty, whether out of duty or out of honor as their liege lady.


    Here¡¯s hoping this new honor won¡¯t get us killed, he thought as he studied Vasilisa¡¯s thoughtful expression. Remember what¡¯s at stake, Vasilisa.


    The memory of the Apostle¡¯s leering, empty-eyed visage still haunted him, as did the strange vision that were not his own, of the blindingly-bright spirit whose whispers shook the earth and brought nearly to tears. The two creatures could not have been farther from one another - yet were they both Apostles, or two different spirits, equally malevolent in their nature?


    The disappearance of the townsfolk did not seem like the work of a helpful, kind entity - a strange sense of menace hung over the air in Balai, the sense of desperate whispers and smothered fear drenched in the paved streets and walls of every building.


    If Sergen were still alive, he could have communed with the spirits of the land, or raised one of the western tengri for advice. But Sergen is dead, Yesugei thought as he caught himself. Sergen is dead, and there is nothing you can do about it. Move on.


    The conversation in the great hall turned to the topic of the coming night. The gates to the town were sealed solidly, but there were far too few of them to man the walls along their entire length, much less keep a rotating watch throughout the night. Instead, Vratislav had advised them to hole up and guard only the towerhouse, whose ten-foot stone walls were short enough for two people to keep watch over the town from all directions. There was a single heavy gate to the east - reinforced by iron brackets like the outer walls - as well as a smaller postern door to the south hidden by foliage that opened to a dirt path leading to the pier.


    Yesugei took charge of planning the watches for the night, setting Valishin, Marmun, Gastya, and Khavel to take two-man shifts. One man would always keep the horn close by to warn the others of danger, though Yesugei wondered what would come to pass if anyone did show up.


    None of the peasants looked to be of fighting spirit, besides Rudin, and they still only had enough weapons to arm half of their number. Although it was easy to conclude that standing and fighting would give the whole group better odds of survival than routing, in practice few men were able to override their primal desires and terrors - especially if faced by trained killers while half of their own side wielded farming tools.


    Still, the towerhouse was well-prepared to withstand a small siege if need be - an exploration of the battlements and barracks turned up piles of heavy stones, a large pot for pouring boiling water onto attackers, and several more arrows which sat forgotten in barrels along the wooden catwalks.


    As they talked and Yesugei put together a small map to show the four watchmen where they ought to patrol, Rudin, Nesha, and Valka set about preparing the food they had gathered and poached for a late supper. The kitchens were blessedly left half-stocked, and so soon the smell of roasted goose and vegetable stew drifted up into the great hall. Yesugei felt his own stomach grumble from hunger, and he saw the prospect of a good meal had stolen away his men¡¯s attention.


    When the food was finally ready and carried up, the peasants all looked like starved puppies as the roasted goose passed them by. Rudin set the goose before Vasilisa first, before passing it along the boyar¡¯s table and only then to the peasants. The fat bird was more than enough for everyone to get a piece - even so, Yesugei saw Vasilisa gingerly take only a small cut of meat for herself when the goose was presented.


    Her appetite remained astoundingly little, but she didn¡¯t relent even when both Vratislav and Nesha encouraged her to eat her fill to meet the day ahead. No-one else talked as much as they all ate, and Yesugei knew that even Vratislav and Nesha¡¯s fussing was more a way for them to put off thinking about their own fates and futures than any sycophantry.


    Everyone set off on their own separate ways once they all finished - Valishin and Marmun to the walls, Vratislav, Nesha, and Vasilisa to the upper chambers, and the rest of the peasants to the lower commons where the servants slept. Yesugei lingered alone for a little longer, savoring the greasy taste of the gooseflesh and the hearty stew before heading to the upper chambers.


    When he poked his head inside, he saw Vratislav and Nesha already sound asleep. Unburdened from the stresses of the waking world, the boyar and his wife looked almost ten years younger. Within the clean walls of the towerhouse, Yesugei felt his skin crawl as his own filthiness, and resolved to find a tub of water, anything to clean himself before resigning to sleep.


    When Yesugei found the bathhouse, Vasilisa was already there, halfway through lighting a fire beneath the heating stones. Her cleaver leaned against the wall, nearly toppling as he stepped inside. She turned, her face reddening.


    ¡°I¡¯m setting a bath¡ªdo you mind? Wait your turn,¡± she snapped.


    ¡°You¡¯ll turn the water black by the time you¡¯re done,¡± he replied. ¡°I¡¯m not bathing in your filth.¡±


    ¡°Neither am I!¡± she huffed, turning back to the fire. ¡°And you¡¯re filthier¡ªgo last.¡±


    While she focused on the fire, Yesugei silently slipped out of his boots and stepped into the tub, robe and all. The mud caked onto his robe instantly began to cloud the bath, followed by swirls of crimson blood. Ignoring Vasilisa¡¯s muttered protests, he sank in up to his chin, savoring the soothing relief on his battered skin.


    A splash broke the quiet as Vasilisa climbed into the tub with a shiver, shooting him an annoyed glare.


    ¡°You¡¯re an ass, you know that?¡± the Grand Princess muttered as she pulled her knees up to her chest in the tub. The dust and dirt of the road slowly dissolved off her silk dress, and their combined filth and suffering mixed until it was indistinguishable. Blood and blood, dirt and dirt, grief and grief washed away bodily.


    The closeness of the bath bothered neither of them - in the Devil Woods, the princess had peered into his soul. She had known him and his mind in a way that not even a lover could. Everything else seemed trifling, by contrast. For a while - a long while - the two of them sat in total silence until even the slowly lapping surface of the bathwater stilled.


    ¡°What are we doing here?¡±


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    Yesugei¡¯s question came softly as he stared up at the plain wooden ceiling of the bathhouse, slowly rapping his wrinkled fingers along the edge of the tub.


    ¡°What do you mean?¡±


    ¡°This¡­this whole mess.¡± He gestured with one hand about them. ¡°How did we get here? Why us? Why you?¡±


    ¡°You know as well as I that I don¡¯t know.¡± Vasilisa said. She curled herself up even tighter, causing her knees to pop up from the surface of the water like two small islands. ¡°I-I don¡¯t know. None of this should be happening, none of it.¡±


    ¡°Before all of this¡­¡± Vasilisa caught herself, and gave a small, rueful smile. ¡°Ah¡­before all of this¡­I was afraid my parents were going to marry me off to some steppe khan. Maybe one of your brothers? Maybe even you.¡±


    Yesugei stifled a chortle, not wanting to wake the boyar and his wife just outside. ¡°Even me? What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±


    ¡°Nothing,¡± said Vasilisa innocently as she stretched out, staring off to the side at the heating stones. ¡°Just¡­couldn¡¯t ever imagine myself being married off like that. My father pushed for it once, my mother didn¡¯t care for it - perhaps she didn¡¯t appreciate her own father giving her away, even if she did end up loving Igor of Belnopyl.¡±


    Ah yes, your grandfather. Naizabai of the Quanli. Yesugei tilted his head, watching her from the corner of his eye. ¡°Who¡¯s to say you wouldn¡¯t have ended up the same? Loving whoever you¡¯d be promised to?¡±


    Vasilisa exhaled through her nose as she poured a ladle of water over the heating stones, sending up a cloud of hissing steam. ¡°Perhaps. But now we¡¯ll never know.¡±


    Strands of damp hair clung to her neck and cheeks, her face pensive in the flickering light of the hearth. The steam softened the sharpness of her features - her high cheekbones, the arch of her brows, her full lips, pressed into the barest trace of a smirk. Far away from Tosont, in the hush of the bathhouse, she almost looked like a proper royal beauty.


    She looked like the girl she might have remained if fate had been kinder.


    ¡°You would¡¯ve given any husband of yours a hard time,¡± Yesugei murmured, his voice touched with wry amusement.


    Vasilisa¡¯s head snapped toward him, a frown tugging at her brow. ¡°What¡¯s that supposed to mean?¡±


    He gestured vaguely, running his fingers over the water¡¯s surface. ¡°Just that I don¡¯t envy the poor bastard. You¡¯re tall ¨C even compared to men. And strong. You could stand on even ground with any husband.¡± His gaze flickered over her¡ªhow the wet silk clung to the lines of her broad shoulders, her toned arms, the curve of her collarbone. ¡°Or knock him flat on his ass.¡±


    Vasilisa blinked, frowned, then¡ªrealization.


    Her face reddened slightly as she crossed her arms over her chest, splashing the water. ¡°You¡ªstop staring.¡±


    He huffed a laugh, letting his gaze linger for a fraction too long before turning away. ¡°What? It¡¯s not as if you¡¯re covering anything I haven¡¯t seen before.¡±


    She narrowed her eyes. ¡°You¡¯re a dead man.¡±


    ¡°I already am,¡± he replied dryly.


    The warmth of the bathhouse pressed around them, thick with steam and the scent of damp wood. Silence stretched between them, more comfortable than before.


    Vasilisa broke the quiet the second time, her voice quiet. ¡°Was there anyone promised to you? Some other princess from some other far-off land, perhaps? I heard tales from the merchants of immortal emperors ruling over fortress-cities, and the sun-worshippers who make their homes out of pure marble. Did none of them promise you one of their daughters?¡±


    He exhaled, leaning his head back against the tub¡¯s edge. ¡°No one.¡±


    Vasilisa gave a thoughtful hum. ¡°No one at all?¡±


    Yesugei shot her a look, sensing implication in the way her voice carried the hint of a smile. ¡°Not for lack of choice, I assume you.¡±


    She scoffed, rolling her eyes. ¡°Of course, of course. A dashing prince of the Horde wouldn¡¯t be without prospects.¡±


    He chuckled, but said nothing more. His amusement faded as he let his head tilt back again, eyes tracing the wooden beams above. The rise and fall of the steam made the ceiling seem to shift, and he felt his head beginning to spin.


    ¡°It all feels like another life, doesn¡¯t it?¡± he murmured. ¡°Worrying about marriages, titles, royal lines. So long ago.¡±


    A great horde. A great ulus to the east, a Great Khan, and me, the ninth son. Yesugei thought, but a deep bitterness in his silent heart also spoke.


    ¡°And now¡­what? My brother is dead. My comrades are dead. And the old enemies of my tribe still lurk in every corner while new nightmares fall from the skies,¡± he muttered as he ran one hand through the water, watching the clouds of blood and grime swirl.


    Suddenly, the waters felt as though they were drowning him. The crystal in his chest throbbed with pain, a sharp reminder of past agony. Sorrow spilled into his mind, and his head spun with the weight of it. Visions assaulted him¡ªKaveh¡¯s face twisted in torment, flesh melting in black fire, and his own corpse, decayed and cursed, strewn across foreign plains.


    ¡°And me¡­what am I now?¡± he murmured. ¡°Am I even still me? Or was I born again, out there in the Klyazmite plains?¡±


    His thoughts spiraled into chaos, his mind searing as if melting. Feverish or cursed, he staggered to his feet, only to be struck by a wave of weakness that pulled him back into the water.


    ¡°I think¡­the water¡¯s¡­¡± he slurred, his voice fading as a terrible hissing filled his skull. He sank lower under Vasilisa¡¯s worried gaze.


    ¡°Vasilisa¡­¡±


    ***


    ¡°Yesugei!¡±


    Vasilisa lunged, grabbing Yesugei¡¯s clammy arms before his head could sink into the filthy water. As she pulled him out, she saw his eyes were rolled up into his head¡ªunconscious. His breathing was low and shallow, and his wounds did not appear to have reopened. She sighed in relief - only exhaustion laid him low, not any curse.


    As she propped his arms against the tub, something shifted at the edge of her vision¡ªa shadow crawling across the floor. Turning, she realized it wasn¡¯t a shadow but a serpent slithering over the wooden boards.


    ¡°You¡¯ve grown bigger since we last met.¡±


    The serpent, now thick as her arm, was quadruple its former size. Its iridescent scales seemed to have grown brighter and more vibrant with age. She detected the faintest flicker of recognition in its eyes from its otherwise expressionless face as the serpent rose up to glance at her. Despite Yesugei¡¯s collapse, she felt at ease seeing an old, if brief, friend.


    ¡°I¡¯ve been eating well,¡± the serpent replied its soft voice, its tongue flicking in and out as it tasted the air. ¡°The predators here hunt their own kind, not serpents. Our kind slither by unnoticed, while the great beasts of the world clash.¡±


    Vasilisa gave a grim smile, adjusting Yesugei against the tub before extending her arm. The serpent coiled around her forearm and was surprisingly heavy - she struggled to lift it to match her gaze.


    ¡°What do I call you now? You can hardly fit on my arm now - somehow ¡®little serpent¡¯ seems no longer apt.¡±


    ¡°You could always just call me ¡®serpent¡¯, I suppose.¡± The serpent slowly crawled around her arm, brushing its cool scales along her skin. The scales shifted in color and hue with the flickering light of the bathhouse fire. ¡°We serpents do not usually keep names - our kind rarely care enough to give one another titles.¡±


    ¡°That seems a sad existence, not having anyone to care for you enough to give you a name.¡±


    ¡°Most serpents have none who care for them. But I¡­I had a name, once.¡± The serpent¡¯s head rested in the open palm of her hand, and Vasilisa carefully stroked the top of its smooth, sleek head with her scarred thumb. The serpent gave a relaxed sigh.


    ¡°You did?¡± she asked curiously. ¡°What made you lose it?¡±


    ¡°The only ones who called me by it disappeared,¡± replied the serpent, its eyes closed as Vasilisa continued to stroke its head.


    Vasilisa let her finger smoothly play across the serpent¡¯s head for a little while longer before asking, ¡°I could call you by your name. It only seems fair - you call me ¡®Vasilisa¡¯, not ¡®human¡¯. What is your name?¡±


    The serpent¡¯s eyes opened slowly, and it turned its head to meet her gaze. ¡°I think you might already know.¡±


    Up close, she realized the serpent¡¯s eyes were a deep black-and-purple color, tinged with veins of gold that reminded her of the twisting roots of a tree. Golden eyes¡­golden eyes¡­


    She found herself sinking into the black and purple void, memories drifting by her as she saw the long-haired Chirlan¡¯s eerie smile, his singer¡¯s voice, his golden claws sinking into her heart. She remembered his soft voice whispering through the darkness as she faded away, whispering a quiet prayer.


    Take within all you can bear,


    No other soul the weight to share.


    And gods of mine: fire, earth, and stars above.


    Accept my blood, my spirit, and my love.


    The pressure on her chest released suddenly, and Vasilisa gasped as her mind shot back into her own sopping wet body. She scrambled to pull herself up out of the filthy tub. As she regained her bearings, she realized she was alone in the bath - no sign of the serpent, nor Yesugei.


    She felt a word - no, a name - tumbling around in her confused, groggy mind as she dried her dress off the best she could and placed her trembling fingers close to the fire of the heating stones.


    In the flickering flames of the fire, the serpent¡¯s name came into focus.


    ¡°Vraactan¡­¡± She whispered, her only audience the crackling flames.


    One of the logs split apart, releasing a hiss as the fire spread over and consumed it whole.


    The silence of the bathhouse was interrupted when she heard heavy, rushed footsteps coming from outside. The door to the bathhouse burst open, and Vasilisa spun around to see Yesugei standing in the doorframe, his bow and quiver in hand.


    ¡°Something¡¯s wrong, someone¡¯s coming. I warned the others but we need to move-¡±


    Before he could say more, a sound came shuddering through the towerhouse. It was one of the peasant watchmen blowing on the hunting horn, sounding intruders. Sounding danger.


    ¡°Get up! We need to move, now!¡±


    Vasilisa hurried to her feet after Yesugei, and snatched the giant Apostle¡¯s cleaver from the wall as she trailed after the nomad. The horn blared again, and it sounded like death.

 Chapter 14 - The Crows

    The Crows


    <hr>


    The sound of neighing horses and shouts rose from beyond the towerhouse walls.


    Yesugei scrambled up the battlements, staying low as he approached Marmun and Valishin, crouched behind a crenellation. Peering over the walls, he first mistook the flickering lights beyond the walls for. But as he squinted through the darkness, he made out cavalrymen on horseback, their helmets and speartips gleaming as they galloped through cobblestone streets, searching from empty house to empty house.


    A bright flame bloomed to life in the night as one of the houses on the outskirts of the town caught fire, its dry thatched roof set alight in an instant by a torch. Then another, and another. Soon it seemed Balai had been transformed into a great field of orange flowers, with fiery petals licking hungrily up at the night sky.


    Yesugei nocked an arrow as others joined him on the battlements. Rudin slipped beside him, his helm reflecting a splash of bright orange from the glow of the flames. Vasilisa knelt at his other side, masking her fear with anger as she stared at the burning town.


    ¡°How many are out there?¡± whispered Vratislav as he limped over to the battlements, wielding an ax.


    Yesugei tried to count the moving silhouettes, the torches, but the shadows of the fires blended them all together into a single mass. ¡°Two dozen? Maybe three? Too many.¡±


    Over the roaring of the growing flames and neighing of horses the raiders¡¯ shouts in the Klyazmite tongue grew louder. The stream of torches moved closer towards the keep. Now everybody was at the battlements, staring in terrified awe at the town below as more and more buildings erupted into flame.


    ¡°Valishin, Gastya, take the women and head down to the pier,¡± ordered Vratislav, his sickly face rendered hollow and skeletal by the glow of the fires. ¡°Stay low and get that riverboat out into the water.¡±


    ¡°But the others left it behind, what about-¡±


    ¡°If we can¡¯t get out onto the Cherech, then we¡¯ll all die,¡± spat Vratislav. ¡°Go, your boyar commands it!¡±


    The peasants scrambled from the battlements, Valishin clutching his wife¡¯s hand as they hurried across the courtyard to the hidden exit. Nesha started to follow but turned back to face her husband, her voice trembling.


    ¡°Remember your duty to me, Vratislav,¡± said Nesha, her eyes watery with tears she stubbornly refused to shed. ¡°I will not be a boyar¡¯s widow, understand?¡±


    Vratislav knelt and kissed her forehead. For a moment, it seemed Nesha might convince him to leave, but he gently placed her hands in hers, squeezing tightly. ¡°It¡¯s all by the will of the gods. Now go. Run. We¡¯ll follow.¡±


    Reluctantly, Nesha descended the battlements. Vratislav¡¯s gaze then shifted to Vasilisa, still on the walls with a dagger in hand and the cleaver strapped to her back.


    ¡°My lady-¡±


    ¡°No,¡± interrupted Vasilisa, her gaze resolute. ¡°I¡¯m staying here. As your liege lady, I command myself.¡±


    ¡°But your father-¡±


    ¡°My father isn¡¯t here.¡± Vasilisa stuck her jaw out in defiance. ¡°But I am still a daughter of Belnopyl, the lineage of Raegnald. Our blood has always defended our subjects and vassals, and everyone here is among them.¡±


    ¡°We can¡¯t hold these walls forever,¡± retorted Vratislav, gesturing over the gathered peasants - Marmun, Doru, and Khavel wielding their tools, and Rudin with his spear. ¡°I won¡¯t risk you dying in the retreat from the walls. Of any of us, you should be the first to escape.¡±


    ¡°The arms-masters always said a lord who commands respect is the one first in battle, and the last in the retreat.¡±


    ¡°The ones who held true to that advice were the ones who died, my lady¡­¡± Vratislav¡¯s voice grew desperate as the torches drew ever closer to the base of the keep¡¯s walls. ¡°Please.¡±


    Before he could say more, Marmun called them to the edge of the battlements. Below, several cavalrymen halted at the gates. Yesugei clutched the feathered shot tight in his fingers as he glanced carefully down. A dozen riders, clad in heavy mail and adorned helms, stood just below the walls. One carried a large banner, but in the dim torchlight, its colors and symbol were impossible to discern.


    Then one of the horses - a powerful courser bred for war - reared up and gave a loud neigh that echoed out over the keep.


    ¡°Open the gates!¡± shouted the horse¡¯s rider, a lancer wearing a tall, pointed helmet decorated with silver. ¡°Come out and fight, you cowards!¡±


    ¡°Hold down there!¡± called down Vratislav as he leaned out over the walls. ¡°This town¡¯s been abandoned!¡±


    ¡°And who are you?¡± yelled the lancer. ¡°One of Crahask¡¯s warriors? Busy pissing yourself behind stone walls while we burn your precious town? Tell that cockless fucker Crahask to get out here and fight with honor - or did he run off with the women and children?¡±


    ¡°Damned if I know where Crahask has gone, but he isn¡¯t here!¡± shouted Vratislav. ¡°The place was abandoned when we got here ourselves, and we owe no allegiance to Crahask. Do what you want with the town, but leave us be.¡±


    Before the lancer could respond, another rider emerged from the shadows, flanked by footmen with axes and spears. The lancers at the gates fell silent, deferring to the heavily armored newcomer. His plumed helmet bore a metal faceguard styled as a grinning mustachioed man, its demonic visage flickering in the firelight. So, this one is the leader.


    The boyar chuckled as he lifted his mask. A ruddy and squashed face peered up at their band on the walls. ¡°Vratislav. I believe we missed you at Yerkh.¡±


    ¡°Stribor?¡± gaped Vratislav as he looked down at the commander. On the hanging shields of the footmen, Yesugei spotted the roaring griffon of Gatchisk. ¡°Gods, what are you doing?¡±


    ¡°Waging war,¡± replied Stribor with a slim, feral smile. ¡°The Khormchaks are coming, haven¡¯t you heard?¡±


    ¡°It was you who attacked Yerkh, wasn¡¯t it?¡± Vratislav spat, the veins in his neck bulging with rage. ¡° I saw the banners, but I didn¡¯t think¡­you wage war by turning your swords against your own people?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m foraging, as any good student of war should,¡± said Stribor. ¡°Times will be tough. When the nomads come, they¡¯ll strike along Yerkh and Balai again, taking slaves and supplies. I¡¯ll leave them nothing but ash to pillage from the borderlands. Besides¡­¡±


    He adjusted his grip on the reins. ¡°I owe nothing to that sunken cunt Gvozden, nor Igor. Only Prince Svetopolk still fights for our freedom. He¡¯s rallied the north and Pemil to rise against the nomads and cast off their yoke once and for all. A dozen of us boyars from the south have already sworn to him after we heard news of the gods¡¯ wrath against Belnopyl¡¯s, and more are flocking to his warband every day.¡±


    ¡°You still swore an oath to serve Gatchisk,¡± muttered Vratislav. ¡°I never thought you to be such a disloyal dog.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m loyal to my land and freedom first,¡± Stribor snapped, bitterness sharp in his tone. ¡°Not to some shriveled old fools who let their people be enslaved. The House of Gatchisk fell the day Gvozden exiled his own son and bowed before that weakling Igor. All Gatchisk and Belnopyl¡¯s princes want is peace, no matter how badly they must starve their own to appease the khans. But some of us still remember when we were free. We want vengeance for our fallen, we want freedom, we want blood. And whoever does not stand with us, stands against us.¡±


    ¡°Now,¡± Stribor drew his sword, pointing it toward the walls. ¡°In the name of Prince Svetopolk the Bright Sun, open the gates and surrender.¡±


    The peasants exchanged uneasy glances, then looked to Vasilisa and Vratislav, who stood tense at the battlements. Surrender might have seemed an option, but Yesugei read the truth in the warriors¡¯ eyes. The only ones who might be taken prisoner would be Vratislav and Vasilisa - they¡¯d be worth far more alive and ransomed than dead. But for commoners and himself, their fate was spelled out in the cavalry¡¯s ready weapons. None of them are interested in extra prisoners slowing them down. They''ll kill the rest of us here and now once we open those gates.


    ¡°I have my subjects here,¡± Vratislav called out, blindly hoping against hope to negotiate. ¡°Can you guarantee their safety if we surrender?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m done with this,¡± Stribor said, raising a fist. A cavalryman hurled a spear at the walls, narrowly missing Vratislav as Vasilisa pulled him down and behind the walls by his tunic.


    ¡°Over the walls. Kill everyone but the girl and the boyar,¡± Stribor ordered. A storm of javelins and arrows exploded from the darkness, forcing everyone to crouch low as the missiles clattered against the walls. Yesugei heard warriors dismount and ready their weapons below.


    ¡°Hold the walls!¡± Vratislav shouted over the din. ¡°Strike anything that climbs! When we can¡¯t hold, retreat to the river!¡±


    The walls were high and rough, but the earthen hill upon which the keep sat was low and sloped enough for the warriors to climb it bare-handed. Yesugei spotted the warrior at the lead scaling the slope, shield and sword in hand. He loosed an arrow, striking the warrior in the shoulder and sending him tumbling into the dark. The cries of the armored horde grew louder as the battle began.


    As more and more warriors rushed to climb the hill, Yesugei saw Khavel and Marmun throw a large empty barrel over the walls - it tumbled along the uneven slope of the hill, and cast several more men into the darkness. Rudin pulled the javelins free from the catwalk and hurled them back at the teeming crowd, but Yesugei didn''t see whether he hit his mark.


    There seemed to be no end to the charging killers that climbed to reach the walls - their armor was sturdy, and even those struck by barrels, rocks, or javelins were only stunned and came scrambling back up after regaining their bearings. Like a surging swarm of black ants they pressed on and upwards, until eventually a pale arm grasping a sword swung over the edge of the walls next to Yesugei.


    Before he could react, Vratislav¡¯s axe struck down, severing the hand. Blood sprayed as the warrior shrieked and fell. Vratislav tossed the fallen sword to Doru.


    ¡°I don¡¯t know how to fight with this!¡± Doru shouted, eyes wide with fear.


    ¡°Watch yourself!¡± Rudin warned as another warrior came up the wall, his shield awkwardly held aloft as he swung one leg over. Doru froze, but Rudin charged, burying his boar spear deep into the warrior¡¯s hauberk and shoving him back over the battlements.


    More warriors began to climb up over the walls, plunging into the desperate push. The smells of smoke, blood, iron, and death filled his senses until it became a single smell - the smell of battle. The only rhythm that anchored him was the mantra nock-draw-loose he repeated in his head as he shot arrow after arrow at the swarm of warriors - aiming for unprotected legs, armpits, or faces. But it was not enough to stem the armored tide.


    Marmun dragged a climber onto the battlements by his belt, and Khavel crushed the man¡¯s skull with his hammer. Vratislav hacked at another warrior, wrenching his helmet off with the force of his blow. Before the man could retaliate, Vasilisa darted in, slicing his throat with her dagger. She then seized his sword and rejoined the desperate defense.


    A strangled cry tore through the air. Yesugei turned just in time to see Doru collapse, blood spraying as a longaxe ripped across his chest. The weapon¡¯s wielder was massive, a hulking brute who towered over his comrades. With a berserk scream, the axeman charged down the battlements, trampling the injured apprentice without pause. Rudin stepped forward, spear in hand, but his thrust glanced harmlessly off the warrior¡¯s chestplate. The axeman didn¡¯t slow¡ªhe smashed the poacher across the face with the haft of his axe, sending him tumbling into the courtyard below.


    Only Vasilisa stood between the berserker and Yesugei. Frantic, Yesugei struggled to nock an arrow as the warrior closed the distance. Vasilisa met his attack, sword against axe, and their clash rang with a metallic screech. Their weapons locked for a moment, but the axe¡¯s hooked blade caught her sword¡¯s hilt. The blade wrenched free from her grasp with a mighty pull, and tumbled over the walls into the darkness below.


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    Vasilisa staggered back, unarmed. The warrior raised his axe high, preparing to deliver a fatal blow. Yesugei¡¯s fingers tightened on his bowstring as he aimed, but time seemed to slow. Blood dripped from the axe, its arc frozen in the air, each drop staining the already slick battlements.


    He released his breath, heart pounding. It was too late.


    The axe fell, splitting the silence with a sickening crunch as it struck flesh and bone.


    ***


    The world seemed to halt as blood bloomed across the cloth wrapping the Apostle¡¯s cleaver. The fabric unravelled beneath the soaking weight, slipping away to reveal the grotesque weapon to the world: rows of yellowed, jagged teeth embedded in flesh that oozed and pulsed as if alive.


    Vasilisa''s grip faltered for a moment as she drew a sharp, steadying breath. Her hand had sought the cleaver out of blind desperation, a futile gesture; she had resigned herself to the warrior''s axe falling upon her. It was too heavy, too unwieldy¡ªshe knew this in her heart. Yet, impossibly, the cleaver now felt light - its weight was gone, replaced by an undeniable certainty that it belonged in her hands. Molded to fit her hands and hers alone.


    She watched, transfixed, as a grayness spread from the point of impact. The blade stiffened and cracked, pulsating flesh petrifying into solid stone. Veins of fissures snaked across its surface, and with each passing moment, the cleaver grew lighter.


    The mad warrior grunted, struggling to free his axe from the blade, but Vasilisa seized the moment. She tightened her grip on the smooth bone handle, her silenced heart giving a faint, thrumming buzz that sent warmth coursing through her veins.


    Time rushed back to her¡ªthe shouts, the clash of steel, the stench of blood and sweat. For the first time, she felt the cleaver¡¯s power truly awaken, and it was hers.


    The longaxe ripped free from the petrified blade with a puff of dust, but the warrior¡¯s movements were sluggish - slowed by surprise and fear.


    The cleaver crushed and then sheared through the top of the warrior¡¯s iron helmet with a bone-jarring impact. For a moment, it seemed as though the man was simply dazed. But then his axe fell from his grip, and his body swayed before collapsing, the split helmet revealing her deadly precision. Soldiers on the walls froze, their eyes on the monstrous weapon and the fallen man.


    Vasilisa stood over the body, blood spurting from the cleaver¡¯s devastating blow. It was her handiwork¡ªbut the weapon¡¯s power left her unsettled, its teeth still gleaming, its purpose undeniable.


    And the blade spoke to her.


    It wasn¡¯t just a feeling of bloodlust - it was an entirely separate presence, one that emanated from within the blade itself. Many voices speaking as one.


    Fear? Control. Survive.


    A ripple of hunger coursed through her arms, accompanied by a strange understanding. Know us. Help us.


    Shargaz was its name - the presence that dwelt within the blade, puppeteering the many voices as one. The more energy the thing absorbed, the more it wanted to absorb. The sword¡¯s craving became her own - it was like an aching thirst, one that would not be satiated with the life of just one. The sword was starving, and its hunger yearned to be unleashed.


    ¡°Run.¡± Vasilisa warned the gaping warriors, though the voice was not her own. It grated with the anger of an Apostle, the hunger of Shargaz, and her entire body came alive with unnatural power. It''s not enough. I need more.


    She felt impossibly light and agile as she lunged at the frozen soldiers. She realized she was smiling as she raised the cleaver high and took another swipe at the man closest to her. With a loud crack the heavy blade splintered the soldier''s wooden shield, and sent him tumbling over the parapets with a scream.


    ¡°Run!¡± another soldier parroted, and the panic took like a wildfire. The men pushed and shoved at each other as they scrambled to descend the battlements with cries of, ¡°A witch! They have a witch!¡±


    Vasilisa swung the cleaver with reckless abandon, driving the screaming animals back until she stood over the injured mason''s apprentice, who was pulled to safety by a companion. One soldier gathered up enough courage to charge her with a spear, only to collapse with an arrow lodged in his chest.


    ¡°Vasilisa!¡± Yesugei called. She turned to see that everyone else had already retreated - Marmun and Khavel were carrying Doru across the courtyard, Vratislav stood at the postern door to the pier with his axe in hand, and Rudin seemed to have disappeared altogether during the fight. ¡°We need to leave! We cannot hold this!¡±


    Yesugei pointed downhill, where the fleeing cavalrymen were already regrouping as Stribor roared at them to press on. From the darkness, a squad of archers drew closer to the walls, readying their long infantry bows.


    She nodded, then slipped from the battlements alongside Yesugei as the first volley of arrows whistled behind them. As they hurried across the courtyard Vasilisa heard axes splintering the gate behind them.


    Then in the wake of the arrows, a long tongue of flame streaked across the night sky, landing on the roof of the keep¡¯s stable. The dry thatched roof immediately began to catch fire, and Vasilisa saw a look of horror come upon Yesugei¡¯s face as he skidded to a stop.


    ¡°Kaveh¡¯s horse!¡± he shouted, spinning back toward the burning stables.


    ¡°Leave him!¡± Vratislav and Khavel yelled as the soldiers advanced, but Yesugei plunged into the inferno. Vasilisa stood frozen in the courtyard, watching as the hungry flames crawled across the dry thatch, causing the whole stable to groan under its collapsing weight.


    ¡°My lady! We need to run now!¡± cried Vratislav as he shooed Marmun and Khavel through the hidden doorway. ¡°Leave him! He can fend for himself!¡±


    Dozens of axe blows rained down upon the old wooden gate, ripping open a hole large enough for one soldier to squeeze through. When the first man through the gates was not greeted by the keep¡¯s defenders, he shouted back to the others who crawled after him. Soon, soldiers flooded through the breach, enraged and looking for revenge.


    Vasilisa remained still, her eyes fixed on the burning stable. Smoke billowed out, and she heard Kaveh''s horse whinnying in panic.


    The stable roof began to dip inwards when the doors suddenly exploded open, and Kaveh¡¯s horse burst out into the courtyard. The charging soldiers scattered as the powerful steed galloped towards them, knocking over and trampling those who were too slow to move aside.


    Then Vasilisa saw Yesugei¡¯s crouched silhouette slip out from a side window as the burning roof collapsed completely, sending a bright explosion of sparks and flying debris into the air.


    The nomad¡¯s face was covered in soot and sweat, but all he had to say as he ran to catch up with Vasilisa was, ¡°I couldn¡¯t let him die. He still needs to carry his old master back home when I return. One day, I¡¯ll find him again.¡±


    With that, the two of them disappeared through the doorway followed by Vratislav, who slammed the hidden exit shut and braced a wooden beam against the door before descending the dirt path to the pier.


    All around, Vasilisa saw only bright orange flames as the raiders¡¯ inferno swept across the rest of the buildings in town. Smoke billowed, choking them as they ran half-blind toward the docks. Through the fire, she saw the griffon banner of Gatchisk, soldiers rushing to cut off their escape.


    She heard a horn blast in the distance. At first, she thought it was a raider''s signal, but when it sounded again, she recognized it. Squinting through the smoke, she saw Nesha signaling as Valishin and Gastya pushed the skiff into the river, joined by Marmun and Khavel, who laid the injured Doru inside.


    The boat rocked violently as it entered the Cherech, but it stayed afloat. Peasants piled into it, the flames chasing them.


    Vasilisa coughed from the smoke, feeling Yesugei''s hand grip hers as he and Vratislav staggered down the path toward the docks. Over the roar of the flames she heard Nesha¡¯s guiding voice, shouting their names and urging them to hurry, hurry!


    A loud creak split the air¡ªone of the tall wooden watchtowers, a great pillar of fire from ground to roof, groaned and tilted down. Flaming debris rained down, and Vasilisa was shoved to the ground as the tower collapsed, exploding in sparks and embers.


    When she opened her eyes, her heart sank. The fallen tower blocked their escape, a fiery wall cutting them off. The flames lashed out, forcing Yesugei and Vratislav to scramble back.


    Yesugei choked through the smoke, and called to Vasilisa, ¡°I don¡¯t see a way out!¡±


    No way out¡­ The phrase echoed in Vasilisa¡¯s mind, threatening to overwhelm her. She blinked through the blinding smoke, her eyes stinging, but all she saw were walls of fire hemming them in. Behind them lay the only exit, where soldiers surged from the keep, swords gleaming as they charged.


    Amid the chaos, the blue griffon on Stribor¡¯s banner gleamed blood-red in the firelight. Stribor barked orders from atop his horse, and his men pressed down the street.


    Yesugei loosed an arrow that thudded into a raised kite shield. His second struck an axeman, sending him crumpling. Reaching for another, he froze¡ªhis quiver was empty. Terror filled his eyes as he looked to Vasilisa.


    She had no words to offer, no rallying cry. Vratislav, his injured leg giving out, collapsed beside her, too spent to lift his ax.


    The only way is through. Vasilisa gripped the Shargaz tight, standing tall with the licking flames at her back as she waited for the soldiers to get close.


    The first man to run up was a swordsman, who raised his shield high as he approached. Vasilisa swung the cleaver, and the mighty blade shattered through the shield, sending its wielder flying. Two more men charged in their comrade''s wake and met a similarly gruesome end - the toothed blade of the Shargaz ripped through maille and tore apart the men beneath. As she stepped over the growing pile of corpses, Stribor''s men faltered, and their bravado evaporated once more into fear.


    "Take her, you fools!" Stribor bellowed from behind the shrinking ranks. "She''s just one woman! Where are the bowmen?!"


    But Stribor¡¯s men did not heed their boyar¡¯s roaring. Fear had its claws in his men - hesitant steps turned into retreat, and then a full rout. As two more men threw themselves against her and fell, Stribor¡¯s men broke - shoving past each other and their boyar in terror.


    ¡°Stop!¡± cried Stribor as he waved his sword. ¡°Turn back and fight, cowards! Fight!¡±


    Seeing the armed band melt away before her, Vasilisa felt a new rush of energy. Cleaver raised high, she darted for Stribor. The boyar, distracted by his fleeing retinue, barely brought his sword up in time to deflect her strike. The Shargaz shattered through the steel, and knocked the boyar from the saddle. He scrambled back on all fours like a bug, raising a trembling hand in a plea for mercy.


    ¡°Wait, wait, wait! Nooo-!¡± the boyar cried as the cleaver whistled down.


    Then suddenly, she felt herself struck bodily as if by a charging bull. The wind left her lungs, and her vision twisted¡ªthe moon spun to her feet, and blood-soaked streets inverted above her. She cracked hard onto the ground, and her whole body screamed in pain. What was that?


    Staggering upright, she spotted a man in a red cloak walking calmly towards her, against the rush of fleeing men. A red glyph hovered before the blood sorcerer, and he extinguished it with a closed fist as he surveyed the aftermath of his spell. His face was pale as death, framed by nearly white hair, and the eagle sigil on his cloak marked him as Yllahanan¡ªa blood sorcerer, and the first she had ever encountered.


    ¡°Hm. The witch still lives,¡± the man mused as he strode forward. ¡°And you, my lord Stribor?¡±


    ¡°I¡¯m still alive, you Yllahanan dolt.¡± The boyar snarled. He jabbed a trembling finger at Vasilisa. ¡°Now, take the bitch!¡±


    ¡°It will cost extra. I want two more, of my choosing.¡±


    Each breath came painfully, a twisting knife of agony driven into her ribs and aching bones. Yesugei was at her side, helping her steady herself, but she shrugged him off. Go, she wanted to say, if her throat was not tight with pain. Run, you fool! Now¡¯s your chance!


    ¡°You can have all the flesh you want, just bring her down!¡± Stribor shouted. Vasilisa rose to her feet, and readied the Shargaz once more. Shimmering remnants of the sorcerer¡¯s magic still hung in the space between them - Yllahanan blood sorcery was always rumored to be devastating, and now she understood its heretical truth. But such power must have drained him¡ªthis was her chance!


    She leapt forward once more, but the blood sorcerer met her charge. A heavy iron club appeared in his hand, and it screeched as the Shargaz carved into it. Then Yesugei darted in with a fallen soldier¡¯s blade, and they pressed him together. Yet to her shock, the sorcerer turned aside both of their strikes, moving faster than any man possibly could. Four times they clashed, and four times he parried aside their blows.


    Her arms ached, her shoulders screaming under the weight of the cleaver. A brutal crack of the club sent Yesugei to his knees, and another struck Vasilisa¡¯s arm, nearly disarming her of the Shargaz. But the sorcerer was gasping for breath, and his club was falling apart in his hands.


    Vasilisa steadied herself, her muscles coiling like a spring as she prepared to leap forward once more. But her focus snagged on the sorcerer, who extended a hand out to one of the bloody messes she had made of Stribor¡¯s fighters. With a grotesque, wet shlorp, a tide of blood tore itself free from the corpse, swirling into a floating sphere that quivered in the air. Black marks on the sorcerer¡¯s hands flared red as his brow furrowed in concentration, his breath coming ragged.


    Seeing her chance, Vasilisa lunged with a cry, cleaver aimed to sever the Yllahanan¡¯s head¡ªbut hesitation bred her defeat. She moved too late.


    The sphere hardened with a sickening crunch, then exploded outward in a violent flash. A thunderous roar ripped down the street, and the force of the close-up blast slammed into her chest like a thousand sledgehammers at once. Vasilisa crashed to the ground as blinding agony erupted in her chest, and the acrid taste of blood filled her mouth.


    Dazed and gasping for air, she clawed at the ground, her vision swimming. Armored footsteps echoed strangely in her ears as Stribor¡¯s men found their courage a third time and came on.


    She looked to one side, and saw Vratislav raising his hands for mercy as a soldier wielding a mace loomed over him.


    She looked to the other side, and saw Yesugei slashing at the soldiers before him like a wild, cornered animal.


    Then she looked back, past the burning wreck of the tower, and saw Marmun pulling Nesha away from the docks as the boyar¡¯s wife screamed and wept. The roar of the flames rose above her cries.


    Fly, Nesha. Fly, Marmun. Everyone, fly. Fly as far as you can, and find peace and hope wherever you land.


    Vasilisa¡¯s fingers struggled to find the Shargaz, but then a heel crushed her fingers against the ground.


    The sorcerer¡¯s iron club swung before her eyes, and Vasilisa¡¯s world exploded into agonizing pain, then darkness.


    Nothing but darkness.

 Chapter 15 - The Flames

    The Flames


    <hr>


    As the evening fell, the many men of the Khormchak tribes raised vast feasting platforms around the base of the holy Khurvan mountains - beneath the tent of the Great Khan.


    The full wealth of every tribe was on display: imported hardwood furniture, exotic spices and wines, and finely-crafted gold and silver bowls filled with wine and arkhi spirits. Slaves served roasted pigs, mounds of fried rice with raisins, spiced lamb dumplings, and freshly baked bread topped with seeds.


    Nariman moved between camps with his men as the hour of the khans¡¯ gathering approached. He ate sparingly and refused wine or arkhi, but focused on the council''s matters. Many khans pledged their voices¡ªAdilet of the Isty, Aidar of the Tama, and Shamil of the Sharkesh among them¡ªoffering lavish gifts of gold, horses, and slaves.


    Khan Alishir, a man with nine wives, offered unsolicited advice. "A man needs a wife," he said, "and you, Nariman-mirza, need one more than most. An heir must continue the White Khan''s line."


    The comment stung the first son of Aqtai, but he held his tongue and his fists from lashing out at the khan - Alishir-khan commanded ten thousand riders beneath his banner, and held sway over three other tribes whose voices were needed now more than ever.


    ¡°Fate has given me ill luck with wives. Which poor woman would you have me marry?¡± Nariman said, forcing a laugh.


    At sixteen, he wed his first wife, a girl from the Qara-Isyqs, as part of an alliance. She died a year later from a wasting disease that also claimed their unborn child, and the alliance with her people. His second wife, a fragile princess from Tan Ninh, died in childbirth along with their stillborn son. Nariman had loved both as a true husband should, but love only made burying them in the ancestral hills that much more agonizing.


    Twenty-five years on, it was a curious thing for the first-born son of the White Khan to remain unmarried - but it also presented a valuable chip in the diplomatic games of the khans. One which Alishir clearly sought out.


    ¡°I have a daughter,¡± Alishir said, reclining on silk pillows. ¡°Beautiful and wise, with good hips to bear you a strong baghatur for a son. If she doesn¡¯t please you, I have three others.¡±


    Nariman tried to imagine life with Alishir¡¯s daughter. But when he closed his eyes, he once again only saw biting, lashing flames. They were growing stronger, more vivid, more hungry as the night passed.


    ¡°I¡¯ll meet your daughter after the kurultai,¡± he said hastily. Alishir nodded and shook his hand firmly.


    Outside the tent, the cool night air greeted him. His siblings were hard at work as well at shoring up their allies. Talgat spoke in hushed tones with Arman-khan of the southern tribes, while Gulsezim danced and entertained three khans whose names eluded him. With forty tribes gathered at the Khurvan peaks, Nariman knew he couldn¡¯t reach every khan before the council began.


    When Gulsezim finished speaking with the three khans, she strode toward Nariman, proud and regal in a red-and-purple dress adorned with small gold discs. Her waist was wrapped with a silk sash, a gift from their father, studded with nine black gemstones.


    ¡°Brother,¡± Gulsezim greeted, sipping wine from a golden goblet. ¡°How goes your hunt? Have the khans gotten tired of throwing their daughters at you yet?¡±


    ¡°Only one so far,¡± Nariman replied, taking the goblet from her with a frown. ¡°Don¡¯t let the festivities dull your mind. I need you and Talgat sharp. Haven¡¯t you noticed Naizabai hasn¡¯t appeared?¡±


    Naizabai¡¯s host had arrived hours earlier¡ªten thousand under the Quanli banner, supported by another twenty from allied tribes. Yet despite the ongoing festivities and the looming vote, neither Naizabai nor the other khans had emerged. His camp remained on the edge of the Valley of Milk, detached from the mingling tribes.


    It must be a trick, Nariman thought. Some kind of ruse. How can he just sit there and hope to bring allies to his banner?


    Earlier, one of his keshiks had managed to slip into the Quanli camp, but his reports only bred more questions. ¡°All they¡¯re doing is building bonfires, my lord,¡± the man had said. ¡°And other strange matters too - the men are painting their doors with blood. Every yurt I saw has one of these-¡±


    The keshik had drawn a strange shape in the dirt: a cross topped with a triangle. Nariman had swept the mark aside - whatever new traditions the Quanli had were of little concern. Again, he demanded of the keshik, ¡°And what of Naizabai? Did any of the khans enter his tent?¡±


    ¡°No, my lord. Only a woman. Strange one, too.¡±


    ¡°Speak plainly. A shaman? A wife? A whore?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know. But she was beautiful - almost frightening. It was like all the colors of the world went away when I looked at her. And when she looked at me I felt like my heart would stop. Magic is all about her, I reckon.¡±


    The gray woman. Could it be? The thought came to him just now. Nariman shook his head. No, she was no more than a nightmare. More likely Naizabai had taken into his company a new Ormanli shaman of some sort - if she had the Sight, then perhaps it was by her advice that the Quanli lingered close to their own camp. But what concerned Nariman more was that the woman had never appeared in any of his own visions - none should be able to evade the Sight, so what was going on?


    His thoughts broke with the deep booms of shamans¡¯ drums. From the Khurvan peaks, shamans knelt, beating leather drums as another raised a horn, its roaring call summoning the khans to the kurultai.


    Too late. Now comes the moment of truth.


    Nariman clapped Gulsezim¡¯s shoulder, emptied the goblet onto the ground, and made for the White Khan¡¯s tent. Around him, men left their fires to join the stream heading for the vote¡ªkeshik guards with gilded swords, shamans whispering advice, and slaves carrying carpets and furniture for their lords.


    At the mountain¡¯s base, common men and slaves gathered in solemn silence as the khans ascended. Among them, Nariman spotted the allied Quanli leaders speaking in hushed tones. Yet still, there was no sign of Naizabai.


    Nariman stepped into his father¡¯s waiting tent - a gigantic manor of felt and silk enough to house ten families within its walls. The stream of khans both lesser and greater slowly trickled in, seating themselves in a great circle around the tent¡¯s central fire and beneath the watching eye of the White Khan.


    Aqtai, Great Khan of the Khormchak Horde, sat on a golden throne elevated above the gathered nobles. Clad in a simple white silk robe with gold fastenings and a modest felt headdress, to an outsider he might have seemed humble compared to the other khans adorned in vibrant colors and bedecked with jewelry. Yet, his presence at over seventy years old was overwhelming. The room fell silent under his gaze, and none dared meet his eyes as they quietly took their seats. At that moment, Nariman believed even the more hesitant khans were sure to cast their votes in the White Khan¡¯s favor out of fear.


    Nariman moved to his place near the throne, scanning the room. Slaves waited patiently at the far side of the room with wine, and among them was the qadi¡¯s man - a Son of Al-Qadir dressed in shabby rags, with his eyes fixed to the ground.


    But still, there was no sign of Naizabai.


    As the khans settled, the crackling central fire filled the tense silence. Then, the wooden platform creaked as Aqtai rose from his throne and stepped into the center of the assembly. The firelight highlighted his piercing eyes as they swept over the khans. A thin smile crossed his face, and he spread his arms wide.


    ¡°Look at you all,¡± said Aqtai, his voice hoarse with age. Nariman saw the khans glance at one another, puzzled. ¡°Look around, brothers. Forty tribes, forty khans¡ªgathered here, beneath one roof. I have traveled far, seen a thousand sights that most men could only dream of: Tan Ninh¡¯s mountain fortresses, Khaysong¡¯s water-temples, and Huwaq¡¯s sun-altars. Yet none compare to this.


    ¡°Years ago, when we were still young, this was unimaginable¡ªkhans of Isty beside Sherkai, Tama with Ketai, Kerdai with Tazan. A united steppe was a dream, distant and fragile. Yet here we are.


    ¡°How did we achieve this unity, my brothers? Through conquest and the fires of conflict that tested us all. This was no gift; it was earned with blood and sweat, with a vision once mocked as impossible. I remember when we were like wild stallions, roaming aimlessly, fighting each other in endless feuds. Khormchaks killing Khormchaks over cattle, wives, or paltry plunder. Are the lives of our sons worth so little?¡±


    ¡°NO!¡± shouted the khans, fists pounding the floorboards.


    ¡°No!¡± repeated Aqtai, seeming to grow taller and prouder as he walked about the circled khans. ¡°Look at what we¡¯ve achieved by turning our swords from one another¡¯s throats to a united cause!¡±


    Aqtai gestured to the walls of the yurt, from which hung the many trophies of broken and conquered nations - a gilded blade from the forgotten emirate of Tigrinistan, a sun banner from the subjugated Huwaqis, a decorated metal shield from the kingdom of Mouru, now only a kingdom of dust and skulls.


    ¡°These are not mere trophies but proof of the future we¡¯ve forged. United, we¡¯ve gained more wealth than our ancestors ever dreamed¡ªsilks for our women, coins in our purses, abundance in every home. These are the rewards of casting aside division and raising one khan, one ruler, one horde.


    ¡°But prosperity must endure - the Qarakesek have led the charge into the future, and we will push on! Give me your voices, and our bounty will be without end!¡±


    ¡°AQTAI!¡± came the shouts from many of the khans, their voices swelling into a single, booming call. ¡°AQTAI! AQTAI! AQTAI-KHAN!¡±


    Nariman watched, his skin tingling from the speech. He had forgotten how his father was able to stir men into a fervor - he had forgotten the power in the voice that had once rallied the other tribes to the Qarakesek. The khans allied with Qarakesek shouted first, then others joined, convinced this kurultai would end as the last had.


    Only a few khans remained silent¡ªthe Shaprats, Jalarin, Bura, and Oshkan¡ªwhispering among themselves, their numbers too small to sway the outcome.


    Spirits¡­we¡¯ve done it. We¡¯ve won.


    Nariman and Gulsezim and Talgat prepared to join their voices to the swelling call when, sharp as a blade, the sound of a great horn split through the air.


    It was a terrible sound - a wailing call filled with rage and pain. Nariman covered his ears as the call grew louder, shrieking so strongly he swore he felt the floorboards and roof of the yurt begin to shake from the noise. He tried to yell out for the guards, to his siblings, but could not even hear his own voice over the horn¡¯s call. It filled the whole world, and crushed over every man in the tent.


    Nariman feared the sound would never end. And then it stopped.


    The yurt¡¯s flap rose, and a lone figure entered¡ªNaizabai, the Blackwind.


    The Quanli khan¡¯s boots clacked against the wooden floor as he strode forward.


    He is not the same, Nariman thought.


    Five years ago, Naizabai had been cast at his father¡¯s feet by traitorous men, old and worn from years of war under the open steppe sky. But now? This was a different man.


    Though his face remained hollow, his beard grayer, but his eyes were alive with a dangerous light that Nariman had not seen in ages. He wore a dark silk robe with a red sash, adorned with a symbol of iridescent shards¡ªa howling face wreathed in flames. At his belt hung long horn, carved from a cracked and gnarled piece of blackened ivory. Nariman had no doubt that was the horn which had sounded Naizabai¡¯s arrival - he sensed strange and dark whispers flowing out from the horn even from where he sat, whispers that promised powerful, dark energy to its wielder.


    Behind him followed a silent figure cloaked in black, their head encased in a silver demon-faced helmet. The same whispers followed in the foreigner¡¯s wake - and Nariman knew then that it was the gray woman wrapped beneath the black robes.


    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.


    What kind of heretic has he brought into our domain? Nariman wondered, noting the uneasy whispers of the other khans. He fingered the handle of his knife, but the woman simply stood in silence by the Quanli khan.


    ¡°Naizabai,¡± said Aqtai, his arms open wide. Only the White Khan seemed nonplussed by Jrighadai¡¯s appearance. ¡°Brother. We had thought you changed your mind about putting your name forward in the kurultai.¡±


    ¡°I see,¡± sneered Naizabai as he cast his gaze over the other khans in the room. ¡°But here I am - and I have yet to give my own voice.¡±


    ¡°You should have come to speak when it was your time!¡± shouted Adilet-khan, who found the courage to stand and yell. ¡°The khans have spoken, and you are too late! Aqtai-khan is our leader!¡±


    "Is that so?" Naizabai glanced at Adilet, then at Aqtai. "Then surely my words won''t matter¡ªunless you fear your khans might change their minds."


    Aqtai remained silent, and Naizabai turned to the assembly.


    "Great khans of the Hungry Steppe," he began, "you¡¯ve heard my horn¡ªnow hear my words."


    He pointed a crooked finger at Aqtai. "I was once this man¡¯s blood brother. I sheltered him as a boy, pledged my sword when he sought allies, and stood by him when we dreamed of uniting the steppe. When the tribes resisted, who brought them to heel? Who led the vanguard against the Qyzylkurans and shed blood to make this Horde a reality?


    ¡°It was me. My brother speaks inspiring words and makes promises of a better future, but he forgets a simple fact of our people: words mean nothing unless backed by steel. Without my riders, my banners, my strength, this Great Horde would never have existed.¡±


    To this, several of the khans began to mutter bitterly as they continued to listen to Naizabai¡¯s words. The Blackwind cast his gaze about the room, looking over each of the khans as his face twisted in disgust.


    ¡°Look at yourselves, all!¡± Naizabai shouted, his sudden fury causing some of the khans to shrink. ¡°Look at what my brother had turned the great khans of the Hungry Steppe into! My brother would have us fattened on tribute, and blind to the daggers our neighbors sharpen. He would have us pull back our armies, abandon the old ways and become merchants, bookkeepers, and artists - tamed dogs who forget how to ride. And once our sons and daughters have forgotten our ways, the sniveling cowards who give us tribute now will make us into slaves.


    Naizabai¡¯s voice rose like a storm. "But we are Khormchaks! When united, nothing can stop us. Why settle for scraps? My brother would have you be content with tribute won by the point of a quill¡­but by the point of the sword, I would give you the world. The jungles of Tan Ninh, the cities of Yllahana, the mountains of Bukhara, the valleys of Khaysong, the Sunset Isles, the dunes of Sanu. We will take it all.


    "My brother stopped us short because he was afraid. But I am not. I say we grind everything into dust, until no kings, no emperors, no princes remain¡ªonly one Great Khan to rule all and claim all!"


    ¡°Naizabai!¡± Rose the cry from one side of the tent, led by the allies of the Quanli. But as they shouted, a few others joined their call - emboldened by the Blackwind''s words. ¡°NAIZABAI! NAIZABAI! NAIZABAI-KHAN!¡±


    When the fervor subsided, Nariman stood to face Naizabai, his tone biting. ¡°Has age robbed you of sense, Blackwind?¡± A few khans chuckled at his jibe. ¡°You seem to forget that you lost the battle for the steppe, even if it took ten years. How can you hope to win the world when you failed to win over your own people? How can you hope to win when the gods themselves forsook your cause?¡±


    Naizabai did not answer immediately. Instead, he turned to the figure that stood by his side. A murmur rippled through the tent as the foreigner reached beneath the folds of her robes and withdrew a long, sheathed sword. The blade¡¯s very presence seemed to darken the air, as if the room itself recoiled.


    Nariman tensed. The keshiks that stood by at the edges of the yurt braced for violence, but Nariman raised a hand, motioning them to wait. The Blackwind was old and bitter, but he was also cunning; he would not write his own death so easily.


    Naizabai¡¯s weathered hands steadied as he drew the sword. The blade that emerged from the sheath was blackened and crooked, and its surface was inscribed with strange runes that appeared to have been seared into the steel.


    ¡°I have traveled far and wide to search for answers, to search for a god whose will shall carry us beyond the comfort of the steppe and plunge us into greatness and conquest.¡± Snarled Naizabai as he raised the sword to the sky. The runes flared, and by their red light the shadows in the yurt began to twist and turn, flooding towards the center of the tent and to Naizabai''s feet like water.


    ¡°I found this god not in the blue skies of Tengri, but in the stars that have silently guided our people for a thousand years.¡± The gathering shadows erupted upward, twisting into the shape of a clawed hand whose fingers crept along the walls and stretched toward the yurt¡¯s ceiling, as if clawing for the heavens. ¡°Behold His shadow now! Gandroth, the Lord of Flame! This is a god who will take peace from the world, who will grant us the destiny my blood-brother denied us all! This is a god who will burn away the weak and the faithless from our ranks, and reforge our people anew!¡±


    The khans erupted into chaos. Some shouted for their guards, others decried the heresy of the Blackwind¡­but Nariman saw many sat frozen in awe, transfixed by the terrible burning runes and the promises within them. Nariman thought of the visions that had haunted him for days: visions of terrible flames that would wash over the entire world, swallowing up everything and choking the sun¡¯s light from the sky with ash.


    No¡­no¡­this cannot come to pass.


    Nariman slowly brought a hand to the knife tucked into his belt.


    He was about to pull his knife free to end the nightmare himself when the glow from the runes began to flounder and fade away, shrinking back into the blackened blade.


    Naizabai lowered the sword and sank to his knees - coughing and shaking from the effort the blade¡¯s magic must have demanded of him.


    Immediately, the khans'' insults and cries grew louder as each man tried to shout over the others. Some jeered at the kneeling Quanli khan, others were screaming for his head to be mounted on a pike for his heresy. But the khans of the Jalarin, the Bura, the Oshkan, the Shaprats, and now over a dozen other khans - nearly half of the kurultai in all - were shouting their allegiance to Naizabai, or shouting the name of Naizabai''s new god in a strange frenzy.


    GANDROTH! GANDROTH! GRANDROTH!


    Nariman stood up from his seat, and placed a hand on Talgat¡¯s shoulder as his brother made to stand up alongside him. It was time for this frightening chaos to end - both sides were now stirred up into a howling frenzy, and it seemed only a matter of time until violence took hold.


    Nariman stepped into the centre of the tent and helped the shaking Naizabai up off the ground with an offered hand. The arguing khans settled into a tense silence as Nariman raised Naizabai to his feet.


    ¡°Well spoken, Blackwind,¡± said Nariman, keeping his tone light. ¡°You have said your piece. My father had always spoken of your¡­fervor, and I can see he was not wrong. You truly are a blood-brother of the White Khan.¡±


    ¡°I do not need your praises.¡± hissed Naizabai, his face twisted in embarrassment. Whatever magic had possessed him had fled - now it seemed he was once more just an old man, past his prime. See? Even your new god has abandoned you.


    ¡°But I will offer it nonetheless,¡± Nariman continued. He turned to the other khans. ¡°Now, does anyone else wish to speak?¡± Silence and shaking heads answered him. ¡°Then let us drink to the glory of my father and Naizabai before casting our final votes¡ªnot as beasts, but as men.¡±


    Aqtai glanced at his son questioningly, but said nothing as Nariman called for the slaves. They emerged with silver bowls and arkhi, serving each khan in turn.


    Nariman¡¯s slave filled his bowl, and he held it carefully, eyes flicking between his siblings, his father, and Naizabai. Talgat and Gulsezim watched him closely, their tension mirroring the room¡¯s. Though they knew he was planning something, but whether out of family honor or simply over-caution, neither spoke.


    Both his father and Naizabai studied each other cautiously as they stood together in the center of the tent. The qadi¡¯s man gave to both of them a decorated golden bowl, followed by arkhi from the same flagon.


    Once everyone was served, Aqtai raised his own bowl high. ¡°To the Horde!¡±


    ¡°The Horde!¡± The khans replied as they lifted their own bowls, though their call was hesitant - their sense of unity already frayed by the chaotic mess of the kurultai.


    As Nariman lowered his arkhi he could have sworn Naizabai¡¯s silver-helmed follower was looking at him. The empty eyes of the mask were pointed directly at him over the bowl¡¯s silver edge. Does she¡­no, how could she? Can you See as I do?


    With one hand, Nariman placed the bowl to his lips and drank. His mouth instantly filled with the smooth taste of the liquor, every gulp drowned his gnawing anxiety in his gut. He drank to the bottom of the silver bowl, and wiped a stray drop from his mouth.


    Talgat grimaced at the taste, drawing a faint smile from Nariman. Same as the first time he tasted it. Some things never change.


    Naizabai, however, was midway through his drink when he coughed, spraying arkhi onto the floor. He swallowed again and coughed harder, his body shuddering.


    ¡°Struggling to hold your drink, old man?¡± Shamil-khan taunted with a sharp edge in his voice.


    ¡°Quiet, you¡­¡± Naizabai rasped, his retort broken by a fit of coughing. ¡°All of you¡­you¡­¡±


    Alinur-khan of the Jalarin leaned forward, concern etched on his face. ¡°Naizabai-khan?¡±


    The Blackwind tried to sip from his bowl again, but the pale arkhi spewed out, tinged with crimson. ¡°I¡­I can¡¯t¡­¡±


    ¡°He¡¯s been poisoned!¡± came the shout from one of the khans.


    Alinur-khan pushed through the crowd to steady the swaying Naizabai, who was on the verge of collapse. Shamil-khan gagged into his own bowl, fearing contamination, while another khan called for healers or shamans. Guards stormed in, swords drawn, searching for an assassin as in the growing chaos of panicked nobles.


    Naizabai fell, dragging Alinur-khan down as he flailed for support. Aqtai rushed to his side, bellowing for the crowd to back away. Naizabai clawed at his throat, opening long, bloody gouges as he struggled for air. Blood and vomit poured from his mouth, his face darkening.


    He is dying¡­he is dying at last. Nariman felt an eerie calm come over him as the rest of the tent descended into further chaos. Every one of the khans was now on their feet, some of them crowding around Naizabai while others rushed to escape the tent - only to be forced back by the White Khan¡¯s keshiks. Other khans fell, and were trampled by their peers in the growing animal terror that took hold. Talgat and Gulsezim were also in the crowd, yelling for their father¡¯s guards to bring order to the stampede.


    Only Naizabai¡¯s silver-helmed follower remained still, watching dispassionately as his master convulsed on the floor.


    Then, the choking ceased.


    And Naizabai-khan was dead.


    Nariman pushed through to see for himself. Over Aqtai¡¯s shoulders, he saw the lifeless body, lying in a pool of blood and bile.


    It had to be done¡­it had to be done¡­


    As the cold, numbing reality of the situation set in, the khans all fell silent - unsure of what to say, who to accuse. Aqtai knelt in bitter silence as well, cradling his old oath-brother¡¯s body as his keshik guards stood over him awaiting their orders.


    Nariman crouched to examine Naizabai¡¯s dropped bowl. Both Naizabai and his father had shared the same wine¡ªso how had only Naizabai been poisoned? Running a finger along the bowl¡¯s edge, Nariman felt a fine, sand-like powder. Wiping it on his robe, he rose and pointed at the assassin.


    ¡°Seize him!¡± he shouted with false rage. ¡°Seize that one! He poisoned the Blackwind¡¯s bowl!¡±


    The keshiks gathered in the tent looked to the White Khan for their orders, but when the father did not reply they obeyed the son. One keshik quickly grabbed the son of Al-Qadir before he could bolt for the tent flap. Two more armored men pinned him to the ground as the khans from both sides shouted for the man¡¯s head.


    Naizabai¡¯s body was quickly forgotten by everyone save Aqtai as the others turned their fury on the captured man. By the time Nariman was able to push his way towards the assassin, he was already nearly dead - several of his teeth were shattered by a powerful blow from Adilet, and one of his eyes was awash with blood.


    Not yet. I still need a name. A villain everyone may blame to put this matter to rest.


    Nariman drew his knife, and pulled the slave up by the chin. Pressing the blade to his throat, he spoke coldly. ¡°No matter what happens here my friend, you will die. The only choice you have is when, and how.¡±


    Yllahana. That is all you need to say.


    ¡°Confess who sent you, and I¡¯ll make it quick,¡± Nariman continued, silencing khans who clamored for a slower, crueler fate. ¡°Refuse, and I¡¯ll leave you to these men, who are far more creative.¡±


    The slave opened his mouth, but before he could speak, a cry rang out.


    Nariman turned. His heart stopped as he saw his father scrambling away¡ªaway from Naizabai, who now stood upright, as if nothing had happened.


    No¡­no¡­nonononononononononono.


    The khans shouted in shock. Even the keshiks, stunned, released the assassin to gape at Naizabai.


    This is not happening. This is not happening. This is not happening.


    ¡°I told you all¡­I have found a new god. And His chosen do not die so easily.¡± A new voice sprung from Naizabai - one that sounded like scraping glass and dripped with deadly malice. Nariman wanted to press his palms against his ears to shut out Naizabai¡¯s voice, but he found his body refusing to obey. All he could do was collapse to his knees, his chest growing tighter and tighter as though an invisible fist were crushing him in its grasp.


    Naizabai wiped off a small droplet of blood from his mustache, then loosened his robe - letting it fall to the floor.


    In the light of the flickering fire, Nariman saw black crystal shards jutting out from Naizabai¡¯s heart. And when the Blackwind turned to look at Nariman his eyes were no longer dull gray, but burning with a blinding golden light.


    ¡°Gandroth, Bright Lord of Flame and Stone. Accept this sacrifice of flesh in your name.¡±


    The firepit in the middle of the tent erupted with a blinding light. Blazing hot wind blasted forth from the fire pit, and Nariman raised his eyes to shield them from the light.


    The screams of the other khans and his siblings filled his ears.


    When Nariman opened his eyes, he saw his robes were burning. His hand was burning. His entire form was set alight and being consumed by flames.


    Fire. Fire everywhere. So, so much fire.


    Then the first son of Aqtai began to scream.

 Chapter 16 - Captivitys Embrace

    Captivity''s Embrace


    <hr>


    "Where are the rest of your people?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    A mailed fist buried itself in Yesugei¡¯s stomach, driving the air from his burning lungs.


    The blood-sorcerer crossed his legs as he sat down on a log, flipping the skirt of his filthy red robe to one side. He held a candlestick in one hand, and steadily drew his palm over the flickering flame as he waited for Yesugei to finish drawing an agonized breath. Then he spoke again.


    ¡°How many Khormchaks attacked the capital? How many were mounted?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know!¡±


    The warrior in front of him struck again, harder, and his fist came away speckled with blood. More than anything he wanted to sink to his knees, but the strong arms that held him up on either side kept him barely standing.


    The man doing the punching - a tall, stinking Klyazmite dressed in mail and leather - shook his bloodied hand and turned to the Yllahanan.


    ¡°Let me finish him. I¡¯ll open his belly and make him watch as I pull out his pagan heart to the gods. Perun demands a sacrifice.¡±


    The sorcerer shifted in his seat as though contemplating the prospect. Then with a sigh, he snuffed out the candle and stood up to dust off the rear of his robes. ¡°Your sacrifice will have to wait until we get back to camp. Stribor promised me two, and my lady still needs her toll.¡±


    At the sorcerer¡¯s waved command, the two warriors holding him up by the arms dragged him along the rough and rocky forest floor and into a clearing. For a brief moment Yesugei spotted the other warriors preparing to break camp, and then he was lying face-down on the cold ground.


    In the dim morning light he saw someone else lying next to him - Vasilisa, her hands tied behind her back like his. When she twisted her head around to look in his direction, Yesugei saw the raiders took extra precaution with their captured blood sorcerer - her eyes were covered with a strip of cloth, and a filthy rag was stuffed in her mouth. A large bleeding bump had swollen up on Vasilisa¡¯s brow, just above her right eye where the Yllahanan¡¯s club had struck her. Still, relief washed over him; at least she was alive. It was more than could be said for Vratislav.


    In the chaos of the burning town one of the warriors struck the boyar on the chest with a spiked mace as he yielded for mercy. Yesugei saw the warriors pull him from the fires, but Vratislav lingered for only an hour longer before he wheezed his final, agonized breath. As the boyar passed wordlessly in the night, Yesugei thought of Nesha - and wondered whether he could bring himself to look at her if he ever saw her again.


    The raiders buried Vratislav off the side of the road, but not before they stripped him naked and fought like dogs over the boyar¡¯s every possession.


    Yesugei saw Pervusha, the one who beat him bloody, stride past his face wearing Vratislav¡¯s leather boots, while a bowman seated nearby was busy adjusting the boyar¡¯s golden brooch on his cloak. The others were busy securing the rest of their loot to the small baggage train, filled to bursting with pilfered food, jewelry, and clothes - anything they could not carry, they proudly burned and smashed in their wake.


    Dogs¡­all of them. Wild, starving dogs.


    Pervusha and a spearman hoisted them up onto a horse, binding them back-to-back, as the rest of the raiding party began to set off. As they broke free of the woods and back out onto the open road, Yesugei saw the distant plumes from Balai¡¯s burnt carcass trailing into the gray-blue morning skies.


    The raiding party moved quickly across the abandoned roads, riding hard and fast in a single column that kicked up a great cloud of dust behind them. All around, all Yesugei saw were the distant, scattered ruins of blackened farmhouses - the land seemed pockmarked with them, and the earth looked as though it were scarred by fire.


    They were trampling through a fallow field of barley when Yesugei overheard an argument behind him. From the voices, he recognized it as coming from the three that rode behind them as guards, the worst of the band from the little time Yesugei had been in their company. Pervusha and an archer named Zayats were arguing over who would go first as they galloped, while the lancer Yerch asked when they would get to do the deed.


    ¡°At night, once we get back to camp,¡± huffed Pervusha. ¡°I¡¯ll fuck that sorceress bloody I will, damn whatever the Yllahanan says.¡±


    The archer Zayats laughed, his voice high and cruel. ¡°You¡¯d best let me have the first go. I¡¯ll be tender and make her love me. Let her get something out of it ¡®fore you two have your fun.¡±


    Yesugei felt his skin crawl at their words. Vasilisa stiffened and struggled against her bonds, but the warriors¡¯ laughter only deepened.


    ¡°I- I won¡¯t let them touch you.¡± Yesugei whispered feebly, but his voice must have been too loud. The lancer Yerch rode up, and a moment later his world exploded with blood and pain as the warrior¡¯s horse whip opened up a gash over his eyes.


    ¡°Save your breath for our questions, Khormchak scum,¡± snarled Yerch. ¡°The Yllahanan and my lord only need your tongue. Speak again, and I¡¯ll cut off a finger and feed it to you.¡±


    Yesugei fell silent for the rest of the ride. But at his back, he could feel Vasilisa shaking as she sobbed. He prayed silently that the warriors could not see her tears.


    By the time the raiding party reached its destination, the light of day was nearly gone. Through blood-crusted eyes, Yesugei saw a small stone temple with smashed windows surrounded by a messy sprawl of tents and lean-tos¡ªthe raiders¡¯ camp. In the center of it all, he saw a large wooden pen where a dozen filthy captives languished in the open air, necks roped to the railings like livestock.


    As Stribor led the column into the camp, with the Apostle¡¯s stone sword slung across his back, the warriors greeted him with wild cheers. While Stribor headed to the cookfire, Pervusha and Zayats yanked Yesugei and Vasilisa from the saddle, tied ropes around their necks, and shoved them into the muddy pen, still bound together.


    Yesugei struggled to rise but was yanked back as the rope tightened, slamming his head against the pen. Laughter rang out behind him, followed by a glob of spit hitting his head. Pervusha tied the rope so tightly it felt like it might strangle him. Nearby, Vasilisa floundered in the stinking mud trying to prop herself up.


    Eventually, the warriors lost interest in their Khormchak prisoner and staggered off to the cookfire, leaving them alone. Yesugei blinked away the stars in his vision and noticed the other captives watching him with wary curiosity. Most of them were old enough to remember the Qarakesek raids, and for that they judged him as an enemy despite their shared plight.


    But curiosity soon overcame fear, and eventually one of the peasants - a man with a bloody nose and thinning blond hair - crawled over on all fours and spoke with a whisper.


    ¡°Who are you people?¡±


    Vasilisa¡¯s greeting came out muffled and incomprehensible through the gag. Yesugei ran his mind through the ways to answer before he spoke, ¡°I¡¯m a merchant from Bayan. We were attacked by bandits on the road, then these animals caught us while seeking shelter in Balai.¡±


    That seemed to be enough for the peasants, whose demeanor softened as he recounted their travels. When he was done speaking, the man pointed at Vasilisa. ¡°Who is she then?¡±


    ¡°A friend,¡± Yesugei replied after a pause. ¡°The daughter of another merchant¡ªher father traded in silks.¡±


    ¡°Is her father still alive?¡±


    The question hung in the air. Yesugei felt Vasilisa stiffen as she herself wondered. Vratislav¡¯s words crept back into his mind.


    They say Belnopyl is gone


    Was her father still alive? If he was, then they still had cause to try and reach Belnopyl - where Vasilisa¡¯s name would still command respect and servitude. But if not¡­


    Then her power is lost. A daughter cannot be a prince. And every boyar would rush to claim her hand and the city.


    Yesugei swallowed. His throat felt raw and sore, and every breath he took sent a dull throb of pain through his stomach where Pervusha had struck him over and over again. Vasilisa could not answer, and so he replied to the peasant, ¡°I don¡¯t know.¡±


    The peasant sniffed. ¡°Then it¡¯s over for her. They¡¯ll take her like they did Galya, the weaver¡¯s wife.¡±


    He pointed to a scarred young mother clutching her child. The woman stared blankly, as if no longer present in her own body. Yesugei¡¯s stomach turned. He reached behind him to grasp Vasilisa¡¯s hand, and she squeezed his fingers until they went numb.


    ¡°When it happens, don¡¯t scream.¡± said a young man nearby. His eyes were just as empty as those of the weaver¡¯s wife, and his hands were cracked and bleeding from hard labor. ¡°When they beat you, when they make you work, when they do anything - don¡¯t scream or cry. Hide away inside your mind, where they cannot reach you - and let them do what they wish. That¡¯s the only way you can stay alive.¡±


    This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.


    ¡°It¡¯s not fair¡­it¡¯s not!¡± another man cried as he buried his bruised face in his hands. ¡°We gave good service and tithes to Gatchisk. We never did no treason. Why couldn¡¯t they just leave us alone?¡±


    ¡°Because they needed forage,¡± said an old wrinkled lady, her words dripping with venom. ¡°That¡¯s all they care about. They need food to fight their mad wars - same as every war I¡¯ve lived through - and it¡¯s easier to pay with steel than silver when justice is gone from the land.¡±


    The old lady looked around to make sure no-one was nearby, then spat three times on the ground and made a sign in the air with three fingers. ¡°I curse them all! All the highborn bastards and their warriors! It¡¯s a sin before the heavens for lords to rape their own lands, but they do it all the same. Demons take them, every one.¡±


    ¡°If the Young Griffon were around, he would not have stood for this,¡± muttered a man with a twisted nose. ¡°He would have turned these turncoats back and killed them all.¡±


    But the man with the twisted nose spoke too loudly, and one of the warriors sauntered up to the pen. The man received a black eye, and the pen fell silent for the rest of the evening.


    ***


    The moon shone brightly as night fell upon the camp.


    Around the campfire, Yesugei saw the warriors drinking and singing strange songs in the old dialect of the Klyazmites - one completely alien to his ears. Silhouetted against the fires he also saw Stribor and the blood-sorcerer - called Hecellon by the raiders - carefully studying a map.


    Then they came: Pervusha, Zayats, and Yerch. It could have only been them who stomped out from the campfires and crept towards the pen in the darkness like wolves.


    Vasilisa had fallen asleep in her bonds, but Yesugei¡¯s shaking woke her as the men approached. He tried to pull at his bonds again, but the ropes only bit deeper and deeper into his neck and wrists as he strained against them. The footsteps drew closer - and with every step, the sound of jingling rings of mail grew louder and louder.


    Vasilisa grunted from behind her gag as she tried to work her hands loose. When that did not work, Yesugei saw her try to kick out the pole that her neck was tied to - but that did not work either. Neither of them had eaten since they were captured, and their feeble thrashing only shed more of their own blood.


    Weak. I am weak.


    If he had his bow, if he even had a small kitchen knife, he would have been able to set himself free. But he had nothing - no weapons, no friends, no hope. If he tried to stand and fight, the warriors would kill him - or perhaps maim him so the Yllahanan and Stribor would not be completely displeased with the death of their Khormchak captive.


    The Yllahanan¡­Stribor! Stribor!


    ¡°You¡¯re one beast of a woman, aren¡¯t you?¡± said Pervusha as he approached the pen, one hand on his belt buckle. Vasilisa froze against Yesugei¡¯s back as she felt the warrior¡¯s stare upon her. ¡°But don¡¯t think you can fight me like one. One scream out of you, and I¡¯ll knock out every single one of your fucking teeth.¡±


    Yerch gave a low giggle as he opened the door to the pen, dagger in hand to cut her free. Vasilisa threw herself against the rope binding her neck and screamed behind the gag.


    ¡°STRIBOR!¡± Yesugei shouted at the top of his aching lungs.


    Zayats cursed and threw a sharp kick into Yesugei¡¯s ribs that sent him falling to his side in the piss-soaked mud. He spat the dirt from his mouth, then screamed again.


    ¡°HECELLON!¡±


    That was enough - the sorcerer¡¯s name sent the three rapists into a panic. Yerch hurriedly sheathed his knife and slinked out of the pen as Yesugei heard more footsteps approaching. Soon the orange light of a flame filled the pen.


    ¡°What are you three doing?¡± barked Stribor. ¡°And you, Khormchak. Finally found your tongue?¡±


    ¡°My lord¡­¡± Yesugei rolled onto his side, and squinted at the blinding light that shone down on him. Standing over him he counted Stribor, two of his guards, and Hecellon, who held the blinding lantern. Then he saw the light did not come from a lantern, but instead from a dancing flame that rested on the sorcerer¡¯s open hand.


    ¡°Your men were planning on having their way with my friend.¡±


    ¡°Men have needs, you know?¡± laughed Stribor. ¡°Or did your own kin not deflower every maiden from here to Pemil when they attacked? Why should I care what happens to a blood-sorceress who killed my men?¡±


    The boyar spat and turned his back to him. As he made to step away, Yesugei spoke just loud enough for the retreating boyar to hear.


    ¡°You should care because this blood-sorceress is Prince Igor¡¯s daughter.¡±


    Stribor froze in his tracks. ¡°What did you say?¡±


    The boyar drew closer to the pen and yanked on Yesugei¡¯s rope, sending him sprawling back into the muck just as he tried to his knees. Stribor looped the rope tighter and tighter around his gauntleted hand, pulling Yesugei closer until his face was directly beneath the boyar''s armored fist.


    He resisted the urge to gag as the boyar''s rotting breath washed over his face. ¡°What did you say?¡±


    Yesugei pointed his bound hands at Vasilisa as he spoke. ¡°This girl is the daughter of Prince Igor - Vasilisa of Belnopyl.¡±


    ¡°The princess is in the capital city. If she''s even still alive.¡±


    ¡°That''s where you''re mistaken!¡± Yesugei lowered his tone to a whisper as he leaned in closer to Stribor. ¡°Before the attack on the city, the Great Khan had demanded Vasilisa for his wife - to keep Prince Igor in line, you see¡­¡±


    ¡°And you know this, how?¡±


    ¡°Because I was the one who took her,¡± hissed Yesugei. ¡°My name is Dagun, of the Qarakesek. The Great Khan sent me as an envoy to collect the girl and the tribute with a host of riders, but we were attacked on our journey back from Belnopyl.¡±


    ¡°By who?¡±


    His scrambled, feverish mind rushed to piece together a story, anything, to convince the boyar. He remembered how his brother Nariman had once said that half-truths were the best of lies. ¡°Quanli raiders, fifty strong, led by a noyan named B?rijan. They ambushed us in the Devil Woods, cut my riders down to a man. I fled to Yerkh and then Balai with the girl hoping to find shelter when your own raiders pillaged it.¡±


    Hecellon whispered something into Stribor''s ear. The boyar nodded, then gave a crooked smile. ¡°A nice tale. Let''s see how the girl tells it.¡±


    Stribor let go of his rope, and Yesugei sank back down to his knees as the boyar muttered a command to Zayats, ¡°Ungag her. If she tries to cast a spell, cut her throat.¡±


    Vasilisa sputtered and spat the moment the archer took the filthy rag out of her mouth, then took a trembling breath of the cool night air. Stribor leaned in closer to examine her before he spoke.


    ¡°You are who the Khormchak says you are?¡±


    She nodded. ¡°Vasilisa. Daughter to Igor and Cirina. Princess of Belnopyl.¡±


    The boyar ran his tongue along his crooked teeth as he thought for a moment. ¡°Belnopyl¡­when I was there last, your father held a great melee to choose a man to serve in his druzhina. Who won?¡±


    Vasilisa answered immediately. ¡°Not one man, two. Stavr won the melee, and Pyotr was raised to the ranks when he stopped one of the warriors from Pemil from attacking the champion when his back was turned.¡±


    Stribor nodded, a look of pleasant surprise on his face. ¡°I forgot about the other boy. The time before then, I was in the city with the rest of the Gatchisk boyars - that was when your father exiled the Young Griffon-¡±


    ¡°He exiled him for good reason,¡± said Vasilisa confidently, rising slightly to her feet before she was set back down by the archer who hovered behind her, dagger in hand. ¡°Goran had tried to kidnap me for his bride.¡±


    ¡°A youthful folly,¡± said Stribor bitterly. ¡°For which you scarred the boy¡¯s face with a dagger.¡±


    ¡°Is that what your prince had told you?¡± Vasilisa gave a light, mocking smile, but Yesugei saw the corners of her lips twitch with fear. ¡°Goran didn¡¯t get that scar from any dagger - he gave it to himself, when he tripped and hit his head against my dresser.¡±


    To that, the boyar gave a loud hoot of laughter. Yesugei felt the tension in the air slowly melt away and sink into the mud as Stribor slapped Hecellon¡¯s shoulder in his chortling.


    Then suddenly, the boyar cut his laughter short and fixed Pervusha with a deadly stare that made the warrior look very, very small.


    ¡°Pervusha, was it?¡±


    ¡°Yes, milord.¡±


    ¡°Take your friends and go find someplace else to stick your cocks,¡± Stribor spoke. ¡°I am taking the girl into my own custody.¡±


    The lancer Yerch opened his mouth to speak, but then thought the better of it as Hecellon allowed the dancing flame in his palm to flare momentarily.


    ¡°Good. Now, no more of this,¡± sighed Stribor as he waved off the three warriors. He then motioned to one of his own guards, a sour-faced man in lamellar. ¡°Unbind the princess¡¯s hands. Leave the Khormchak.¡±


    As the ropes binding Vasilisa¡¯s neck and hands were sliced apart, Stribor said, ¡°I beg a thousand times for your forgiveness, my lady. I had no idea Prince Igor¡¯s daughter had escaped the sacking. That your father had schooled you in magic was¡­unexpected.¡±


    Vasilisa rubbed her raw and bleeding wrists, then threw her blindfold off to the side. ¡°Your men tried to rape me. They also raped the weaver¡¯s wife - one of your prisoners.¡±


    ¡°And they will be punished for that,¡± said Stribor dismissively. ¡°But now you are under my protection.¡±


    And some protection it is, thought Yesugei darkly. Your man would have split her skull open just last night.


    As Stribor led Vasilisa out of the pen with all the courtesy of a noble boyar guiding his liege lady, the same guard who cut Vasilisa loose asked, ¡°Sire, what about the Khormchak?¡±


    Stribor was about to give his reply when Vasilisa spoke up, ¡°This man helped protect me along the roads even when he could have abandoned me.¡±


    She looked at Yesugei, and gave him an appreciative nod. ¡°I would ask you to free him as well, boyar.¡±


    To that, Stribor only gave a laugh. ¡°And risk having my men mutiny? My lady, we are fighting a war against the Qarakesek and all their Khormchak ilk. Half of my men want him hanged, and the other half want him flayed first, and then hanged. The Khormchak stays.¡±


    Yesugei saw Vasilisa bite back a scathing reply. No - don¡¯t press your luck. We are still his prisoners, bound or not.


    ¡°At least have someone treat his wounds.¡±


    Stribor shrugged, then turned to Hecellon. ¡°Yllahanan - they trained you in the healing arts in your towers, didn¡¯t they?¡±


    Hecellon bowed his head. ¡°Of course, my lord."


    ¡°See to that gash on his face." Stribor grumbled. "Then put him to the question - softly."


    ¡°Of course, my lord.¡±


    Vasilisa¡¯s concerned gaze lingered on Yesugei as she was marched off towards the sacked temple - flanked by the boyar¡¯s guards. Yesugei suddenly felt his relief shift to dread as he saw Vasilisa trailing further and further away, leaving him alone with the blood-sorcerer.


    Putting me to the question softly? We''ll see about that, Yllahanan bastard.


    Hecellon stood dutifully by the pen until he saw Vasilisa enter behind the temple doors. Then he closed his flaming hand - drowning the Yesugei''s world in darkness once more.

 Chapter 17 - Ashes

    Ashes


    <hr>


    "I apologize, my lady,¡± said Stribor¡¯s attendant, placing a pile of folded clothes onto a bench and quickly averting his eyes from Vasilisa¡¯s half-dressed form. ¡°These are the only womens¡¯ clothes we have.¡±


    The only ones you had bothered to steal, you mean, thought Vasilisa darkly as she heard the door to her chambers shut.


    The monastery claimed by Stribor¡¯s men was small, with only a handful of rooms for the priests and monks to dwell in. The great painted sun on the inside of its domed roof marked the monastery as belonging to the Solarians - the sun-worshippers from the distant west. But of the priests and their attendants, there was no trace - only Stribor¡¯s druzhina occupied the monastery now.


    The warmth and coziness in the small roadside monastery might have offered was replaced by the chill draft of the night, and the clutter of scattered books and holy texts lying forgotten on the ground. Vasilisa tried to read one of the trampled scrolls, but the language of the sun-worshippers was as indecipherable as Khormchak script.


    Shivering, she finished changing out of her soiled dress, torn practically to tatters by the road and the last few days. Still, she felt a heavy weight on her heart as she cast the ruined silk aside.


    One of mother¡¯s old dresses. Now they¡¯ll just burn it along with everything else in this land.


    The new clothes she was expected to wear almost seemed like mockery; a white robe decorated with faded embroidery, and a similarly-faded black mantle decorated with stitchings of a pale sun. When she put them on, it was obvious that the Solarian habits had been made for someone with slimmer arms, a narrower chest, and who was much shorter. All it did was make her look ludicrous.


    When she finished changing, she opened the door to see Stribor¡¯s attendant waiting for her just outside. Despite his pleasant demeanor, she noticed that beneath his thick jacket the attendant wore a layer of mail and had a dagger in his belt. Her frustration surged; she imagined seizing the blade and cutting his throat. But she held back. Even if she could kill the attendant, weak as she was, there was nowhere she could run out in the dead of night.


    And besides¡­remember Yesugei, whispered the side of reason in her mind. They¡¯ll kill him. Bide your time. Wait. Watch.


    The attendant led her through the drafty prayer hall of the monastery - its stained glass windows shattered and picked clean for gilded fittings. Two spearmen guarded the doors to the outside, looking bored as they watched her slowly walk across the hall. Finally, they entered what had once been the kitchen, now dominated by a roaring hearth. At the end of a long table sat Boyar Stribor, flanked by two druzhinniks with longaxes.


    ¡°I am pleased you were able to attend,¡± said Stribor with a small, false smile. ¡°My lady, please be seated.¡±


    The boyar¡¯s false courtesy brought a sick feeling to her stomach, and Vasilisa balled up her fists as she took a seat at the other end of the table. Stribor gestured at the spread of cheese, bread, roasted meat, and fruits that covered the table - and Vasilisa felt her mouth grow moist at the sight of the food.


    ¡°Will you drink some wine?¡± offered Stribor.


    ¡°I would prefer water,¡± she replied quietly.


    Stribor waved to his attendant, and a wooden goblet slid to her side. In her wobbly reflection, Vasilisa saw her face was still swollen from the mace that struck her on the head.


    The mace that struck her on the boyar¡¯s orders.


    She rubbed her chafed wrists, and felt a shudder run through her body as she remembered the three warriors who had tried to-


    No, came the quiet voice in her head. We focus on the here and now. Wait. Watch. Then make them suffer when the time is right. They¡¯ll all suffer when the time is right.


    The renegade boyar helped himself to a strawberry and stuffed it whole into his mouth with a pleasant smile. ¡°You should try these, my lady. Very sweet, and freshly harvested.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ve no stomach for sweetness after these last few nights,¡± she shot back harshly. ¡°And I am far more interested in your intentions than your strawberries. Why are you doing this?¡±


    ¡°This?¡± Stribor gestured about the room, a puzzled look on his face. ¡°My lady, we are at war. Such things happen.¡±


    ¡°I was told that during war you kill your enemies, not your own people.¡±


    Stribor shrugged. ¡°It is not like that, my lady. We need to gather supplies if we want to have any hope of standing against the Khormchak tide. Last time they struck us, they were able to sustain themselves all through the winter with their pillage from the borderlands.¡±


    ¡°What about the people?¡±


    ¡°More mouths to feed,¡± said Stribor, his face empty of emotion. ¡°When the Khormchaks invade, this chaff will crowd behind our walls and eat our stocks down to the rats. And if we leave them to the Khormchaks, they''ll gain that many more slaves and guides to traverse our lands.¡±


    Is that really all it is?


    Vasilisa felt her face grow flushed with anger, and she clenched her fists so tightly she felt her nails draw blood from her palms.


    Is that really all it is? So much monstrosity, all in the way of war?


    ¡°We all have our part to play, no matter how grisly,¡± sighed the boyar as if he were bemoaning some chore. He took a slice from the roasted pig set before them before saying, ¡°Even you, my lady, have a part to play in this war.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡± she bristled.


    ¡°Why, marriage of course.¡± chuckled Stribor, and Vasilisa felt her blood run cold.


    ¡°Marriage?¡±


    The word hung in the air for a dreadful moment.


    ¡°Your father is dead, my lady,¡± said Stribor as he ate. ¡°So too is your mother, I¡¯m afraid. The Khormchaks sacked the capital so thoroughly I hear not even the stray dogs were left.¡±


    Stribor stabbed his knife into his cut of roast pig, then pointed a finger directly at her. ¡°That leaves you as the last of Prince Igor¡¯s line. Belnopyl is in chaos, its boyars scattered to the wind. But they still might listen to you.¡±


    ¡°You still have not told me how marriage falls into this.¡±


    Vasilisa quickly darted her eyes about the room, searching for an escape. But all around her stood guards - the attendant, the druzhinniks, and Stribor, who even at the dinner table sat clad in leather and mail.


    The boyar gave a small, knowing smile. ¡°You would marry Prince Svetopolk of the north, and bind Belnopyl¡¯s boyars to our cause.¡±


    The air in the room suddenly grew very unbearably heavy.


    ¡°Svetopolk?¡± she eventually said. She kept her tone curious - as if intrigued. ¡°Isn¡¯t the Prince of Pemil already married?¡±


    Stribor lifted the impaled chunk of meat and took a bite out of it - dribbling half the juices onto his chin and scraggly beard. ¡°His Majesty Svetopolk is a wealthy man - he can support a second wife, just as your father¡¯s father was able to support three. And he would give you a marvelous wedding gift - vengeance for your mother and father, and vengeance for your city that was sacked to the ground by the Great Khan.¡±


    Vasilisa carefully took a sip from the offered cup. Even the water tasted off in a way she could not describe.


    She had only met Prince Svetopolk once, at the same tournament where Stavr and Pyotr had won places in her father¡¯s druzhina. At twenty years her senior, he was old enough to be her father, with graying hair and a large, bristly beard. She felt her skin crawl at the image of the boisterous, shouting Svetopolk for a husband.


    And imagine how he would react when he learns his new wife is not alive, not truly, she wondered. That she has already been claimed by someone- something else. Something far more powerful than boyars and their wars. Maybe he¡¯ll take his renegade boyar¡¯s head for bringing him a poisoned gift.


    She smiled into her cup at the image of the clueless Stribor¡¯s head mounted on a spike - his mouth hanging open stupidly like the dog he truly was. Then she caught herself at her own thoughts - she had never known herself to smile at the sight of heads on spikes, nor taken any delight from horrible deaths, even the deaths of vile men such as Stribor.


    She felt the same buzzing rush flowing through her as when she wielded the Shargaz - only this time she was acutely aware of how uncomfortable it felt; thinking thoughts that seemed to not be her own.


    Gods, what is happening to me?


    Stribor studied her carefully as she set the cup down on the table. She knew she had little say in the matter - the boyar might have been a brute, but he was also ambitious. If he brought his new liege prince the heiress of Belnopyl, he would doubtlessly be rewarded with new lands and titles under Pemil¡¯s reign. That was his true aim - and if she refused to go along with his ambitions, he would simply drag her to the distant north in ropes and chains so his prince could claim her by force.


    But if I agree¡­


    She cleared her throat, and let the swirling storm of panic slowly settle in her chest as she thought.


    My hand for the city¡­no, not the city. Spears and shields, fodder and food. The boyars are what they need if they want to win this war. The boyars¡­


    Vasilisa crossed her legs as she shifted in her seat, leaning towards Stribor. ¡°My father¡¯s boyars have little love for the cold north, and they see treachery in every corner. If you surprise them with a sudden declaration of my marriage to Svetopolk, half of them would rise up to rescue their late liege¡¯s beloved daughter from your prince - and the other half would simply scoff and keep to their strongholds.¡±


    ¡°An absurdity!¡± said Stribor, but Vasilisa saw the boyar¡¯s brow furrow in thought as he rested his chin on one hand. Then she saw him fall head-first into the ruse. ¡°What would it take to convince them?¡±


    ¡°It is simple,¡± Vasilisa replied. Her thoughts fell into place as if in a game of chess. ¡°On our way north, we seek out the boyars under my father¡¯s service - and let them hear of the coming union from me, rather than some southern boyar they scarcely know and trust even less.¡±


    Stribor snorted. ¡°If I recall, your father had dozens of boyars in his service. By the time we reach them all, the Khormchaks would be on us in droves.¡±


    ¡°We needn¡¯t speak to all of them,¡± she said. ¡°Only those who are the wealthiest, those who can field the largest armies. Hrabr of Rovetshi, lord of the Gravemarsh; Zinoviy of Denev; Zdislava, widow of Konihrad. If we bring those three with us to Pemil and let them behold our union, then the others will fall into line when your prince marches south.¡±


    Stribor huffed. ¡°Rovetshi and Konihrad are far away. It will cost us time to reach them.¡±


    ¡°It will cost you more than time if your prince must bring Belnopyl¡¯s boyars in line by force,¡± Vasilisa replied. ¡°And how can you hope to fight the Khormchaks, if you must first fight my father¡¯s men? At Ongainur Field, all three princely domains stood as one - only together can you have any hope of winning.¡±


    She had the boyar trapped - and without even needing to lie. Her father¡¯s men would naturally reject any sudden declarations of marriage between her and Svetopolk - most of the boyars only needed to look back to their fathers¡¯ and grandfathers¡¯ years of skirmishes against the north as reason to distrust any declarations from Pemil.


    And out on the open road, while we gallivant around Belnopyl¡­he will make a mistake. He will loosen his grip, and then we can run.


    She had counted scarcely more than three dozen troops in Stribor¡¯s warband - a sizable force for raiding and pillaging defenseless villages, but a pathetic match against any one of the boyars¡¯ retinues. If they could slip loose and seek shelter with any one of her father''s men, they would have more than enough men to turn away Stribor¡¯s band.


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    But we had thought similarly with Balai, insisted the small voice in her head. Who knows how many towns these Apostles have disappeared?


    It¡¯s worth a try. She clenched her fists under the table. Better than going along like a whipped dog.


    Eventually, Stribor gave a nod of assent.


    ¡°You are plenty wise, my lady.¡± said Stribor as he took another bite from the meat on his knife.


    Faint praise, coming from the likes of you.


    ¡°You flatter me, boyar.¡± she said, sitting back in her chair with a sigh of relief. ¡°You flatter me.¡±


    ***


    The bleeding cut on Yesugei¡¯s face stung as Hecellon prodded at it with his finger, wrinkling his nose at the pus that seeped out.


    ¡°The wound is not infected, at least not yet,¡± the Yllahanan muttered as he set about rummaging through his satchel. ¡°But if you¡¯ll be sitting in that pen for much longer, I had best take precautions. The common folk of this land are riddled with illnesses¡­¡±


    As Hecellon laid out several dark vials and bandages on the table to his side, Yesugei shifted in his chair and took a painful, wheezing breath. By the dim light of a candle, he could barely make out the interior of the Yllahanan¡¯s tent - a few shelves here, an old cot¡­and a large wooden table upon which lay a pale, emaciated corpse.


    ¡°Of course¡­far be it for me to die and spoil all your fun,¡± Yesugei spoke with a rasping laugh. As he watched the sorcerer set more of his tools out, his eyes fell upon the gleaming tip of a long, curved hook of iron. ¡°That looks like no physician¡¯s tool I¡¯ve ever seen before.¡±


    ¡°It isn¡¯t a tool of healing,¡± replied Hecellon as he took the hook into his hands. ¡°It¡¯s a tool of artistry - of a kind most find¡­difficult to understand. How much do you know about my order?¡±


    ¡°Blood-sorcerers?¡±


    The sorcerer gave a sharp tut, wagging the hook. ¡°Ah, the title of laymen. We call ourselves the Order of Haruspices - our order has been a respected power in Yllahana since before the Republic, when Thyl Thalas was ruled by a king, rather than a senate. And our chief canvas is not blood, no-¡±


    Hecellon stepped around the table, and with a swift, sickening motion, buried the hook deep into the gut of the body on the table. For a moment, nothing happened. The corpse lay still, its skin waxy under the flickering candlelight. But then, it began to convulse.


    The dead man¡¯s eyes shot open, clouded, but alive enough to widen in terror - in realization at the moment of death. He gurgled, and his limbs thrashed violently as if against invisible restraints - a body struggling in panic in its final breaths. And then, as quickly as it began, the man¡¯s body slackened. His head lolled to look at Yesugei, as if pleading to him for help, and then he was dead.


    ¡°Strange,¡± mused the sorcerer. ¡°The fumes should have carried him blissfully into death. But no matter - I¡¯ve plenty more to refine my doses.¡±


    Without a moment to spare, the Yllahanan plunged his fist into the dead man¡¯s opened stomach with a nauseating squelch. In another trained motion, he ripped free a dripping, glistening mass that he held to the light of the candle. A long strand of blood hung from the severed liver, dripping onto the floor as Hecellon turned it over in his hands. For a while the Yllahanan remained still, muttering to himself, but eventually he set aside the dripping liver into a glass jar.


    ¡°Yes, the signs are still here. Do you see, nomad? This is my order¡¯s canvas - the organs. In the olden days, our scholars used to sacrifice sheep, poultry, even - reading superstition from the organs of lesser beasts. But the highest minds of our order now know: only in human blood is there a certain power. And so - only in humanity can we find true signs.¡±


    Yesugei¡¯s breath felt deafening to his own ears. The horrid smell of piss and shit rose up from the slaughtered man, but the Yllahanan did not seem to care. ¡°Then what is such a respectable, kindly student of the arts doing traveling with a Klyazmite warband?¡± he managed through gasps of the tainted air. ¡°Don¡¯t your people have enough slaves in the west?¡±


    Hecellon sighed as he placed the jar inside one of the shelves, where it joined a dozen others. For a moment Yesugei felt the rush to leap out at the sorcerer and bring him down. But the three silent guardsmen that stood a mere five feet away would skewer him before he could twist the Yllahanan''s head from his shoulders. No, not yet¡­


    ¡°Astute, for a Khormchak.¡± said Hecellon as he sealed away the jars. ¡°Yes, we have enough slaves to perform our readings¡­and it is our readings that have brought me here.¡±


    The Yllahanan drew close to Yesugei - so close he could smell the heavy perfumes that hung about the blood-sorcerer to mask the scent of death. Between them was the iron hook, which the elf placed carefully against Yesugei¡¯s chest. ¡°Our readings all say one thing: soon, there will be doom, and it will come to us from the east. The constellation of the Serpent has shifted in the sky, and then there was that curious comet¡­¡±


    Yesugei did not know whether to laugh or cry. How little, and how much you know. ¡°You are traveling with a Klyazmite warband because you are worried about stars?¡±


    The elf''s mouth hardened into a thin line as he tapped the hook against Yesugei''s chest. ¡°We observed such things once before. Master Armentarius, the first of our order to study human viscera, recorded similar readings five centuries ago - do you know what happened then? The stars disappeared - early frosts destroyed crops even in the south, and the sun was in eclipse for a year.


    ¡°Those hardships destroyed the Kingdom of Thyl Thalas, and nearly destroyed my order in its cradle.¡± Hecellon absent-mindedly dragged the hook down along Yesugei¡¯s chest, drawing the tiniest droplet of blood. ¡°And even if such dark times did give way to the enlightenment of the Republic¡­well, who¡¯s to say our order will survive again?¡±


    ¡°You are afraid.¡±


    ¡°Afraid?¡± Hecellon chuckled, setting aside the dripping hook before grabbing a cloth and a dark vial. ¡°No, if I was afraid, I would have shut myself inside my tower, like the other Masters of the Order. No - I intend to find the source of this doom myself, and I intend to stop it.¡±


    The image of the bleak, jutting crystal consuming all light from the sky floated back into his memory. Targyn, Kenes, Sergen, and Kaveh¡¯s faces as they perished one by one. The terrible grasp on his chest that choked all life from his lungs. The inhuman abomination with its voice of scraping glass and screeching metal. Yesugei allowed himself a brave smile.


    ¡°You will stop nothing with your butchery,¡± Yesugei hissed. ¡°All you¡¯re doing is bringing it faster to this wretched world.¡±


    Yesugei bit back a hiss as the Yllahanan pressed a foul-smelling cloth to his forehead - the tonic soaked into the cloth felt cold to the touch, yet his wound burned furiously. When he closed his eyes, he saw the sorcerer was looking at him with newfound curiosity. ¡°You speak as if you know.¡±


    ¡°What if I do?¡± he managed through gritted teeth. ¡°What if I told you that others foresaw much the same doom without pulling out mens¡¯ guts?¡±


    Long, pale fingers wrapped around Yesugei''s throat as the Yllahanan''s purple-tinged eyes met his. ¡°Do not play with me, Khormchak. I could gut you in half a breath. Tell me what you know, if you are not playing the fool.¡±


    Yesugei grinned. ¡°I know that you will not stop it. I know that when the Harvest comes, it will eat you alive like everyone else. Master or slave, sorcerer or layman¡­it won¡¯t make any difference.¡±


    Hecellon¡¯s grip loosened slightly, but that was all he needed. Yesugei lurched forward and drove the top of his skull into the Yllahanan¡¯s nose. The sorcerer fell to the ground with blood gushing from his face, and his flailing arms sent the satchel flying. Glass vials shattered, and the hook fell a ways away from them both.


    Hecellon rushed to retrieve his iron claw, but Yesugei moved faster. He drove his heel into the back of the elf''s outstretched hand, then slammed his fist across the sorcerer''s face as he cried out in pain. Then Yesugei felt himself struck bodily as the guards took both him and Hecellon to the ground with a loud clatter of armored plate.


    He flailed his arms desperately to escape the hold of the armored man pinning him to the ground, and felt his fingers wrap around the handle of the warrior''s dagger. But then a hand grabbed him by the back of the head, and his vision erupted in a shower of stars and pain as his forehead was slammed to the ground. When he looked up through his squinted eyes, he saw Hecellon was lying next to him - his perfect Yllahanan nose now twisted and red.


    ¡°The Khormchak is our property, mage!¡± barked the warrior pinning Hecellon to the ground.


    ¡°Take them both to the pen,¡± commanded the guard who watched over the other two. ¡°You''ve overplayed your hand, Hecellon. But for your sake, I''ll bring you to his lordship in the morning - he''s of a far more lenient temperament then.¡±


    Hecellon spat out a glob of bloody mucus at the guard''s boots, but the man only sniffed and ordered them to be raised to their feet. Yesugei hid his smile at the Yllahanan''s indignity as he hollered and yelled at his arrest - but then he began to think on the sorcerer¡¯s words, and his fear.


    Unlike the Ormanli who had seemed resigned to their deaths in service, the Yllahanan was proud and terrified of the coming harvest. He considered proposing an alliance to the sorcerer - much the same as Vasilisa had to himself - but dismissed the idea as quickly as it came to him.  No¡­even if he knows much, neither of us would be able to sleep soundly with him around. He¡¯d rip the crystals from our chests and run off to save himself the moment we are weak.


    To that, Yesugei smiled. The Yllahanan was more Khormchak than he might have imagined.


    When the guards hauled them both into the pen, the sorcerer continued to shout curses in the Common and Yllahanan tongue at their backs as they retreated. Eventually however, he fell into a sullen silence - broken only by the occasional sniff as he tried to stop the dripping blood from his nose. In the darkness, none of the commoners dared to approach the Yllahanan - though Yesugei saw several of the men in the crowd looking on at the sorcerer with temptation in their eyes.


    ¡°All of you,¡± Yesugei called out to the peasants, who looked at him with surprise. ¡°I¡¯m sure you know our friend here, Hecellon. Tell me, have any of you or yours had the delight of his questioning?¡±


    No-one spoke back. In the midnight darkness, it might have almost seemed like he was simply speaking into the void, were it not for the peasants¡¯ silhouettes and the few rays of moonlight that illuminated them.


    Eventually, the old woman who had laid her folk curse spoke up. Yesugei recognized her by her ancient, haggard-sounding voice. ¡°He put my grandsons to the question, when they were looting our village for gold - as if we were not struggling to even feed our own. Do you remember them, Yllahanan?¡±


    Hecellon did not reply. He kept his back to the rest of the peasants, but Yesugei saw his growing unease in the way he straightened his spine.


    The old woman continued, ¡°I offered myself in their place - but all he said was that I was too old - that it would not be fun to torment a hag such as myself. Do you remember that, elf? Do you remember a grandmother¡¯s screams when you ripped them to pieces with your hook - two men with wives and sons?¡±


    ¡°So what if I do?¡± Hecellon sneered, though he did not look back at the woman. ¡°Do you think making me remember is going to bring your stinking whelps back?¡±


    ¡°No - you left my grandsons to rot in a ditch once you rummaged through them,¡± the old woman responded. Her voice was even and resolute - absent of any venom or great malice. ¡°You made sure they would not reach the heavens. I¡¯m telling you about them so you know exactly who awaits you when your black soul reaches the underworld.¡±


    The rest of the night passed in eerie quiet. When Yesugei eventually closed his eyes and tried to rest his head as comfortably as he could, he saw Hecellon still lay wide awake, his back against the pen.


    ***


    The skies of the next day remained bleak and gray, and Yesugei shivered awake as he felt the cold clawing away at his core.


    It is the middle of summer¡­Yesugei wondered as he wrapped his arms around himself. Then why is it so damn cold?


    He wondered whether the old woman''s curse upon the boyars had indeed worked, and only then thought to check on Hecellon. The Yllahanan must have remained awake all through the night - his eyes were puffy and red from lack of sleep, and he too shivered in his thin robe which was now wet and slick with mud and piss. But even with his hands tied behind his back, none of the peasants had taken their chances in the night - for that, he wondered whether it was cleverness, or simply still the fear of their tormentor.


    The only one who looked upon the Yllahanan with no fear was the old wise woman, who now huddled in a crowd with the others in the pen - shivering for some warmth in a morning with no sun.


    Throughout the camp, Yesugei saw the rest of the warriors who emerged from their tents were just as bitterly cold - several spearmen began working to start a large bonfire in the middle of camp, while others crowded around the remains of yesterday''s cookfire to warm their hands over the embers. He looked out to the Solarian temple, and saw its damaged chimney belching out a great cloud of smoke.


    ¡°The punishment has begun,¡± whispered the old woman. ¡°The sun has hidden its face from the cruelty of the world, and we will all suffer.¡±


    ¡°Not in equal measure, it seems,¡± hissed Hecellon, though he too was afraid. Early frosts, no sun. Your blood-magic tells it true. ¡°The strong will always find a way, while you peasants will die in droves - and among them you will die first, hag witch.¡±


    Yesugei tuned out the Yllahanan¡¯s bitter malevolence, and pressed one hand to the grassy ground just outside the pen. He tried to listen and see the way he did in the shrine, searching for signs and whispers from the black earth - but all he felt was the cold, and the dread loneliness of a land which was absent of all spirits.


    All the animals have fled, he thought as he took a fistful of the cold earth into his palm. All except the wolves and crows, who will feast on each other when their Harvest comes.


    A shout woke him from his reverie, and Yesugei looked out from the pen to see the doors to the temple opening. Stribor emerged first, clad in his shining armor and a heavy cloak to ward off the cold. Behind him walked Vasilisa, wearing a white Solarian robe and wrapped in heavy furs - her expression calm.


    The boyar stood tall and proud as he surveyed the camp, the shivering soldiers huddled around their meagre fires. With a grin, he spoke: ¡°This land has been bled dry, my brothers! And now comes the time for us to move - pack up your camp, and prepare to march! We ride for Pemil!¡±


    The warriors before the boyar exchanged uneasy glances, but they knew the order was final. With sluggish reluctance they began shuffling about the camp, taking apart tents and readying their horses for the long ride north. Yesugei looked to Vasilisa and saw her speaking quietly with Stribor - not as an equal¡­but also no longer as a prisoner. Not like the rest of them, at least.


    He caught a quick, sidelong glance from her in his direction. Within that peek he sensed a plan - she had no intention of passing Belnopyl by for Pemil. Not when so many questions remained unanswered. And definitely not in tow with a dog like Stribor. But what then was her plan?


    He shook his head - no, it would do little good to think of things he could not change. His charge was to wait, watch - and stay alive long enough to break free when the time was right. But such a prospect seemed daunting - when he looked to the warriors preparing for the ride north, he saw no wagons being readied to carry the slave-laborers, and what spare horses they had were being laden with supplies. No, while the warriors rode, the prisoners would walk the journey to Pemil - a slave column to the north in the warband¡¯s wake.


    As Yesugei looked to the others in the pen, he felt something soft land on his head - lighter than a feather. He looked up to see tiny pale flecks falling from the sky, sticking to his face and clothes.


    Snow¡­? In the summer?


    When he looked down at the falling flakes, he saw they were too fine, too dark to be bits of snow. Snow did not paste to skin - and snow did not cause men to choke violently, as several of the peasants and Stribor¡¯s men began to violently hack and cough as the flakes found their way into their lungs.


    Yesugei looked up at the gray skies, and then he realized what he was seeing, why the morning had been so dark and cold.


    Ashes¡­he thought, as he beheld the heavens. Ashes to turn away the sun¡¯s gaze from the madness of the earth.

 Chapter 18 - The Gray March

    Ashes


    <hr>


    The ashes that floated down from the sky seemed like they would never end - falling like the snows of an endless winter. Only instead of blanketing the earth in white, the skies shrouded everything in a dull, dead gray that sucked the color and life out of the whole world.


    Beneath the falling ash, Stribor¡¯s warband marched¡ªa long, glinting serpent of iron winding through the carcass of the countryside. Stribor and his druzhinniks led the column, their scarred mail and dented plate dimly reflecting the gray morning light. Behind them trailed the warband¡¯s spearmen and bowmen: a mix of untested freeholders and hardened mercenaries who made their living off of Klyazma¡¯s ceaseless skirmishes between boyars.


    At the rear was the baggage train, mules and horses straining under carts loaded with provisions, wine, tents, and the plundered wealth of ten villages that had been left smoking ruins by the warband''s foraging. Following them were the captives, Yesugei staggering at the front of the grim line, driven onward by the jeering rearguard.


    Vasilisa rode in the baggage train, covered from the falling ash by a cloth canopy, and watched over day and night by the Yllahanan sorcerer who leered at her in threatening silence. Stribor guarded his key to Prince Svetopolk¡¯s favor well, like a dog with its favorite bone. It was only the prospect of a champion¡¯s welcome and reward in distant Pemil which drove the boyar to march north, even as his druzhinniks and Hecellon advised him to hunker down and try to wait out the ashfall.


    ¡°It is a far march to Pemil,¡± one of Stribor¡¯s druzhinniks had muttered back at camp - a man she nicknamed Scar for his ugly, pox-marked face. ¡°Five hundred miles¡¯ march in this ungodly ash¡­we will lose many. Too many. We should retreat to Hlotopol first - get more men, more horses for the trek north.¡±


    ¡°I think not,¡± she had heard Stribor interject as he leaned over a map. ¡°It¡¯s only a hundred miles to Rovetshi, the domain of my lady¡¯s boyars.¡±


    He pointed at a spot on the map - a small, inconspicuous dot on the border between Gatchisk and Belnopyl. ¡°Rovetshi has a pier, does it not? I¡¯m sure the boyar would be honored to ferry us to Pemil once he knows who will be aboard.¡±


    If you can reach him, she thought as she listened. The map was not the land, and the title held by the boyars of Rovetshi was ¡°Lord of the Gravemarsh¡± for a reason. If the gods are good, the mud will swallow all you southerners whole, just as it has for centuries.


    ¡°My lord¡­I still do not like the idea,¡± spoke Scar. ¡°This ash¡­the men¡­they will worry. Some will flee. Some will die. We can scarce afford to lose good troops and horses as we are.¡±


    ¡°I do not keep you for your counsel,¡± Stribor responded, his voice sharp as a dagger. ¡°I keep you for your sword. Now round up the men, and prepare to march. Your boyar commands it.¡±


    The warband covered twenty-five miles the first day, travelling all the way beneath the open skies which poured ash onto warrior and peasant alike. They had marched for scarcely five hours that day when one of the captives - an old man with a twisted nose - collapsed to the ground wheezing and coughing up black mucus. Before she was able to say anything, a spearman had thrust his weapon through the collapsed man''s side and continued on.


    The second day the warband crossed another twenty miles as the ash continued to fall through the night, blending earth to sky in a single shade of gray. The first day had been a curiosity, but nothing the warriors couldn¡¯t convince themselves would pass with the new morning. But by the second day, the ash had turned the men¡¯s spirits gray as well - all thoughts of a triumphant, easy march to the distant north was smothered alongside the land as the ashfall continued with no end in sight.


    ¡°Oh Perun, Lord of Lightning and Heaven,¡± prayed the warriors on the second night as they knelt around a roaring pyre. ¡°Sweep the skies clean, and keep us safe in journey and battle.¡±


    A large, heavyset druzhinnik named Troyan led the prayer to the Lord of Lightning. As the warriors knelt before the roaring fire, the druzhinnik brought forward one of his own mounts and cut its throat before the flames. It took three more men to hold the beautiful stallion down as it screamed and bucked wildly, and once the horse fell limp the warriors dragged it whole into the bonfire for the Lord of Lightning to claim as sacrifice.


    ¡°Oh Perun, who rules higher than all,¡± Troyan had called then. ¡°Accept this sacrifice of blood in your name, and clear the skies before your faithful.¡±


    But the ash continued to fall again the next day, the day after, and ever on. Before long, the roads ahead of the column were completely blanketed in gray, concealing pits, sharp rocks, and brambles which turned every step into a careful gamble. When the winds picked up, they lifted great squalls off the ground which sent the entire warband into confused disarray as warriors sputtered and coughed.


    Vasilisa herself was spared from the worst of it all; she was Prince Svetopolk¡¯s bride-to-be, after all. While others hungered from morning to evening on the march, she ate game the druzhinniks hunted ahead of the warband. Whilst others shivered in the cold, bleak winds, she was wrapped in blankets. Whilst others struggled and stumbled through the ash, she rode inside her covered wagon, comfortable in her captivity.


    The captives and horses had it hardest on the march. Several draft horses collapsed from exhaustion, and were butchered on the spot for meat. By the fourth day, two captives had fallen - two more nameless souls who had friends and family of their own, left unburied by the road. Vasilisa learned of their deaths once they made camp, and she felt guilt twist like a knife through her gut when she caught herself thanking the gods Yesugei had not been among the dead.


    Yesugei himself seemed to age decades in days. His skin cracked, and the healing bruises dealt by Stribor¡¯s men painted his face a grotesque mask of purple and yellow. Each night, Vasilisa tried to speak to him, but Stribor¡¯s warriors barred her, declaring that Svetopolk¡¯s bride had no business dealing with commoners or Khormchak scum. Stribor¡¯s patience with her demands wore thin, and soon her wagon became both her shelter and her cage, with no escape in sight.


    ¡°Let me have a horse,¡± she asked Scar on the morning of the fifth day as he sat beside her in the wagon, picking at a roasted pheasant. ¡°I am going mad in here. Let the captives stay here in my place - I would ride alongside his lordship.¡±


    Scar only scoffed at that. ¡°It is hard going, my lady. What bride will you be for Svetopolk if your lungs are black as coal, and your skin turned gray by this ash?¡±


    That is all I am to them now, she thought. A doll they mean to keep pretty. The prettier, the greater their own reward.


    ¡°Why do you insist on these noble futilities?¡± asked Hecellon once Scar had finished eating and rejoined the column¡¯s iron tip.


    The question took her aback, and the Yllahanan mage smiled at that.


    ¡°They are not futilities,¡± she responded angrily. ¡°People are suffering - the freedmen and captives more than anyone else. How do you think they feel, watching their noble lady ride high and warm while they freeze in this storm?¡±


    ¡°It does not matter what they think,¡± Hecellon shrugged back. ¡°They are your subjects, or they will be soon. Their love does not matter - all that matters is that they serve you. The sooner you get that through your head, the sooner your tortured soul will be at ease in this cruel, unfair world.¡±


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    Hecellon spoke to her as if he were speaking with a child, and for that she hated him almost as much as Stribor. The Yllahanan¡¯s sneering haughtiness suffered small insult when Scar threw him into the pigsty with the other prisoners, but his sharp tongue quickly found itself once more on the open road.


    Would that I had a dagger, I¡¯d cut out your tongue and save us all from your tripe, she thought to herself as the Yllahanan learned back in his seat on the wagon.


    By the end of the fifth day, the warband had only managed ten miles - and even for that they counted their blessings.


    It was in the evening of the fifth day that Vasilisa first heard more mutterings of sacrifice among the warriors - not of horses, but of men.


    Troyan the Faithful was the one who spoke of it to the others in Stribor¡¯s company as they huddled around a cookfire for warmth beneath the empty sky.


    ¡°A true blood sacrifice has special power, my lord,¡± the druzhinnik said to the boyar who sat opposite him. ¡°Dark times are among us - most like the land runs red all round with sacrifices for the Lightning Lord¡¯s favor. But if we give him an unbeliever - a pagan - Perun will surely smile upon us all and rid us of this storm for good.¡±


    ¡°The only unbeliever we have is more useful to us alive than dead,¡± Hecellon counseled Stribor from the side. ¡°My lord, if you would let me put him to the question again-¡±


    ¡°I wasn¡¯t speaking of the nomad, Yllahanan,¡± grinned Troyan. ¡°Even the Khormchaks hold respect for the heavens and spirits of the land. Perhaps it¡¯s your wretched blood magic and sorcery that are causing this mess.¡±


    To that, Hecellon¡¯s expression darkened. With a flick of his fingers, Vasilisa saw the meager cookfire suddenly swell and grow until it towered over the druzhinniks - a great pillar of white-hot, flicking tongues of flame. ¡°Touch me, and I will give your pagan god his burnt sacrifice myself.¡±


    Scar pulled Vasilisa away from the scorching flames, keeping his other hand on his sword. Troyan¡¯s own blade shone blindingly as he pulled it free and pointed it in Hecellon¡¯s direction. Before they could home to blows however, Stribor¡¯s voice boomed over them all.


    ¡°Enough.¡± the boyar roared as he rose to his feet.


    The boyar¡¯s mask of authority was one she knew well from her father¡¯s court - and it was a mask she could see through as easily as glass. Stribor¡¯s eyes flitted between Troyan and Hecellon as they stood against each other, and the first time in the boyar¡¯s eyes she saw fear.


    ¡°There will be no burnings, and there will be no questioning. You are all under my command, and I will have this matter put to rest - unless the two of you wish to swing from the same tree.¡±


    ¡°M- my lord-¡± stammered Troyan, only to be silenced by a raised hand from Stribor.


    ¡°Enough.¡±


    Hecellon was the first to stand down, letting his magic fade from the roaring cookfire until the pillar had shrunken down to a bare flicker once more. After a while Troyan sheathed his sword, though the tension lingered like a heavy pall over the camp the entire night.


    There was no mention of the fight when the next day rose, only a sullen silence that made the march that much more miserable. Soon, the forest around them began to thin out and the grasses began to rise higher as the path ahead yawned out into open, wild plains that stretched out as far as the eye could see.


    The swaying grass whispered in the cold breeze as Stribor¡¯s column marched on, rising so tall in some patches they tickled the horses¡¯ bellies. The land almost seemed calm as they trundled through the steppe, and then the horse pulling Vasilisa¡¯s wagon finally collapsed beneath its yoke.


    When Scar rode up to the commotion, he ordered the horse butchered for meat, and the wagon pushed off to the side to make way for the rest of the caravan. None of the horses that remained were strong enough to pull the wagon - and the food and fodder had to keep moving above all else. Then Scar dismounted from his own horse, and passed its reins to Vasilisa.


    ¡°If we try to ride double, it will kill my steed,¡± he said. ¡°Take my horse, and stay close to the band.¡±


    She smiled appreciatively at the druzhinnik - and some part of her even actually meant it. Scar was not as bad as Pervusha and his gang - though he had been willing to split her head upon much the same as the others when she was merely a blood-sorceress. She hopped onto the druzhinnik¡¯s courser and let herself breathe a sigh of relief as she felt the familiar creak of the leather saddle beneath her.


    As the warriors hurriedly quartered the dead horse, Vasilisa glanced about the open steppe - her silent heart yearning for nothing more than to bolt for freedom while it lay in her grasp. She scanned the plains slowly, and then she saw a face peeking out from behind a patch of grass.


    She nearly jumped at the sight of it - and then saw the face had empty eyes, and skin of weather-beaten stone that was overgrown with moss.


    A statue¡­


    The stubby statue that peered out at her from the grass was dressed in strange garb - a short, pointed cap with a rolled brim, and a long robe whose surface was pock-marked by the elements. At the base of the statue, nearly hidden by the grass, she saw what looked like runes.


    Yesugei¡¯s eyes lit up with recognition as he too glimpsed the statue, and Vasilisa gently drove her courser towards him as the nomad crouched nearby the giant wheel of a supply wagon.


    "You recognize this statue?"


    ¡°I do,¡± said Yesugei slowly, scratching his scraggly, dusty beard. ¡°It is a statue, but a marker. The face points to the east, and the script here shows what season these lands are to be used for grazing herds. But¡­I¡¯ve never seen one of these on this side of the Devil Woods before.¡±


    Yesugei walked as far as the rope around his neck allowed him, and managed to crouch uncomfortably near the base of the marker. He traced his fingers lightly over the grooves in the stone where the inscription was carved, silently mouthing words Vasilisa did not understand.


    Eventually, he said, ¡°This is the script of the Kangar. They were a tribe to the far west of my father''s lands - but they have been gone for decades now.¡±


    "What drove them away?" she asked curiously.


    ¡°War,¡± replied Yesugei, his face growing serious. ¡°One in which their people fought on the wrong side. My father''s noyans drove the Kangar from the steppe near the end of the civil war, along with the others who cast their banners for Naizabai. I never bothered to ask where the exiles went - I had always assumed they simply...faded away.¡±


    Yesugei jabbed at each of the inscriptions in turn, slowly voicing out, ¡°This one marks the lands as belonging to a B?ri-khan, of the Kangar. This one marks the lands for winter, to be used for goats and sheep only.¡±


    ¡°Who would give them these lands?¡± Vasilisa scanned the empty plains. ¡°My father¡¯s maps showed this as Gatchisk territory, not for nomads.¡±


    ¡°Maps lie,¡± Yesugei said. ¡°The Kangar are skilled furriers and horse breeders. They need no towns for their crafts. And look around - these plains are wild and empty. Instead of letting them lie fallow, your southern prince may have invited them himself, like other kingdoms did before the Great Horde. More people to tax, another army to raise, and the Kangar are excellent riders and archers.¡±


    ¡°Powerful allies,¡± Vasilisa mused. ¡°But these are times of treachery. If even Prince Gvozden''s own kinsmen turn against him, would the Kangar remain loyal?¡±


    ¡°Loyalty is a fickle thing among my people,¡± said Yesugei with an exasperated sigh. ¡°The survival of the tribe is what matters above all else - the Kangar would just as easily side with Svetopolk as they would their old master if it meant they would be able to keep their lands and their wealth.¡±


    Yesugei''s face suddenly grew dark with concern, and Vasilisa knew what had crept up to his mind. ¡°Your father''s exile of their people.¡±


    ¡°Khormchaks have long memories,¡± Yesugei muttered. ¡°I do not know this B?ri-khan, but if he is kin to the khan who ruled the Kangar in the steppe¡­¡±


    The laws of the blood feud were the same from east to west, Vasilisa knew. ¡°Then he would kill you.¡±


    ¡°Without a doubt,¡± Yesugei spoke quietly as he stared at the empty stone eyes of the marker. ¡°My father damned their tribe when he cast them out - any Khormchak who dies beyond the native steppe is denied a place in the Eternal Sky, cursed to remain as a spirit of the earth.¡±


    ¡°Killing you would not bring them their lands back.¡±


    ¡°No,¡± laughed Yesugei sardonically. ¡°But it would provide comfort to spiteful men who linger in the past. And that would be enough.¡±


    Yesugei stood up and lightly kicked the base of the marker with his boot, but Vasilisa saw how his eyes flicked across the open plains - searching the distance for the ghosts of his father¡¯s war.

 Chapter 19 - Suffer, and Live

    Suffer, and Live


    <hr>


    As Yesugei stood in the midst of the cold steppe watching one of the druzhinniks butcher a horse, he could only be thankful the brutes did not capture Kaveh¡¯s steed. The warriors cursed and spat as they performed their bloody, clumsy work - wasting most of the meat and leaving the choicest cuts to rot.


    Yesugei staggered on before any of the warriors saw him smiling at their misfortune. Ahead of him, the caravan creaked onwards again as Vasilisa¡¯s wagon was heaved off the rutted path. Seven days on foot caused the freezing cold of the sunless days to sink deep into his bones - and his legs had never ached so much in his whole life out on the steppe. The road was grinding him down - slowly, painfully - and escape seemed beyond impossible even if the opportunity did rear its head.


    But even if the strength to run did not desert him, he had nowhere to go. The falling ash had turned the land harsh and cruel. Without provisions, he and Vasilisa would die of hunger or thirst, assuming they weren¡¯t run down by Stribor¡¯s raiders. And worse still was the other fate that the stone marker¡¯s grinning countenance warned him of - the Kangar.


    If his bruised face did not ache with every twitch, he would have laughed. Where once he searched for escape¡ªa loose knife, a careless guard¡ªhe now prayed Stribor¡¯s men made it through the plains unscathed. The boyar¡¯s men beat him and hurled their mindless, bitter insults to his face, but they dealt nothing more than bruises since Hecellon was reprimanded. If the Kangar caught him they would kill him in such creative ways that only people of the steppe could imagine.


    Soon they left the stone marker in the distance, and traveled ever deeper into the heartlands of the lost tribe.


    A gods-damned fool you are, Yesugei¡¯s thoughts came to him as he staggered along behind the rearmost wagon of the column. You could have been sipping wine surrounded by silks and song if you had just kept your mouth shut.


    It felt like an eternity since that cool summer day when he had cornered his father in his yurt during their ride to the Khurvan mountains¡ªa lifetime ago.


    Let me go, he begged then, a young fool hungry for glory. No - not glory. What called to him more than anything was the chance for his father to look upon him as a son - for the White Khan¡¯s eyes to look upon him with anything but that impassive stare as if he were a buzzing fly in front of his face.


    Let me go. With two good men, a guide, and Kav to keep us from boredom, I would bring Dagun back before the moon¡¯s turn.


    I will not fail you, my khan, he had said before falling to the White Khan¡¯s feet. That memory stuck with him the most. My khan were the words he had said. Not father - never father.


    And what do you have to show for your Great Khan? needled the harsh voice of his own mind. What does the prodigal son have to show for his beloved father?


    NOTHING.


    His mouth felt dry, and the whispers of the grasses seemed to hang in the air, bleeding.


    NOTHING.


    The noise of the plains became unbearable. But when he closed his eyes to retreat into his own mind, the memories waited.


    Targyn¡¯s eyes, bloodshot and bulging as the curse choked the life from him.


    Kenes lay ripped in half, his viscera spilled onto the black earth.


    Sergen¡¯s body, wreathed in flames - a shadow against the roaring inferno.


    And then the worst of them all. Kaveh¡¯s green eyes stared at him through the darkness, kind and jovial. His mouth twisted into a familiar smile, and his voice came out so clear it was as though he had never gone.


    What¡¯s the matter, brother?


    Yesugei felt heat trickle down his face, tracing a slow, winding path along his hollowed cheeks. His brother¡¯s smile faded into worry.


    This is the first time I¡¯ve seen you cry.


    Yesugei opened his eyes, and for the first time let his tears fall free.


    Nothing. I found nothing. Nothing but death - death all round.


    ¡°Ah, so the big, scary Khormchak does weep,¡± came a haggard voice from behind him.


    Yesugei turned to see an old woman hunched nearly double, staggering along with the help of a stout branch Stribor¡¯s warriors had spared for her. Yesugei himself was surprised that she had made it this far, still keeping pace with the shuffling of the others even when the healthy fell to the ash. She went on as if the spite Hecellon, who had been so assured she would be the first to die.


    And what more, something about her was off¡ªnot just her vague end-time ramblings. As the old woman grinned at his drying tears, he realized it was her eyes.


    ¡°You are the only one without hope in your eyes,¡± Yesugei remarked to the woman as he slowed to match her hobbling stride. ¡°Yet you still go on.¡±


    ¡°Feh,¡± the old woman replied as she wiped her nose with a crooked finger. ¡°What good is hope? You cannot spread it on bread or wrap it around your shoulders. I would sooner have a good, warm blanket than hope.¡±


    ¡°Without hope you may as well die,¡± he replied, his tone sullen. ¡°They will march you until you die - none of you will survive to Pemil in this cursed weather. Our only hope is to find escape - or else we march like sheep to the butcher¡¯s knife.¡±


    The old woman chuckled, then said, ¡°So it might be, and the young weep and struggle against their fate, as they should. But you learn things in your old age, and from a life harshly-lived.¡±


    The woman closed her eyes, as if savoring a breeze that only she could feel. ¡°If you let go of it all - your soul can spread its wings and fly high above all your troubles. You need only to look down from time to time to see your meat and creaking bones still moving, still breathing, but your mind can soar high and fall away to a better place¡­¡±


    The woman¡¯s eyes opened, and in them Yesugei saw she dreamed of better times - perhaps of times when she was younger, and the winters were short, the summers not too hot, and the springs seemed like they would never end. ¡°Once you find your better place¡­then you realize death does not seem so bad, especially for one whose time is so near its end. Because your body rots in the ground, but by then you are not there, not truly.¡±


    Yesugei felt a chill run down his spine. She has the luxury of retreating inside. The luxury of no loose ends, no one left to rely on her.


    ¡°I cannot do that.¡±


    He remembered his words - remembered the taste of the last sip of arkhi as it lingered on his tongue, sour and tinged with iron. I swore an oath. I cannot die. Not now.


    The old woman¡¯s nearly toothless smile gleamed with cunning. ¡°Then suffer, young man. Suffer, and live.¡±


    They marched on - the young nomad of the earth, and the old wise woman whose soul soared through the clouds, far above the ugliness of the world.


    ***


    As the day grew long, the warband came to a stop near a small stream that twisted westwards, feeding into a great river that carved through the plains like a giant scar. Beyond the river¡¯s northern bank, Yesugei saw the high grasses once more gave way to ash-covered forest - the boundary of Kangar lands.


    When they stopped, Yesugei sat on a rock, trying to ignore the growling of his stomach. The warband did not lack for food, but even so they fed their captives only the bare minimum to keep going. Yesterday¡¯s meal of two heels of stale bread and half a sausage sparked a scuffle among them like dogs, much to the amusement of Stribor¡¯s weary men.


    One of the warriors must have heard his growling stomach, for Yesugei saw a lancer reach into one of the burlap sacks on the supply wagons and ride up to him. The cavalryman leaned down and held up a thin strip of dripping horse meat before him - and it took all his effort to resist the urge to leap up and devour it from the man¡¯s hands.


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    The warrior grinned as he waved the flesh in front of his face, sprinkling him with stinking blood.


    ¡°Want a taste, Khormchak?¡± the man laughed, holding the flesh just out of reach. ¡°If you do some tricks for me perhaps-¡±


    A familiar whistle cut through the warrior¡¯s words like a knife. Yesugei stiffened as hot blood splattered his face. When he opened his eyes, he saw the lancer slumped in his saddle - his eyes wide in surprise at the arrow sticking through his throat.


    ¡°Archers! Down!¡± came a shriek up ahead of the column. A rain of hissing arrows fell upon them all, thudding into wagons, horses, and men. Chaos erupted to the screams of injured warriors and steeds, and then there was the clamor of drawn swords.


    ¡°Shieldwall! Shieldwall! Get your shields up!¡± roared the druzhinniks as they trampled along the column.


    The lancer in front of Yesugei slipped from the saddle and crumpled to the dirt. He searched frantically for Vasilisa, and saw her atop her mount, turning in confused circles - looking for the archers, or perhaps for him.


    The thrums of a dozen bowstrings now sounded crystal-clear, and the air filled with arrows once more. Yesugei grabbed a longknife from the dead lancer, then threw himself under one of the wagons. When the iron rain passed, he slashed at the chafing rope around his neck.


    In three feeble strikes the rope fell apart - and for a moment he felt as though he could truly fly.


    ¡°There!¡± shouted someone over the chaos of the terrified herd of warriors. ¡°There, in the grass!¡±


    The earth trembled as several druzhinniks tore out across the plains, their destriers throwing up clouds of dust and ash. He squinted his eyes into the distance, and saw a dozen figures leap up from the high grass and break before the armored charge - screaming and howling in Khormchak.


    No¡­he thought as he saw the druzhinniks rushing for the bowmen. This was not right. Even the Kangar would not send out lone archers to attack.


    ¡°Stop!¡± cried Stribor at the druzhinniks, but they were too far, or too enraged to care. For an armored cavalrymen, a gang of fleeing archers was too enticing a prey to let flee. ¡°Stop, you fools!¡±


    Another volley of arrows struck from the flank, cutting through the armored riders before more Kangar rose up from the high grasses, bringing their resting horses to the ready. The ambushers and those who fled loosed arrows from all sides, felling the druzhinniks one by one until none remained.


    ¡°Wagons! Circle the wagons!¡± came the cry from Stribor¡¯s lieutenant - the pox-scarred one who had the sense to see the trap. Yesugei scrambled out from his hiding spot before the iron-shod wheels could crush him.


    All around, screaming and panicked whinnies sounded, punctuated by the thudding of arrows into shields and wagons as Stribor¡¯s men rolled their caravan into a crude fortress. The Kangar - clad in sheepskin, armed with lances and bows - swept in from all sides, shooting arrow after arrow at leisure into the panicked fray. Their shots fell deadly and accurately - Yesugei saw one spearman take an arrow to his unprotected neck, and another through the eye slit of his helm.


    "Torch!" Hecellon shouted, struggling to control his bucking palfrey. "Torch! Someone give me a torch!"


    Amid the chaos, a druzhinnik cracked open a barrel and tossed him an unlit torch. Hecellon caught it midair, then bit into his wrist, spraying blood. The oil-soaked rag ignited instantly, casting a fiery tail as Hecellon swung it like a blade and aimed at the charging Kangar. Another volley of arrows streaked overhead as the sorcerer whispered and hurled the torch.


    Yesugei''s eyes followed the spinning flame. Some riders faltered at the sight, but the charge pressed on.


    Cracks formed along the torch¡¯s shaft, spilling a red light before the whole torch flashed as bright as the sun. A deafening roar followed as it exploded into a thousand burning splinters, raining fire on the horsemen.


    This time it was the Kangar who screamed rose as dust and ash swirled. Yesugei glimpsed riderless Khormchak steeds trampling in every direction while their masters writhed on the ground. The splinters seared through robes and flesh like wax under flame.


    Hecellon doubled over in agony, clutching his bleeding wrist and coughing from the strain. The Kangar riders slowed briefly, assessing their losses, before their leader barked out orders - pointing out the sorcerer in the Klyazmites¡¯ midst. As Hecellon prepared another spell, an arrow pierced his palm, pinning it to his shoulder. A second shot to his chest dropped the sorcerer from his saddle. Exhausted, he crumpled to the ground, unable to scream.


    A retreating spearman dragged the sorcerer to the safety of the wagon-fort as the Kangar laughed. Their leader raised his sword, and the survivors charged anew.


    ¡°Yesugei!¡± Vasilisa¡¯s shout snapped him back to the moment. She galloped toward him on her courser, and he knew there would be no time to act but now.


    Nearby, the dead lancer¡¯s horse was walking off and snorting in confusion, dragging its master¡¯s body by his stuck heel. Yesugei pulled the dead man from the stirrup, and mounted his stallion as the rest of his captors rushed to save their own hides.


    When he sat atop the horse, it felt more than familiar.


    It felt like home.


    The other captives huddled like sheep, too terrified to move. The mule that pulled the wagon their necks were bound to lay dead in the grass, and even the strongest of the men were too feeble to rip free from their bonds. Galya¡¯s child clung to her, wailing into her tattered skirt, while the old woman stood defiant, clutching her branch as if she meant to clobber the Kangar if they came near.


    ¡°Please, help!¡± cried the blond man who had first spoken to him in the pen. He was trying to gnaw through the rope around his neck when he looked up at Yesugei. There it is. Terror. Hope.


    ¡°Take us with you!¡± cried someone else from the pack.


    There were nearly a dozen of them, but he had only one knife. The window to run was shrinking. Yesugei hesitated briefly, then threw the knife before the blond man.


    ¡°Save yourselves, all of you!¡± he shouted to the dirty, terrified faces that peered up at him. ¡°The tribesmen want Stribor¡¯s food and treasure, not his starving slaves. Run for the river, the woods, and the nomads will bother to follow you.¡±


    He looked to the old woman, who was already rubbing her neck as the blond man cut her free. Suffer and live¡­


    And then he snapped the reins, and did not look back.


    Vasilisa met him halfway along the arrow-strewn road, and Yesugei marveled that neither of them had been struck in the Kangars¡¯ deadly hail. The dust and ash kicked up by charging horses formed a swirling cloud, and he nearly collided with the princess as they drew together. Ahead he glimpsed Stribor¡¯s men in formation - shining helmets, spears and axes clashing their shields - daring the Kangar to give charge.


    ¡°We need to break for the river,¡± Yesugei said, squinting through the dust at Vasilisa. ¡°Let the starving wolves tear each other to pieces.¡±


    ¡°What about the others?¡± she replied, shielding her eyes from the swirling clouds.


    ¡°The Kangar do not lack for slaves. And if times are to be hard, they do not need more mouths to feed.¡±


    Vasilisa hesitated, studying him, but time was running short, and the princess knew it. She nodded reluctantly, then turned her own horse towards the riverbank.


    They began their mad dash together, and Yesugei crouched low in the as stray arrows hissed overhead, one so closely he felt the fletching brush his back.


    The Kangar moved as a single thundering wave at the Klyazmite footmen, howling ¡°Kill! Kill! Kill!¡± in Khormchak. The spearmen braced their shields as they prepared to meet the charge - only for the Kangar to veer parallel to the bristling spearwall, loosing their arrows a foot away. A tactic as old as time - and one which several of Stribor¡¯s greener men paid dearly for as they fell.


    None of the Kangar seemed interested in pursuing the two riders fleeing from the battlefield as they wheeled for another charge, but then Yesugei saw Vasilisa turn away from him. Before he could call her back, she galloped toward the circled wagons and Stribor, who trotted his destrier in a slow circle, rallying his men with three arrows lodged in his chest.


    Yesugei jerked his horse to a stop, preparing to rush to Vasilisa¡¯s side as he saw the princess ride up behind the shouting boyar and yank his dagger free from his belt. Before he could shout, Vasilisa slashed the silver blade through his throat in a red blur. As the boyar toppled from his saddle, Vasilisa rode off with the Apostle¡¯s cleaver, its leather cord twisting wildly in the wind.


    If Stribor¡¯s men saw their lord fall, they valued their own skin more than avening their master. No-one dared to rush out of the shieldwall for Vasilisa as the Baskords turned to charge once more.


    Vasilisa turned her face from his furious gaze as she urged her horse forward. ¡°I could not let him keep it. Not while we still need proof of what¡¯s coming for us all.¡±


    Yesugei bit back a scathing reply. They could argue later, once they reached the safety of the rolling, endless woods. Behind them, the battle raged - and then Yesugei realized he heard hoofbeats drawing closer.


    A Kangar horseman appeared at his side, his bow at full draw. The nomad''s arrow whistled through the air, and Yesugei¡¯s stallion screamed as the arrow struck home, slipping from its gallop before collapsing.


    His whole world tilted violently in a moment that seemed like it would never end - and then both he and the stallion came crashing down.


    The taste of blood sprang to his mouth, and when he opened his eyes he saw the Kangar archer was drawing closer - eager to capture easy prey as the rest of his comrades pinned Stribor''s men. Yesugei tried to turn over on the ashen ground, but the weight of his collapsed horse rooted him to the earth.


    Vasilisa¡­where-?


    He gritted his teeth through the pain as his blurry vision danced across the open steppe. He saw a courser in the distance - dapple-grey - and its rider - a spotty figure in a gray mantle decorated with pale suns that fluttered in the wind.


    He saw Vasilisa look back and turn her horse, the Apostle¡¯s blade in hand.


    ¡°NO!¡± he bellowed, the cords in his voice straining. ¡°Vasilisa, run! RUN!¡±


    Whether she heard him or not, he didn¡¯t know. With the last of his strength he clawed at the ground, trying to free himself, but the weight held him fast. His strength ebbed as he slumped in defeat, brushing one hand along the dry, cracked earth.


    The Kangar horseman''s shadow loomed over him, sneering. "You are far from home, Qarakesek."


    The last thing he remembered seeing was a flake of ash coming to rest on his open hand, and then he closed his eyes.


    The ash came down and down - its fall neverending.


    I swore an oath.


    I cannot die.


    Not now.

 Chapter 20 - The Stars Above

    The Stars Above


    <hr>


    "RUN!¡± echoed the voice in her ears.


    RUN! it sounded again at her back as arrows fell and horses thundered across the plains.


    Yesugei¡¯s voice followed her long after he was swallowed by the high grass, hounding her through the woods. She urged her horse forward, iron-shod hooves trampling through lacerating shrubs and bushes as low-hanging tree branches whipped and scratched her face.


    The plains were distant now, but the screams clung to the woods all around her, grasping like fingers to pull her back into the nightmare. If she looked back, she feared she would see it all again - Yesugei crushed beneath his horse, yelling for her to run - and then the shame would crash over her all over again.


    The sensation of the horse beneath her faded, becoming as much a part of her as the familiar weight of the Shargaz resting in her arm. By the time night shrouded the dense woods, the horse¡¯s frenzied pace slowed to an exhausted crawl, and soon it could bear her no longer. She dismounted carefully - the terror that had driven her through the fading day dissolved into an empty, hollow exhaustion. She sank to the ground - and knew she wouldn¡¯t rise for a long while.


    High above, the skies had cleared at last. The night looked strangely beautiful after seven days of empty darkness. The moon was hidden by the trees, but she had never seen so many stars in her life. The snout of the Dragon rose near the zenith, and below it was the Scorpion with its raised stinger. There was the Stallion rearing up across the east, and the Huntsman striding out from the west, half-hidden by the canopy. The stars shone tirelessly, their cold beauty untouched by the madness consuming the world below.


    She longed to weep, but the tears would not come. The emptiness that replaced her tears was vast, and nothing could fill it. Still, the stars above shone as brightly as ever, indifferent to her sorrow.


    How can they look so beautiful? wondered Vasilisa, her thoughts growing tired and scattered.


    How can the stars look so beautiful while the world is so ugly?


    ***


    When she closed her eyes, she felt herself falling - falling endlessly through a dark, clouded sky. There was no moon, no stars, no lights to guide her sight - only the bitter cold of the wind that rushed against her face and fluttered through her hair.


    When she peered down from the clouds, the ground seemed so far below that she could only make out the vaguest outlines of the sentinel trees that rose up from the ground like spears. She could feel how fast she was falling, and she knew what awaited her when she hit the ground - even in dreams, one could not fall for an eternity. She would wake up before she hit the ground - or if it was a nightmare, perhaps she would see herself skewered by the treetops before awakening. But the pain would not come - she would always wake up before the pain.


    And what if this is no dream? A soft voice whispered, though it seemed to come from all around her as she fell.


    ¡°It must be a dream,¡± she replied. She grasped at the fading wisps of her memories, and remembered how she had fallen asleep - shrouded in the misery of the world that was now rushing up to break her fall. ¡°If this isn¡¯t a dream - then I will die. The ground will break me into a thousand pieces.¡±


    How do you know you cannot fly? spoke the voice, light and mocking. Have you ever tried?


    She had come close to trying - once. When she was a little girl - no older than six - she had climbed one of the towers of the Great Hall and sat on its tiled roof. Stavr and Pyotr, boys themselves, had called her stupid for climbing so high - but they said so from a distance, lingering by the windows as they craned their heads up to look at her.


    She stayed there all through the night, and when the lights of the sky appeared she remembered how they had sung to her then - they called her to join them in the heavens, beautiful and eternal. But when she tried to reach for them - the Dragon, the Scorpion, the three Star-Maidens and all the others - she realized she was only a girl, and that she was afraid. Afraid to leap. Afraid to fly, for fear that she would fall.


    The ground rushed toward her faster, and below she saw something twisting between the sentinel trees - lurking, waiting, hungering. Terror lanced and spread through her chest as she glanced down at the waiting darkness. Though she told herself it was all a dream, she felt her own whispered words now rattled hollow.


    ¡°Please,¡± she managed to choke out to the darkness of the night sky. ¡°Help me.¡±


    What do you think I am trying to do? came the voice.


    A spot in the clouds twisted and darkened. The shadows took on a vivid form, swirling into the form of a man, his robe twisting and flapping violently in the wind as he descended to her level.


    Golden eyes opened to meet her own.


    ¡°You are dead,¡± she muttered to Chirlan, attempting to sound sharp, but it came out a squeak.


    Am I? The sorcerer asked wordlessly, his smile twisting into a coy grin. His face glowed with life, a warmth she never saw in the waking world, yet something felt wrong. She felt as though she were peering into the mind of another, a shadow of a memory from a life lived eons ago. The Chirlan she knew was cold, lifeless, his corpse rotting alone in a cavern beyond time.


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    ¡°I saw your corpse festering in the waters. You are dead - nothing more than a rotten spirit. Why do you torment me?¡±


    Aren¡¯t I supposed to be helping you? Chirlan said, his smile turning grim. His gaze flicked to the ground below. A far greater torment than anything I can manage waits for you down there.


    His words seemed to further stir whatever lay down there in the woods. The ground trembled beneath her, and the darkness stirred with hissing, the roar of a crowd, the tolling of bells, and a bitter cry. Let go.


    ¡°This is just a dream,¡± she whispered. ¡°It must be a dream. None of this is real. And when I hit the ground, I will wake up.¡±


    When you hit the ground, you will die. Chirlan¡¯s voice rang through her mind. The voice in her head was no longer mocking - she sensed the urgency in his words. She sensed his fear.


    ¡°What am I to do?¡± she asked.


    The ground was drawing nearer - the darkness was growing closer. Soon it would swallow her whole, and she would either wake up, or she would die.


    I told you already, the sorcerer spoke voicelessly. Remember who you are - who you must become. Fly!


    He reached for her with a clawed hand, his golden armbands jingling as she fell faster, sucked toward the hissing void.


    Fly with me, now! he urged, fear in his eyes as the darkness surged to swallow them both. He would not leave her - they were bound. If she was to die, then he would die with her.


    Fly, or die.


    She reached for Chirlan¡¯s hand. As soon as their fingers touched, pain shot through her as the sorcerer¡¯s gold-tipped claws sank deep into her skin. Her fall slowed, as though she had landed into a pool of water. Below her, the dark tendrils and impaling sentinel trees faded. The ground below melted and swirled into a uniform, unbroken plane as smooth as ice.


    Her feet touched the ground gently, settling onto the floor. As she looked up to speak to Chirlan, only the glittering stars greeted her - a thousand twinkling lights, every one a dream, and every dream nurtured by a Dreamer.


    They grow fewer every passing day, whispered Chirlan¡¯s voice from all around. The Dreamers will soon awaken. The world below rings its death knell even now.


    The heavens stretched endlessly, but as Vasilisa tried to focus on one star, a scar ripped across the night sky - crossing from one side of the endless heavens to the other. Then another crack appeared, then another, and another. Like a growing spider¡¯s web, the cracks in the night sky spread until the heavens shattered into a mosaic of a thousand pieces.


    In the shattered sky, she saw them - the dreams.


    She saw the smoking ruins of a city as though she were a star herself - watching from high on. As she traced her eyes from one end of the city to another, the cobblestone streets and the great stone towers made themselves known to her memory. If she looked hard enough, she wondered if she could see a little girl sitting atop the roof of the tallest of the bastions.


    She cast her gaze about the city, and looked to the Elder Tree, the last of the ancient, immortal oaks that once stood upon the hill of Belnopyl. The tree was no longer there - in its place stood a giantess with skin like bark, her eyes closed, her feet rooted to the earth. Long arms stretched up to the sky - from the tips of her fingers thin boughs sprouted, and from each branch were leaves full of life. The goddess¡¯ chest was hollow, a dark, yawning pit from which a slow, steady stream of silver water trickled. Vasilisa¡¯s eyes lingered upon the woman¡¯s face, but then her eyes opened with a flash, and then the dream was broken.


    She then looked towards the east, and in the glinting light she saw another dream - one of fire and choking sulfur, ash and death. A great valley was awash in a sea of flame and molten stone that poured from a broken mountain. In the midst of the flames and boiling heat were a dozen men dressed in the silks and gold of kings - and all knelt before a broken, bitter man whose heart burned through his chest. The king of kings turned his gaze to the sky, and his howl rang far and wide across the burning steppe. The shadow that stretched from his form cast a pair of dark wings upon the valley, and swallowed it whole.


    She looked away from the flaming valley, then turned her eyes north. Higher and higher she rose, past the dark forests, past the taiga, on and on. She went into the frozen waste, and saw sprawled beneath her a great lake. In the deep of night, the surface of the lake seemed like a portal to the heavens - its smooth, unbroken surface reflecting all the lights of the sky above.


    Two figures danced and twirled upon the surface of the water - one a man with a bright sword, and the other a woman, with skin like cracked stone, wielding a black knife. For a moment she thought she could make out Yesugei¡¯s features in the grim face of the man, but then a cloud passed over both of them. When it left, the dancers were gone - and there was another vision.


    A woman, cloaked in pale suns, knelt upon the surface of the lake. Eleven motes of fire circled her brow, and a twelfth burned in her hands, searing the flesh from her fingers. Vasilisa recognized herself, weathered and broken, yet also regal and proud. A woman her mother and father would be proud to call their daughter. She raised the mote of light to the sky, then opened her mouth, and swallowed the burning star.


    The swallowed flame burned brightly in her chest, and she turned her face to the sky, lips parting in a scream of agony. Then from her mouth a pale sword erupted, burning away the earth and sky.


    The dreams began to fade, and the shattered night sky began to fall.


    The lights in the sky faded one by one as the shards fell from the heavens. As they fell, the shards became spines long and sharp, the death of the dreams leaving them darker than night.


    The Dreamers fell from the heavens, and where they pierced the ground death washed across the land in a great, suffocating wave. She saw death reaching for her, howling and screaming.


    Now you know what you must do, Chirlan¡¯s voice whispered to her as death rushed to embrace her. Now you know why you must live. The Mother¡¯s water, the kiss of fire, the swallowed star. The Question¡­the question of all mortal men¡­it must be yours¡­


    The hand of death reached out to her, and as it grasped for her the darkness shuddered and swirled around her as it ripped away like a veil.


    She saw the grasping hand was not of shadows, but of solid flesh and bone, decorated with golden jewelry. A man with light copper skin and long black hair streaked with white leaned over her. His eyes - two pools of molten gold with dark pits in their center - locked onto hers.


    Chirlan smiled. The cruel curve of his dark, dead lips sent a shiver through her.


    ¡°You are not dead yet,¡± he said, his voice soft and mocking. ¡°So live, Vasilisa. Live¡­and suffer.¡±

 Chapter 21 - The Herald

    The Herald


    <hr>


    The cool waters of the Cherech glittered as a few precious rays of the morning sun poked out from the gray clouds overhead.


    The fisherman from Denev, his eyes bloodshot, sat on the stern of his skiff, fiddling with his net and savoring the river¡¯s peace and quiet. His brother¡¯s laughter rang out from behind him, and the fisherman wondered, What does he have to laugh about? There¡¯s nothing funny about this whole mess.


    Over the last few days, it seemed something had happened at the capitol city to the north. Rumors from the nearby villages spoke of everything from dark magic cast by Grand Prince Igor, to a catastrophic flour fire. Only a messenger bearing Belnopyl¡¯s bear sigil who came to Denev a week ago seemed to know the truth, but he had come and gone quickly, speaking only to the boyar Zinoviy, who remained silent.


    Still, the fisherman noticed how things had changed since the messenger¡¯s arrival. The boyar¡¯s soldiers, once content to idle in their lord¡¯s keep, now patrolled regularly around the outskirts of town. And more worryingly, boyar¡¯s scribe had come down to count how many hearths were in town, how many freeholder families there were, and how many of those families had young fathers or adult sons.


    War. Gods damn it, it¡¯s a war!


    The fisherman wanted to silence the townfolk¡¯s mindless gossip with his suspicions, but that would have only caused the tension hanging over Denev to snap into panic. And the last thing anyone needed was panic - Denev was a quiet town, its people were humble and hard-working, and its boyar decent enough. Besides, even if the townsfolk did know of the coming war, there was nothing they could do about it. The freeholders had sworn their oaths of service to boyar Zinoviy when they took up residence on his lands, and the thought of fleeing the call to arms and going outlaw was only a foolish dream.


    Most of the men in Denev were young and untempered by war - if called, they would likely jump at the chance to seek out glory in battle or wealth from looting their boyar¡¯s enemies. But those were the thoughts of young men, their heads filled with stories of valor. But the humble fisherman, at nearly fifty summers old, longed only for a life as peaceful and quiet as the Cherech.


    ¡°Look!¡±


    His brother called to him - it seemed even the peace of the Cherech was to be intruded upon today.


    ¡°What?¡± grunted the fisherman, turning to see his brother holding something in his hand.


    His eyes widened at the dull shine of a gold coin stamped with the Belnopyl sigil. Golden coins¡ªzlatniks¡ªwere a rarity for most folk, merely imaginary figures in merchants¡¯ ledgers or the boyar¡¯s taxes. Most went their whole lives only ever dealing in silver, as was the way of the common folk. To see a zlatnik in person, much less hold it, was surreal. Trembling, the fisherman unconsciously reached to touch the treasure.


    ¡°Where did you find this?¡± he gasped.


    ¡°In the water,¡± his brother said, pointing to a dark chunk of wood that bobbed past their skiff. ¡°It was just lying there.¡±


    As they looked north, more pieces of wood drifted down the Cherech. It wasn¡¯t just stray debris¡ªit was wreckage.


    Soon they were surrounded by the wreck - painted boards, soaked carpets, and other debris. One large piece of wood, painted with a maiden in white, floated past. Its eye sockets gaped like wounds.


    ¡°Look at all this¡­¡± whispered the fisherman to his brother. ¡°Do you think a merchant¡¯s vessel sank? We haven¡¯t had any storms lately but maybe-¡±


    ¡°Brother, over there!¡±


    The fisherman looked out into the distance, squinting as he struggled to make out what his brother¡¯s sharper, younger eyes had spotted.


    ¡°What is it?¡± the fisherman asked as his eyes scanned the water.


    His brother pointed out at a large cluster of floating debris. ¡°Look there! A lady in the water! She¡¯s holding on to something!¡±


    The fisherman rowed the skiff carefully, angling the boat so they drifted to a near stop right next to the figure in the water. The woman was dressed in a strange, foreign garb that was once rich, but now tattered and covered in blood. She looked as though the smallest lap of the waves would send her sliding off the fragment of debris she held onto.


    ¡°Careful with the net!¡± shouted the fisherman as his brother tossed it over the woman¡¯s corpse and dragged her to the edge of the skiff. ¡°Pull gently - we don¡¯t know how long she¡¯s been in the water. You¡¯ll rip her to shreds the way you¡¯re pulling her in.¡±


    ¡°Her damn hands are stuck to the board!¡±


    The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.


    ¡°Then pry them off! It¡¯s the death grip.¡±


    The skiff lightly dipped to one side as they wrenched the woman free from the pull of the Cherech, dropping her onto the floor of the boat with a great splash.


    ¡°Gods above, look at her!¡± cried his brother.


    Turned onto her back, the woman¡¯s dark-gray guts were on full display, hanging from her open stomach like in the grotesque tapestries. Her chest was malformed, caved in by a blow that shattered all her ribs. A dark red line traced across her pale throat.


    The fisherman resisted the urge to gag, but his brother could not, and he retched over the side of the skiff.


    He drew closer to the woman¡¯s corpse. Blessedly, her eyes were closed. If it wasn¡¯t for the gruesome mauling of her body, the fisherman could almost pretend she was simply asleep.


    Something dark gleamed in her chest - a thin black crystal, thrust straight into her woman¡¯s heart like a dagger. The fisherman prayed the crystal was the first blow, a mercy killing before whoever murdered the woman chopped her body up and dumped it into the Cherech.


    The woman¡¯s garb suggested nobility, though her face and style marked her as a foreigner. The fisherman¡¯s mind raced at the implications of a murdered foreign noblewoman, but he stopped short. He was only a fisherman, and all he wanted was a life peaceful and quiet. Dead nobles were not his concern - after all, this woman had really turned up in the domain of his boyar, and it was Zinoviy who would need to investigate what had happened.


    The fisherman looked to his brother, who looked green as algae. ¡°We need to take her to Boyar Zinoviy. He¡¯ll know what to do.¡±


    ¡°There might be more bodies out there.¡±


    ¡°And we only have one boat. We¡¯ll bring this one to Zinoviy, and his men can search the river for any others.¡±


    His brother fell quiet as they covered the woman with a damp cloth, and then turned the skiff back towards the riverbank. Denev was near the river, and the boyar¡¯s home was right in the center of the town. As they neared land, the fisherman instructed his brother to disembark and fetch help - a cart and the boyar¡¯s druzhina. His brother was much faster than he, and more uneasy around the dead woman - he sped off without complaint.


    Soon the riverbank was quiet once more, and the fisherman took a seat on a mossy log next to the laid-out corpse. As he sat he felt his mind begin to wander, thinking of the dead woman even as he tried to direct his thoughts elsewhere. But try as he might, he felt his curiosity slowly getting the better of him. Once he was certain no-one was watching, he examined the body again.


    A jade amulet hung from her tarnished silver belt. It caught the light beautifully, and the fisherman slipped it into the folds of his footwraps after a moment¡¯s hesitation.


    His eyes then fell on the crystal in her chest. Up close, he saw that it did not reflect the sparse morning light. Instead, a strange, undulating murkiness lurked within - splashes of purple, blue, and vibrant yellows appearing and disappearing beneath the sharp surface.


    The crystal was no longer a curiosity. He needed it.


    The fisherman didn¡¯t even realize he was already reaching for the crystal - his hand moved of its own accord. It felt as though a strange force was directing his grasp, but strangely, the fisherman found that he did not mind. His thoughts felt cloudy - a suffocating fog blanketed all his senses, and the only thing that mattered now was pulling free the crystal.


    No concern. No fear. No confusion.


    He surrendered comfortably to the strange force invading his mind, turning him into a spectator of his own body''s actions as he pulled the crystal free from the woman''s chest with a wet schlick - then placed it against the quivering bump of his throat.


    Invisible hands wrapped around his chest from behind in a soft, unseen embrace. Cold lips pressed against his ear, whispering a terrible truth into his mind as the force controlling his body gave its name.


    Vaal, Mistress of Water, Font of Life.


    In an instant, the world swirled before the fisherman - swallowing up the view of the colorful trees and gray skies and plunging him into a dark, distant corner of his own mind as his hands moved by Vaal¡¯s will.


    He saw the swirling muddy darkness of the Cherech river, and then the darkness shrank into the eye of a small fish curled up inside an egg, its heart pulsing with blood and the promise of vibrant life.


    The egg broke apart as the fish struggled free, and in the blink of an eye he saw the fish grow into a mighty female sturgeon, swimming through the Cherech. She swam, she mated, she released her eggs, and then she surrendered to the cycle of life - but not before setting the stage for the cycle to begin anew, again, and again, and again.


    He saw a thousand-thousand repetitions of the cycle, stretching on and back for eons, his mind pulled apart in two directions through time as the fisherman opened his mouth in a silent scream into the void. The visions of the future and the past, the visions of life itself, flashed through his shattering mind in an instant that lasted forever - and then it was all over.


    Hot blood spurted down the front of his shirt, trickling down his chest and dripping onto the dark, moist earth. But for the fisherman, there was no pain. Only the endless cycle of life, where there was no beginning and no end. Life for life, and the cycle continued on and on.


    The cool dirt felt like a blessed balm on his burning skin as he collapsed to the ground.


    As he took his final strangled breaths, he felt the strange being leave his mind - leaving him to die alone in the middle of the woods, where animals would eat his corpse, and the mushrooms and moss would strike a prosperous domain from his decomposed remains.


    The cycle continues on and on.


    Where one life ends, another may begin.


    Rise, child of the stars.


    The eyes of the fisherman from Denev fluttered shut.


    And Khariija¡¯s eyes opened.


    <hr>


    BOOK 1 END

 Book 2, Chapter -300,000: The Last Book

    The Last Book


    Recorded by the Black Scribe Thu¡¯ban


    <hr>


    Chapter 13


    1 Of the coming of the prophet, 5 Of agony, 9 Of resplendence


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    1 And lo, I shall unfurl my sign, a comet bright as blood,


    2 To rend the heavens, shake the earth, and loose the coming flood.


    3 For in that day the Vessel shall arise, from death and shadow born,


    4 To bear eyes to mortal sin and herald time¡¯s new morn.


    5 First shall they drink the Mother¡¯s tears, and taste her bitter flow.


    6 Then shall they feel the kiss of fire, and burn but not let go.


    7 At last a star to swallow, to take the blazing core,


    8 Through agony their fate is sealed, to open ruin¡¯s door.

 Book 2, Chapter 0 - The Abomination

    The Abomination


    <hr>


    The sun broke through the clouds and warmed the city of Albina-Suzdal¡ªits walls, towers, streets, and tiny gardens bathed in golden light. Distant mountains, green-yellow at their bases, gleamed with fresh snow. Trees bristled with bright leaves, and a cool breeze carried the whispers of rustling branches. Yet beneath it all, only Khariija sensed the earth¡¯s quiet warnings. The city¡¯s peace felt drawn tight - a thin string that was beginning to fray and come apart fiber by fiber.


    She slipped out from the hollow of a lonely tree in a lonely corner of the city¡¯s slums. When her feet touched the ground her legs buckled, and she managed only a few steps before falling to her knees. Black blood gushed from the Herald¡¯s nose and fell in large, poisonous drops onto the ground. When she touched her face, her fingers came away with strips of rotting skin clinging to them.


    Panic flared. Her spells had never drained her like this before. Her body was failing, unraveling with every miracle she cast. Soon, she would cease to be Cirina, the only face her daughter had known. But not yet. There was still time - time to find her, time to beg her for forgiveness. Vasilisa¡­


    Cirina caught her breath, then broke the glyph over the lonely tree. The gnarled wood twisted, supple as flesh, and sealed the passage.


    Strength returned to her with every step she took down the alleyways, following the sounds of the distant market crowd. A drying line caught her eye; with a flick of her finger, a tunic floated down. Over her ruined face she wrapped a scarf, and in a matter of moments Cirina of Belnopyl became another nameless soul in the city¡¯s streets.


    The market¡¯s bright colors loomed ahead. Her breath hitched. Her hands trembled. She was afraid¡ªtruly afraid¡ªfor the first time in years.


    She swallowed her fears, and stepped into the city square.


    The roar of the fairground swelled deafeningly - the summer market was in full swing. Traders were called for buyers or to each other; peasants frantically clutched limp wallets; hawkers at every corner jostled for the choicest spots in the market. It was a scene of pure, frantic chaos - a chattering mass of sheer humanity that nearly swept Cirina off her feet.


    Townsfolk parted unknowingly before her, their eyes skimming past without truly seeing. None perceived the decay beneath her hood. Her lingering power worked subtly¡ªshe could command fascination or cast a fog over minds, steering attention elsewhere. She had no need for terror, no desire to rouse the Dreamers from their slumber.


    It seemed that only the wayward Herald of Vaal knew exactly where she was going as she navigated the market, keeping her hood held low. The townspeople parted unknowingly before her like waters under the keel of a boat. All were blind to the sloughing flesh and rot beneath her hood. Her lingering power worked subtly¡ªshe could command fascination or cast a fog over minds, steering attention elsewhere. She had no need for terror, no desire to rouse the Dreamers from their slumber.


    The shop stood as she remembered - a squat, timbered hall with windows half-obscured by curtains. A small sign hanging above the heavy wooden door marked it as a place of business for ship captains - those who needed loans and binders to protect the value of their goods from the Shipbreaker¡¯s Tide. When Cirina had come by last, the shop had dealt in tomes and books - but perhaps its master had grown tired of the monotony of ink and old parchment. More likely however, he had simply read every book there ever was, and decided he would move on to some different pastime to wile away the years.


    After all, it was a boring lot to be an immortal.


    When she stepped into the merchant¡¯s hall she was immediately hit by the scent of a dozen burning candles and lamps - a strange, exotic mix of different incenses that twisted together into a queer smell. The shopkeep - a stocky, black-bearded, jovial fellow - seemed elderly only because of the wrinkles that thickly covered his face. But each one of the lines upon his face found use when he laughed, and his neighbors knew him to laugh much in life.


    He was humming when the door swung open. At first, he took her for another merchant, but when he saw her, the tune withered in his throat. A shadow passed over the face of the insurer. When it cleared, his eyes had become vast, lightless pits that draw in the light of the burning candles. With a flick of his hand the door slammed shut, and a divine glyph flared upon the heavy oak¡ªits magic gently turning away any who had come with business, sending them elsewhere by unseen command.


    ¡°Here you are, sister-slave,¡± said the shopkeep with poison in his voice. ¡°And just as I thought no other worms would turn up from this shit-stained earth.¡±


    ¡°You speak as though you yourself were not left behind,¡± Cirina remarked with reciprocal hostility, pulling up a seat in one corner of the shop. ¡°What¡¯s your name this time?¡±


    The merchant smiled wickedly. ¡°Abzu was the name given by the Majesties, and shall always be my true name. Though Vitomir will not offend, if you need to call upon this shell.¡±


    ¡°So you, Vitomir, are still a merchant?¡± Cirina spoke, casting her eyes about the shelves of spices, fine cloths, and the pile of scrawled contracts and ledgers that lay on the table before Abzu. ¡°So many papers - I could never hope to bother. Don''t you grow tired of the hassle?¡±


    ¡°There are certain¡­benefits to partaking in the mortals'' commerce. They gossip like you wouldn''t believe, if you pretend you''ve even half an interest in their babble,¡± spoke Abzu, sliding out from behind his table. He treaded lightly in her presence - he was unaware of her gnawing weakness, she realized. ¡°What about you, Khariija?¡±


    ¡°Call me Cirina - that is my only name,¡± suggested the Herald.


    ¡°I do not like the sound of it,¡± Abzu winced. ¡°A mortal name for a mortal shell. Khariija, Chirlan, Eridu...those will always be your true names.¡±


    ¡°The true names of slaves,¡± Cirina retorted. ¡°All of us are slaves. Our only difference is that I find my collar too chafing to bear."


    ¡°What a firebrand,¡± Abzu smirked. He stepped closer towards her, his hands falling to his side. ¡°The brave Khariija, who dared to spit in the eyes of the gods. Too bad it was all for naught, in the end.¡±


    ¡°Five hundred years of peace isn¡¯t for naught,¡± spoke the Herald, standing up from her seat and drawing up to her full height.


    ¡°Five hundred years is nothing,¡± snarled back the Apostle of Vaal. ¡°You think with the tiny mind of a mortal - what did you get for those five hundred years, and the damning of your name? Did the slave race find some great salvation? Did they discover some higher truths, or a way to turn back the Majesties? Did they prove themselves worthy of anything more than wanton violence and their disgusting, endless rape of this world?¡±


    The Apostle¡¯s hatred rolled off his mortal form in thick waves, intoxicating and suffocating. Cirina almost felt herself pulled into the darkness, but she steeled her mind at the last moment - peering over the precipice, but not slipping into it. There was an ancient hatred within Abzu¡¯s soul, but had not always been so. It had first begun as disappointment in the creations of the Majesties, but in time disappointment gave way to frustration, and frustration to hatred.


    Wrath, ignorance, greed, pride¡­humanity¡¯s myriad failings ran on for bleak eternity, never changing, never rising above their base instincts and their imperfections. And over the years, in the absence of the Majesties, the endless cycles brought new, dark thoughts. What if humanity did not wish to find enlightenment?


    What if the Majesties¡¯ retreat from their perfect world was all for naught?


    What if the millenia spent lost and adrift in the cold and the darkness had been for nothing?


    What then?


    What then?


    Suddenly the darkness pulled back, and Cirina sensed no more, save a tinge of embarrassment from Abzu over the baring of his naked soul. Once the last tendril of shadow crept back into his human form, the Apostle shrugged his shoulders. ¡°Either way, it doesn''t matter. The question of humanity was decided long ago - and this time, the Majesties¡¯ return is certain.¡±


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    His lips parted into a mocking smile. ¡°Old allies have become enemies, and there remain no more lovestruck fools to be deceived, Khariija. Your five hundred years were for naught, regardless of what delusions you might cling to. This Harvest shall be the last - and the mistake that is humanity will be corrected, or erased.¡±


    The Apostle''s declaration hung in the air for a still, silent moment. Then Cirina spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, ¡°And yet you do not speak the whole truth.¡±


    Abzu''s eyebrows drew together as he fixed her with a stern, questioning gaze, his teeth bared in annoyance. ¡°What, have you some other desperate trick? Or were you somehow able to seduce Eridu away from the path of fate this time?¡±


    ¡°It''s nothing that I have done,¡± hissed back Cirina. ¡°You sense it too, don''t you? Or perhaps not - you are not a Herald. There is something different this time. Something has changed - the Harvest has changed.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±


    She let her mind sink into the ground, probing for the same feeling she felt when she had become one with the earth. The string of peace and calm was fraying, to be sure, but¡­


    ¡°The Harvest has been slowed,¡± she replied at length. ¡°No, not slowed - it is struggling against something. It is like a pebble holding back a rockslide, but there is something holding it back, and I do not know what it is.¡±


    Abzu looked at her with suspicion. Cirina met his eyes and tried to peer into his soul again, only to crash into a mental block - the Apostle had remembered his magic, and would not suffer the same embarrassment twice. Still, she sensed genuine concern in his voice when he spoke again at length.


    ¡°Do you suspect a third party?¡± he wondered aloud. ¡°No, no other force would have the strength to resist the Majesties and their coming. Not even the children of the woods, or the Yllahanans. But who, then?¡±


    ¡°It does not matter,¡± counseled Cirina grimly. ¡°A pebble cannot hold back the full force of a collapsing mountain forever. You will get your Harvest, but do not be so impatient. It will come slowly, perhaps in a year, perhaps in ten.¡±


    ¡°But,¡± she sighed, drawing closer to Abzu. ¡°That is not why I am here. You are right - I no longer have the strength to resist the Harvest, not alone. But if the prophecy will come to pass, then I at least wish to die with peace of mind on one final matter.¡±


    Cirina met Abzu''s eyes once again, and drew back the blinding shroud over her mind. ¡°Vasilisa. His body¡¯s- my daughter. Chirlan has taken her, and I do not know what fate has befallen her.¡±


    For a moment Abzu stood stock-still, his expression unchanging as he searched her soul for the truth. Then, realizing her answer was not in jest, the Apostle threw back his head and gave a loud cackle.


    ¡°Your daughter?¡± Abzu managed through fits of cruel laughter. ¡°Your human whelp? That is who you seek in your heart of hearts?¡±


    The Apostle passed a hand over his face in mourning. ¡°Oh, how low has the Herald of Vaal fallen¡­you have become more than corrupted, Khariija. You have become human - an abomination lying with other abominations!¡±


    ¡°If that is what you call me, then I will carry it with honor,¡± spat back Cirina proudly. ¡°But I ask for your help, Abzu.¡±


    ¡°Help?¡± Abzu''s tone was incredulous. ¡°The great Khariija the Unloved, asking for help? Could you not find this whelp of yours yourself - or have your powers waned along with your wits?¡±


    Indeed, she had tried before - just as soon as she had taken her first breath on the muddy riverbank, she cast her mind out far and wide, searching for Vasilisa along earth and waters. But where she sensed there was something wrong with the Harvest, so too had there been something at odds with her visions¡­


    ¡°Something shrouds her from me,¡± Cirina replied. ¡°It is like a fog - impenetrable to my eyes. I could spend a thousand years with my Sight and still not navigate through it all, and I do not have a thousand years.


    ¡°But you,¡± Cirina spoke, her words tinged with magical suggestion. ¡°You are still favored - and your command of the Sight is beyond mine, perhaps even Chirlan''s. And I sense that whatever force conceals Vasilisa from me is the same as that which holds back the Harvest. If we find who hides her from me¡­¡±


    ¡°You would help me accelerate the Harvest for the sake of a child?¡± muttered Abzu. He shook his head in thought, but knew better than to try and probe her mind. ¡°No¡­that will not be enough - what¡¯s another decade after five hundred years? The Harvest will not be turned back, and whoever strains against it now will fail, that is certain. No, if you want my help, then the price for your whelp is¡­¡±


    Cirina did not have the power of foresight as Chirlan, but one did not need to be a Herald to know what price the Apostle of Vaal had on the tip of his tongue.


    ¡°Your knife.¡± Abzu said with a grin. ¡°Eridu cast hers into the Forgotten Sea, and Chirlan¡¯s¡­I am not worried about. Tell me where you¡¯ve hidden yours, and I will tell you where your beloved spawn is hidden, if my vision affords it.¡±


    ¡°Why do you want the knife?¡±


    ¡°Because I have seen visions,¡± replied the Apostle of Vaal. ¡°A future. One of many that Chirlan showed me when we last met. But that does not concern you, Khariija the Unloved, for it shall no longer be yours. Tell me where you¡¯ve hidden it!¡±


    It only took a moment¡¯s hesitation - a moment of sorrow, and a moment of defeat. None could hold back the Harvest for long, this Cirina knew, and she felt tired - tired of running, tired of watching for twisting shadows, tired of being hunted. If the world were to be sundered, then at least one might meet the sundering with a sense of closure. Vasilisa needed to know - and then they might meet oblivion together, if she could find love for a monster in her heart.


    Cirina met Abzu¡¯s searching gaze and said in a soft voice, ¡°The Cradle. I cast it into the depths of the Cradle. It seemed fitting - a tool of death to be cast into the place where the first flower had wilted, and where the first beast took its final breath.¡±


    ¡°Sacrilege! You cast that foul thing into the Mother¡¯s own domain?¡± hissed the Abzu in reply. He swayed on the balls of his feet as he thought, and eventually sighed. ¡°But I sense no deceit in your words. Very well - now comes my hour.¡±


    The corners of Abzu''s lips twitched upwards in an excited smile, and then for the first time in five hundred years, the mask fell. The Twelfth Apostle of Vaal let his stolen flesh twist and warp outwards, and along the laugh-lines of his face the visage of Vitomir the merchant split apart into a dozen fluttering ribbons, unleashing a writhing mass of black and crimson. A thousand vines wriggled like worms in the hollow of the merchant¡¯s face, twisting with the cadence of the Apostle¡¯s voice, which now pulled close the shadows of the room, and snuffed out the candles all around.


    Abzu cried out as he turned his face to the ceiling, and cast his Sight beyond the confines of his mortal form.


    Cirina felt an invisible presence swell outwards from the frail body of the merchant - it felt as though it would crush her against the walls of the store, but then it exploded outwards from every window, every crack in the wall, every time-worn hole in the ceiling of the merchant¡¯s hall. A fragment of the Apostle¡¯s spirit remained tethered to the collapsing mortal shell as he searched, and at length Abzu¡¯s voice spilled forth from writhing fleshy hulk, now pure and song-like in its divinity.


    ¡°You cannot save her, Khariija. She is far beyond you. Far beyond any of us.¡±


    Cirina felt her blood run cold.


    ¡°She is blessed, Khariija!¡± cried the corpse with the Apostle¡¯s voice. ¡°Glory and praise to the Majesties, she is blessed! It is not Chirlan who conceals her from your Sight - no, the divine strings, I can see them, endless and perfect in their machinations! The Harvest has not been halted¡­it is split. Split between two Vessels, one true, one false.¡±


    Chirlan, what have you done?


    ¡°You don¡¯t mean-¡±


    ¡°Yes, yes, YES!¡± howled Abzu the Twelfth-Called, growing drunk on her despair. ¡°Your whelp is no longer yours, Khariija! She walks the path of the Last Book - the path to drown the world. Oh, how cruel, how just are the Majesties!¡±


    Abzu¡¯s laughter echoed maddeningly in the confines of the merchant¡¯s hall. Cirina gritted her teeth, then flicked one hand through the air. The collapsing shell ripped in twain, severing the divine spirit from the rotting flesh and cutting his madness short.


    In an instant, the shadows began to peel away from the walls. The darkness gathered into a pinprick like water down a drain¡­and then it was gone. The Apostle of Vaal disappeared into the world of dream, no doubt in search of another vessel. Sunlight filtered once more through the windows, warming the cozy interior of the hall.


    By the time the people of Albina-Suzdal discovered the mutilated body of the insurer Vitomir, Cirina of Belnopyl had long disappeared into the depths of the city.


    There is much work to be done.

 Book 2, Chapter 1 - Sacrifice and Power

    Sacrifice and Power


    <hr>


    Dusk deepened. A mist rose up among the trees as Vasilisa rode on - she sensed the land was sinking, lowering with the flow of the gully whose winding path she followed west. All streams led into rivers, and all rivers led to the Cherech, the lord of all waters in Klyazma. And if she could follow the Cherech, she would follow the path home.


    All she had to do was ignore the dead man that walked by her side, keep riding, and she would be home.


    ¡°Home, is it?¡± asked Chirlan, a smile evident in his tone. ¡°You can never go home, you know this.¡±


    I have gone mad, she told herself. Mad with grief, or sorrow, perhaps. But mad all the same.


    The sorcerer walked in stride alongside her horse, and even mounted, he seemed to tower over her, his black cloak making him seem like a shadow cast by one of the trees. At first she tried to outride him, spurring her horse into a gallop for a mile, trampling through side trails and stubborn undergrowth that would confound any man.


    Yet no matter how fast she rode, no matter how many twists and turns she made, the sorcerer was always there, walking with unhurried grace. He would appear ahead of her, standing on the road, or at her side, walking as if the miles she put between them simply evaporated.


    When her horse could gallop no longer, Vasilisa abandoned speed for stubbornness. He was a figment of her own mind, and so he could be ignored as one ignored phantoms in the corner of the eye. Yet the sorcerer spoke, and his words were like knives as the cold seeped through her threadbare robes.


    ¡°Home,¡± he repeated. ¡°A keep on a hill? A room and a hearth? A throne and a crown? You know better, don¡¯t you? Belnopyl is not your home anymore - because you are no longer the same.¡±


    The leather reins creaked as Vasilisa gripped them tightly. ¡°And you¡¯re no longer a man. Nothing but a ghost,¡± she muttered under her breath, turning away from his gaze as he looked down at her. ¡°An echo. A trick of a grief-maddened mind.¡±


    ¡°And yet you are speaking to me,¡± he replied, his voice a low whisper. ¡°You can deny me if you like - like how you deny your gifts. But I am a part of you now, as much as those crystals in your heart. Neither of us can be set aside.¡±


    She yanked the reins, drawing to an abrupt halt. The woods were silent, save for the soft rustling of leaves in the wind and the murmur of the stream. She looked at Chirlan, meeting his golden gaze.


    ¡°Why do you torment me so?¡± Vasilisa asked. ¡°In dream and in waking. Why? You are dead - I saw your corpse.¡±


    Chirlan tilted his head, his expression unreadable. ¡°Did you? Death is a peculiar thing. It¡¯s not always the end. Sometimes, it¡¯s a door. A beginning. You died once already - and yet you live, stronger than ever before.¡±


    ¡°Why are you here?¡± she demanded again, her voice rising. ¡°Why me?¡±


    ¡°Because you are the one who matters,¡± Chirlan spoke softly. ¡°The Dreamers are coming, Vasilisa. You have a role to play in their return - one that you cannot deny.¡±


    The sorcerer slowly raised a hand, and gestured about the forest. Then, she realized how the land about them had changed.


    The trees, so thick with summer¡¯s green not long ago, were wan and sickly. The underbrush, once teeming with life, was withered and brittle, suffocated by the ash. Even the stream beside her horse seemed sluggish, its waters clouded with grime.


    ¡°The world is dying,¡± spoke the sorcerer. ¡°Not just this forest. Not just Klyazma. The whole of it. The masks of mens¡¯ honor will slip away, and the ones to rule the earth will be sword, famine, plague, and the beasts of the earth who walk in the skins of men. This fate will not be denied.¡±


    ¡°I won¡¯t let that happen,¡± she said, her voice hard as iron. It was a certainty that belied the dread creeping up her spine.


    ¡°And how will you stop it?¡± Chirlan asked, his smile sharp as a blade. ¡°How can you even think to begin, if you deny your own self? How can you hope to save others, when you will not even save yourself?¡±


    To that, Vasilisa had no answer.


    She continued to ride, and soon the gully became shallower and the land began to flatten. In another hour she broke free of the forest, and found herself overlooking a vast floodplain. The full moon turned the myriad waterways into silver veins that ran across the land, all emptying into the Cherech. The great river twisted and turned into the horizon, then disappeared into the high reeds and bogs further north. Mists curled and smoked up from silver pools of stagnant water, and Vasilisa could just barely make out the half-rotted walkway that cut through the reek.


    ¡°The Gravemarsh,¡± she whispered, more for Chirlan¡¯s benefit than her own. ¡°Treacherous in the best of times - and in times of war, it is said the land turns against invaders that menace Belnopyl. Stribor¡¯s men will flounder trying to chase after me there.¡±


    ¡°If you do not drown first.¡±


    ¡°Then at least it will be an end to your damn quibbling,¡± she huffed. ¡°I¡¯ll drown, then come back as a ghost myself to shut you up.¡±


    In the windless and sullen night, the mists hanging over the Gravemarsh soon revealed their treachery. Beneath the silver wisps the ground quickly gave way to a thousand small mires and little waterways, and all were choked with mud. In some places, the land had already swallowed the causeway and the wooden boards altogether, leaving vast stretches of shallow water and suckholes. Vasilisa quickly dismounted from her horse and walked ahead of the beast, testing the path ahead one step at a time. Soon she was covered up to her knees in black slime and dirt, and her damp clothes clung tight to her exhausted body, weighing her down even more.


    Chirlan walked unburdened by the mud and damp, his feet hovering just above the surface of the still waters. The deep night obscured all but his glowing eyes, but even so Vasilisa sensed his amused grin at her struggle.


    ¡°Help me, or begone,¡± she muttered as she struggled through the reek.


    ¡°But I am helping,¡± Chirlan replied, his tone dripping with mockery. ¡°I am here to guide you, and at every step of the way you turn me aside.¡±


    ¡°All you¡¯ve done is speak in riddles, and tried to turn me into a monster. If that is all your help amounts to, then I would rather drown.¡±


    ¡°Fine, then let it not be said I have not done my part.¡± The sorcerer sighed as he strode over to her, offering a hand to help her out of a suckhole. The golden jewelry that bedecked his clawed fingers shone white beneath the moon. ¡°Take it, and I¡¯ll help see you through. My gentle hand, for my endless wisdom.¡±


    Those words sent a shiver up along her spine. Was it mockery? No, his words were too similar, too specific, and there was a knowing air in his tone. How had he known? She had spoken those same words long ago, to a snake at the bottom of the world. Your gentle hand for my endless wisdom.


    The mud clung stubbornly to her boots, sucking her further into the marsh with each step. Her arms ached from hauling herself forward, and the night was colder than it had any right to be. She glanced at his hand, then back to his glowing eyes. No, it was not a pact she intended to make a second time. I¡¯ve only two hands, after all. How can I rule with both hands promised away?


    ¡°On second thought, keep your hand - and your endless wisdom. I don¡¯t need your help,¡± she said at length, pushing forward another step. Her foot snagged on a buried root, and she caught herself on a rotten road marker, her breath coming in sharp gasps.


    The sorcerer did not move, but his grin widened. "You don¡¯t need my help? No, of course not. You¡¯ve done so well on your own thus far." His voice turned sly, needling. "Dragging yourself through the muck like an animal, blindly staggering across a land that no longer answers to you. Crying for a home you will never have.¡±


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    She bit back a retort and kept moving, one hand gripping the reins of her horse while the other felt for stable ground. She had a home - Belnopyl, the city that men called the Jewel of the Cherech. And in that city, the Great Hall her ancestor Raegnald built, and which a hundred princes before her had called home. And in that Great Hall, a room with a green door where she could hear the birds singing in the morning. It was a lifetime ago now that she had heard such a song. She told herself it was all still there - the city, the Great Hall, the window and the birds - separated only by the miles. But the words of the old, dead boyar Vratislav haunted her. They say Belnopyl burns.


    And if his words were true - that her city lay in ruins, that her blustering father and sweet mother were dead¡­


    What lay there for her then?


    Everything. I will rebuild. We bury the dead, we heal our wounds into scars, and we will live on. She had cried enough tears for a lifetime - and tears would not save those who still lived. I am still Vasilisa, Princess of Belnopyl, of the blood of conquerors by steppe and sea.


    Chirlan followed, his steps silent and effortless.


    He gestured out to the Gravemarsh, the fetid pools and high reeds that ran endlessly from east to west. ¡°I heard from the myths of your people that this marsh was once a forest, you know¡ªproud and unyielding, until it drowned and rotted in its own stillness. This is the fate of anything that refuses to change. Your people will rot the same way unless you change them, and it begins with yourself. Princesses and royal houses come and go, but gods do not.


    ¡°And yet you deny yourself this purpose,¡± Chirlan muttered, crouching down next to her. He is a figment of your own broken mind. Do not listen.


    The path grew more treacherous, the mud deeper, but she pressed on. In the distance, she could make out a high ridge that stood tall among the reeds - an Elder Oak stood in the centre of the hill. There, standing on firm, dry land, she could find rest and hope to dream away Chirlan.


    ¡°What do I see? A god who was humiliated by a backwards parlor magician,¡± Chirlan sniffed, his tone hardening. ¡°A god who allowed herself to be made a prisoner and plaything by savages and brigands.¡±


    The sorcerer leaned in closer, his lips nearly brushing her ear. ¡°A god who abandoned the one she loves.¡±


    Guilt crashed through her stomach, weighing her down like a rock. Yesugei¡­She had saved him once before, given one of the crystals in her heart so that he might live. She had opened his mind, and let him peer into her soul - a closeness beyond anything else she could imagine. And yet, when they were on the precipice of freedom, she had left the nomad princeling out in the plains of the enemy, lying crushed beneath a stolen horse. Why did she listen to him, damn it all? Why did she turn away when she could have gone back? I was afraid, wasn¡¯t it? I was weak.


    ¡°Shut up,¡± she snarled. ¡°Shut up, damn you.¡±


    ¡°You love him, don¡¯t you?¡± Chirlan smiled. ¡°And yet you abandoned him.¡±


    ¡°I had to run. If I went back, we both would have been caught.¡±


    ¡°If you embraced your gift, you could have destroyed them all - Stribor¡¯s men and the nomads.¡±


    ¡°How?¡± She asked, her voice shaky. ¡°Dammit, how? How can I use a gift I can hardly understand? How can I use a sword that has no grip?¡±


    ¡°It begins with killing fear. Let me show you.¡±


    He extended his hand again, and this time Vasilisa took it, if only to avoid sinking further into the muck.


    His grip was cold, but firm, and he pulled her free with startling ease. For a moment, their eyes met, and Vasilisa saw something there¡ªa flicker of something deeper than amusement, something almost mournful. He released her hand and stepped back, gesturing to the ridge in the distance.


    ¡°Close your eyes. See the other world - the world the Dreamers walk.¡±


    She shut her eyes tight. At first she saw nothing but darkness, but at the sorcerer¡¯s guidance she let her mind wander. She felt the soft ground beneath her feet, the stillness of the fetid air¡­and then against the darkness of her eyelids, she saw a splash of bright light. The world slowly came into being, but where the world of the living was shrouded in darkness, here she saw blinding against which she could not close her eyes.


    The Gravemarsh was alive - every reed flickered with white fire, and the boggy expanse was a sea of silver flame. The stagnant pools were brimming with the tiny lights of swimming fish and waterbugs, and in the distance the Elder Oak stood like a great tower of fire, lashing up at the cold, dead moon.


    There is strength everywhere you look. Take it, shift the earth - command it.


    She felt the ground beneath her feet, and poured her will into it. Darkness surged into the earth, burrowing deep through the mud until she grasped hold of the bedrock buried beneath the centuries of muck. With a titanic effort she shifted the stone and drove it up to the surface. Black stepstones erupted with a rumble from the bogs, forming a stone causeway to the Elder Oak. Hot blood gushed from her nose, and Vasilisa opened her eyes in surprise.


    All around her, in the world of the living, death reigned.


    The high reeds around her were rotted and limp, as if they¡¯d aged by a thousand years. In the silver pools she saw the fish had risen to the surface, covered in foul slime.


    Horror rose up to her throat with the urge to gag. Chirlan¡¯s smiling voice mocked at her back, ¡°This is the price of the salvation you wish to bring.¡±


    Vasilisa turned to glare at him as she wiped the gushing blood from her face. Pain lanced through her skull, like water bursting from a dam. ¡°You knew this would happen.¡±


    ¡°Of course I did.¡± He stepped closer, his feet still hovering just above the blackened marsh. ¡°And so did you, in your heart. Power demands a toll. The blood-sorcerers give flesh, the Ormanli give suffering and blood. You, my lady Vasilisa, must give the same.¡±


    She turned away, unwilling to meet his gaze, and set her sights on the causeway she forged from the earth. The stone path rose starkly from the bog, cutting a jagged line toward the ridge. In the shroud of death, the world had fallen silent - the marsh itself was holding its breath, mourning its sudden, unnatural death.


    ¡°Is there no other way? Will it always be like this?¡±


    Chirlan lowered his head, his words heavy. ¡°Yes. That is the nature of power, and that is the nature of your path, Vasilisa. They will call you savior, even as they curse your name.¡±


    She closed her eyes, forcing herself to steady her breath. There was no going back now. What was done was done. She tightened her grip on the reins of her horse and stepped onto the stone bridge.


    The causeway held firm beneath her boots, but each step felt heavier than the last. The silence pressed down on her, broken only by the soft clop of her horse¡¯s hooves. By the time she reached the ridge, her exhaustion was like a weight dragging her down.


    The Elder Oak loomed above her - no longer a tower of flame, but a dark silhouette against the starry sky. Beneath its gnarled limbs, the ground was dry and firm, a rare sanctuary in the endless mire.


    Vasilisa led her horse to the base of the tree and tied the reins off to a knot. Leaning against the massive trunk, she closed her eyes, trying to block out the world and the lingering presence of the sorcerer who danced at the edge of her thoughts.


    She was nearly asleep when the sound of rustling reeds caught her attention.


    Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up shakily, her hand going instinctively to the hilt of the Apostle¡¯s cleaver. The reeds several feet from the ridge bent unnaturally, followed by the squelch of mud and splash of water.


    Her heart hammered in her chest as she rose to her feet and planted the Shargaz into the ground before her. Its weight was reassuring, a solid anchor in the shifting shadows.


    ¡°Who¡¯s there?¡± she called, her voice cutting through the silence.


    For a moment, there was no reply. The reeds stilled, and all was quiet. Then, from the darkness, a timid voice answered.


    ¡°Don¡¯t hurt us!¡±


    The voice was familiar to her, as were the dirty faces that appeared from the reeds. Nesha, lady of Yerkh, appeared from reeds - followed closely by her subjects. Some Vasilisa recognized from the swirling smoke of Balai - fat Marmun, the newlyweds Vasilishin and Valka, Gastya, Doru, and Khavel. Others were unfamiliar, new faces, but just as terrified, just as hopeless. Lost souls, all.


    ¡°Lady Vasilisa, is that you?¡± Nesha asked. ¡°How did you escape? Did the gods themselves send you to us?¡±


    ¡°They didn¡¯t send me,¡± Vasilisa murmured. Not the ones you pray to, anyhow. She straightened her back and forced steel into her voice. ¡°But you¡¯ve made it this far, and you¡¯ll go further still. I¡¯ll see to that.¡±


    The relief in Nesha¡¯s face was mirrored in the others, but Vasilisa couldn¡¯t shake the gnawing unease in her gut. She cast her gaze about the ridge, but the sorcerer was gone. And yet, his words echoed in her mind: You will walk over the corpses of many more.


    She turned back toward the Elder Oak, gesturing for the refugees to come up onto the ridge. ¡°The ground here is solid. We can all rest here for now. Tomorrow, we move.¡±


    As the refugees settled beneath the tree¡¯s sheltering branches, Vasilisa stood a distance away, staring into the darkness of the Gravemarsh. For a moment, she thought she caught the glint of glowing eyes in the distance, and a faint chuckle drifted on the still air.

 Book 2, Chapter 2 - The Gravemarsh

    The Gravemarsh


    <hr>


    When morning light illuminated the Gravemarsh, the ranks of Lady Nesha¡¯s forlorn band were revealed in full. Their group of a half-dozen who had departed from Yerkh had now grown to almost twenty.


    From what Vasilisa gathered from their talk, the motley of hangers-on came from all across the burning countryside to seek passage along the Cherech and begged their way onto the skiff. Some had brought their own supplies and silver, but most brought only their hungry stomachs - and yet Lady Nesha was unable to find it in her heart to turn any of them away. But what all newcomers brought with them was more news of the war - and none of it the same.


    Some said they had seen Prince Gvozden leading his druzhina in the field to personally hang the rebels, while others said the prince was cowering beneath his bedsheets as his city lay under siege. One man said the rebels were no more than a handful of boyars with foreign mercenaries and rapists in their company, while another said the entire realm and all of its spears had risen up to skewer the griffon of Gatchisk.


    Talk of the war was all that they had chattered about for the nine days they traveled up along the Cherech to safety and freedom - but when they reached the outskirts of Gatchisk¡­


    ¡°They set the entire river aflame,¡± said Lady Nesha as she took a breath and sat next to Vasilisa. ¡°We could not see who. But whoever it was, they blockaded the port with fire ships for a mile. And so we turned north - and sailed until we could no longer.¡±


    The boyar¡¯s wife looked old - her face set with worry lines and her cheeks hollow from days of putting off food and sleep. In the shade of the trees, Nesha looked half a ghost herself - and Vasilisa dreaded the question she knew would come soon.


    Where is Vratislav?


    Where is my husband?


    Vasilisa saw the question lingering behind Nesha¡¯s eyes even now - but the lady did not voice it aloud, not yet.


    As they talked, the Yerkh freeholders and their new compatriots gathered up deadwood from the marshes, lashing them together with reeds into a crude sled to drag their meager supplies - a few sacks of onions and turnips, spoiling fish, and three hard loaves of bread. The rest of the food pilfered from Balai¡¯s stocks had either been eaten on the way, or was lost when the river boat was claimed by the muddy grasp of the Rovetshi marshlands, whose shallows and shifting banks deceived even seasoned navigators on occasion.


    ¡°The food won¡¯t last more than a day,¡± the boyar¡¯s wife sighed as she looked on at Marmun and Valishin heaving the vegetables onto the sled. ¡°Might be we could make it two or three, if some of the men are willing to go without. But food in their bellies was what kept them from fighting - as soon as some go hungry, they¡¯ll be at each others¡¯ throats.¡±


    ¡°We needn¡¯t stretch our supplies thin,¡± Vasilisa replied as she stood up and dusted the stray ash off her robe. ¡°Rovetshi is close by - its ruler is my father¡¯s man, loyal and true to our house.¡±


    ¡°As loyal as Stribor was to Prince Gvozden?¡± asked Nesha with a raised eyebrow.


    Nesha¡¯s words twisted uncomfortably in Vasilisa¡¯s gut. She tried to picture boyar Hrabr and the last time she had spoken to him - or at the least, bowed and said a few murmured words as she did with all her father¡¯s sworn men. It had been at the summer tournament in Belnopyl - where Stavr and Pyotr had won their place in her father¡¯s druzhina. Boyar Hrabr had been one of the younger boyars in her father¡¯s court, but was still old enough to be her father himself at twenty years her senior. She tried to grasp for what few bits and pieces she still remembered of him, but the boyar¡¯s presence was vanishingly little in her memory. He was courteous enough in her company, sang as loudly as the rest of the men when drinking, and forgetfully adequate in the melee - not the first to fall, but neither did he show any valor that she could recall.


    Would such a man still hold true to her father - or at the very least, his liege¡¯s daughter?


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± she replied to Nesha¡¯s pointed question. ¡°Perhaps not. But Rovetshi is the only settlement around for miles, and it sits astride the only solid road through the marshes. If we try to pass around it¡­¡±


    The ground will swallow you up, she remembered Mariana¡¯s voice long ago, when the old woman had schooled her in the domains under Belnopyl¡¯s rule. Stray off the Marsh Lords¡¯ path, and you¡¯ll find Rovetshi a land of sucking mud, disappearing footholds, and endless creatures never recorded in the books. It¡¯s the only land even the nomads fear - enough that they¡¯d risk the mountains of the God Spine out west rather than the marshes.


    She looked at the milling peasants and freeholders who lingered by the gathered supplies, waiting to march on. In the days when Gatchisk and Belnopyl warred, the Rovetshi marshes were said to have swallowed entire armies whole within their watery embrace - a band of twenty shambling men and women would hardly even be a meal.


    ¡°Nothing good will come of straying off the road,¡± she spoke to Nesha. ¡°Walk off the Marsh Lords¡¯ path, and you¡¯ll find the bones of thousands of others who sought to avoid Rovetshi¡¯s walls and its tolls. If there is even a small chance we can be granted safe passage from my father¡¯s man, we should try.¡±


    Nesha sighed, then rubbed her tired eyes before standing up. ¡°I still do not like this, my lady. These are times of treachery - and if your father and mother truly are dead¡­¡±


    They are not, Vasilisa wanted to reply sharply, but she held her tongue. It was enough that Nesha had to deal with leading her twenty lost souls alone for nine days, adrift and alone without her husband.


    She needs warmth and comfort, not bitterness and steel.


    But no words of comfort could spring to her mind - only numbness, and the pressing gloom of the marshes that lay ahead. When Nesha caught her breath, the lady of Yerkh set about corralling the peasants and setting a heading for the north. Vasilisa stepped to join her, and with Marmun and Valishin at the head of their band, they set forth into the waiting maw of the Rovetshi Marshes.


    Five miles left, it must be, Vasilisa thought to herself as she took her courser by the reins and led it along the Marsh Lord¡¯s path. Five miles, and then no one can reach us. Not Stribor, not the Kangar¡­


    No¡­, she corrected herself. She saw the black fragments of the dead night sky falling to earth all over again in her mind - spreading their death from the heavens to the land below.


    The Dreamers. They will always find us.


    ***


    They all walked slowly through the Rovetshi Marshes - keeping in single file behind Marmun and Valishin as the two crept ahead, testing the ground before them with long oars every dozen steps. The treacherous ground grew even more moist underfoot, soon opened into wide, stagnant pools with water so dark it was impossible to see whether they ran a half-inch or a foot deep.


    The Marsh Lords¡¯ road, for all its namesake, was little more than two faded ruts in the muddy ground reinforced every so often by duckboards - though half of the wooden planks were rotten and prone to snapping underfoot as they walked.


    But worse than the sinking road was the air, which became foul and heavy to breathe as they pressed deeper in. Every breath became a labor in itself, to say little of trying to walk through the gurgling mud which greedily sucked down at their feet - stubbornly refusing to let the trespassers go. The entire marsh seemed intent on keeping them to stay - and it was not long before they saw signs of those whom the marsh convinced to remain.


    The first skull peered up at them just off the side of the road - stained yellow-white and picked clean of flesh. Sitting askew atop its brow was a helmet rusted red through and through - though a man from Chernopol still made to reach for it, leaning perilously far over a stagnant pool to snatch the helm. As soon as his fingers brushed against the yellowed bone, the skull¡¯s empty eyes flickered to life - two pinpricks of ghostly light shining in a deathly gaze.


    The man from Chernopol, Branimir, leapt back from the skull with a cry as the skull¡¯s baleful gaze fell upon him - then pinpricks floated lazily up out of the skull, and the fireflies settled onto a moss-covered branch above.


    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.


    Marmun guffawed. ¡°That¡¯ll teach you to disturb the dead, idiot.¡±


    Branimir staggered back to his feet, covered in slime and red up to the ears. ¡°Feh, what use do the dead have for helmets? They¡¯re long gone, and we¡¯re still alive.¡±


    ¡°You won¡¯t be for much longer if you wear that piece of trash,¡± Vasilisa sighed. ¡°One cut on your scalp from that rusted iron, and you¡¯ll be dead long before you¡¯ll ever see battle.¡±


    She remembered how one of her father¡¯s servants - a potboy named Ostap - had turned into a writhing, frothing mess after he cut himself on a rusted kitchen knife. Despite all Mariana had done - her salves, her leeches, her healing - they had buried him on a plot on the outskirts of the city, where the other household servants were laid to rest. The sight of the burial grounds had left a bad taste in her mouth back then - and then she wondered whether there were enough souls in Belnopyl left to bury those that were lost.


    If the visions were true, then graves would run on for miles - she imagined thousands of pale faces peering lifelessly from the black earth, left to the worms and the Mother of the Earth.


    Or perhaps Belnopyl would become a city of the dead - ruled by carrion crow kings and starving boyar dogs.


    She shook herself free from the swirling thoughts, and turned back to Branimir as she saw him eyeing the helmet again. ¡°Leave it - the ground and sky already want to kill us, and I would not add spirits to that list as well.¡±


    The peasant from Chernopol muttered and grumbled, but fell in with the others as they shambled past.


    The more Vasilisa looked for the skeletons as they walked, the more she saw - skulls and bones from wars and disasters years past lay scattered all about the dark pools and islands they crossed. It seemed a hundred pairs of empty eyes followed their every move - yellowed teeth bared in inviting grins.


    As the day drew to a close and the darkness of the marshes pressed in once more, their ragged column made camp once more upon another grassy knoll. All the wood the men could scavenge was wretchedly damp, and so their camp was sullen and cold when night fell. The last bits of bread and spoiling fish went to those who were weakest, and the others went without - reluctantly, but without a fight. When sleep came upon them, only the rustle of the high reeds in the wind and distant croaking remained to fill the empty spaces in the night.


    It felt as though both an eternity and a single breath had passed into the night when Marmun¡¯s voice cut through the silence. ¡°Wake up! Wake up, all of you!¡± he cried, startling their whole camp awake. ¡°Look there!¡±


    As she opened her eyes Vasilisa realized how cold it had suddenly become in the marshes. It felt as though an icy wind had blown in, and yet the heavy smoke and mists hanging over the stagnant pools seemed to grow larger. A gust of wind blew across the high reeds, sounding with a hiss.


    She looked in the direction of Marmun¡¯s shaking finger, and saw a dark shape in the mists. Vasilisa looked to and fro, and realized that they stood all around - dozens of figures, blacker than night, creeping steadily closer from behind the misty wall closing in around the hill. A terrible dread fell upon everyone - yet no-one screamed. No-one even dared to breathe.


    The largest of the dark figures seemed to loom up to the skies themselves. Through the mist Vasilisa saw two pale eyes, glowing like stars with a cold, dead light. Then there was a voice, deep and old, that shuddered from beneath the earth.


    Come! The voice called. It sounded like a chorus in perfect harmony - a thousand speaking as one. Come! The waters are warm, and the darkness calm!


    The looming shadow leaned over their hill, its shape bleeding across the mist-shrouded sky. The shadows twisted into the shape of a long arm, reaching out towards Marmun. The farmer stood stiff as a board, his breath coming in pale clouds.


    Come, lie with us for a thousand years!


    The fell hand reached to grasp Marmun¡¯s face. Suddenly resolve sparked into her dead heart, and Vasilisa shook herself free from the spell. She closed her eyes, and saw the marsh once more laid out in burning flame before her eyes. The shadows were alive, brimming with a baleful light. And within the messy haze of the flickering light, she could make out the barest hints of their forms - warriors, travellers, and shamans, all of them clad in strange fur garb, like the tapestries of the ¡®savages¡¯ who were conquered by the Klyazmites when they came across the sea. But if they were alive, then they could be bent.


    She wavered, groping for the Shargaz, and then called out in a voice of scraping glass and crushing stone: ¡°Halt.¡±


    Immediately the spectral hand recoiled, as if burned. Marmun fell onto his backside, and seemed to remember himself, scrambling back towards the others who stood huddled by the hill. A low, rotten breath sounded from the mists, and Vasilisa saw the other shadows beginning to press in faster, clawing their way up the hill. The biting cold grew deeper.


    Vasilisa raised the Shargaz - for all the good it would do. How could she cut the mist and cold air itself? She swung the wide stone blade to and fro, scattering the pressing mists, but the silhouettes reformed as quickly as they scattered. Then, a memory sparked to life. An abandoned town whose people were lost, drawn away by a terrible, beautiful song.


    That is the power of our Voice, she heard the dead man¡¯s whisper sound in the back of her mind. That is our rule over the living and the dead. Use it!


    She planted the point of her sword into the soft earth, then looked to the cowering refugees behind her. Fear rolled off of them in waves, intoxicating and powerful. But she did not want them to fear her. Vasilisa searched her mind for an answer¡­and then she spoke again, softly, weaving the words of power subtly as she sang:


    Rest now, spirits, drift away,


    To waters cold where shadows stay.


    Dream in death of summers bright,


    And life before the endless night.


    Your time has passed, your tales are done,


    <strong style="font-family: georgia, palatino">Like fleeting stars before the sun.


    Return, oh lost, to marsh¡¯s deep,


    And in its arms find gentle sleep.


    With every word, laced with command beneath the softness of a child¡¯s song, the shadows began to retreat. Overhead the hanging canopy of mist began to clear, and as the shadows sank back into the ground, the heavy cold lifted, replaced once more by the dense, oppressive humidity of the marshes. Vasilisa let out a slow, quiet breath - it was over.


    Then suddenly, she was surrounded by the others. Dozens of hands reached out to grasp her, tugging at her sleeves, her cloak, as if to confirm she had not disappeared into the mists with the rest of the foul spirits. Voices swelled in a chorus of awe, shouts of ¡°Gods above, how did you do it?!¡±, interspersed with cries of ¡°Bless you, my lady! Gods bless your soul!¡±


    ¡°It is a miracle!¡± cried Valishin, holding one hand over his heart. ¡°She speaks with spirits, like the priests of old!¡±


    Vasilisa froze beneath the touch of the crowd. The dead had obeyed her. And the living now clamored to worship her.


    ¡°Enough!¡± Rang Nesha¡¯s voice over the crowd, cutting through the religious fervor. The boyar¡¯s widow swatted away the hands with an exasperated sigh. ¡°My lady didn¡¯t save you all just so you can crush her to death! We need rest, all of us. Morning will come swiftly, and we have far to go - so if you don¡¯t want to get left behind, then off with the lot of you!¡±


    The crowd dispersed reluctantly, parting one or two at a time, though their eyes lingered on Vasilisa. They looked upon her as if she were something alien - no, something divine, above and beyond any title, any royal bloodline. And the feeling was not entirely unwelcome.


    Lady Nesha caught her gaze, nodding toward the gnarled roots of the Elder Oak. "Sit. Rest. That was more than enough work for one night."


    Vasilisa hesitated, then took a seat against the ancient trunk. She set the Shargaz down beside her, just within arm¡¯s reach. The boyar widow crouched beside her, checking for eavesdroppers before speaking in a low whisper, "You saved us again, my lady. I won¡¯t pretend to understand what you did, but we owe you our lives."


    How could she even begin to explain? And how could Lady Nesha even hope to understand? And if she did understand - would she still remain by her side? Vasilisa said nothing - and for the better.


    "Marmun¡¯s too spooked to be of any use," Nesha continued. "I¡¯ll have Galya or someone else take over. But you must sleep."


    "No, I¡¯ll watch," Vasilisa murmured stubbornly.


    Lady Nesha frowned, but knew better than to argue. "Then wake someone to relieve you. You¡¯ll do no one any good if you collapse on the road, my lady.¡±


    Vasilisa nodded. She did not promise.


    Lady Nesha studied her, then exhaled sharply and stood. "Don¡¯t be foolish, my lady. Get some rest."


    The others drifted away into their meager resting places, wrapped in threadbare cloaks, huddled together - more for safety than warmth. Soon, the only sounds were the distant trill of marsh insects and the gentle shifting of bodies settling into uneasy sleep.


    Vasilisa watched, unmoving.


    The Gravemarsh was never truly silent - just as the deeps were not truly dead. The reeds rustled with the movements of unseen creatures. The water lapped softly against the banks. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called, low and mournful. But the hush of the night was different now, emptied of the whispers of the dead.


    And yet, Vasilisa could not shake the feeling that the spirits had merely retreated beyond her sight, waiting. Watching.


    She pulled the Shargaz closer, nestling it in the crook of her arm, and stared into the murky depths of the Gravemarsh. The world felt vast and endless, stretching beyond the mists, beyond the stars.


    She did not wake anyone.


    She did not sleep.

 Book 2, Chapter 3 - The Grave-Turner

    The Grave-Turner


    <hr>


    The next day of the crossing of the Gravemarsh was much the same as the first: a dreadful, tiring slog through knee-high muds and the grasping tangle of reeds and shrubs. And yet, it was also so very different - the air among the column of refugees felt lighter, and their movements more purposeful, even if still sluggish.


    They were following her lead now, Vasilisa realized. They looked to her in a different light - one of worship, of a sort of rapture that was both enticing and terrifying at once. There were no more complaints or grumbling. Men and women who bemoaned their thinning rations now accepted even less with greater appreciation, looking to their Grand Princess who went without altogether.


    This is how it begins, she thought. She was witnessing the beginning of a legend - here, in the dead heart of a drowned forest, a new sort of faith was taking root. And yet it was something to be feared as much as loved. Now you cannot fail them, truly. To fail is to kill all hope, for they have placed it all on you. Worship - a blessing, and a curse.


    Still, the peasants¡¯ worship served to keep them all well in line. Their ragged column made good time through the marshes, especially as the half-drowned causeway grew more solid. Rovetshi, the house of the Marsh Lords, the gateway into the Belnopyl plains, grew closer with each step.


    And all too soon, the quiet of their march was soon broken by idle talk. The marsh, for all its bleakness, stirred conversation among the peasants, filling the hush with murmurs of old stories and half-forgotten warnings.


    ¡°I don¡¯t understand it,¡± said Valishin, his voice half-muffled by the scarf wrapped around his lower face. ¡°We¡¯ve been walking this causeway for near two days, and not a single swamp-dweller in sight...¡±


    ¡°Because the Vorodzhi aren¡¯t real,¡± scoffed Marmun. ¡°Tales for frightening children, that¡¯s all. A thing for old women to whisper while sitting by the hearth.¡±


    ¡°They exist,¡± an older man countered. ¡°There¡¯s stories of ¡®em¡ªhalf-men, half-beasts, troglodytes lurking in the reeds. Robbers, they are, thieves and cutthroats, preying on travelers like us.¡±


    Vasilisa listened as they spoke, the debate shifting from cautious curiosity to more heated speculation. Finally, she cut through their conversation, her voice calm but firm.


    ¡°The Vorodzhi do exist,¡± she said. The group fell silent at her words, heads turning toward her as if expecting some great revelation. ¡°They were here long before us, before Belnopyl, before princes and boyars warred over these lands.¡±


    She glanced past the causeway, where the twisted branches of drowned trees grasped out to the darkening sky. ¡°The hill where my family¡¯s keep now stands once belonged to them. Mariana - my nyanya - said that King Raegnald himself felled the first of the immortal oaks that stood there.¡±


    Lady Nesha, walking beside her horse, frowned at that. ¡°That sounds sad,¡± she said after a moment. ¡°To fell an immortal tree.¡±


    She looked out into the distance, listening to the chittering of the marsh¡¯s unseen critters, the caw of unseen crows. The maps she had seen in her father¡¯s study never betrayed the land¡¯s harshness¡­nor its strange beauty; the life that brimmed underfoot, underwater, and in the air itself. Raegnald felled the oaks. Am I to fell this land? Fell the land to save the people?


    ¡°Yes,¡± she murmured. ¡°It is sad.¡±


    As dusk drew near and the marshes began to grow dark once more, the clangor of a bell sounded over the chittering of insects and the distant caws of birds. As a breeze blew across the open flooded plain, Rovetshi¡¯s towers and curtain walls revealed themselves.


    A low stone wall encircled the Marsh Lords¡¯ domain from north, south, and east - supporting a high wooden palisade. Behind the walls there stood the belltower and the wooden keep. To the west, the river dock jutted into the murky Cherech, where strange dark shapes bobbed on the water. As the mist thinned, Vasilisa realized they were the broken remains of cogs and skiffs, their sails tangled like spiders¡¯ webs.


    A breeze stirred the reeds. She stepped carefully over the mud, but Marmun¡¯s sharp cry stopped her.


    ¡°There, look!¡±


    A man, caked in filth, lay half-sunken in the marsh at her feet. At first, she thought his bald head was a rock¡ªuntil she saw the blood-crusted beard and the crossbow bolt buried in his chest. As the mist retreated, more shapes emerged from what seemed to be rocks and muddy slopes around the town.


    ¡°They''re everywhere¡­¡±


    Corpses littered the outskirts of Rovetshi. Most were peasants, butchered where they stood, their emaciated forms cut down by blades, lances, and bolts. But among the slain lay warriors of the Marsh Lords¡ªone with the green tree of Rovetshi stained red, his jaw torn away. Another clutched at his own spilled entrails. A druzhinnik slumped beside his horse, his face a mess of hanging, graying flesh.


    Gastya retched, followed by others, as the stench of blood, piss, and death rose on the wind. Valishin, accustomed to slaughter, knelt to inspect a body. He turned pale as he looked up at Nesha.


    ¡°Look here¡­ Vadym the Toothless, Balai¡¯s chief money-changer¡­¡±


    A spear had been driven through Vadym¡¯s toothless mouth, its tip crusted with blood.


    More death. Everywhere. Vasilisa thought of the Dreamers falling from the sky, dead stars swallowing the land. A lingering cold imprinted itself deep into the earth. One of them was here - seeped in death.


    Valishin pointed to more bodies: a fisherman¡¯s wife, her skull split by an axe, then another, and another. Too many to count¡ªfarmers, merchants, shiphands. In death, they all looked the same, sinking into mud and brackish water.


    Marmun covered his nose. ¡°This is them. All of them. Everyone from Balai. Butchered like sheep.¡±


    The men and women of the empty town - one which had been sealed with an Apostle¡¯s glyph. Suddenly the emptiness and the dread she and Yesugei had felt in Balai all fell together. The Dreamers, this was their work. They brought them here like cattle.


    Suddenly the town bell tolled, sending ripples through the water. Then from the walls ahead, torches flickered to life, iron helmets lined the battlements. A moment later, a splash of fiery red hair poked out from behind the walls.


    ¡°Hold there, and come no closer!¡± a hoarse voice called. ¡°You come with your wits still about you?¡±


    The man rose above the battlements, wearing a stained leather tunic and a green cloak fastened with a polished bronze clasp. Even at a distance, Vasilisa recognized the symbol.


    The clasp marked him a vechnik¡ª the elected stewards of Klyazma¡¯s ancient tribes, long before Raegnald¡¯s conquest. Though her ancestor and his followers, the boyars, had replaced them in name, the Vechniki did not disappear entirely. It was still the old tribal heads¡¯ duty to raise the local militia, and to tend to the burdens of rule that noble hands would not dirty themselves with.


    She called out to the headsman. ¡°I would have your name. Who are you, vechnik? And where is Boyar Hrabr?¡±


    The Vechnik of Rovetshi bristled. ¡°I would have your name first! These are dark times. Men turn to beasts and kill as they please. Give me your name, your business, and only then may we speak as equals.¡±


    Vasilisa lowered her hood and raised her chin, poised proud as her father before his subjects. ¡°I am Vasilisa, daughter of Igor¡ªprincess of Belnopyl. Hrabr would know me well.¡±


    She gestured to the weary crowd behind her. ¡°I bring with me sick and wounded from Gatchisk. The boyars pillage the lands they swore to protect, and war consumes the south. I seek my father¡¯s hold and protection for these folk, vechnik.¡±


    The red-haired man studied her warily, but waved to his men to lower their crossbows. ¡°I am Serhij, my lady. It has been years since I last saw you¡ªyou were still a child.¡±


    ¡°Time drags us all by the hair,¡± she said with a wry grin. ¡°Was it the summer tournament, five years ago?¡±


    ¡°Nearly six,¡± Serhij replied. He shouted an order down below, and the iron-banded gates groaned open.


    Vasilisa hurried through, fearing fate would slam the doors in her face. Only when they clanged shut behind her did she finally breathe again. The air within felt lighter, untouched by the stench of the dead marshes.


    Serhij barked orders as the militia settled the refugees. Up close, the vechnik¡¯s men did not look so frightening or proud. Most looked little better than the refugees they herded - sick and wounded, hobbling and lame, too young or too old for war. Lady Nesha, the boyar¡¯s widow, fell into troubled sleep as soon as a bench was offered.


    Vasilisa scanned Rovetshi as Serhij descended to join her. The town was small by design - little could be built on such ground as the Gravemarsh, which swallowed heavy stone keeps as readily as armies. And from the gates, Vasilisa saw the western quarter¡ªonce bustling with shops, inns, and alehouses¡ªlay plundered or burned. More of Serhij¡¯s men were dragging blackened corpses from the ruins, loading them into carts. And in the small hours, only a few common folk remained on the streets, making the town feel even smaller.


    ¡°Lady Vasilisa¡­¡± said Serhij as he approached, his face red with embarrassment. ¡°A thousand apologies, my lady. I¡¯ll have the crossbowman found and flogged. Unforgivable¡ªshameful!¡±


    She turned to him, setting the Shargaz aside. ¡°It¡¯s already done, vechnik. What I want to know is what happened outside your walls - and here. Was it battle, or massacre? Hundreds of innocents are dead¡ªsome of yours among them. Has war come to Belnopyl as well?¡±


    ¡°You wouldn¡¯t call them innocents if you saw it.¡± Serhij¡¯s voice was grim. ¡°An army of freeholders and serfs staggered toward us like they were drunk. When I sent a man to treat with them, they grabbed him off his horse and tore him apart. Then they tried to storm the walls with their fists and tools¡ªhundreds of them!


    ¡°Others came by river on big trading cogs, hacking apart anyone they caught.¡± He gestured to the ruined western quarter. ¡°Fifty hearths lie cold without families to tend them¡ªand maybe more; for we¡¯re still not done counting the dead. They fought like wild dogs, as if they couldn¡¯t feel pain. My men swear they saw them fight on after losing limbs, after their guts spilled out, even with their throats cut.¡±


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    ¡°What about Boyar Hrabr?¡± she asked. ¡°I saw one of his druzhinniks among the dead.¡±


    ¡°He thought his cavalry would break them,¡± Serhij admitted. ¡°His men carved through, but those bastards had no fear. They got stuck, and his lordship barely escaped with his life from the mob¡­¡±


    Serhij hesitated, then whispered, ¡°He¡¯s bedridden. But he told me a queer thing¡ªhe said a spirit was leading the mob. When it retreated into the marsh, they followed like dogs. Even those forced into the river tried to swim after it. They drowned by the dozens.¡±


    A face drifted through her mind¡ªgray, empty-eyed. The Apostle. Its voice like cracking glass. Its terrible laughter over the corpses beneath its feet.


    ¡°Have you sent anyone to track the spirit, or the mob? We saw no trace of them in the marshes.¡±


    ¡°I''ve scarcely enough men to keep the walls manned,¡± Serhij said. ¡°Those I have left aren''t fit to navigate the marsh.¡±


    ¡°They will return, I¡¯m sure of it,¡± she sighed. Tosont had been transformed into a festival of flesh and torment - the Apostle would not be denied its sacrifice. And yet¡­a boyar and his druzhina had forced it to flee. Perhaps not all is lost.


    ¡°Take me to the boyar.¡±


    ***


    The halls of the Gravemarsh Keep were dark and still as Serhij¡¯s militia led Vasilisa to the boyar¡¯s chambers. Even without the ash-choked skies of the last weeks, moonlight found little purchase in the fortress. Small, sparse windows let in no light, leaving the air thick with the scent of wax from flickering lamps to keep the darkness at bay.


    Few servants crossed her path, bowing their heads - though they gawked at the Shargaz slung across her back as she passed. The bell tolled midnight as she neared the boyar¡¯s door, where a physician in bloodstained robes loitered. His grave expression told her all she needed to know.


    ¡°My lady, it is an honor,¡± the old man said with a bow. ¡°Though I wish it were under better circumstances.¡±


    A great fire blazed in the boyar¡¯s hearth, casting the whole room in a red glow. The heat smothered Vasilisa as she entered, mingling with the stench of smoke and death. On the floor crusted mud and damp stains marked where Hrabr¡¯s men dragged him into bed. A leather arming jacket lay in tatters, a hauberk beside it - split down the middle by a cruel slash.


    ¡°My lady,¡± whispered the shrunken figure lying in bed. A hollow face drained of life peeked out. ¡°Is that you? Gods be good¡­¡±


    Vasilisa lowered herself beside him. ¡°Boyar, it¡¯s been too long.¡±


    The boyars of her father¡¯s court had been men of pride and boisterous laughter. All of that was gone in Hrabr - his thin white hair, sunken cheeks, and hollow eyes. He was only forty by her count, yet he looked a hundred, and the stench rolling from him stung her eyes.


    ¡°I reek, don¡¯t I?¡± he muttered through clenched teeth. ¡°I stink of death. You hide it well, my lady - better than that green lot outside.¡± He waved a weak hand toward the guards.


    By the physician¡¯s nod, she grasped the bedsheet¡¯s edge and lifted it.


    The healer¡¯s hand had done fine work - dozens of small wounds were sewn expertly shut and smeared with balm. But it was for little gain. A gash from navel to collarbone marred Hrabr¡¯s torso, and his bandages were already thick with old blood.


    ¡°A wound worth a thousand stories,¡± Hrabr coughed, grinning - a terrible, bloody thing. ¡°That cursed beast¡­but I-I made it run. Gods above, that I did.¡±


    ¡°The spirit?¡± she asked gently.


    ¡°No!¡± Hrabr¡¯s sunken eyes burned with sudden fear, urgency. ¡°Not a spirit. No - spirits don¡¯t make a man soil himself with a glance, nor do they cut through steel and leather like water.¡±


    He shuddered, sucking in a ragged breath before locking eyes with her. ¡°I saw a demon. A real one. The kind that hide in shadows of shadows¡­the kind our ancestors never dared to speak of.¡±


    ¡°My lord is feverish, my lady,¡± the physician said calmly. ¡°When his men pulled him from the mob-¡±


    ¡°I know what I saw!¡± Hrabr bellowed, the veins in his neck bulging. ¡°If all you¡¯ll do is hem and haw at your lord, then get out, damn you!¡±


    The healer shot Vasilisa a stricken look before hurrying out of the room.


    Vasilisa waited until the door shut behind them. No shadows lingered by the threshold.


    ¡°I believe you, boyar,¡± she said quietly, sitting by him. ¡°I¡¯ve seen one myself¡­and claimed its sword, at a terrible cost.¡±


    She gestured to the Shargaz, the whispering blade that spoke with the voice of many. Hrabr beamed. ¡°Of course¡­a warrior-woman, like the stories of old¡­¡±


    ¡°My lord,¡± she murmured, bring him to focus. ¡°How did you survive? These demons have claimed so many.¡±


    He gestured weakly to a shelf. ¡°There¡­my lady, there.¡±


    Vasilisa saw a golden pendant with a black crystal at its center, swirling with purple and gold. Her breath caught as she placed it in Hrabr¡¯s hands. The golden bands around it were misshapen, as if crushed inward.


    ¡°Where did you get this?¡± she asked.


    ¡°A gift,¡± Hrabr croaked. ¡°Your mother¡­gave it to me years ago. I didn¡¯t believe her. But it saved me. My sword did nothing, but when its claws touched this¡­gods, it howled. It fled before finishing me.¡±


    He laughed weakly, then winced. His eyes unfocused, lost in the crystal¡¯s swirling dark. Then, suddenly, he gripped her hands tightly.


    ¡°Yes¡­my lady¡­¡± he hissed, his eyes bulging. ¡°Cirina¡­me and the others¡­you must know.¡±


    The stench of his wounds burned her eyes, but she leaned in as his voice faded.


    ¡°What? What did my mother tell you?¡±


    ¡°The comet¡­¡± Hrabr rasped. His eyes became unfocused as he began to ramble. ¡°That damn thing started it all. When it burned through the sky, your mother commanded me to go to the Vorodzhi. She told me to find their chieftain¡­and to bring his heir in as a ward. Slogged through the mud for days¡­¡±


    ¡°Why did she tell you this?¡± she pressed.


    ¡°She wanted me to¡­to bring her to Belnopyl,¡± Hrabr whispered. ¡°Two royal bloodlines, she said, to open the gate. To unseal that thing.¡±


    ¡°What was it?¡±


    ¡°A dagger. A foul, terrible knife - made from the same black stone as that gift.¡±


    Hrabr swallowed, shame clouding his gaze. ¡°She made me swear to never tell your father about all this. Never to tell you either, until the time was right.¡±


    Realization and questions boiled within her. Black stone - like the crystals in her chest, no doubt. A knife to kill an immortal. But why hide it? Her mother had told her of things that were to follow after their meeting with the posol - was it to speak of the knife, or of the Apostles?


    I need you to be strong, Vasilisa. A voice from a past ripped away, from a nightmare she could never wake from.


    "The time is right, my lord," she whispered. "The world burns. Men starve. Demons descend from the stars. What was I to know?"


    "A special thing... a terrible thing," Hrabr murmured. "It was hers. Meant to be yours." His eyes flicked to the window, breath quickening.


    "No¡­ no¡­ no¡­" His frail body curled in on itself. "He''s coming... he''s coming back..."


    A hiss rose between them. Pain shot through Vasilisa¡¯s fingers as her pendant burned. She recoiled, the black crystal within smoking as golden bands screeched and twisted tighter, crushing it.


    "Back... it''s coming back..." Hrabr whimpered, hiding beneath his covers.


    The crystal shrank, heat blackening the carpet. Outside, a high, unearthly wail knifed through the night.


    She ran to the window. Below, torches swirled and Serhij barked orders, sending men to the walls. The refugees were fleeing, and the belltower tolled doooom- doooom- doooom.


    "He''s coming¡­" Hrabr''s voice faded beneath the crystal''s hiss. "Lady Cirina¡­forgive me¡­could not protect her¡­"


    A sharp pop echoed through the room. The crystal shattered, the pendant crushed.


    Hrabr¡¯s whispers ceased. His hand slipped lifelessly from the bed, skin pale, veins blackened.


    Outside, footsteps pounded down the hall, and a shadow darkened the doorstep.


    ¡°They¡¯re coming back! They¡¯re coming back!¡± The boyar¡¯s door slammed open, revealing a short warrior clad in green-tinged iron scales. An open-faced helmet framed a boyish face, dripping with sweat.


    The warrior froze at the threshold, mouth agape as Vasilisa cradled the dead boyar¡¯s hand. Then another cry echoed outside, and they stammered. ¡°T-they¡¯re coming back, my lady. Hundreds-no, thousands. M-my lord needs his armor-¡±


    ¡°Your lord is dead.¡±


    The druzhinnik stiffened, gripping the pommel of their sword. ¡°No¡­he can¡¯t be.¡±


    Vasilisa watched as the warrior unfastened their helmet and pulled it off - letting long, brown braids fall loose around their shoulders. A woman. Her face twisted with grief as she whispered, ¡°He was the only one who could lead them. The only one with answers, damn it.¡±


    ¡°You¡¯re the Vorodzhi chieftain¡¯s daughter, aren¡¯t you?¡± Vasilisa asked. The woman¡¯s eyes shone green as emeralds, and her short stature was unusual even for a woman.


    She nodded slowly. ¡°Austeja, daughter of Merunas.¡±


    ¡°Your father swore his oaths to the House of Belnopyl. Will you keep yours?¡±


    Austeja hesitated - then set her jaw. ¡°I will. The She-Bear of Belnopyl commands, and I will follow.¡±


    ¡°Good.¡± Vasilisa seized the Shargaz, its blade shrieking against the stone. No more running. No more fleeing. Not anymore.


    Outside, there was the clamor of the rushing militia rising to stand for their town. No - not just their town¡­it was hers as well. From Denev to Rovetshi, it was her domain, and her people that would die.


    In the courtyard of the keep, Hrabr¡¯s druzhina gathered in a confused herd, waiting for orders that would never come. They whispered and glanced anxiously as Vasilisa appeared over the balcony, then turned to Austeja.


    ¡°Who holds command here? The magister?¡±


    ¡°No,¡± Austeja said. ¡°Lord Hrabr, he led the men. The magister¡­¡±


    He¡¯s afraid to fight, she knew. But so are they. The guards that sallied out to die with their boyars were the seniors, the veterans. The ones that remained now were the youths, dressed in ill-fitting armor, unbloodied, untested.


    ¡°Men!¡± she called down to the druzhina. ¡°Form up at the gate and follow me!¡±


    Pale, confused faces looked up at her in disbelief. ¡°Your boyar is injured - you are under my command, your liege lady!¡±


    Her words echoed to no reply. Some druzhinniks chuckled nervously, but most remained glum and silent. They are still young, still afraid. But so was I.


    She turned to Austeja. ¡°Get me a coat of maille, and a helm.¡± The Vorodzhi lady hurried off, disappearing down the stairs into the armory.


    Vasilisa faced the men again. ¡°Don¡¯t fight for me - and don¡¯t fight for Belnopyl! This is your home, your town, and you¡¯ve seen what these savages can do. So will you lot stand with me, fly with me - or die cowering like dogs when they butcher your people, and break these gates?¡±


    A silence, heavy and suffocating. Then a lone voice rang out - then another, and another. Spears lifted. Axes and swords flashed in the torchlight.


    Austeja returned, hauberk slung over her arm, helm tucked under her armpit. ¡°I reckon they¡¯re ready, my lady.¡±


    Vasilisa raised the Shargaz high, letting the cleaver¡¯s shadow darken the courtyard. ¡°Follow me!¡± she roared. ¡°Follow me, and protect your town!¡±


    A thunderous war cry erupted. The keep stood - and then they flew.

 Book 2, Chapter 4 - The Burned

    The Burned


    <hr>


    If I look back, I will burn.


    Ride.


    Ride.


    Ride.


    When Gulsezim looked down at the ground, it seemed as though she were gliding across a black sea. Only the dark clouds kicked up by her steed¡¯s hooves reminded her that she was trampling across the steppe. Across a field of ash. Across the ashes of everything and everyone she loved.


    She tasted it in her mouth: the taste of sulfur, cooked flesh, and melted fat. She gagged, feeling the urge to void the contents of her stomach - but she had already done so twenty miles back. And if she stopped to catch her breath, she would burn. She knew that. Those who followed her knew it as well - her paltry band of survivors from the burning Khurvan.


    The light of the awakened mountain¡¯s flames cast them all in a terrible red glow, and their shadows were long against the ashen ground. Behind her, she occasionally heard shouts from the keshik rearguard - sometimes, shouts of command. Other times, they screamed in terror - and then one more shadow would disappear. They¡¯re hunting us. How? How can they keep up with horses? How can they be? Demons, demons everywhere.


    She remembered seeing them crawling out of the firepit, howling and screeching - demons of every kind, from every legend she had ever heard, all of them made manifest. How she had survived, Gulsezim did not know. Neither did she remember how she had managed to flee from the infernal tent, or whether Naizabai had noticed her. But she did remember the great black crystal that jutted out from the mountain slope, like a knife driven into the heart of the holy Khurvan. She remembered the rivers of fire that poured from the cracked stone like blood from a wound, and the swirl of firebrands and glinting swords all around as the demons came pouring down with the flames.


    A monstrosity of many arms seized hold of one of her brother¡¯s keshiks, and it pulled him apart like a curious child would an insect - limb by limb. It came for her next, but five other guards fell upon it with lances, only to be overwhelmed by other monsters whose forms she only saw as silhouettes in the flames.


    She ran long and hard through the camp, and everywhere there was death. Merchants and slaves ran for their lives with all they could carry, while her brother¡¯s warriors fought like wild dogs against both the demons and each other. Eventually one of Nariman¡¯s keshiks found her in the midst of the slaughter and gave her his horse to flee. Then somehow, there were others who rode alongside her - some were warriors, but others were courtiers, servants, slaves, even. They rode like the wind, trampling through the crackling ruins of yurts and over anyone unfortunate enough to stumble onto their path, and then they had broken free from the Valley of Milk, fleeing headlong for the south - or anywhere that was not aflame.


    Now they were being picked off one by one, and she could not bring herself to look back at what was taking them.


    It¡¯s coming for me next, she knew. She felt the heat growing at her back, and saw a red light drawing nearer. There were screams from the riders ahead of her, but none slowed down to save her. It¡¯s coming for me next. Spirits protect me, spirits protect me-


    She felt a hail of arrows sigh past her, and then there was an awful screech. She looked back to see the spider-abomination reeling from a dozen arrows in its bloated torso, and it skittered away before the rolling hoofbeats of the warriors that came down from a low hill. Her meager company halted, and Gulsezim felt her heart soar when she saw the mounted archers carried the standard of the Qarakesek.


    ¡°Lady Gulsezim!¡± the noyan called when he drew close.


    She must have seemed a ghastly sight - covered in soot, her robe tattered, though she was alive, and untouched by the flames which consumed the others in her father¡¯s tent. ¡°Kamil,¡± she spoke quickly. ¡°Where did you come from? How many do you have?¡±


    ¡°We¡¯re from the summer palace, by the Olzhas Bend,¡± he replied, his eyes never leaving the burning mountain behind her. ¡°I saw the fires from the Khurvan and took some men to look - did Nariman¡¯s plan-¡±


    ¡°Nariman¡¯s plan failed,¡± she interrupted. Indeed, how had it gone so wrong? She had guessed her brother¡¯s plans to kill Naizabai at the kurultai long before the Red Khan had appeared. And yet the Red Khan had risen from his poisoning, and her brother was dead. Ashes in the wind, with all the others. The smell of burned flesh lingered still on her clothes - his burnt flesh. ¡°Nariman is dead. Everyone is dead. Take me to the summer palace, now.¡±


    Her voice was cracked and shaky, but it was enough to put Kamil-noyan in his place. They rode together along the Jigai river, and soon she saw the walls of the summer palace break the flat silhouette of the land. The rammed-earth walls were swarming with onlookers, and in the palace square a few dozen men with lances greeted them with quiet respect. Even fifteen miles away, all of them could see the Khurvan burning - and with it, the Great Horde. The Qarakesek. Everything.


    ¡°Get my lady some water!¡± Kamil-noyan called hollered once they were dismounted, but Gulsezim waved him off. She slipped clumsily down from the saddle - her lungs were burning, and her legs trembled like mad just from standing. One of Kamil¡¯s men - a hulking brute of a man - helped her through the courtyard and into the palace.


    With the kurultai having drawn away their households, the Great Khan¡¯s summer palace was a dark and dusty place - and Gulsezim walked alone amidst the hollow shell. Her legs carried her by memory to the khan¡¯s throne room, and there she saw only a cushion and a small table remained - the rest of her father¡¯s belongings had been taken to the Khurvan. The rest was in ashes, rising with the wind. She took a seat on the hard floor and buried her face in her hands, trying to shut out the whole crushing world.


    The walls of the palace closed in on her. Outside, only the faint crackle of the braziers and Kamil¡¯s men murmuring among themselves broke the petrifying stillness. Gulsezim remained behind the wall of her hands, hardly breathing, hardly stirring. In the darkness of her closed eyes, she tried to piece it all together - Naizabai rising from the dead, the roar of the Khurvan as it split in two, and Nariman¡¯s scream.


    That scream echoed endlessly in her mind - it took root, and would not let go. The smell of burnt flesh lingered on her clothes - she gripped the edges of the table to steady herself as she felt herself on the verge of fainting. If only the table could bear the weight of the world that was coming down around her. The Great Horde was gone. The Qarakesek were gone. All of it - everything she had ever known - all of it was rising into the sky, carried by the wind.


    Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.


    No, not all of it. And not all of them.


    Yesugei still hasn¡¯t returned. Her brothers were still out there. Yesugei and Kaveh, wandering aimlessly in search of an envoy who had gone west for tribute and never came back. They still live - hope still lives.


    ¡°Lady Gulsezim,¡± came Kamil-noyan¡¯s voice from the doorway. He hesitated, his usual confidence replaced with unease. ¡°What are your orders?¡±


    ¡°Get me some ink, a pen, and parchment. Then gather the men, everyone who is still loyal to the Qarakesek.¡±


    This will not be the end. We have gone too far to fail now.


    She wrote quickly - first in the Khormchak script, then every other language of their vast empire: Huwaqi, Ormanli, Klyazmite, even Yllahanan. By the time the ink was dry on the letter, Kamil¡¯s men were assembled in formation in the palace square. A paltry fifty were all that remained of the Qarakesek guard - and the fading moonlight betrayed half of them as ill-trained youths, set to guard an empty palace while their betters accompanied the Great Khan. Even behind the high walls of the palace, they wouldn¡¯t last a week under siege by the Quanli - nevermind against whatever abominations were crawling out of the Khurvan.


    She turned to Kamil, speaking softly as the others watched. ¡°Noyan, I need a promise from you.¡±


    Kamil straightened his broad shoulders. ¡°My lady, I live to serve.¡±


    Gulsezim held up the letter, sealed hastily with a length of silk torn from her sash. The flimsy scrap of paper weighed heavy as lead as she passed it into the noyan¡¯s hands - but did not let go. ¡°Listen to me. Yesugei and Kaveh - they are still out in the field, somewhere to the west. You must find them, whatever the cost, and deliver this letter into their hands. Do you understand?¡±


    Kamil bristled - his jaw grew tight. ¡°My lady¡­I cannot,¡± he spoke tersely. ¡°I should be here - my oath is to defend the royal blood to the death, not to cut and run!¡±


    ¡°Enough,¡± she said sharply, and her voice made the gathered men uneasy. ¡°Listen - you think I do not know your place? Yesugei and Kaveh are the royal blood - and if we are to have any hope of vengeance, they must know what has happened - else Naizabai will track them down and kill them.¡±


    ¡°Let me take you, rather than a parchment, my lady,¡± Kamil insisted. ¡°You can tell them yourself.¡±


    She shook her head. Ten years ago, perhaps. But not anymore - and not as she was. She could hardly stand - and the softness of a princess¡¯ life had dulled her edge to the cruelties of the open steppe. ¡°I cannot make the journey, you know this. I¡¯d rather die here, than from thirst and hunger out there.¡±


    She pressed the letter harder into Kamil¡¯s hands. ¡°You will not argue further. You are my noyan, Kamil. I charge you to obey.¡±


    Within, she brought into her soul all the strength she could find, all the power her Sight could muster. All of Aqtai-khan¡¯s children were possessed of the sight - her brother had the rarest gift of Sight into the future, but hers was no less valuable. She gathered her presence into a crushing wave, and forced her way into the noyan¡¯s weak mind, bending, breaking. He shuddered, stiffening like a board as she pierced his soul. For a moment, Kamil looked as though he might resist - for her powers were fickle even at the best of times. But then the noyan¡¯s shoulders relaxed, and his eyes took on a strange, glazed quality. He bowed deeply, and accepted the letter with a stilted, ¡°As you command, my lady.¡±


    ¡°Take two horses,¡± Gulsezim said, lacing her words with burning command. Once a mind was broken, it was easy to direct it again - like a broken-in leather glove, softening with time. ¡°Ride fast, find Yesugei and Kaveh, and do not look back.¡±


    Kamil nodded stiffly, tucking the letter beneath his armor. Without so much as a final glance, he turned and strode toward the stables, barking stilted orders to two grooms. Gulsezim watched until he disappeared into the shadows, the sound of hooves fading into the night.


    Then she turned to the fifty men before her, their faces pale and their weapons trembling in unsteady hands. Their noyan had left - and left them under the command of a woman. Gulsezim squared her shoulders, even as every muscle in her body screamed for rest.


    ¡°Hear me, all of you!¡± she called over their murmuring. ¡°The Quanli have killed my father, and they have killed your brothers! My brothers'' hosts are either slain, or too far to help - and we are too few. I''ll give you all this one chance - who will stay? Who among you green boys will stand like men, and give these Quanli bastards one last dance?¡±


    For a long while, no one spoke.


    Then, one man lifted his sword.


    ¡°I serve the Qarakesek,¡± he said, voice rough but steady.


    Another stepped forward. Then another.


    ¡°I serve the Qarakesek!¡±


    The cry spread, rising like a slow-burning fire. One by one, the men raised their weapons¡ªnot with the bravado of seasoned warriors, but with something quieter, heavier. They were afraid. But they had chosen.


    The cheer that followed rang thin and hollow against the vastness of the summer palace.


    But it was better than silence.


    ***


    The moon sank low, but by the light of the burning Khurvan the sky was cast in shades of deepest blues and purple. Gulsezim stood atop the walls, watching. Waiting. Then she saw them - a sea of torches cresting over the horizon, a living tide of flame and hatred. The earth trembled beneath the pounding of hooves, rhythmic drumming growing louder with each passing moment.


    ¡°So now you¡¯ve remembered us,¡± she whispered. Her fingers tightened around the bow, fixing an arrow in place. Heavens, it had been too long since she had held a bow, and even longer still since she¡¯d used one in battle. But she still knew how to kill - and now she relished the opportunity.


    On either side of her, the junior keshiks stirred nervously. ¡°Demons tear me, there must be a thousand of them. They¡¯ll crush us,¡± one of them muttered.


    ¡°We¡¯ll sell our lives dearly." Gulsezim snapped, drawing her bow "A son of the Qarakesek commands a hefty price for his head. Archers - to your marks! Hold steady, loose only on my command.¡±


    The Quanli banners whipped in the wind as they came on. Their horses seemed aflame, as were the men riding them, howling like wolves in a pack. Gulsezim¡¯s heart pounded deafeningly in her chest as she prepared to loose the first arrow. Her eyes caught sight of the noyan leading the charge, a brute wreathed in a flaming cloak. Let him be the first to die. Let him see how the daughter of the White Khan shoots.


    She drew back the bowstring, but did not let go. A sound pierced through the drum of hoofbeats. A cry that froze the blood, high-pitched and unearthly. Gulsezim¡¯s head snapped upward, and her breath caught in her throat.


    The moon vanished as a red glow filled the sky, bright as the sun. Burning wings spread wide, casting long shadows over the palace. Talons long as swords glowed bright red by the light of the burning plumage - and then the great vermilion bird fell on them with a bone-shaking cry.


    The men around her scattered in panic. Gulsezim¡¯s scream joined their own. The legends had all come to life, and they would swallow them whole.

 Book 2, Chapter 5 - Sins of Our Fathers

    Sins of Our Fathers


    <hr>


    Trails of smoke rose up into the sky like twisting fingers as the riders made their way towards the Kangar tent-city. Slung over the back of the noyan¡¯s saddle, Yesugei''s crushed leg screamed with pain every time the stallion bucked and swayed.


    ¡°Enjoy the ride while you can, Qarakesek,¡± said Arsen-noyan. ¡°Soon you¡¯ll sup on far worse when B?ri-khan gets his way with you.¡±


    Over the horizon, the Kangar camp rose - green, blue, and red-roofed yurts that stood against the ashen field. Warriors, artisans, and children gathered as Arsen returned with his plunder: three of the rogue boyar Stribor¡¯s wagons, laden with food, clothes, and coin, all stolen twice over.


    His men dumped their plunder in the center of camp, and the crowd surged over it all. A woman draped a silver necklace over her sheepskin robe, two men struggled over a silver plate, and three warriors used a long tablecloth to launch children into the air with laughter. Kangar in exile seemed a wretchedly-poor bunch, Yesugei noticed - Arsen''s trinkets might well have seemed the world to some.


    Two of the noyan¡¯s men rode on to inform the khan of their coming. Behind them, Arsen rode proudly through the camp. They stopped before a great yurt atop a wooden platform, the Kangar trident fixed to its roof - the same trident that once pointed in battle against Yesugei¡¯s father when he and Naizabai-khan clashed over the Hungry Steppe.


    Now they¡¯ve carried it far from home, and me with them.


    Arsen shoved Yesugei from his stallion. He landed hard, and when his injured leg hit the ground the pain nearly blinded him. A rough hand pulled him up by his collar, then forced him to his knees as the tent flap rose.


    ¡°I give you plunder and a captive, my khan,¡± Arsen declared, planting his boot on Yesugei¡¯s back. ¡°And you would do well to kneel, Qarakesek.¡±


    When Arsen¡¯s boot rose off his back Yesugei craned his head up. Four noyans stood behind B?ri-khan, their pale-eyed leader who was clad in a gilded scale coat over an orange robe, his black hair twisted into two long braids. He regarded Yesugei as another man might a worm - then flicked his angry gaze to Arsen.


    ¡°I accept your gifts, Arsen-noyan,¡± the khan spoke, his lips pursed with silent anger. ¡°You and your kin may claim a third of the plunder - the rest, divide between the other families.¡±


    Arsen¡¯s riders spurred back to the crowd, horsewhips ready to disperse the teeming mass. As the rest of the camp watched, B?ri spread his arms and called, ¡°Gather strong wine and set the servants to work! Tonight, we feast and name Arsen-noyan baghatur!¡±


    Cheers erupted. B?ri beckoned Arsen to him. ¡°We have much to discuss, Arsen. Bring your pet with you, and let us speak of greater things to come.¡±


    The noyan grinned as he yanked Yesugei to his feet, and strode inside. But the nomad princeling saw the truth - the real reckoning would come only when they were inside, far from the watchful eyes of the tribe.


    His eyes scanned the city of yurts. From a brief glance he counted two, perhaps three hundred felt roofs - yet there were only a handful of Kangar warriors patrolling the outskirts, and none of the hallmarks for war. Free women of the camp still tended to the mundane tasks of life - sewing, herding sheep, and grinding wheat into flour, not fletching arrows or preparing sons¡¯ and husbands¡¯ armor. Smiths were not beating iron into armor plates, arrowheads, or blades, but rather nails, cookware, and trinkets for horse-tack.


    These are a people at peace, he realized as he staggered up the steps to the khan¡¯s tent. No one here is ready for war. What have you done, Arsen?


    The noyan, oblivious, boasted to his peers of how he routed the southerners. His tale grew with each telling¡ªhis force swelled from thirty to fifty, the Stribor¡¯s losses from threefold his own to five.


    ¡°Aye, armored and mounted they were,,¡± said Arsen as the tent flap behind him closed. ¡°But too few to protect the whole column, and too stupid to avoid my feint. My boys reminded them dearly why their ancestors always knelt before Khormchak boots, that we did!¡±


    The Kangar khan¡¯s tent was large, but sparsely-decorated. A few tribute trinkets adorned the shelves, and in one corner, the silver horns of the Kangar war banner sat collecting dust, unfurled since the tribe was forced west.


    Once they were seated, one of the noyans raised his hand and spoke sharply. ¡°Enough, Arsen. Spare us your foolishness.¡±


    ¡°Foolishness?¡± Arsen¡¯s joy twisted instantly into dark anger. ¡°I don¡¯t understand-¡±


    ¡°And that¡¯s exactly it.¡± A longbeard in a red robe and cap cut in. ¡°You don¡¯t understand. That is why B?ri-khan allowed you to prance around instead of skinning you alive for this folly you¡¯ve brought on all our heads.¡±


    ¡°A folly?¡± Arsen shot to his feet. With his head bowed low, Yesugei allowed himself a small smile as Arsen spat, ¡°Did I offend you all by being daring while the rest of you sat around eating ash?¡±


    B?ri-khan, draped in a red chapan, sat silently. Arsen looked at each of the noyans, then strode over to the khan, his hands wrung in desperation. ¡°Did I offend you? Did I steal some glory that was meant to be yours, B?ri?¡±


    A chill settled over the tent. The noyans shifted uncomfortably as they looked to the khan. Arsen danced blindly on the edge of treason, but the khan¡¯s honor was his to defend alone.


    B?ri rose, his shined boots clacking along the floorboards as he stepped toward Arsen, his face an impassive mask. The noyan straightened his back and met the khan¡¯s gaze bravely - so focused that he never saw the slap coming.


    The crack echoed through the tent and knocked Arsen to the floor. The noyan spat a curse and tried to stand, only for B?ri to seize his collar and haul him up.


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    ¡°My khan,¡± B?ri corrected coldly. ¡°I am no longer a boy, and neither are you. Or have you forgotten that along with my orders? I told you to patrol, to scout the borders, and nothing more. Yet you come back with plunder that was not meant to be ours.¡±


    ¡°Wha-? B- but my khan, I defended our lands, brought food, treasure-¡±


    ¡°And yet you left the men whom you robbed alive,¡± spat B?ri bitterly. ¡°You should have killed them all and buried them deep, or not attacked at all. What do you think their masters will do once that boyar tells them he was robbed by our people?¡±


    Arsen¡¯s mouth opened and shut stupidly as he tried to come up with a reply. B?ri dropped him in disgust.


    ¡°Our pact with the Old Griffon was to fight the wolves of the steppe, not their dirty little civil wars. That was our shield. Have you forgotten what happened to our fathers the last time we struck before sensing the winds of fortune?


    ¡°We could have had peace. Time prepare our riders in force, to strike a better bargain for lands or tithes. But now you¡¯ve stolen time from me - and for what? A few trinkets? A few scraps of food that will feed ten families for a day when we¡¯ve hundreds more under our rule?¡±


    Arsen clenched his fists bitterly as he stood, chastened. Even in the shade of the tent, Yesugei saw his face was red with embarrassment and illness as B?ri¡¯s words sank through his thick skull.


    ¡°I-I did not know, my khan,¡± Arsen stammered. ¡°I¡¯ll make amends however I can. Let me lead my men first into battle to atone for my mistake!¡±


    ¡°We¡¯ll have battles enough soon,¡± B?ri said. ¡°But I¡¯d rather you make amends for the lives wasted by your hands instead. How many men perished in your attack?¡±


    Six, my khan. Two felled by arrows, and four killed by the mage in the boyar¡¯s company.¡±


    ¡°Good men, husbands, brothers, sons of the Kangar all,¡± said B?ri. ¡°For each lost son or brother, give ten sheep. For each wife you¡¯ve left a widow, give four horses. Then until they remarry, you will care for them as your own.¡±


    "My khan-"


    "Choose your next words carefully," B?ri hissed. Arsen''s plea withered to dust in his throat. ¡°Be glad I am giving you widows instead of steel for your stupidity. Now go, baghatur, get out of my sight and thank the Eternal Sky for sparing you before I change my mind."


    Arsen¡¯s anger burned plainly in his eyes, but he held his runaway tongue as he left the tent. The silence lingered for a moment, then B?ri strode over and turned Yesugei onto his back.


    ¡°Arsen has left me with precious little patience,¡± the khan spoke, his pale gray eyes boring holes through Yesugei''s. ¡°Lie to me, and you will die by inches, Qarakesek. Who are you, and why are you this far west?¡±


    In the khan¡¯s cold stare Yesugei saw a strange glint - like light reflecting off of smooth ice. Recognition. He knows¡­or perhaps he suspects.


    In a way, it was a relief - he grew tired of false names, tired of scrounging through forests and hills as a nameless, insignificant soul when he had once been held so high. If he was to suffer now, it would at least be with his real name upon his lips.


    No more lies. No more hiding. Speak with pride, speak the truth.


    ¡°My name is Yesugei, ninth son of Aqtai. Prince of the Qarakesek.¡±


    The Kangar khan''s eyes closed, and the corners of his lips twisted into a small smile.


    ¡°Yes¡­you look so very much like him.¡± B?ri tugged on Yesugei¡¯s ragged beard, grown out in Stribor¡¯s captivity. ¡°I see your father in your face, Yesugei-mirza. And in your face, I remember our exile.¡±


    ¡°My brother Nariman wanted you and your people dead,¡± Yesugei replied. Sometimes, he wondered whether his eldest brother was of Naibazai¡¯s blood more than their father - his voice had been the strongest to massacre their enemies when defeated, the most bitter in seeking vengeance against slights. ¡°Death or exile - the choice was yours and yours alone - and it was a far better deal than others were given.¡±


    ¡°But not as kind as others,¡± said the longbeard. ¡°The Jalarin, the Oshkans¡­even the Quanli were allowed back into the Khan''s peace, while your father kept us in exile. In dishonor.¡±


    ¡°Kill him, my khan,¡± another noyan spoke. ¡°Break his spine and let us put to rest our fathers'' spirits. Your father''s spirit. The blood feud can end here and now.¡±


    ¡°He doesn''t deserve a bloodless death,¡± said a third noyan. ¡°How many of our own men were killed like dogs at Ongainur and other battles? How many had their throats cut like sheep instead of dying as men?¡±


    One noyan, a tall, shaggy-bearded man with an ugly scar across his right cheek, placed his hand on the hilt of his dagger. ¡°My khan, I would bleed him for you. The Eternal Sky has given us this one as a gift - we should slice him from ear to ear, then send his head back to his wretched father.¡±


    B?ri-khan grinned. ¡°My men can scarcely agree on the color of the sky, Yesugei-mirza. Yet for your death, they stand as one. However-¡±


    He seized Yesugei¡¯s ropes, lifting him to his knees. Then, a knife flashed¡ªhis bindings fell.


    ¡°My khan-¡± spoke the longbeard as he shot up, only to be silenced by the khan¡¯s raised hand. The other noyans did not move, but their eyes betrayed the outrage their lips dared not to utter.


    Yesugei rubbed his aching arms as B?ri placed a hand on his shoulder.


    ¡°My blood feud is with your father, Yesugei-mirza,¡± spoke B?ri. ¡°Just as his lay with mine. When I was in your father¡¯s grasp, he chose not to heed your brother¡¯s words when he could have butchered our tribe without a second thought for honor. Instead, he gave us a chance for life - for freedom, no matter how wretched.¡±


    Yesugei nodded slowly. Only the Kangar khan stood between him and the noyans¡¯ knives - yet the dread did not leave his gut. It cannot be. The noyans will kill their khan themselves if he lets me go.


    B?ri¡¯s expression grew grim - and his hand squeezed Yesugei¡¯s shoulder. The bitterness and sorrow that reared its head in the khan¡¯s eyes made him seem old beyond his years. Then he spoke once more, ¡°Our freedom came at a price, however. My people starved and died even in your father¡¯s mercy. I saw hundreds wither away on the open road: old and young, slaves and warriors, mothers and their children. Their spirits linger with us wherever we go. And so those who were denied the Eternal Sky¡¯s embrace - they will be your judge.¡±


    B?ri turned to his throne. In the shadows, a figure stirred. A man clad in aged leathers rose from the right side of the throne, and the beads sewn onto the shaman¡¯s leather veil clacked softly as he stepped into the dim light of the yurt.


    ¡°Aysen-guai,¡± B?ri spoke to the silent shaman. ¡°I place our Qarakesek friend under your wing. Care for his wounds, and see to it that he is fit by dawn.¡±


    Then, with a wolfish grin, the khan sheathed his knife and faced Yesugei. ¡°At sunrise, I will grant you the same mercy your father gave me¡ªa chance for freedom. It is one that you shall win by the tip of the sword, as all your kin have lived by. If the spirits judge you worthy, I will send you from my lands with a horse and food. If not¡­ you will join those your father condemned.¡±


    Yesugei¡¯s gaze swept the noyans. Each was seasoned by war, tall and strong. But even weak as he was, he was certain he could outshoot any of them with a bow, the weapon which had won the Great Horde all of its battles. But now his fate rested on the sword -, that weapon for singers¡¯ stories and duels. The thought almost made him laugh, if not for the crushing weight in his stomach.


    ¡°Who will I fight, then?¡± He dared to ask.


    Silence, but only for a moment.


    ¡°Me,¡± said B?ri-khan. ¡°You shall face me - sons of our fathers, Kangar and Qarakesek. How their follies haunt us still.¡±

 Book 2, Chapter 6 - The Reindeer and the Shaman

    The Reindeer and the Shaman


    <hr>


    In the darkness of the nightfall, the Kangar tribesmen erected a great bonfire to celebrate the Arsen-baghatur¡¯s raid against the southerners. Huge longtables assembled by slaves and servants groaned under the weight of the feast - seasoned flatbreads, cuts of fatty mutton, lamb dumplings dripping with broth, and enough southern wine to turn the great Cherech river red.


    Men and women sat together by the fires and beneath the open night sky, laughing and brawling in equal measure as they feasted for what might well be their final time. War was to be on the horizon come the morning, and though talk in the camp had seldom broached the subject, Yesugei sensed how the atmosphere in the camp had grown colder once the joy of Arsen¡¯s tribute faded. The bonfire was a final send-off for warmth and plenty - and once it faded there would come the cold, and ranks of the Kangar widows and orphans would grow ever more once again.


    From the shaman¡¯s tent, Yesugei heard the clash of blades and the twang of bowstrings as warriors honed their craft to the cheers of onlookers. Tonight, the green boys played at war. Tomorrow, they might see their first man die.


    The thought of his own duel churned Yesugei¡¯s stomach. A sharp prod from the shaman wrenched a hiss from his teeth as a dull knife of pain twisted through his leg.


    ¡°Your pain is a gift,¡± Aysen told him as he pulled forth a wooden box decorated with painted Ormanli swirls and healing glyphs. ¡°The bone was not shattered in the fall. But the rest of your wounds - I¡¯ve no means to bring you to health in such a short time.¡±


    ¡°Healed enough for your khan to make sport of me, you mean,¡± Yesugei replied bitterly. ¡°No honor in killing cripples and the wounded, I suppose. And even less so in dying to one.¡±


    ¡°Poor sport never stopped your own tribe¡¯s cruelty,¡± came a bitter voice from the other side of the tent, where another Ormanli dressed in furs stood up from her prayers. When she drew near, Yesugei saw the girl to be half Aysen¡¯s age, her bitter face framed by long, black hair which fell around her shoulders loose, rather than braided in the fashion of the Ormanli. ¡°Before your Qarakesek set out on their conquest, our people¡¯s shamans had never been touched by your wars. Now look at my father - show him what sins he answers for!¡±


    The elder shaman gave a sigh, and set down the poultice in his hand to remove his veiled headdress. The dim, flickering candlelight cast the shaman¡¯s face in a reddish hue - and it was only when Aysen twisted his head to the side that Yesugei saw the grim ruin hidden by the shadows.


    The flesh running from the crown of the shaman¡¯s head down to the nape was a ruin of twisting scars, craters, and deep fissures that exposed hints of skull. The borders of the ruined flesh were defined in a manner that could only have been made with a razor-sharp blade - a skinning knife, taken to human flesh in a terrible sin.


    Without his scalp, the shaman¡¯s head was completely bald - bereft of the long braids into which other Ormanli weaved their charms and crystals, and a sight as wrong as a bird without wings. The Ormanli wore their hair long, never cutting it as a symbol of their devotion to the gods¡¯ perfection of the mortal form - without their braids and charms, it was said that the Ormanli were powerless, severed from their connections to the spirits and the earth.


    ¡°A Qarakesek knife took my pride, my honor,¡± Aysen said quietly, replacing his headdress. ¡°A band of warriors thought to cow our shamans into submission¡­ Whether they acted alone or on one of your brothers¡¯ orders, I never learned. But that was long ago. The men responsible are dead.¡±


    ¡°It had to be one of his brothers,¡± muttered the girl shaman, helping her father lay out the contents of his medicine chest. ¡°Even the Qarakesek know shedding a shaman¡¯s blood is a sin beyond measure¡ªyet only the White Khan¡¯s children would think themselves beyond heaven¡¯s judgment.¡±


    Fire from within rushed to Yesugei¡¯s face as he spat back, ¡°And who are the Kangar to speak of heresy? Your own tribe was among the ones who raised Naizabai as the Universal Khan - one above the gods and the Eternal Sky! Yet did your father dare raise talk of heresy then?¡±


    ¡°Enough, both of you.¡± Aysen placed a hand on his daughter¡¯s arm. ¡°Tuyaara, I have kept you here for a reason. His wounds are too severe for my work - I doubt he¡¯ll even be able to stand come tomorrow.¡±


    Tuyaara¡¯s sharp eyes narrowed at her father¡¯s words. ¡°You cannot mean her.¡±


    Aysen nodded. Tuyaara¡¯s face twisted with rage. "Why should I help him? Why should she help him, of all people? The pup will die tomorrow anyway by B?ri''s hand."


    Aysen''s lips set in a hard line, but then his look softened. "Then let him die by his foe''s greater strength, rather than his own weakness. It is as the Qarakesek himself said - there¡¯s no good sport in killing wounded dogs."


    The girl-shaman crossed her arms, matching her father¡¯s gaze with her own. When she sensed no relent on her father¡¯s part, she turned to Yesugei, her jaw clenched. ¡°This is no mercy for you, Qarakesek. It is merely justice for what will come.¡±


    She reached for her headdress - a simple brass band, adorned with two painted eyes and crowned by wide antlers that glistened in the dim firelight. When she settled it upon her head and unfolded the leather veil, the air in the yurt seemed to shift - and for a brief moment, the girl-shaman was no longer herself. Tuyaara knelt by Yesugei¡¯s side - she brushed her hands against the floor of the yurt, and whispered something in the tongue of the Ormanli. There was some power in her speech - the words charged the air, like the feeling of coming lightning as clouds gathered overhead.


    Then the chant grew. Aysen joined his daughter, pounding out a slow, deliberate beat on a drum lined with bells. The vibrations thrummed to Yesugei¡¯s heart. He had felt this before - this sense of the world stretching, the air rippling as if something vast and unseen were pressing against the walls of the mortal world, yearning to break free. Sergen¡¯s calls to the spirit realm were much the same - only this time, the strength of the Kangar shamans was tenfold.


    That same force pressed in from all sides, pushing at the walls of the yurt itself. The sensation pressed upon all of Yesugei''s senses at once, heightening them until everything became unbearable - the dim glow of the fires became blinding, the chanting voices deafening. Through the foreign incantation, a name reached him, clear and distinct: "Aldynay."


    A sudden glow kindled in the air above them - a pale, shifting golden glow, a threshold into a space between spaces. Whatever was pressing against the walls of the mortal world was pushing through. The chant reached a fever pitch. Tuyaara¡¯s voice rose, and then she reached for her own drum, pounding it in rhythm to her father¡¯s, and the glow began to solidify. Giant hooves emerged from the light, settling weightlessly on the yurt floor. Antlers - adorned with woven charms and cloths of many colors - rose up until they scraped the felt roof. The formless light became flesh, revealing the majestic form of a reindeer, its body luminous, though the glow did not reflect against the walls of the tent.


    The chanting of the two shamans ceased, and then the world of the yurt was ruled by silence once more. Yesugei looked upon the majestic creature, and it stared back at him with two deep pools of sadness.


    "Do you see her?" Tuyaara¡¯s voice barely rose above the crackling bonfires. "Do you see my mother?"


    Mother...? The great reindeer knelt, its towering antlers still stretching above them. It rested its head on Tuyaara¡¯s shoulder, and the girl shaman ran a gentle hand along its neck.


    "He bears a tooth of night," said Aysen. Yesugei saw his back turned to the spirit and his daughter, his head hung low in shame. "He can see a great many things, if he knew to look for them."


    Tuyaara¡¯s voice, edged with bitterness, addressed Yesugei. "Even I can¡¯t see her unless I veil my face. But she knows me. She knows my scent¡ªjust as she knows you, Qarakesek, and your blood."


    At the name Qarakesek, the reindeer huffed and shook its head. Tuyaara pressed her face into its chest, whispering until it calmed. Then, guiding its head toward Yesugei, she let the reindeer over his battered body. The spirit hovered over him, taking silent measure of his wounds¡ªbroken bones, half-healed cuts, bruises that made a yellow and purple patchwork of his skin. Then the reindeer exhaled a soft, almost human breath.


    Warmth sprang to his skin, and it spread through his whole form like rivers snaking through the land. Everywhere, the pain slowly receded to the warmth, replaced with a gentle numbness that made Yesugei realize how used he had become to sharp pain with every breath. Now, he tasted the warm air of the tent without the halting pain of a broken rib, nor the whine of the bruises dealt by Stribor''s men.


    Tuyaara¡¯s sharp gaze burned behind her leather veil. As the reindeer breathed life into his wounds, she asked, "Shall I tell you her story, Qarakesek?


    "When your father exiled our tribe, it was my mother, Aldynay, and my father who counseled B?ri to make for the west. Unlike many other khans, he listened well to their words. When we arrived, it was my mother who helped B?ri strike a pact with Prince Gvozden of Gatchisk. It was Aldynay, the Golden Moon, who helped our sick when all the other healers had died; who counseled the widows on how to manage the gers and herds of their husbands who were slain by Qarakesek, or the cruelties of the road.¡±


    Tuyaara hesitated. "She saved everyone she could¡ªexcept herself. A cruel winter came eight years ago. And my mother, who had survived so much, fell with a fever. No one in camp knew how to save her."


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    Aysen¡¯s head sank lower.


    "My father and I were at Gatchisk, bartering for supplies. When we returned in the spring thaw...she was already gone."


    Tuyaara leaned against the reindeer, her voice trembling¡ªwhether with anger, sorrow, or both, Yesugei could not fathom. "Do you see her now, son of the Qarakesek? Even now, she helps us all. Even you, whose father exiled us here, who kept her from being buried in the Mother Woods. His exile that left her confined to this..."


    She gestured at the reindeer, its breath filling Yesugei''s broken body with warmth. "...this beautiful, terrible fate. Her soul lives on and saves us all because she was robbed of her place in the Eternal Sky."


    The healing glow faded as the reindeer raised its head. The glow of the great spirit¡¯s form began to recede, like a dream fading in the awakening mind. When the final pinprick of light was gone from the world, the darkness that replaced it felt heavier. As Aysen turned to tend to Yesugei, his daughter stepped away, removing her headdress at the yurt¡¯s threshold. She paused.


    "Pray my mother¡¯s healing gives you strength, Qarakesek prince. The other spirits of this land will not be so kind."


    Once she was gone, Aysen sighed and uncorked a foul-smelling bottle. ¡°My daughter learned her hatreds from B?ri¡ªproud, headstrong, unafraid to speak her mind. She''d talk circles around you till morning, condemning every heresy but the one that matters¡ªthe one only I know.¡±


    He leaned in close, and his voice took on a new, dangerous edge. ¡°I smell death on you, Yesugei-mirza. Your death. The deaths of too many others. Apostle magic. Betrayal.¡±


    Yesugei stiffened, pain lancing through his calf as he tried to rise. ¡°Apostles? You know of them?¡±


    ¡°The elders taught me and my brothers the ways of healing and spirit-calling," said Aysen. "But knowledge of those foul spirits¡­I received from these."


    He pulled back his sleeve, a thin arm pierced by five crystal fangs swirling with red, gold, and deep purple. Within them was a life Yesugei had not seen in Sergen''s own braided crystals. The flesh around the crystals was raw, burned by their shrinking. Even as Yesugei watched, the crystals withered.


    ¡°I saved these when your brother¡¯s men scalped me. For ten years, they never changed. But since the ash began falling, they¡¯ve burned¡ªand the pain has never been so great as when you entered our camp.¡±


    The swirling colors seemed to fill Yesugei¡¯s whole world. Within them, he saw strange black figures flickering against the clouds. In the world of the swirling colors and dancing figures, Aysen¡¯s voice sounded muffled, distant. ¡°My shards sense what others, even lay shamans, cannot. You reek of dark magic¡ªoathbreaker, a slave to the Dreamers.¡±


    Yesugei wrenched his gaze away, meeting the shaman¡¯s eyes. ¡°Oathbreaker? I am no one¡¯s slave¡ªleast of all the Apostles¡¯. I killed one of their kind in the Devil Woods.¡±


    ¡°Yet you still carry their magic with you,¡± said Aysen, his mouth set into a hard, thin line. "A Khormchak drawing on the magic of the Dreamers...did Sergen never tell you of the stories, the sacred pact that you broke?"


    "Never." He was too busy seeking the bottom of a cup, most times. ¡°Of what pact do you speak?¡±


    Aysen pointed to the largest crystal shard embedded in Yesugei¡¯s arm. ¡°A pact all our peoples carry in memory, woven into these shards when the world last saw ashfalls and madness.


    ¡°In those days, five hundred years ago, the steppe was torn apart by war between forgotten tribes and empires. From the bloodshed, a man arose¡ªa prophet of sorts. We know him as Elsen, the Messenger. He bore witness to a spire of black glass falling from the sky, awakened by the suffering below.


    ¡°The Elsen communed with the being inside¡ªthe first Dreamer. Together, they called down an age of darkness, choking the sun with ash and ruling over your people and mine for an age as cattle. Our ancestors were butchered in the thousands, and their agony fed the Dreamers, waking more of their kind.


    ¡°But the gods heard our prayers: a woman named Khariija struck down the Elsen, and with the Messenger dead, the Dreamers retreated into the sky. Then Khariija forged a pact between your khans and our elders: should the Dreamers, the Apostles ever return, the Khormchaks and Ormanli would stand as one to bring back the reign of the sun.¡±


    He rolled his sleeve down over his pierced arm. ¡°We restored the sun once. Now the steppe has lost its way.¡± His gaze was not accusatory, but heavy with pity. ¡°And its sons wield magic they should have left buried.¡±


    Yesugei¡¯s head swam. The pact¡­ He thought of his father, whom the Ormanli had prophesied to unite all Khormchaks under one ulus, and who had spent much time in the company of shamans when he was young. Did he know what was coming? Did Naizabai? Then why had Sergen never told his blood what they were being armed for? And what more...


    ¡°If this pact was made so long ago, how can the Qarakesek be sworn to it?¡± Yesugei replied. ¡°Back then, there were only¡­¡±


    Aysen¡¯s expression darkened. ¡°The Qara-Isyqs? The Qyzylkurans? The Western Gur? The great tribes your father destroyed?¡±


    Yesugei remembered the banners and notched blades that hung on display in his father¡¯s grand yurt - the last relics of empires that had reigned for centuries. Where there were once three, then there were none. So, too, were their oaths.


    ¡°The Great Tribes vanished, but their blood remains,¡± Aysen continued, smearing a pungent salve onto Yesugei¡¯s wound, cooling the burn. ¡°Do you not know your own history? The Qarakesek descend from the Qyzylkurans, and the Qyzylkurans trace an unbroken line back to the first khan who rose up alongside Khariija, Alasha. Your blood is their blood. Their oaths, yours.¡±


    ¡°Oaths sworn by the dead,¡± Yesugei shot back, though he felt more spite than conviction. ¡°The forest folk might dwell on the past, but steppe tribes rise and fall like the wind.¡±


    ¡°Why do you think our elders sent shamans to your khans?¡± muttered Aysen as he wrapped a bandage around Yesugei''s leg. ¡°Even before the Great Tribes fractured, our elders feared the pact would be forgotten. They charged a chosen few to leave the Mother Woods, and to carry with them the memories of the pact to your people. Now every khan keeps a shaman from the Mother Woods in his company¡ªand every khan¡¯s ear is held by those whose duty it is to remind them when the time comes.¡±


    The shaman spoke the truth - or at least half of it. In the last kurultai he had attended, Yesugei remembered how the khans had each ascended the holy Khurvan with their shamans in tow, Ormanli all. Yet he also remembered the mockeries and disgust the Ormanli attracted - and how most had spent more time at the bottom of a cup, in the arms of their harems, or glutting themselves on foreign delicacies rather than tending to any spiritual duties. Faith and ancient oaths took second place to the luxuries and vices of being a khan¡¯s right hand.


    ¡°A clever plan,¡± he laughed. ¡°If only your own shamans still believed those legends themselves. How many speak of the Apostles now? Perhaps Sergen did¡ªif my father¡¯s gifts were his doing¡ªbut the others¡­¡±


    ¡°Have lost their way, indeed,¡± sighed Aysen as he tied off the bandage and sat back on his knees. ¡°Too many generations have passed, and too many no longer remember what they were sent to do. And those whose crystals still remind them of our ancestors'' suffering drown their visions with wine or opium.¡±


    Sergen...Yesugei saw the old Ormanli¡¯s red-tinged face, his squat nose, his ever-present arkhi. What did he see? Why did he abandon his duty?


    When Aysen spoke again his voice was bitter with sorrow, and his hands curled into fists. ¡°Even my own daughter no longer dreams as I do¡­ But I still see things in my crystals when the stars loom large, oathbreaker. Yesugei. Do you know what I saw the night before you arrived?¡±


    The shaman¡¯s fangs swirled with shadows as he revealed them and peered into the murky depths. ¡°I dreamt of a woman carved from wood and bound in thorns, calling for one who would never return. I dreamt of a pale eagle racing across a dead sky, chasing a serpent of stars. And worst of all, I saw falling ash choking the earth beneath a silent heaven, then a great flood to scour the world clean once all was dead. I walked through the ruin to the root of sorrow and saw two places: a black mountain and a white city. And I heard the city''s bells tolling the world''s death knell.¡±


    ¡°Black for the east¡­ white for the west,¡± Yesugei muttered.


    ¡°Yes,¡± Aysen murmured, his eyes alight with understanding. ¡°The black mountain¡ªthe Khurvan. And the white city, astride a great flooding river¡­¡±


    The name formed on Yesugei¡¯s lips. ¡°Belnopyl. The White City. The Jewel on the Cherech.¡±


    ¡°That is where it began. That is where our answers lie.¡± Aysen met Yesugei¡¯s gaze. ¡°And that is why you must live.¡±


    Yesugei''s eyes widened. ¡°I thought you took me for a heretic and an oathbreaker. You would let me free?¡±


    ¡°An oathbreaker who knows what is coming is more valuable to me now than a man loyal and ignorant,¡± Aysen replied as he stood to his feet. ¡°And I did not say I will let you go free. You will survive the duel against my khan. Then you will go west, while I will convince B?ri that the Kangar must return to the steppe. Perhaps one of us will make sense of this madness. And we will meet again¡ªI have seen it in my dreams.¡±


    ¡°Your dreams will be for naught if I die,¡± said Yesugei. ¡°Who¡¯s to say B?ri won¡¯t gut me come tomorrow?¡±


    ¡°Then you would be an oathbreaker twice over.¡± Aysen¡¯s lips curled into a grin. ¡°I swore an oath. I cannot die. Not now. Were those not your words?¡±


    A chill ran through Yesugei - it felt as though the night air had suddenly grown claws and cut him to the bone with its cold. Yes¡­Vasilisa¡­I will return¡­I must return.


    Targyn, Kenesh, Sergen, and Kaveh¡­I will return for them.


    I will fight for them.


    He looked up, and the shaman no longer seemed human in the dim light. The chill he felt seemed to radiate from the shaman''s hunched form, which no longer seemed human in the half-darkness. The voice that flowed from the shaman¡¯s cracked lips was that of a singer¡¯s - high and soft.


    ¡°A burden heavier with every stride is yours and hers, oathbreaker.¡± spoke the spirit. Aysen¡¯s lips twisted into a crooked smile.


    Aysen moved to the tent¡¯s entrance. Firelight cast flickering shadows across his beaded veil, but behind the leather strips, Yesugei saw two pinpricks of molten gold staring back.


    Yesugei tried to rise, but the shaman raised a hand against him. Lethargy struck him like a wave - his arms failed him, and the princeling sank onto his back, staring up at the night sky through the crown of the yurt.


    ¡°A burden heavier with every stride¡­the sorrows of the world, an endless tide. You must live, oathbreaker. Suffer, and live."


    That¡¯s my curse, is it not? To live¡­


    Then sleep claimed him, and Yesugei remembered no more.

 Book 2, Chapter 7 - Wanderer of Steppe and Sand

    Wanderer of Steppe and Sand


    <hr>


    When morning rose over the Kangar plains, the day was cold and bleak. The ashes had ceased to fall, but the sun¡¯s face remained hidden from the world behind thick gray clouds.


    Yesugei was dragged out into chill morning air by two of B?ri-khan¡¯s keshiks, one for each arm. The girl shaman Tuyaara led the way as they marched through the camp to the jeers of the gathered tribesmen. A small procession grew around them, but none among the shouting mob dared to lay a finger upon their khan¡¯s Qarakesek captive.


    His sleep had been fitful and absent of any dreams, but Yesugei was surprised at his own strength as he walked without stumbling towards his doom - his bandage-wrapped leg felt light and strong, and each step no longer came with the dread of buckling to his knees for the crowd¡¯s mockery. For all that had happened the night before, Tuyaara and Aysen¡¯s healing had worked - but Yesugei saw no trace of the father as he glanced about the ulus.


    ¡°Where is your father?¡± he asked Tuyaara as they drew nearer to the khan¡¯s tent. The girl remained silent.


    ¡°Aysen can¡¯t save you now, Qarakesek scum,¡± laughed the keshik to his right. ¡°It¡¯s the spirits you face, not their caller.¡±


    The grass outside the khan¡¯s yurt had been hurriedly cleared since last night¡¯s revelry. In place of the feasting tables stood a ring of braziers casting light and warmth as the great crowd pressed in, eager to see their captive bleed.


    When the crowd parted, Yesugei saw the Kangar khan seated on a stool, his fiery orange robe a splash of color against the leather and iron armor of his noyans. Aysen¡¯s daughter sliced his bonds free, and the keshiks shoved him forward. He stumbled into the ring, laughter and spiteful howling all around, but then it came to a hushed stop. B?ri stood, hand to the pommel of his saber.


    ¡°I take all gathered here as witnesses,¡± boomed the khan¡¯s voice, ¡°that I have challenged Yesugei, son of Aqtai, prince of the Qarakesek horde, to a duel for his freedom.¡±


    Yesugei must have looked a sight compared to the Kangar khan, standing tall and proud, while he himself shivered from the chill breeze - clad in rags and worn boots. The crowd whispered, but there was no doubt - for the tribe, this was a spectacle, a way to mark the beginning of the war to come with the blood of their most ancient foe.


    B?ri continued, ¡°If the spirits judge him kindly and grant him life, I have promised the princeling I will let him leave as his father allowed us - with horse and supplies enough to leave our lands, and unmolested by any of you lot!¡±


    ¡°Now, all of you, swear by the gods!¡± The khan raised his sheathed sword. The warriors gathered within the ring unsheathed their blades and axes, saluting them to the sky. The khan led his warriors in a strange oath, one before the Eternal Sky and the tengri, but also before the Lightning Lord, and the justice of the Klyazmite gods.


    The Eternal Sky is silent and hidden from us all today, Yesugei thought bitterly as the weapons lowered. And the Lightning Lord¡­if his justice were real, then why do he let his followers¡¯ lands burn?


    ¡°Come forth, son of the Qarakesek,¡± B?ri said. A keshik handed Yesugei a blade. He tested its weight with a slash, then scoffed at the Baskord khan, swallowing his fear. But terror¡¯s grip did not ease around his silent heart - it only tightened as he stepped forward.


    One of the noyans gestured to three bowmen. ¡°If he tries to cut his way free, fill him with arrows like the wretched dog he is.¡±


    ¡°The only dogs here are the ones that stand around me,¡± huffed Yesugei. ¡°Look at you all, hungering for blood and flesh.¡±


    Look at you all, clamoring for more blood to be spilt on this earth while the Apostles sleep.


    He remembered the slaughter he had seen in the Devil Woods - and the terrible silence that had reigned there. The more they fought, the more the smell of death and suffering would rise to the heavens, and the more they would be roused from their sleep. Would princely blood rouse Aysen¡¯s Dreamers more than that of a commoner¡¯s?


    No, he thought to himself as he raised his sword. The Kangar khan drew his own sword, and threw the scabbard to the side. We are all just meat. So much meat.


    B?ri launched himself forward with a cry, his sword flashing silver as it arced through the air. Yesugei parried, but no sooner had he turned away the first blow a second, a third, a fourth came raining down on him from above and below in an iron dance.


    He took one step back, then another, and another. Their swords never stopped in their dance, leaping high and low to meet at each turn. The Kangar khan''s attack was relentless and blindingly fast, never giving him the centre, striking from every which way, each cut powerful enough to cleave him in two.


    Soon Yesugei¡¯s wrist was ringing from the jarring strikes that ran through the spine of his blade - and the khan looked nowhere near tired.


    B?ri pressed on with a mighty roar as though he could kill him with noise and fury alone. He swung for a mighty blow that would have sliced him from hip to shoulder - Yesugei dodged just as his back seared with heat. The khan had pushed him back all the way to the edge of the dueling ground, and his missed strike clanged against the brazier at Yesugei¡¯s back.


    Yesugei fell onto his side. Before B?ri could strike again, he kicked the base of the brazier with all his fading strength. A cascade of burning coals spilled over the khan, and his orange silks erupted into flame.


    The khan gave a hoarse shout of surprise that turned to agony as he thrashed, his sleeves trailing long, orange tongues through the air. B?ri swung wildly, but as he ripped free of his burning silks and hurled them at Yesugei the princeling darted forward - and his blade cut a silver blur into the khan¡¯s side. Blood sprayed onto the grass, sending a cry through the crowd.


    B?ri staggered upright, his right side dripping red. A terrible fear smothered the crowd¡¯s joy. Fate had granted first blood to the Kangars¡¯ enemy - and before B?ri could regain his footing proper, Yesugei took his turn to rush forward in their steel dance. He struck blow after blow, sending the khan staggering back, and hammering into the crowd with every ring of steel.


    Yet fortune¡¯s smile did not last long. Even injured, B?ri regained his footing, and his defense hardened. Soon the sword in his hand felt as though it were turning to lead, and Yesugei¡¯s lungs burned from the effort and the frigid morning air.


    Then B?ri struck again. Yesugei barely turned his head in time, but the blade raked his temple with an explosion of pain. Blood ran bright and crimson across his eyes, and the crowd roared their joy once more. Dazed, he staggered back, hearing their chant¡ªDeath, death, death! B?ri raised his sword for the kill - and his own wretchedly-heavy sword refused to rise, damn it all!


    Yesugei let his ponderously heavy sword fall from his hands - then lunged. His shoulder slammed into B?ri¡¯s gut, and the bigger man grunted like an ox as the blow took the wind from his chest, swaying him off balance. Yesugei swept the khan¡¯s legs out from under him, and together they toppled to the ground in a tangle. The Kangar cried out in pain as he landed on his wounded side, and his sword fell free from his grip.


    Yesugei scrambled for the sword, but B?ri seized his ankle and yanked him down.


    He landed hard, but gripped the hilt - and that was all that mattered. As B?ri climbed atop him, Yesugei thrust the blade upward, pressing it against the khan¡¯s throat.


    Yield, he would say. The real enemy grows stronger the more we shed each others¡¯ blood. Yield, and let us both live.


    He pushed the sword to the khan¡¯s throat - then froze. B?ri¡¯s fingers wrapped around the honed steel, grasping it firmly from his neck. The harder Yesugei pushed, the more crimson droplets welled between B?ri¡¯s fingers. His blood dripped onto Yesugei¡¯s face, blinding him even more.


    No¡­no¡­no¡­


    The steel blade flexed. With a loud hiss, B?ri wrenched the blade free and threw it far across the grounds, hopelessly out of reach. Before Yesugei could react, a punch sent his world spinning and shook his teeth loose in his skull.


    ¡°Kill him!¡± The crowd¡¯s cheering was exhausted, desperate, even. ¡°Finish him!¡±


    The second punch filled Yesugei''s mouth with blood. Through blurred vision, he saw the khan raising his fist again.


    No¡­no¡­I swore an oath¡­I cannot die¡­


    ¡°Kill him, my khan!¡± the crowd roared, and B?ri brought both hands high in the air to finish it.


    Yesugei''s own hand darted in a final, spiteful strike. He drove his thumb deep the khan¡¯s open wound, and pressed hard. B?ri howled, his weight shifting just enough for Yesugei to roll free. As he scrambled upright he reached for the khan¡¯s sword, and saw B?ri picking up his own.


    Both men staggered to their feet, circling like injured wolves. Yesugei''s arms trembled just trying to keep the sword aloft and pointed at the khan. Every muscle in his tired, beaten body screamed for rest, and the pounding in his head threatened to drop him to the ground all on its own.


    The khan, bloodied and tired, eyed him with fury - and something else. Surprise.


    The crowd fell deathly quiet. The only sounds to be heard were crackling of the fires, the whispers of the grasses, and the creak of a bow being drawn tight.


    B?ri¡¯s eyes widened as they flicked behind Yesugei. ¡°No, no-¡±


    ¡°Stop!¡± another familiar voice cried.


    The bowstring twanged. A brightly-feathered arrow hissed past Yesugei, embedding itself between him and the khan. The crowd roared in outrage. The archer who shot the offending arrow collapsed, clutching his head¡ªAysen¡¯s daughter stood over him, horsewhip in hand.


    ¡°Idiot!¡± B?ri roared as he pulled the arrow from the ground. ¡°Have you lost all respect for our ways? Is this what my warriors have become?!!¡±


    The khan snapped the arrow in two, and cast it aside in disgust. The warriors, the noyans, and the gathered crowd stood in sheepish silence. The silence hung heavy until, with a sight, the khan planted the tip of his sword into the ashen ground.


    It was over. For better or worse, it was over.


    ¡°Who am I to speak of honor, when my own men resort to shooting our prisoners in the back?¡± B?ri laughed, then gritted his teeth as his bleeding side gushed anew. Yesugei saw the effort it took for him to remain standing, but the khan¡¯s voice did not waver. ¡°The spirits must look kindly upon you to give me such a fight, Yesugei-mirza. And for that, you may leave our lands, as I have promised.¡±


    Hushed whispers abounded around them. The longbeard noyan pushed his way through the circle, his face beet-red. ¡°My khan, you had said-¡±


    Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.


    ¡°-that Yesugei-mirza may leave if the spirits grant him life, not victory,¡± shot back B?ri. ¡°Surely our people know the difference, Toktar-noyan. We who lost, but still live to fight and suffer for another day.¡±


    He gave Yesugei a grim nod. ¡°Such was your father''s mercy, Yesugei-mirza. One which I will only extend once.¡±


    To the girl-shaman who stood over the groaning archer, B?ri commanded, ¡°Tuyaara, escort our Qarakesek guest to the spring pastures and let him fly. See that he has a horse, arms, and food enough for the High Road, but no more.¡±


    Tuyaara bristled at the task but nodded, sticking her horse whip back into her belt.


    B?ri faced the sullen crowd. ¡°The spirits have shown our war will be hard, and our war will be bloody. But I promise - I will bleed for you all first, and set my sword down last should you follow me!¡±


    He pulled his sword from the ground and raised it to the dark sky. ¡°These ashes that have sullied our lands blow from the east, where the dogs that have stolen our homes now fight among themselves! Aysen-guai¡¯s Sight has shown it! The spirit-caller follows the Black Heavens, and I will lead our ulus in his wake. United, the Qarakesek were unstoppable. But torn apart¡­they are nothing but starving dogs once more.¡±


    From the east¡­? The khan¡¯s words rang with a terrible dread in Yesugei¡¯s mind. A terrible fear.


    Black for the east¡­the Khurvan¡­the kurultai¡­


    Had it come too late? Had the end already begun?


    The thought twisted in his gut like a knife. But the signs had been there long before Aysen¡¯s visions. The ruin of Tosont, the omens of his own Sight, the disappearance of spirits from the land.


    Yesugei exhaled and sank to his knees in exhaustion. He pressed a hand to his chest, where his heart should have pounded with fear, with urgency. But there was nothing. Only silence.


    The end had begun long ago. And he was already dead.


    ***


    The Kangar tribesman patted Yesugei¡¯s horse as he fixed the saddle with a final tug. ¡°She¡¯s too fine a beast for the likes of you, Qarakesek, but it¡¯s done.¡±


    More than the dun mare¡ªa gift from B?ri¡¯s own herd¡ªthe khan had outfitted his prisoner better than expected. Yesugei¡¯s saddlebags were packed with food and fodder, and once his new wounds were bound, his rags were replaced with a sheepskin robe. The khan had also seen fit to arm him with a hunting bow and arrows, and a wide-bladed hunting knife with an ivory handle. Yesugei kept the knife tucked into his boot, alongside a thin pouch of silver coins.


    Once B?ri retired to deal with the tribe¡¯s move to the east, some of the younger tribesmen eyed his supplies - why did a Qarakesek, their enemy, deserve such weapons and silver? Only Tuyaara¡¯s horse whip kept their hostility to heckling. Even now, as Yesugei prepared to leave, the shaman lingered, ensuring B?ri¡¯s promise was kept when others sought to break them.


    Her look was baleful, but instead of cursing him, she pointed west to a small creek. ¡°That is the Nanly, where summer herders water their sheep. Follow it for twenty miles. It will lead you to the Charcoal-Burners¡¯ Trail and guide you north.¡±


    It seemed Aysen had informed his daughter of their plans before his departure in the night - she guided him to the northwest as though she knew where he was to go. However, her father¡¯s faith was clearly absent from the shaman¡¯s own heart.


    ¡°My father sends you only because he fears for me, his lone daughter,¡± Tuyaara had said after tending his wounds from the duel. ¡°But I know the Klyazmite lands better than anyone in this tribe¡ªif you betray his trust, I will find you.¡±


    With her grim warning, she gave his mare a light whip. The horse started off, and Yesugei took the reins¡ªfree at last.


    At fifty paces, he turned back. Most of the tribesmen who gathered to see him off were already mounting their steeds to rejoin the ulus, vanishing eastward below the horizon of the plains. Only Tuyaara lingered, watching him a little while longer until she too rode off. Soon, he was alone beneath the gray sky.


    The high grasses opened reluctantly before his ride as Yesugei followed after the steady summer creek. The Nanly wound serpentine through the land, occasionally running through deep ditches and grooves. In the plains, tall grasses all round concealed the ditches until a lesser horseman was to trip and break his neck in the fall.


    As he rode on over rolling hills and scattered trees, Yesugei quickly realized he was still being watched. Steppe mice scurried through the grasses and birds occasionally flew overhead, but none lingered long - nor did they appear a second time.


    The steppe falcon appeared in the mid-afternoon, its dark silhouette barely visible against sky. When he saw it again beyond a stony ridge, flying at the same distance¡ªperhaps closer¡ªsuspicion took root.


    He had half a mind to shoot an arrow at the bird as it continued to follow him, but the falcon remained just beyond the reach of his hunting bow. Almost as if it were trained.


    Kangar, as all Khormchaks, excelled in falconry; a skilled tracker could remain hidden well beyond the horizon while their bird shadowed its prey. No matter how he rode or concealed himself, the falcon followed. Only nightfall brought its disappearance.


    As the darkness loomed, Yesugei made camp and struck flint to kindling. The fire crackled, sending embers into a sky now bright with stars and a high, full moon. He had made good time and rode well for the day, but the falcon and its master who doubtlessly followed made sleep hard to find, even tired and sore as he was.


    He ate salted meat and stale flatbread, sipping mare¡¯s milk sparingly. Fatigue pressed heavy, yet sleep was slow to come. The falcon - and its master who doubtlessly followed - lurked in the dark corners of his mind.


    Just as he began to doze, an unnatural weight settled over him. The crisp steppe air thickened like a mire, and distant voices called a name that was not his. Before he could listen, sleep fell upon him.


    ***


    The swirling darkness consumed him entirely, but then it parted, and Yesugei felt himself drifting, wandering, walking. He was walking uncertainly, and the ground at his feet was not the hard, dry earth of the plains, but sinking, grasping sand.


    But though his eyes were closed, he knew where he was. He knew the place well. It had dogged him for years, creeping when he least expected it.


    The White Pinch.


    He opened his eyes, and found himself in that dreadful plain once more. A vast, yawning expanse of dry earth and stinging squalls of sand, dotted with few standing stones and pebbles.


    But something did not seem right. He took another step forward, and he realized he was shivering with cold. The entire desert was freezing, for the high pale sun above his head that should have cast the land in sweltering heat as in his memories instead seemed to suck away all warmth.


    The cold was somehow worse than the drowning heat and sweat of that day, and the memories flooded to him in fragments as he walked. The pounding hooves, blaring horns, the whistling of arrows...so many arrows, as many as the sands, blanketing the steppe in darkness with every volley. He took another step, and then another - he was walking up along a low dune, trudging to where - he did not know. But he knew that if he stopped, he would not be able to bring himself to walk again, and the terrible, cold sun would bear down upon him like a circling vulture and eat him.


    When he reached the top of the dune, he saw the White Pinch stretching ever on before him, lifeless, barren, and cold¡­so cold. Why? Down below arrow shafts jutted out from the ground, so many that they seemed like grasses sprouting from the barren waste. But nothing could grow in the White Pinch - that he knew. As he looked on, he saw the bodies that lay beneath the arrows and drifting snads.


    Thousands of men and horses lay strewn about the White Pinch, lying just as they had fallen so many years ago. Colorful robes and tribal sigils were bleached pale by the looming sun so that he could not tell who among the dead were of his tribe and who were of the Quanli. Together, Khormchak lay upon Khormchak, kin slain by kin for the follies of khans and spurned blood-brothers.


    As Yesugei made his careful descent from the dune, he spied a winding path that seemed clear of rotting dead, bordered on either side by broken arrow shafts like stones along a road.


    Seeing no way forward or back, he strode beneath the chilling sun, which grew colder with every step. As the path descended a rocky slope, a sudden cloud of dust rose from below. Tiny grains slashed his exposed hands and face like a thousand knives. He yanked his collar up, but the storm clawed at him, and any cry of pain would only fill his mouth with sand.


    Blinded and staggering, he lost his footing. The ground crumbled beneath his boots, and he tumbled down the ridge. He did not know how long he fell, only that when he finally landed on a patch of sand, his body was battered, and his mouth tasted of blood.


    This was the end, he thought. The cold sands beneath him leached away his last warmth¡ªand with it, the strength to rise again.


    ¡°Back on your feet, Yesugei,¡± growled a voice. Nariman? No - Nariman was a thousand miles away. The voice in his ear was a ghost, and the desert did not lack for those. Hundreds, no, thousands had died at the White Pinch - his first and last command in battle. They died all around him beneath the stinging arrows and in the clash of lances, and more had died after, screaming and howling beneath the open sun.


    That same sun hung above him now, cold yet just as unforgiving. But someone was shaking his shoulder, not letting him die.


    ¡°Get up,¡± the voice said, but this one was different, and tight with urgency. ¡°Yesugei, get up. You can¡¯t sleep here. Get up. The war is not over. Get up.¡±


    No, I am not sleeping. I am remembering.


    He turned, searching for the voice, but saw no one. Yet the echoes remained. When he pushed himself onto his hands and knees, he saw them¡ªfootprints in the sand, too many to count, vanishing into the swirling storm.


    He crawled after them. The sand obscured his vision, but just ahead, the prints lingered, fading fast. The voices trailed ever further, dancing just out of reach.


    "Leave him," said the first voice. Now he was sure it was Nariman. His eldest brother, cold and unfeeling - the one who was destined to inherit it all. "If he can''t stand on his own, he''s finished. Leave him. We can go home."


    Home¡­home¡­where was home? Home had been his yurt, his ulus, his tribe. But that had belonged to the man he once was¡ªnot the corpse he had become.


    The cold crept into his mind, numbing thought, blurring sight. If this was a dream, why did it feel so real? So exhausting?


    ¡°He¡¯ll get up,¡± spoke another, gentler voice. Kaveh, the only brother who ever felt like one. ¡°You¡¯ll get up, won¡¯t you, Yesugei?¡±


    Other voices swirled with the storm - too many, too hushed to discern. Some were harsh, others were gentle, but as Yesugei felt himself slowing down, their voices grew louder. They were calling his name. No, not calling. Cheering.


    Yesugei, they called. Get up. The Great Design is not over. Remember your oath! Remember our oath!


    It was his father he heard. It was his brothers and his sisters, it was his keshiks and sworn men. It was their footprints he was crawling after. But as the storm howled, they faded, vanishing one by one until only a single, uneven trail remained.


    And then he was walking - stumbling, really, but on his feet. He staggered to his feet, head bowed against the wind, the sand biting his skin. The ground sucked at his boots, so he let them go, pressing on barefoot.


    Through the swirling storm, a figure emerged¡ªhunched, sitting cross-legged in the freezing sand. As Yesugei drew closer, he saw the man clad in tarnished lamellar, bleeding from a dozen wounds. The man traced a symbol into the barren earth with a finger daubed in his own gore: cross, topped with a triangle. As it was completed, the Apostle¡¯s symbol shimmered with a strange, terrible power. The whole desert began to shake, and the earth itself roared beneath the sands.


    The Quanli noyan, Murat, whispered an incantation. But he had died long ago - and Yesugei had claimed his treasure and tent for his own. This, he knew.


    He didn¡¯t know where and when the sword appeared, only that its silver shamshir was freezing in his grip. As the dead man¡¯s prayer continued, Yesugei staggered forward, half-blind, and thrust the blade before him. A terrible howl rang out. The Quanli noyan¡¯s armor warped into stone and black, greasy muscle. The shamshir was no longer steel but dark, hungry crystal¡ªblacker than night.


    The thing before him flickered between Murat-noyan and the Apostle. Then, with a final impact, both noyan and monster burst into ash, shrouding Yesugei in darkness once more.


    But still, there was the cold. And the voices.


    They poured into his silent heart¡ªstrength, dreams, oaths old and new. A fire kindled in his chest, sinking into the crystal that kept him walking, breathing, fighting.


    What does a dead man have to fear? He thought to himself. Nothing. Nothing ever again.


    When he opened his eyes, gray clouds loomed above. Morning had come, the sun had risen, and he was still alive. The chill no longer bit as sharply¡ªwarmth buzzed from the crystal in his chest, filling him with a life he hadn''t felt in ages.


    In the half-light of the hidden sun, the horizon finally broke, revealing deep, verdant woodlands miles away. No paved roads crossed the Kangar plains, but beyond a rocky precipice marked by a squat tribal stone, Yesugei spotted wagon ruts winding through the dirt. The path followed a roaring stream where the Nanly flowed, twisting through scattered trees and standing stones before vanishing into the waiting woods.


    A strange feeling seized him. He knelt by the creek, dipping his hands into the cool, clear Nanly, letting it lap against his scarred skin. As he cupped the water to drink, his mind drifted to the Jigai River at the Devil Woods¡¯ border¡ªa memory from another life, long past, long ended.


    He cupped more water, peering into his wobbly reflection. Faint ashen marks streaked his face, making him seem like a ghoul from the steppes. He splashed the chill water onto his skin, a jolt running through him, then wiped the ash away, letting the memories and whispers of the east drift down the Nanly and dissolve. He lingered, watching the ashes vanish. Somewhere, he knew, the Nanly would flow into the Cherech, and where the Cherech ran, the city of the west would lie¡ªwith its tolling bell, and perhaps...Vasilisa. There, oaths sworn beneath the sullen sky and amidst steppe grasses would be fulfilled, and madness would yield to answers.


    ¡°Well then, you¡¯d better get started.¡±


    A voice sounded behind him. He turned, but saw only the vast Kangar plains. For a moment, he saw a flicker¡ªa green robe, and red hair like fire dancing among the high, swaying grasses.


    Kav...?


    Then, silence.

 Book 2, Chapter 8 - The Falcon

    The Falcon


    <hr>


    Once she had drunk her fill from the creek, Yesugei saddled his mare and put his heels to her sides, riding deeper on towards the woods until they swallowed him.


    For hours he rode on beneath the grasping branches of the forest, but saw hide nor hair of any charcoal-burners along the trail that bore their name - or any souls at all. The falcon had vanished with the morning light, yet he was certain it still followed him - watching from above the verdant canopy. He kept his bow close, his eyes on watch around and above.


    The path rose and fell along the stream, winding through grassy knolls. Creeks fed the muddy water, turning it choppy, while wind stirred the branches in waves. As the day waned, rain began¡ªlight at first, then steady, then a downpour that battered down harder with every minute.


    Crossing a moss-grown bridge, Yesugei spotted the remains of a fort: tumbled stones, broken palisades, all half-buried in grass. He dismounted, leading his mare up the ridge. The main keep¡ªa squat, two-story tower of rotting logs¡ªstood barely intact. Lichen draped from the windows and twisted in the breeze - nature¡¯s own banners over the fort. The rest had long succumbed to ruin.


    Tying his mare to a tree within the crumbling yard, Yesugei crept towards the tower, bow and dagger at the ready. He pressed an ear to the door¡ªwhen only rain answered, he quietly slipped indoors. Within, he found an eerie contrast: dry, well-kept, almost homey. A firepit smoldered with embers, left untended for no longer than a few days. Upstairs, there lay a lumpy straw mattress and a crate with wine stains.


    Still, the door to the tower could be barred, and the roof was sound. Yesugei busied himself with blowing new life into the embers when he heard the footfalls tramping through the underbrush outside.


    The ambush came quickly, but he was ready. By the time a shadow was cast along the gap between the door and the floor, Yesugei had drawn back his bow. He loosed a shot as the door slammed open. The feathered shaft found its mark in the soft belly of a man wielding a war-axe, and a familiar face twisted in agony. Zayats, one of Stribor¡¯s mangiest dogs, fell to the mud and writhed, gasping.


    Beyond the threshold Yesugei saw other shapes stirring, but he did not let them gather their wits long - he nocked another arrow and stepped out into the pouring rain, where he saw two more familiar faces. The freerider Yerch had swapped out his lance for a mean scimitar, while Pervusha bore a long-axe as ugly and huge as himself.


    From behind his helm, Pervusha¡¯s eyebrows rose in mild surprise. But then he laughed, and his voice spilled from behind the maille-curtain cold and cruel. ¡°You again, Khormchak? The gods smile upon us today to give us this gift.¡±


    ¡°Draw any closer, and I¡¯ll give you a gift myself,¡± Yesugei replied, swaying his aim between the two brigands. ¡°Or do you still hunger for Khormchak arrows? Kangar or Qarakesek, both have keen eyes and aim. Come, let me show you.¡±


    ¡°The little man means to scare us off, I think,¡± laughed Yerch. He moved right while Pervusha moved left, trying to surround him. But neither man charged - yet. If there were more of them, they would have been bolder, Yesugei thought.


    ¡°You are only three,¡± he called over the rush of the pouring rain. His eyes drifted Zayats - already cold and lifeless, his hands still grasped around the shaft stuck in his belly. ¡°Two. What became of the rest of your company?¡±


    ¡°They found a new master.¡± cut in a third voice from the underbrush.


    Yesugei¡¯s eyes darted to the source. The blood-mage Hecellon loomed out from the treeline.


    His face, already deathly pale, was now almost wax-like and mottled. The wounds he suffered during the Kangar ambush on Stribor¡¯s column revealed themselves in every step, slow and painful. His right hand, impaled by a Khormchak arrow, was covered in bandages.


    ¡°We chased off the horselords after some battle,¡± Hecellon muttered. ¡°Some men chose to leave for Gatchisk, but this fine lot and I reckon that Svetopolk will pay well for his bride - regardless of who brings her. She can¡¯t have gone far, such as she was.¡±


    ¡°Yet you are here, and she remains in the wind,¡± Yesugei sneered. ¡°You and your lot make for poor men, and even poorer dogs.¡±


    ¡°Perhaps,¡± hissed Yerch. ¡°But it¡¯s your throat these dogs¡¯ll tear out sooner than later.¡±


    Hecellon¡¯s had distracted him too well. Yesugei realized the two druzhinniks were nearly on either side of him, and they were growing bold. He tried to swivel around, keep both of them in his vision, but the warriors matched his turn.


    ¡°Drop that bow before I stick it up your arse,¡± Pervusha barked. ¡°Maybe then I¡¯ll give you a quick end. Otherwise the Yllahanan¡¯ll wring out every drop of blood before I give you to the gods. What say you, Khormchak?¡±


    ¡°No.¡±


    Yesugei quickly turned on the spot, and loosed his arrow at Yerch.


    The man had tried to creep up on him from behind, and did not expect Yesugei to turn - neither did he expect the arrow, which whistled keenly before it buried itself in his armpit, where iron plates did not reach. As Yerch flailed in agony, Yesugei heard Pervsha rushing him from behind. He drew his free hand for the hunting knife tucked into his belt.


    Before he could throw it at the druzhinnik however, a high, inhuman screech pierced through the din of the rain. Then, a dark blur shot from the trees and fell upon Pervusha. With a great woosh, a Khormchak hunting falcon struck the druzhinnik head-on, raking its talons across the warrior¡¯s eyes as it beat about his head with its wings. Pervusha roared like a wounded bear as he stumbled off with a hand over his eyes - and through his armored fingers dripped blood.


    Yesugei scooped up Zayats¡¯ fallen axe as Yerch staggered towards him. The footman¡¯s saber flashed silver in a wild cut, and missed by a mile, sending its wielder flailing off-balance. Yesugei buried the axe into his exposed neck. Steel sheared through flesh and bone with a terrible crunch, and the druzhinnik fell with a gurgle.


    Over the pouring rain, he heard an incantation being called. Yesugei leapt aside and brought the axe in front of him as he saw Hecellon hurl one arm out. A crescent wave of solid blood scythed through the air, aimed for his neck, only to shatter into a million pieces against the axe blade. The fragments peppered his face harmlessly, and Yesugei saw Hecellon clutching his wrist. Draining his own blood was a tax too high to bear - the mage raised his hands to cast another spell, but fear and exhaustion won over valor, and he turned to run.


    Yesugei caught him at the last moment, grasping his stained red cloak and pulling him to the ground. Pressed to the ground, the Yllahanan extended his arm to cast a spell. Yesugei drove his fist into the mage¡¯s mouth, cracking teeth.


    ¡°You like reading fortunes from guts, don¡¯t you?¡± he hissed as the Yllahanan gagged.


    He pulled free his dagger and buried it into the mage¡¯s belly. Hecellon¡¯s eyes bulged, and he gasped like a fish out of water as Yesugei twisted the knife and ripped free his entrails. The Yllahanan fell limp, and Yesugei left him to writhe, turning to face the last of dead Stribor¡¯s dogs.


    The falcon squawked as Pervusha¡¯s swinging fist clipped the harrying bird on the wing, and it flew off. When he turned, Yesugei saw the druzhinnik¡¯s left eye was awash with blood. He looked as though he could barely stand, let alone fight. And yet he charged first, swinging his axe furiously.


    Before they could meet, a bright pale light exploded out of the woods.


    Yesugei flinched as the light seared through the rain, impossibly bright in the darkening woods. The air rippled outwards, shearing, and then the world broke open.


    From the shattering air a great Ormanli reindeer erupted, her antlers adorned with charms. It sailed through the air, hooves barely brushing the sodden ground - and then it charged, aimed at Pervusha.


    The druzhinnik froze. His one good eye widened, his breath hitched - and then the reindeer¡¯s horns speared through him, lifting him into the air as if he weighed nothing.


    Pervusha screamed - an awful, gurgling sound - as the reindeer continued to charge. The spirit smashed him into a tree, showering the branches with blood. He convulsed, pinned like a doll, before the reindeer wrenched its head sideways, flinging him free. Stribor¡¯s man splattered against the muddy ground, and lay still.


    The reindeer fixed him with a dispassionate stare. The pounding rain simply fell through its glowing form, but its nostrils filled the air with steam as it snorted. Then, as quickly as it appeared¡­its form fell apart, twisting away into a thousand tiny lights like cinders.


    Yesugei spied the falcon flapping awkwardly up to a tree some distance away. A perching arm detached from the shadows, followed by a lithe figure. The shaman slipped from a thick branch, landing quietly as a leaf as Yesugei hefted Pervusha¡¯s axe from the ground.


    ¡°What, couldn¡¯t let me out of your sight for even a day?¡± he grinned, smiling through the battle-exhaustion. ¡°I knew your faith was little¡­but it still hurts.¡±


    Tuyaara glowered at him from behind her leather veil. ¡°You were easy to track, and I daresay in need. You should be kissing my boots for how I saved your ass.¡±


    ¡°I¡¯ll do whatever you ask, but there¡¯s just one thing¡­¡±


    Hecellon had barely managed to inch away from the slaughter when Yesugei grabbed him by the ankle and flipped him over. The mage reached out feebly, but surrendered with a bloody cough as Yesugei loomed over him with the axe.


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    ¡°God¡­god give me mercy¡± the blood-mage gurgled. The rain pasted his long, thin hair to his scalp and face, making him seem all the more like a corpse. ¡°I¡¯ll be waiting for you in hell, you fucking nomad scum.¡±


    The Yllahanan¡¯s eyes burned furiously, and he spat a bloody tooth on the ground. ¡°Go on then, finish it.¡±


    Yesugei obliged him.


    ***


    The rain pounded relentlessly on the watchtower roof as the storm grew. Sleep was difficult to find, and so both he and Tuyaara sat around the fire as he dried his bow and she tended to her falcon. Warmth slowly seeped into his bones as he worked, chasing away the chill of the rain-soaked air. For a long while, neither of them spoke, lost in their thoughts as they were.


    Yesugei broke the silence once his bow was dry and holstered. ¡°Why were you following me?¡± he asked carefully. ¡°Do you really mistrust me so?¡±


    ¡°Trust is to be earned, not given at will,¡± the shaman muttered in reply. ¡°Especially when we¡¯re to trust someone tainted by dark magic.¡±


    ¡°Your father trusted me enough. Do you doubt his judgement, then?¡±


    Tuyaara¡¯s hard gaze wavered from Yesugei¡¯s face, and she cast her eyes back to her falcon. ¡°My father is old, and afraid. Afraid of the coming harvest, afraid of the coming doom. But more than that, he is afraid of losing me - and that fear clouds all other judgment.¡±


    Somehow, though it rang a different tune, the story was familiar. Tuyaara did not seem so much younger than him - their difference was only by a few years, if even that, but her spirit reminded him of his own just a few short months ago. Yesugei felt a wry smile come to his face. ¡°So the daughter defies the father, and now you are here. What was your plan, then? How long would you have tracked me, hiding in the shadows?¡±


    ¡°As far as needed,¡± said Tuyaara with a confident edge to her voice. ¡°If you stayed the course, I would have followed you to the White City and sought my own answers. If you did not¡­then I would have killed you, and made a good lot of people in the ulus happier for it.¡±


    Yesugei chuckled. ¡°It¡¯s not me who is your enemy, nor your tribe¡¯s. You know this.¡±


    He tossed an idle branch into the fire, watching it burst and crackle. A strange feeling stirred in his heart as he watched the wood blacken and crack. The Apostle of Tosont had cast flames brighter than the sun - consumed flesh like kindling. And yet three men who could have stood against the tide now lay dead and dismembered, carrion for the beasts. Yesugei sighed. Belnopyl still lay many miles away - too many to bear riding with a knife at his back.


    ¡°If you will listen, perhaps I can ease your mind before we kill one another and die for nothing. If you won¡¯t trust my honor, trust my self-interest¡ªI have my own reasons to reach the White City.¡±


    Tuyaara thought for a moment. ¡°Ardager spoke of a woman that fled the plains¡­you seek her.¡±


    ¡°Her name is Vasilisa,¡± Yesugei said. He recalled her look of shame, and flash of her Solarian garment vanishing into the woods. Had she taken this same trail? ¡°Her city is the reason for all this madness. Before Stribor¡¯s bastards caught us, we¡¯d been trying to reach her home - or at least, a lord still loyal to her father.¡±


    He met Tuyaara¡¯s gaze, and saw her expression had softened. ¡°I swore an oath to her. We are blood-bound. She saved my life, and I saved her honor. I know she¡¯s alive, making her way to the city. If you won¡¯t trust me to uphold your father¡¯s charge, trust that I will seek her.¡±


    Silence stretched between them as Tuyaara studied him, searching for what truth she could believe in his eyes. At last, she sighed and shrugged. ¡°Very well, Qarakesek-¡±


    ¡°My name is Yesugei.¡±


    ¡°Yesugei,¡± she continued. ¡°I will trust in your blood bond. Not even the sons of Aqtai would break such a vow a second time, I think. But I will still accompany you to Belnopyl¡ªlest another bandit try to split open your skull.¡±


    A small smile tugged at Yesugei¡¯s lips. ¡°I¡¯d expect nothing less.¡± The tension eased.


    Eventually, sleep found him first, drawing his eyes shut with its heavy weight once he found a comfortable nook. Darkness came swiftly, leaving only the crackle of the fire, the falcon¡¯s preening, and Tuyaara¡¯s face¡ªhalf shrouded in shadow, half lit by the orange glow.


    And in the distance, he heard the howling of wolves.


    ***


    When morning arose the next day a thin mist hung over the entire forest, shrouding the path ahead doubly with the shadows of the trees overhead. Yesugei awoke to a chill in the air, and he saw the firepit was snuffed out.


    Outside, Tuyaara was already at work loading her horse with saddlebags and pack - whether she had even slept the night before, he did not know. When he approached the girl-shaman and loosened his own mare¡¯s reins, she said with her back turned, ¡°I do not like the silence of these woods, nor this chill - it is unnatural, and we should move quickly. The road here will take us from the woods with good speed - we¡¯ll find ourselves in more flat country soon.¡±


    After a quick meal from Tuyaara¡¯s own rations of salted meat and flatbreads, they were back on the road, and immediately found themselves caught in a slog. The rain had turned the narrow path along the flooded river into a slick, muddy slope, forcing them to ride on higher ground deeper in the forest, where brambles and bushes grasped at every step. The bank at their side eventually began to sink and broaden once more, until they eventually came upon another narrow bridge of planks that rose just barely above the floodwaters.


    Tuyaara gathered her bearings there, and Yesugei searched for any sign of a rider having come through the path. The search was fruitless - the heavy rains and rising floodwaters had washed away any trace of footprints, save for a mess of tracks that were without a doubt those of Stribor¡¯s men combing the woods - meandering aimlessly this way and that.


    Once Tuyaara had their trail, they rode on again for many long hours through the woods, exchanging little talk save for warnings of close falls or muddy pits in the forest. The quiet ride did little to calm his spirits, for Yesugei soon felt the same strange unnervingly quiet the girl-shaman spoke of. Where in the steppe and woodlands he once could feel small, watchful presences in the swaying grasses or black soil, when he closed his eyes now all he sensed was a terrible emptiness, like a foxhole or burrow left abandoned before a fire. The spirits themselves had either deserted the land, or lay hidden and silent with fear - which was worse, he did not know.


    Eventually, the late afternoon sun gleamed upon them through gray clouds and grasping branches, though its light seemed cold and distant. The land that yawned out before them beyond the treeline was grassy and flat, cut apart by a vast array of rivers which all ebbed and flowed into the mouth of the Cherech. The great river along whose waters flowed the lifeblood of commerce between the western principalities now lay bereft of trade cogs or fishing vessels - a black, empty expanse that stretched undisturbed almost to the horizon.


    On glancing to the east, Yesugei was able to make out the dim shapes of lofty, distant peaks that seemed to stretch from north to south like a knife¡¯s edge¡­or perhaps the spine of some dead god, as the myths of the Klyazmites would have it.


    ¡°The road turned us too far west, it seems,¡± muttered Tuyaara as she surveyed the land. ¡°Or the mountain god has stirred since I had last seen those peaks.¡±


    The rivers formed a glittering net beneath the waning sunlight, leading from the God-Spine peaks. But it was the dark mire to the north that drew Yesugei¡¯s attention as he surveyed the sprawling riverlands. A shiver went up his spine as he scanned the gray veil of mist that ran along the edge of the Gravemarsh. There was something there - he sensed it in the back of his mind, a feeling like a half-remembered memory, or an echo from long ago.


    He tugged his horse''s reins to guide it closer to a shallow embankment in the wetlands. The land here was softened by rain and the rivers, and as he went on his eyes caught something in the muddy earth - hoofprints, a single set yet to have been washed away. He dismounted, crouching carefully by the set. Tuyaara dismounted as well, her small frame casting a faint shadow over the tracks as she squatted down and studied the pattern with disinterest.


    "And what does this tell you, khan of khans?" she smirked. "A thousand riders pass through this place every few months. More like than not you''re looking at some messenger''s trail.¡±


    "A thousand ships pass through this place as well, but I see none." Yesugei replied sharply. "This place is desolate, and these tracks are recent. It must be-¡±


    His eyes fell upon a gleam of white in the shrubbery ahead. He went on, parted the branches with his hand, and there it was - caught in the tangle of a thorn bush. A scrap of fabric fluttered faintly in the dying breeze, pale cloth marked by a black embroidered star.


    ¡°Vasilisa. Her cloak,¡± he spoke to Tuyaara as he held it up. ¡°It was her, see? Modkhai are not the only ones who get to follow hunches and call it tracking.¡±


    His eyes darted northward, to where the rivers gave way to the misty Gravemarsh. The hoofprints trailed that way, joined by the broken branches and trampled reeds of a charging horse. ¡°The trail leads into the marsh,¡± he said. ¡°She passed through not more than three days ago.¡±


    Tuyaara grimaced. ¡°The Gravemarsh,¡± she said, as if the name itself were venom. ¡°Do you truly mean to follow her there?¡±


    ¡°She cannot be far. If we follow now, we might be able to close the distance - especially if she stops at Rovetshi.¡±


    ¡°You say that like it¡¯ll be easy,¡± said Tuyaara with a shake of her head. ¡°The Gravemarsh is cursed.¡±


    ¡°How so?¡±


    Tuyaara¡¯s look grew distant for a moment, recalling some distant memory, or fable. ¡°Did your brothers or father¡¯s noyans ever tell you of their invasion through this land?¡±


    They had, many times over. After the crushing victory at Ongainur Field where the princes were scattered, his father, Nariman, and Talgat had swept west and then north, sacking town after town in their wake. The only treachery that had forced them to slow their rampage then, he recalled, was not any army or keep¡­but swamps and marshes.


    ¡°They did not speak much of the Marshes,¡± he said slowly. ¡°Only that they judged the mountains the better path, and took their armies there.¡±


    ¡°The noyans were correct in their judgment,¡± Tuyaara spoke. ¡°It is known the marshes are a dangerous path for all travelers unless they go about with a guide or some local folk, but for us, it would be even more perilous.


    ¡°It is said that many centuries ago, before the names of either Qarakesek or Kangar were known, Rovetshi was once lush and grown with forest. Back then, the Klyazmite holy men of the north were close with the spirits of the land, and the wisest among them knew words and chants to move the ground and waters to the will of their gods.


    ¡°It was this power they brought against some tribe whose name is now lost, when its khan struck beyond the Devil Woods with fire and sword. The shamans of the west made their stand, and sundered the wooded realm of Rovetshi with water from the mountains, drowning our kin in their thousands.¡± Tuyaara shuddered, as if she herself were there to see the warriors of old crushed beneath the surging waves. ¡°It is Khormchak bones which lie deepest now in the marshes, and the magic that remains there today still remembers and hungers for steppe-folk.¡±


    Tuyaara tightened her horse¡¯s saddle, and looked to Yesugei. ¡°If it¡¯s your friend and the White City you seek, we should take the path your father''s noyans once did - along the God-Spine. Along that path we may ride for a week, and then descend through the Titans¡¯ Pass into the open plains west of the city.¡±


    ¡°You speak as though the High Road will be any easier,¡± Yesugei replied. ¡°My father¡¯s noyans lost men and horses aplenty even in the best of seasons when they crossed through. The Gravemarsh¡¯ll be no kinder to us, but the trail is fresh now. I will not risk losing it.¡±


    Tuyaara¡¯s jaw tightened. ¡°You are too reckless, son of Aqtai.¡±


    ¡°And you are too cautious,¡± he countered, nudging his horse forward. ¡°But I will not stop you. Go to the mountains, if you wish.¡±


    He turned, his horse¡¯s hooves squelching in the wet earth. After a few paces, he looked back over his shoulder, his voice softer. ¡°But tell me, shaman - will you abandon your own mission so early?¡±


    Tuyaara glared at him, her small fists curling around her horse¡¯s reins. For a moment, she seemed ready to turn and ride east. But then, with a sharp sigh, she snapped the reins and spurred her horse forward, coming to his side.


    ¡°Lead on, fool,¡± she muttered. ¡°But if the marsh swallows us both, I¡¯ll remind you of this moment.¡±

 Book 2, Chapter 9 - The Exile

    The Exile


    <hr>


    In the far distance, beneath the walls of the Tusorano fortress-city, a dying man¡¯s screams echoed through the bleak morning. When the gates to the fortress rumbled open, drowning out his cries, an Yllahanan watchman screamed, ¡°To arms! To arms!¡±


    Signal horns roused the encampment from its sleep and into a flurry of whoops, curses, and barked orders. Goran knew enough of the Yllahanan tongue to make sense of the overlapping shouts, but the fear in the legionnaires¡¯ voices would have been plain to anyone as they scrambled for armor and weapons.


    High above the Yllahanan siege of Tusorano, the morning sun¡¯s rays barely pierced the dense, gray clouds. To the north where the Yllahanans had landed, there echoed the crash of hull against hull as the Republic¡¯s transports were slammed together in the Shipbreaker¡¯s Tide. To the south the fortress loomed, its smooth, white stone walls disfigured by the siege engines the Yllahanans had erected three days ago in a futile attempt to pound them into dust.


    Outside the fortress-city, the Anquiltes assembled - those former slave-warriors who had cast off their chains, driven the Republic from Rondelle, and sworn fealty to the distant White Khan for their freedom. Rows upon rows of purple tower-shields and tarnished golden helmets arranged themselves into a long battle line as they prepared to meet their besiegers.


    On his own side, trumpet calls and drumming rolled across the dusty eastern plains as the Yllahanans formed up their own legions in ragtag fashion, flying the red eagle banner of the Republic against the Anquiltes¡¯ own purple eagle.


    When he was younger, Goran might have found the marshaling of warriors on both sides exhilarating. The green recruits that made up the bulk of the Yllahanan legions might think the same - right up until they would be disemboweled by another man whose only difference was his choice of banner.


    For many of the Yllahanan legionnaires, this would be their first - and for some, their last - battle. It would be Goran¡¯s fortieth.


    Seasoned and bloodied, stamped and sealed. A man of the Company, that¡¯s me. He had killed and wounded, and taken his fair share of wounds himself. He had led heavy cavalry, horse archers, and armored shield-bearers into the thick of battle beneath ten different standards. He had heard men screaming his name in fear as he cut them down and in admiration when they stood alongside him in victory.


    Yet for all he had done and all he had seen, the prospect of another battle still made Goran¡¯s blood run cold. For all he had done, he had always told himself that he did not care whether he lived or died - except he always found himself caring quite a lot.


    What a fool you are, whispered the nasty, sharp-tongued voice in his head. Lying even to yourself.


    You still think you can rebuild.


    You still think you can be a prince again.


    Goran forced down his own treacherous thoughts with a sigh and hurriedly walked down from the hill where his tent stood. An Yllahanan messenger rode into the camp atop a gold-clad horse, announcing himself as an envoy of Senator Numeria Luonerssa. The Company¡¯s commanders, a motley group from across half the known world, met him at the camp¡¯s entrance.


    ¡°Senator Luonerssa was¡­perplexed by your request,¡± spoke the Yllahanan envoy. ¡°Who here holds command?¡±


    ¡°The Captain¡¯s indisposed right now,¡± responded Heller. The commander of the Company¡¯s footmen was already dressed for battle, wearing a layer of maille and an iron breastplate with a faded Solarian sunburst. ¡°¡®Twas us who wanted to speak with the Senator.¡±


    The messenger scoffed. ¡°You forget your place, Solarian. Did you truly believe a Senator would come at the beck and call of common hired swords?¡±


    Goran spoke up before Heller could snap back. ¡°My apologies, your honor. We only wished to confirm the terms before our men fight.¡±


    The messenger rolled his eyes, ¡°Gold and pillage for service, a contract as old as time, boy. What more is there to discuss?¡±


    ¡°Land.¡± said Goran. ¡°Land for service, as we agreed.¡±


    The messenger gave a thin smile. A smiling Yllahanan was never a good sign. ¡°Ah, yes. Ten acres of fertile land for every common man, a thousand for every officer, and ten thousand for the Captain. Given upon the defeat of Rondelle.¡±


    ¡°Yes, once we¡¯ve taken Tusorano,¡± said Kassa eagerly. The commander of the Company¡¯s light horse adjusted the leopard pelt he wore over his battered breastplate. ¡°Land for victory.¡±


    ¡°You are mistaken,¡± said the messenger through his smug smile. ¡°The contract calls for the defeat of Rondelle. The men here are but a garrison. If Tusorano is taken, will the Anquiltes throw down their arms, accept the slave collar, and surrender themselves back to the Republic?¡±


    Goran¡¯s armor felt suddenly stifling as anger flared in his chest. ¡°No, but we¡ª¡±


    ¡°Then there is nothing more to say.¡± A trumpet blast signalled the Yllahanans forming ranks to meet the Anquiltes sally. ¡°Until Rondelle falls and the Republic¡¯s eagle flies over Valle once more, you will not receive an inch of Yllahanan soil.¡±


    ¡°Valle has never fallen to an army, not in a thousand years,¡± Yasaman, the crossbow commander, growled. ¡°This is treachery.¡±


    ¡°It is no treachery,¡± said the messenger. ¡°Your leader himself read and signed the contract. Do not direct your anger at me, direct it at your fool Captain who bound you all in service.¡±


    With that, the messenger trampled off atop his golden horse, leaving the commanders standing in the camp¡¯s dust, realization settling over them like a curse.


    ¡°Yllahanan cunt!¡± roared Heller, his pale face flushed beet red as he raged at the retreating messenger¡¯s back. ¡°Son of a poxy whore!¡±


    You still think you can be a prince. Goran¡¯s hands curled into fists as old faces swam before him. No land, no future, no hope. Just another mercenary dog. Just another fool with a sword. Just another nobody.


    He wanted to scream, to curse, to draw his sword and pull out the messenger¡¯s bowels from his stomach. To let loose the endless, howling rage he felt burning a hole in his chest. But instead, he unclenched his fists and thumbed his nose in the messenger¡¯s direction before turning to the others.


    ¡°Enough. We still have our contract. I¡¯ll mobilize my riders¡ªthe rest of you prepare your men.¡±


    ¡°Curse their orders and piss on the contract,¡± hissed Yasaman. ¡°Those Yllahanan bastards fooled us. I say we leave - let¡¯s see how they fare taking the fort without us to save their pale asses.¡±


    ¡°Idiot,¡± Kassa snapped. ¡°If we break with the Republic, who else do you think would hire us?¡±


    ¡°Someone will,¡± Yasaman shrugged back. ¡°Rich men always need someone else to do their killing for them - all that matters is finding someone desperate enough.¡±


    ¡°I say aye to that,¡± murmured Heller. ¡°Bugger these blood-mages with a bloody spear, all of ¡®em.


    Goran raised a hand. ¡°Not our call. We command, we fight¡ªbut Araldo decides who and when. I¡¯ll take it up with him. The rest of you, do your part. We¡¯ve had bad contracts before - do not throw away the honor of the entire company over this single folly.¡±


    The commanders exchanged hard looks, then stalked off to their troops, tense and grim. Goran watched them go, then turned toward the Captain¡¯s tent on the hill.


    Araldo cannot stand for this, he thought as he marched across the dusty campgrounds. Even an old fool such as he would see we need to leave, renegotiate, do something.


    Time was running short. Another blast from the trumpets sounded, this time from the ranks of the defenders who prepared to march. As he neared the Captain¡¯s tent, Goran turned and saw the wave of purple shields and golden helms beginning to slowly crawl forward.


    Something¡­and soon.


    The Captain¡¯s tent was bright blue, its entrance embroidered with a silver lancer. Goran stepped inside and was hit by a wave of sickly-sweet perfume. But even as overwhelming as it was, the smell was too weak to mask the stench of disease, piss, and shit. Goran squinted through the darkness, and shook off a soiled sheet clinging to his boots.


    The Captain of the Kororys Company lay beneath a mountain of blankets and pillows. His arms and armor - sword, mace, plated maille, and an iron greathelm with a feathered plume - waited for him on a wooden Waiting for a master who would not, could not, rise to bear them again.


    Beneath his blankets, Araldo was naked and feverish - his pale, flabby skin was covered in sores that endlessly wept strange pus and fluids. His long beard was rough and unkept, and was sticky with mucus and bile. For a moment it seemed as though the Captain was dead. But when Goran moved closer, Araldo shivered awake.


    Goran wrinkled his nose at the sight of the Captain. Once, the Kororys Company had seemed unbeatable, and their Captain had been resplendent. He rode day and night at the head of the cavalry, armor polished to a shine, his sapphire cape trailing in the wind. That same cape was now a musty rag atop stained clothes.


    A captured Rondellian healer claimed the disease that was eating their Captain alive from the inside out lurked within for years - yet it had only taken a month for the illness to lay the Captain on death''s door once it awakened. First were the headaches, which Araldo had dismissed as the price of strong wine. Then the weakness, forcing him to name his Klyazmite squire Goran the commander of the Company''s heavy cavalry. Then the sores, the stench, the shits - and by then no amount of incense and perfumes could hide the sickness from the other commanders. The Captain reeked of disease - he reeked of death. And if they did not act soon, perhaps the rest of the Company would follow him into the grave.


    ¡°Who is it?¡± croaked Araldo, his eyes barely able to open. ¡°Who is it?¡±


    The dying Captain of the greatest mercenary company in the world was a small man without his splendor. A small, old, confused man. Another face flashed before Goran''s eyes, a memory from another life. His own father stared back up at him from beneath the blankets and pillows as Goran drew closer.


    You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.


    Take the girl, his father had said one night in a far-away land, in a far-away time. He had only been a boy then, even if he did not feel like it. Her father may not consent, but he will have no choice if you make her yours by force. Take her, make her your bride, and I will protect you from what may come. Your father commands it.


    Goran leashed his runaway mind as he lowered himself to Araldo''s side. ¡°Captain. The Yllahanans have made a mockery of us - they have tricked us, and you.¡±


    Araldo shifted onto his side with a groan. ¡°How so?¡±


    ¡°Their promises of land¡­they told us we would only receive our reward when we take all of Rondelle.¡±


    ¡°All of it?¡±


    ¡°Yes!¡± breathed Goran. ¡°They said we won¡¯t have an inch of Yllahanan soil until Valle falls.¡±


    Araldo thought slowly. The sickness ravaged his mind - turned a man quick of wit and tongue into a doddering fool. ¡°No one has ever taken Valle.¡±


    ¡°Exactly!¡± said Goran. Outside, the distant horns¡¯ call signalled the Yllahanans¡¯ march against the Anquiltes. Battle was almost on them - something had to happen, and soon. ¡°They will never give us our land! They¡¯ll string us along, snatch what little territory they truly seek, then they will toss us to the side and laugh at us!¡±


    ¡°But they will still give us gold,¡± murmured Araldo. ¡°Mountains of it. No one pays better than the Republic. Gold is such a fine thing¡­¡±


    ¡°I don''t want gold.¡±


    Goran spoke in a whisper, yet his words seemed to fill the whole world. For a moment, he felt like a boy again. An angry, homesick boy who had to leave all he knew and loved to sail to a foreign lands alone. ¡°I don''t want gold. I don''t want loot. I don¡¯t want riches. I want a home.¡±


    Araldo''s chest jerked up and down as he coughed violently. A small smile crept up to the Captain''s face, and Goran realized he was laughing.


    ¡°Listen boy¡­¡± Araldo croaked. ¡°War is your home. Your life is here, in the shieldwall, in the saddle, in the battle line. Forget your old home - it does not exist anymore. Your brothers here and now are who matter, they are your home.¡±


    The Captain''s words rang with a certain truth - after five years, some of the memories had begun to fade. He no longer remembered the names of the boyars¡¯ sons he sparred with in the courtyard. He no longer remembered the face of the old cook in his father¡¯s employ who had given him sweets. He no longer remembered the names of the towns and villages that were promised to be his to rule.


    But he did remember some things. Goran never forgot their faces - the boyars who laughed at his back as he left in exile, and the Grand Prince who cast him out. He never forgot the faces of the men in his own father''s court who smiled when they learned of his banishment, already planning to put themselves in the succession. And he never forgot the face of the girl - the girl he was supposed to make his bride. Vasilisa.


    The Grand Captain''s eyes opened, and they gleamed with an affection that made Goran sick to his stomach. They were his father''s eyes, filled with their false, cowardly love. ¡°Put aside these thoughts, boy. Your Captain commands it.¡±


    Your Captain commands it. Your father commands it.


    ¡°I am not your boy,¡± said Goran. Then the dagger was in his hand, cold steel glinting in the morning light that streamed through the fluttering tent flap. ¡°Goodbye, Araldo. And¡­thank you.¡±


    He buried the honed steel blade up to the hilt through Araldo''s flabby neck before the old man had a chance to scream. When his lips did part, all that spilled out was dark, diseased blood that dribbled down his chin and stained his beard.


    I am not your boy.


    And this is not my home.


    Goran ripped the dagger free from Araldo''s throat and watched the Captain sink onto his back. A queer whistling noise escaped from the Captain''s punctured throat as he struggled for breath, and then fell still. An awful stench quickly filled the room.


    He left the Captain''s tent in a hurry. The air outside was cool and salty, and he breathed it in greedily until he felt his lungs would burst.


    The commanders were beneath a great tent near the center of the war camp - tensely awaiting what was to come from the Grand Captain. Their eyes fell upon him, and then the knife that was still in his hands - soaked to the hilt in the Grand Captain¡¯s blood.


    ¡°Araldo is dead,¡± he announced loudly. He took a step forward, then slammed the tip of the bloody dagger into the table that sat between the three commanders, causing their cups of wine to jump. ¡°And our contract is void. As of now, we are free men once more.¡±


    For a moment, there was only silence - and nothing. If there was any loyalty or love left for the Grand Captain, the commanders would have seized him and cut his head off the moment they saw the knife in his hands, still dripping with their Captain¡¯s life essence. But no-one moved. No-one spoke. The commanders only stood in tense silence, their eyes flitting from one to another as Goran¡¯s words hung in the air.


    Good riddance, he knew was the thought among them all. If he had not killed the Grand Captain, he was certain one of the commanders would have eventually risen to the task. But Araldo¡¯s death was not important, not anymore. Now there was a far more important question that was on everyone¡¯s minds.


    ¡°So¡­what now?¡± spoke Kassa. ¡°What do we do now?¡±


    ¡°Do we side with the Rondellians?¡± asked Heller.


    ¡°Curse that,¡± spat Yasaman. ¡°We need to leave and wash our hands of this whole mess. Find another contract.¡±


    ¡°The Yllahanans will try to stop us.¡± piped up Kassa.


    ¡°The Yllahanans are welcome to try,¡± laughed Heller. ¡°They¡¯ve got five thousand slave-veterans bearing down on them. They can¡¯t stop us.¡±


    ¡°But where do we go?¡±


    ¡°I don¡¯t know¡­anywhere but here.¡±


    ¡°What about Albina-Suzdal?¡±


    ¡°I hear my fellow princes in Sanu are looking for hired blades¡­¡±


    The commanders¡¯ voices all swirled together in the Goran¡¯s mind - becoming just so much noise alongside the blaring horns and thundering marching of the legions. He closed his eyes, and dreamed of an old land, far away from the blood and sweat and dust of the south. The memories seemed so clear now¡­as though the land were calling to him, calling him back home.


    But more than the memories, there was opportunity.


    ¡°I have a new contract.¡± He spoke, and the commanders¡¯ eyes all fell upon him. He felt his mouth go dry as paper, and swallowed his fear before he spoke again.


    ¡°Why must we always swear our swords and lances to some other man¡¯s cause?¡± he said. ¡°The Yllahanans, the Suzdalians, the Sanurians - none of them care for us. None of them have bled alongside us - none of them are Company men. To them, we¡¯ll always be nothing more than dogs to do their bidding. They will keep us fed and watered and dressed in gold, but they will never let us rise above what we are.


    ¡°I curse all of that!¡± he shouted, feeling his chest lighten just a little. ¡°I ask all of you - who here wants to be more than a dog? Who wants more than this - this endless wandering, this endless jumping from contract to contract?¡±


    ¡°What are you saying?¡± spoke Kassa sharply.


    ¡°I say you sign on with me,¡± Goran replied. ¡°If you follow me¡­I would lead you north, to the lands that should have been mine. I would lead you to Gatchisk.¡°


    Heller scoffed, as did Yasaman. ¡°Gatchisk? The north is cold - and there is little gold or silver there.¡±


    ¡°It might be so. Mercenaries fight for gold, and nowhere is there more gold than here, on the Shipbreaker Coast. But I would not have you fighting as mercenaries.¡±


    Goran¡¯s hand went to the hilt of his sword, and the steel awakened from its sheath with a hiss. He raised the sword high into the air, then laid it down on the table between the commanders. ¡°If you come with me, it would be as my druzhina - my sworn brothers of sword and lance. And I would not pay you with just gold¡­¡±


    The boyars¡¯ forked tongues, their toadying words, their sniveling, grovelling. Weak men of a weak land.


    ¡°For my crown, I would give you the lands of the pathetic men of my realm who call themselves boyars - and their lands are vast. Ten acres for every foot soldier? I could give a hundred. A thousand acres for every officer? I could give ten thousand, and a stone castle to each one of you.¡±


    Something stirred in the commanders¡¯ eyes as they studied one another, weighing his words. He recognized what lay in their eyes even as they stood trying to appear aloof and thoughtful. Hope. They want it as badly as me. A home. A place to call their own.


    The Solarian, Heller, had once been an abbot of a temple-city - before he was cast out for murdering a fellow priest. Yasaman once counted among the Huwaqiyya - the royal guards of the Huwaqi-shah whose empire the Khormchaks trampled. And Kassa was another lost prince - only it was his own half-brothers who cast him out, rather than any boyars. He was not the only one who had lost so much. And he was not the only one who dreamt of more.


    Kassa opened his mouth to speak when a crossbowman poked his head inside the tent. ¡°Sorry to disturb. Another Yllahanan¡¯s come - a girl-commander. Says she has our orders.¡±


    The commanders looked to Goran.


    They waited for him to speak.


    They waited for his command.


    He felt his heart race - in that moment the sound of its pounding was more beautiful than any song or hymn he could dream of.


    The Young Griffon turned to the crossbowman. ¡°Send her inside.¡±


    The soldier withdrew. When he returned, he propped open the tent flap for an Yllahanan officer in a cloak of red and gold and a plumed iron helm. On her breastplate was an engraving of twisting vines and flowers, their petals gleaming with gemstones.


    ¡°The slaves seek to push our center,¡± the officer announced. ¡°Five centuria stand stand against them. While the wretches draw near, you will take your mounted archers and make them pay dearly for every inch they advance. Once our spears pin their battle line, you will take your heavy horse and strike them from the rear and flanks. This is the command of Senator Luonerssa.¡±


    ¡°A fine plan,¡± said Goran. Indeed it was¡­now if only you were so smart about keeping your hired blades happy. ¡°But things have changed. Our commander¡¯s up and died, you see.¡±


    ¡°My condolences,¡± replied the officer in an icy tone. ¡°But that does not change your orders - or your masters. Destroy the Anquiltes, and you may elect your new commander after the battle is over.¡±


    ¡°We won¡¯t be destroying anyone,¡± muttered Heller. ¡°Not for you, anyhow.¡±


    The officer glowered at the Solarian. ¡°You dare to-¡±


    Her reply withered in her throat as the situation finally dawned upon her. ¡°You are breaking your contract?¡±


    ¡°There¡¯s no contract to be broken,¡± said Yasaman. ¡°Our commander signed your papers, not us - and the Company dies with him. For now, we¡¯re free men, free to fight for whomever we please.¡±


    The officer¡¯s hand went to her sword. Stupid woman.


    Before she could even lay a finger on her blade, Goran¡¯s sword was already back in his hand. The longsword sang beautifully as it clashed with the officer¡¯s shortsword - sending its wielder staggering off-balance.


    The officer caught her footing, brought her blade up to ward off another strike. It was a defense he had seen a dozen times before - and Yllahanan officers were no master duelists. Goran leapt forward before she could get her bearings, thrusting his sword past her guard and through the officer¡¯s eye.


    The point of the sword ripped out the back of the officer¡¯s helmet, and the officer¡¯s blade clattered to the ground as she gasped. The officer managed two wobbly steps before she tripped over the commanders¡¯ table, spilling red wine and contract papers as she fell. The officer twitched a few more times, feebly reached for the edge of the table, and then she died - her iron and emerald flowers watered with blood and wine.


    Heller gave the dead woman a shove with his boot, then turned to look at Goran.


    ¡°So¡­what¡¯s next?¡±


    The Shipbreaker¡¯s Tide roared, its waves rising high to smash down onto the anchored Yllahanan ships. Only a skeleton crew of soldiers were there - just enough to ensure the slave oarsmen would not try to bolt for freedom.


    The Young Griffon smiled as he wiped his blade clean on the dead officer¡¯s cloak. ¡°We take the ships. Then we strike north.¡±


    Father¡­I¡¯m coming home.

 Book 2, Chapter 10 - Vasilisa the Fair

    Vasilisa the Fair


    <hr>


    ¡°My lady looks every bit a warrior,¡± Austeja said.


    ¡°It¡¯s one thing to look, another to fight.¡±


    The Vorodzhi chieftain¡¯s daughter had brought her a mix of scavenged armor: a rusted hauberk, leather-and-iron vambraces, and a nasal helmet with a maille curtain that made her look like an owl. None of it fit¡ªmade for shorter, wider men¡ªand none of it matched. She clattered like a pantry as she rode, leading the druzhina down from the keep toward the gatehouse.


    On the approach, Vasilisa saw the militia gathering at Serhij¡¯s side while the refugees and Nesha fled for shelter. She rode past them without sparing them a glance, and wondered if they even recognized her beneath the iron and leather.


    Near the gatehouse, the druzhina cried ¡°Rovetshi!¡± and the militia answered in kind. She dismounted, pushing past the soldiers to find Serhij leaning on the battlements, sweat beading his brow. He flinched as she touched his shoulder.


    ¡°My lady, you should be¡ª¡±


    ¡°In the keep?¡± she interrupted. ¡°A ruler defends her people, Magister, as much as she governs them.¡±


    Her gaze flicked over his unarmored, heavyset frame. Unlike his men in maille and gambesons, Serhij wore only a tunic and cloak. A sword, its blade untouched by battle, hung at his hip - ceremonial more than anything else. ¡°And of the two of us, I think I¡¯m the better dressed for the occasion.¡±


    Serhij swallowed his retort, turning back to the walls.


    Gaunt figures loomed out from the haze of the hanging mists, shambling without coughing, arguing, or any sort of talk. Women and men approached, heads lowered, as though they were walking half-asleep, or in prayer. Some wielded pitchforks and daggers, others only rocks and branches, and none carried shields or wore armor. Crossbowmen would cut them down with ease. And yet, if Serhij¡¯s men were to be believed, they would not die so easily. Even a rock in the hand of a man who fought on beyond mortal wounds could still bring down a spearman. A dozen could rip him apart.


    And the dead were already piling outside Rovetshi¡¯s walls - the second wave was just more meat to feed the festival of cruelty, all of it in service to the ones above.


    That is why the skies are open. Chirlan¡¯s voice murmured, sounding just over her shoulder. They are waiting. They are hungry.


    The staggering horde of sleeping men and women numbered only two or three hundred¡ªbut beyond them, thousands of flickering lights bobbed in the mist. A sea of shifting shadows emerged, reeds and bushes at first glance¡ªuntil they came closer. A helmet rusted red through and through gleamed among them.


    By the moon¡¯s wan light, the skull beneath the helmet seemed to glow. The walking skeleton that wore the helm, caked in dried mud and flotsam, moved with the rigid gait of a soldier. Moving in lockstep with it were the many others drowned¡ªhundreds of dead, long buried in the Gravemarsh, now rising for one last war. In their hands, they clutched ancient, rusted blades and axes pulled from the muck.


    And in the hollows of their eyes¡­twinkling starlight.


    ¡°Gods above¡­ look¡­¡± Serhij stammered, face pale. ¡°Gods of heaven and below¡­ what are¡ªhow¡ª¡±


    ¡°Harvest,¡± Vasilisa whispered. ¡°You repelled it once. Now it returns with more.¡±


    ¡°How do you kill dead men?¡± Serhij asked, looking to her for answers.


    Vasilisa barely heard him. Her ill-fitting armor weighed on her as she leaned over the battlements, searching beyond the mist. Then she saw it¡ªthe towering figure leading the horde from behind.


    It rode a great, ugly plow horse that sagged under its weight. The Dreamer was broad-shouldered, and shrouded in a blood-soaked shawl. And on its forearms, bracers of iridescent glass shimmered in the moonlight. Its face, split and broken, bore two empty hollows where eyes should be. Yet as Vasilisa studied it, the monster beheld her as well. She felt its gaze - and then its spirit. Vast, terrible domination swept over her, nearly forcing her to her knees. But her crystal heart burned in defiance, warding away the cold, twisting darkness that flooded her vision.


    ¡°The time has come.¡±


    Its voice was both a howl and a song, a melody of countless heavenly tones blended into the music of the stars. It would have brought her to tears¡ªhad it not come from a nightmare.


    Militiamen and druzhinniks trembled. They saw it now - and now would come the challenge. Break or stand.


    The Dreamer halted just beyond crossbow range, and as one, the horde stopped with it. Silence fell¡ªthe marsh, the water, the night held its breath.


    ¡°Hold!¡± Vasilisa called out. No one can deny it now. No one can close their eyes. ¡°Fear will be your end! Do not let it drown you!¡±


    The Dreamer raised its hand. Another song followed.


    ¡°The Heralds call. The Majesties awaken. And we are coming home.¡±


    The hand fell.


    The dead and the sleepers charged, their rattling shrieks filling the night.


    The crossbowmen on the walls hesitated, shaken by terror¡ªuntil Vasilisa¡¯s voice cut through. ¡°Do not be afraid! Give them steel!¡± A warrior¡¯s voice, a lord¡¯s voice.


    The dead and the Sleepers waded through sucking mud, closing in. The first rank of Rovetshi men pressed their cheeks to their crossbow stocks, waiting¡­waiting¡­


    ¡°Shoot!¡± cried Serhij. ¡°Shoot, damn it!¡±


    A hundred bolts sang through the air. Dozens of Balai townsfolk fell, but the tide did not slow. Those who collapsed were crushed underfoot, swallowed whole by the muck.


    ¡°My lady, they¡¯re not stopping!¡± a crossbowman cried. Another pointed south. ¡°More, coming from the trees!¡±


    From her perch on the watchtower, Vasilisa saw them¡ªanother swarm of shadows emerging from the woods, moonlight gleaming off skulls, scythes, and pitchforks. The militia loosed, but they were too few, and the dead too many. Everywhere. They were coming from everywhere.


    No¡ªdo not let it break you. Do not let your spirit die.


    ¡°Keep shooting!¡± she ordered. ¡°Words won¡¯t send them back to their graves - keep shooting!¡±


    The second volley struck down dozens, yet the swarm surged on. By the third, they were so close Vasilisa could feel their shrieks, a rotting blast against her skin. Then they struck the palisade¡ªa battering ram of flesh and bone.


    The wooden battlements groaned and trembled beneath the impact. For a breathless moment, it seemed they would collapse altogether¡ªbut the ancient defenses held. Vasilisa saw several crossbowmen flinch, some stepping back - fear threatened to break them. But when the dead grasped only at air, the lot of them held firm, leaning over the battlements to shoot again.


    Bolts thrummed in a steady rhythm, a grim melody against the ceaseless charge. And te dead fell in droves about the base of the walls, piling higher¡­higher¡­


    No, came the thought with the realization. The bodies weren¡¯t just falling. A ramp. They¡¯re building a ramp.


    A skeleton scrambled over the piling corpses and lunged for the walls. Its bony fingers gripped the battlements before a militiaman rushed to shove it off¡ªbut too late. The dead man''s rusted axe split the soldier¡¯s face, then dragged him over the walls and into the howling mass below.


    Behind the lone ancient warrior, more of the dead began to climb. One militiaman crushed the axe-wielding skeleton¡¯s skull with his club, sending fragments of starlight drifting into the night. He laughed¡ªuntil a spear ripped through his chest, turning joy into gurgling death.


    Another skeleton thrust its sword through a soldier¡¯s gut and lifted him into the air, showering the militiamen with blood.


    It happened quickly, just as she descended from the watchtower. One crossbowman fled, then two¡­and then all along the eastern wall men were throwing down their crossbows and running.


    The dead tore through those who lagged behind with bony claws, ripping armor and flesh. Below the walls she saw Austeja trying to rally the retreating militia. Instead, they shoved past her, fleeing deeper into the town. Townsfolk joined the rout, and the swell of terrified bodies grew.


    When she landed on the battlements, men shoved past her in their flight. One man fell at her feet, but before she could help him up, skeletal fingers clawed over the wall. No time to think. She wrenched the Shargaz from her back and struck. The toothed blade shattered through bone and rusted steel alike, scattering skull fragments like falling stars.


    "Stand and fight!" Her voice rang like grinding stone, like breaking glass.


    Her soul swelled outwards with power, dread. The men nearest her faltered¡ªthen they turned back. Axes, clubs, and cleavers rose as they faced the dead men by their lady¡¯s side.


    The living fought, screamed, and died in the streets below. Some reached the barricades, standing their ground as they saw their comrades rally on the walls. Vasilisa shattered another skeleton, and her cleaver carried through one skull into the next. A dead man¡¯s axe struck her arm, a sword sliced at her stomach¡ªbut the ill-fitting maille turned away each blow with a rattle as she pushed on.


    As Vasilisa smashed another dead man into bone dust, she heard the terrible groan of splintering wood behind her¡ªthen shouts: ¡°Below! Watch out below!¡±


    When she looked back, she saw the dead swarming over the watchtower where she had just stood. The whole structure lurched beneath the rotting bulk¡ªand then it collapsed, careening for the militia and townsfolk below.


    Time, it seemed, slowed to a painful crawl.


    No.


    The thought rang out like a command from the heavens. As if in answer, a presence stirred within her¡ªsomething vast and ancient. From her outstretched hand a ripple tore through the air, twisting the darkness and moonlight into solid form. A serpent, glistening and shimmering like starlight on black water, coiled around the falling watchtower.


    Time ground to a halt. Dust, debris, and the colossus of the watchtower hung suspended.


    The serpent¡¯s form was gigantic, sharpening into reality with every breath. Each scale was the size of a shield, and the deep colors within shifted like flowing paint.


    "Vraactan." No other serpent could it be.


    You''ve grown again, it seems, she whispered. She recalled when their paths had first crossed - when the serpent could coil comfortably around her fingers. Their form was no coincidence. Now I know what feeds you, and where you dwell. Were you drawn to this place, or drawn out?


    You already know this, the serpent replied. Their eyes flickered with a very human glint of knowing. Have you forgotten our pact? My endless wisdom, your gentle hand.


    You showed me the way out of Chirlan¡¯s tomb.


    But I have not yet shown you where you need to be. Vraactan¡¯s hiss reverberated inside her skull. Where you belong.


    ¡°Then help me,¡± she replied, pressing her lips into a thin line as she beheld Rovetshi in stillness. In the shadow of the falling watchtower she saw the Vorodzhi chieftain¡¯s daughter helping a peasant up off the ground, surrounded by half a dozen druzhinniks. ¡°Help me save these people- my people. Help me save them all, and I¡¯ll see this madness through to the end.¡±


    Your gentle hand, my endless wisdom.


    The cruel wheel of time began to move once more.


    The shriek of steel, the clatter of bone, the rush of battle all roared back to Vasilisa¡¯s ears. A massive weight suddenly pressed down on her outstretched hand, bringing her to her knees. The weight of the tower fell into her grasp, even as Vraactan remained coiled around it.


    It is your strength to command. The serpent¡¯s voice coiled around her mind like a vice. Embrace it. Know it.


    Remember who you are.


    Slowly, she raised her hand higher, guiding the form of the serpent like a puppeteer holding the world''s heaviest cross. Vraactan moved by her will, and the crumbling tower rose as those down below looked on in awe. Inch by inch, the weight lessened - not because the burden had grown lighter, but because Vasilisa felt herself growing stronger.


    She clenched her hand into a fist, and hurled the tower as far as she could. It crashed down onto the horde pouring over the battlements, flattening dozens of screamers into bone dust. Militiamen and druzhinniks looked up at her in awe, but strangely¡­


    "Why... why can¡¯t they see you?" she asked as she looked down at the gaping men.


    Men do not see many things they would rather be blind to. Vraactan¡¯s shadowless form twisted lazily through the air, hovering over thatched roofs idly. Or things they have forgotten.


    A high screech cut through the air. The dead men surged forward anew. Vasilisa clenched the Shargaz tight, and called down to the druzhinniks, ¡°Rovetshi, with me!¡± They followed her in a clattering metal tide, rushing to the walls.


    Vraactan swooped down above her head, filling her with a queer sense of thrill and wonder amidst the carnage. It was like the first time she learned to ride a horse, and now she was galloping on her own, pushing this new strength faster, harder.


    This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.


    She swept her hand to the side as another horde came up over the walls. The great serpent¡¯s tail flashed a moment later, scattering the dead men across the marshes and the town. Those who clambered up in the serpent¡¯s wake were met by axe and mace, sword and spear. Her whole world shrank down to the terror, the intoxicating fear of battle, and the cleaver in her hands. Every sweep of Vraactan¡¯s tail crushed dozens of the dead men into dust while she hacked down at grasping hands and leering skulls, pushing on and on.


    At her side, men screamed, men fought, and men died in droves. She drank in their terror - it fed into her burning heart like kindling, and the crystal roared with power. Nothing could stop her now, nothing could kill her as she drank in the death all around. Spears and rusted axes hacked and ripped into her armor, but she felt no pain - only mindless, black rage that drove the Shargaz ever forward, ever towards battle.


    As she cut her way to the gatehouse, a sudden, hard strike knocked the breath out of her. Icy cold fell over her, quenching the burning rage into ashes - when she turned to look, she saw a spear jutting out from her left side, dripping with blood. Her blood.


    The skeleton that wielded it seemed to smile, then twisted the shaft deeper.


    She moved on instinct, on power. She grabbed the rotting shaft of the spear, and summoned the last of her strength to snap it in half like a twig. The Shargaz swiped the dead man¡¯s skull from his shoulders a moment later, and sent the body hurtling from the walls to join the pile of shattered bodies below.


    Blood gushed out of her side. Someone was screaming for a healer, someone else was crying that the princess was slain. Austeja¡¯s voice rang in her ear, ¡°My lady¡­my lady¡­¡±


    She sank to her knees before Vraactan. The serpent regarded her with cold, gold-speckled eyes. Remember who you are. The war is not yet done.


    No - not yet. She tenderly grasped the stuck shaft. Hot agony knifed through her whole body as she ripped it free, and cast the rotting spearhead to the ground. Blood gushed relentlessly from her side - but even as she stood shakily to her feet, the pain began to fade. She felt the queer feeling of her flesh knotting together - torn skin sewn tight by an invisible hand.


    When she stood upright, Austeja and the others looked on at her in silence. Then, a cry of, ¡°Vasilisa! Vasilisa! Vasilisa!¡±


    She raised the Shargaz high, clenching her teeth through the pain. Rovetshi roared her name, and the legend swelled before her eyes - in their eyes, the chosen few, the surviving few. The Vorodzhi chieftain¡¯s daughter reached out to examine the wound in her side, then looked up at her.


    ¡°A miracle¡­¡±


    Vasilisa grinned, then looked up. The great serpent''s presence began to fade as her spirits dimmed. The shimmering colors of their scales gave way to the waning silver light of the moon like ash in the wind. And then, just as suddenly as it has appeared, the divine serpent was gone - and exhaustion crashed over her in a flooding wave.


    Austeja caught her, barely, as she slumped against the battlements. The confines of her helmet became unbearably hot. She cast it off, and took in the air of the marsh - only to feel dreadful cold.


    Beside her, Austeja gasped and pointed past the walls. ¡°It¡¯s coming! The spirit is coming!¡±


    Vasilisa glanced up. The Dreamer walked slowly, gracefully over the piled corpses like a dancer entering the stage, its face staring dispassionately at the slaughter all around.


    A crossbow bolt whistled from the battlements - splintering when it hit the monster¡¯s stony hide. Then, the crossbowman who loosed the offending bolt fell to his knees, his neck bulging with black rot that swelled up to his face and eyes. Cheers and relief bled away into terror once again - it spread like a miasma, and all around her more men began to drop like flies.


    She pulled Austeja close. ¡°If you stay here, you will die. Abandon this place, seek refuge in the keep.¡±


    The Vorodzhi chieftain¡¯s daughter grew pale. ¡°What? My lady-¡±


    ¡°No,¡± she shook Austeja. ¡°Listen! The Dreamers laugh at blades and arrows - I need you all to live, not die like dogs for some useless honor!¡±


    Before Austeja could reply, Vasilisa released her. ¡°Go, protect those who cannot protect themselves! Your lady commands it! Move!¡±


    The Dreamer drew ever closer. Austeja seized a long horn from the gatehouse and called the retreat - three long blasts. Confusion and sickness seized every face as the druzhina and Serhij¡¯s men made their descent, following Austeja from the hard-won walls. ¡°Gather your breath, but do it quickly!¡± Austeja cried to the warriors. ¡°Get these folk out of here!¡±


    The last of the warriors beat a hasty retreat just as the Apostle reached the gates. A terrible shriek tore through the night as the iron bands bent and twisted on themselves, and the doors rumbled open. Before the Apostle flooded a wave of corpses, and a torrent of blood and filth that worked its way into every crevice of the cobblestones.


    The Apostle strode into town slowly, its empty eyes trailing after the fleeing warriors and townsfolk. Then they fell upon the lone girl who stood in its path, lit by a defiant stab of moonlight as the darkness encroached from all around.


    ¡°You are strong¡­but this strength is not yours¡­¡± The song was gone from the Dreamer¡¯s voice, replaced with a terrible contempt that sounded of howling wind and crushing rock.


    It drew a black-clawed finger across its face, shifting aside an errant braid from the hollows of its eyes. The cold had jolted her awake, but already her newfound strength was waning. The wound in her side burned, and the Apostle¡¯s terrible presence pressed down on her, forcing her to kneel.


    But the crystals in her heart murmured their strength - what few embers remained. She trembled beneath the monster¡¯s gaze, but did not let it break her, did not let herself be afraid.


    ¡°Do not resist,¡± the Dreamer breathed as it took another step towards her. ¡°Why do you resist paradise? Give yourself to me, to the Majesties, and there will be no more fear. No more sorrow. Nothing.¡±


    The monster¡¯s bracers shimmered like fine glass, shards of crystal woven into ancient, flaking leather. With each heavy step the crystals took life of their own, sliding free from the monster¡¯s arms. They slid together, fitting with crafted precision into a jagged blade that nestled tightly in the Dreamer¡¯s hands.


    Beautiful¡­


    The blade shimmered with the majesty of the stars as it whistled through the air, cutting a rainbow flash across her vision.


    At the last moment, her mind broke from the beauty of the sailing death cutting for her head. She met the Dreamer¡¯s blade with her own. The Shargaz and the glass sword clashed with a terrible, wavering scream, and the strength behind the checked blow sent her staggering. Lightning bolt of pain shot down both of her arms, and her hands trembled.


    The Dreamer leapt forward, pressing her hard. The glass blade formed a rainbow whirlwind as its wielder pirouetted, striking high and low, sweeping side to side. Every checked strike from the glass blade sent an unearthly wail through the town, and sent Vasilisa staggering perilously off balance. In the sudden cold her breath came out in silver clouds, and every move grew more and more sluggish as she tried to stand her ground.


    The Dreamer pressed her back to a peasant¡¯s hovel. When she ducked beneath a swipe for her head, the glass blade carved apart the wall and collapsed the ancient shack in a cloud of dust.


    It¡¯s playing with me.


    The realization came with a stab of dread as she slipped away, dodging into an alley. The fire within her heart had burned down to ashes - she had barely the strength to keep fighting, let alone bring Vraactan out. Dammit, why? Why won¡¯t you appear? If the serpent were here, they would have crushed the Dreamer. But instead she was just an amusement for the beast, nothing more. If it wanted to finish the fight, it would have already moved on and slaughtered the others. But this was-


    ¡°How humiliating!¡± The voice boomed. A black fist exploded out from the wall to her side, followed by the Apostle. The glass blade carved through the air, missing her by a hair¡¯s breadth as she scrambled back into the town square.


    ¡°So this is the Vessel?¡± The Apostle rumbled as it gave chase. ¡°Is this the one we must raise most high?¡±


    Terror, sharp and naked, invaded her mind. She reached out with her mind towards an overturned wagon and hurled it into the Apostle¡¯s path. The gray monster didn¡¯t break its stride as it chopped apart the wagon in mid-air. Before the remains could hit the ground the monster came at her again, blade whirling.


    ¡°You.¡±


    The sword carved across her helmet with a screech. Cold blossomed across her brow, followed by a tide of hot, burning blood that blinded her right eye.


    ¡°Are.¡±


    The next cut raked her arm, sending the Shargaz tumbling to the ground. Before she could leap for it the Apostle kicked the cleaver away into the dust and ruin.


    ¡°Pathetic.¡±


    A black-clawed hand seized her by the neck. With a contemptuous snarl, the monster slammed her into the looming belltower, sending stars floating before her eyes.


    "You are no prophet. You disgust me.¡± Its voice rumbled in her ears as its grip tightened, black nails digging deep into her throat. ¡°All humans do, with their uselessness. The gods have given you everything, and you do not even know it. Freedom to laugh, to weep, to breathe...and to die.¡±


    Its grip tightened further. The broken face swam before her eyes, but through the haze of her tears, Vasilisa saw the beast¡¯s lips curled up into a small, grim smile. ¡°We cannot die. We cannot even live. So be grateful...I am giving you the gods'' greatest gift. When I am done with you, I will grant every human here more of the gods'' favors - terror, agony, fury...and then, death forever.¡±


    The monster forced her head upwards, pointing her eyes to the night sky above. Over her head, the great iron bell of the town assembly swayed perilously, booming her death knell. Dooom. Doooom. Dooooom.


    Her vision darkened. Her lungs burned, and her thoughts began to fray. Vraactan - where are you? Somewhere in the abyss of her mind, she heard Chirlan¡¯s laughter¡ªdistant, amused.


    She denies her purpose until the end.


    So miserable.


    So weak.


    No¡ªno longer. The monster would move on and kill the others without a second thought. She would not fail them. Not again.


    With the last fading remnants of strength, she pressed her bleeding palm against the cold stone of the belltower. She reached out¡ªnot with her fingers, but with her mind. She forced her presence into the cracks and crevices of the brick and mortar. Into the veins of the tower itself. The pain, the terror, the fury¡ªshe poured all of herself into the stone.


    Overhead, the great bell groaned.


    The Apostle¡¯s grip faltered for a fraction of a second, its head tilting ever so slightly upward. She pulled in a breath, and clarity returned to her. Just enough. Just enough for her to act.


    With a final desperate push, she wrenched her mind into the tower, into the bell, into the trembling foundation beneath them both.


    A great rumble sounded through the night.


    The tower groaned and screamed as the mortar cracked and crumbled, bringing down a century of craftsmanship and tradition. The air filled with a deafening clamor as the great bell came loose, an iron titan falling from its perch. It struck the side of the tower on its way down, shattering stone and spraying debris into the square below. The whole world seemed to hold its breath for a single, terrible instant.


    Then the belltower collapsed.


    Desperate frenzy seized her every move, and Vasilisa wrenched herself free from the dark grasp. A tide of ancient stone roared down and swallowed the Apostle beneath its bulk. As she scrambled away from the collapse, a great cloud of dust washed over the town square, choking everything with gray. Half-blind, she groped about the ruin-strewn square, and eventually wrapped her fingers around the handle of the Shargaz.


    Not enough. Whispered the cleaver. Claim the head. Tear the divine light.


    Her vision swirled, fading in and out of exhausting oblivion as she struggled to stand. She tried to lift the Shargaz, but only dragged herself back down. Her lungs felt scarred, her throat ripped apart. Past the ruins of the belltower, hazy figures swam before her. Nesha. Fat Marmun. Wire-thin Gastya, Valishin and his wife, short Austeja with her wide, green eyes.


    "No..." she mumbled. "Get away...it''s not...not..."


    Not dead yet. The mountain of rubble stirred. The Shargaz cried for divine blood. And Vasilisa could not bring herself to stand.


    Vraactan...where are you? The thought burned through her mind. Vraactan...little serpent...please, anyone...help me...


    Suddenly, she felt smooth scales brush along her body. Vraactan coiled around and through her - passing in and out of her chest like a bad dream. The serpent coiled tight around her in a reassuring hug - she felt the exhaustion briefly fall away, though terror lanced through her heart. About time you came. It''s awakening - it''ll kill them all. Help me, please. Help me stand.


    You will break yourself, the serpent hissed into her ear. You are not strong enough.


    "No, you are." She whispered back. "This sword...this power...it''s yours, isn''t it? Give me more."


    You know not what you ask.


    "Give. Me. More." she repeated, clenching her teeth so hard she felt they would crack. "Just enough to stand. Just enough to finish it. Please."


    The serpent''s tail cupped her chin, bringing her eyes level to Vraactan''s own. Their eyes were beautiful, desolate as the moon in a starless sky. The serpent studied her for a moment longer, then its eyes closed. There will be pain. And...fear. Do not fear what will come.


    The serpent''s form began to fade away. The colors of the scales twisted, swirling into her breast, and the crystals burned.


    She gasped, unable to scream as divine fire surged through her, setting every nerve alight. The agony was unbearable, yet it was nothing compared to the power. It drowned her, dragged her under like a riptide, and still she begged for more. Her veins pulsed bright and golden, and blinding, overwhelming strength swelled in every muscle. And with that strength, her mind spun into a deep chasm of rage so vast she could not see the end. And she did not want to.


    Her vision sharpened to impossible clarity. She saw every dust mote, every quivering breath from the ruins, the smallest shifts of debris as the Apostle clawed its way free. Its stone form was half-shattered, riddled with fractures, but even now the black ichor crawled over its wounds, knitting it back together.


    With a wordless snarl, she lunged. Her fingers closed around its greasy, black braids, and she wrenched it from the wreckage. The Apostle let out a rasping cry as she swung it like a broken doll, smashing its head into the shattered stones. Cracks spiderwebbed through its face. Black fluid splattered across the ground. But it was not enough. The fury inside her howled for more.


    She hurled the Apostle through the remains of a building. The walls crumbled as the monster crashed through, sending dust and debris cascading down. She was already moving before it hit the ground.


    It struck out as she approached, claws aimed for her throat. She caught its arm mid-swing, then twisted the limb free with a sickening crack. The stone arm, severed at the elbow, flew through the air trailing dark blood in thick ribbons. The Apostle screamed. Vasilisa laughed¡ªa laugh raw with rage, with dark delight in suffering. God¡¯s gift indeed¡­let this never end!


    The monster reeled, clutching the stump of its arm. Her fist, burning with divine wrath, slammed into its face. Once. Twice. Again. Again. Again. The Apostle¡¯s head caved inward - each shattering blow crushing deeper until only a gaping hollow remained. But still, it tried to mend. Still, the divine light did not flicker out. It defied her.


    She dragged the broken remnants of the beast into the town square, casting it before the townsfolk. Thoughts black and not wholly her own surged. They were so many - so helpless, so stupid as they gaped ignorantly in awe and fear. The Apostle lay twitching at her feet, its half-reformed lips moving in some silent prayer. Vasilisa lifted the Shargaz, and the blade whispered its sadistic delight.


    She stood over the ruined thing, breathing raggedly.


    ¡°You are nothing to me,¡± she whispered. ¡°A star before the sun. Now¡ªlove me. Fear me. See me.¡±


    The Apostle shuddered. It tried to speak.


    It failed.


    Vasilisa swung the cleaver, and the Apostle¡¯s head rolled across the square. A moment later, as if finally realizing it was dead, body crumpled, lifeless at last. From the stump of its neck a tide of dark blood spilled across the stone, steaming in the cold air.


    She slammed the Shargaz into the stone ground, and closed her eyes. The world of living flame stretched out before her, and she saw the starlight of the Dreamer shuddering, coming apart into small pinpricks of light that lifted free from the monstrous vessel. They floated up, into darkness, into the cold, unfeeling heavens above - not dead, but chastened, and afraid.


    The Apostle was afraid.


    And yet within the glowing core, Vasilisa sensed another feeling she could hardly recognize. Hope? Joy?


    Relief¡­She realized as her rage burned away, and her mind became wholly her own once more. Bared naked, the Apostle¡¯s thoughts came to her as a lonely, small voice. The world above is pale and cold. The world below is dark and warm¡­so warm¡­so¡­warm¡­


    The Apostle¡¯s final thoughts drifted away. The gray skin and knotted flesh hardened, and then crumbled away into so much ash.


    The survivors of Rovetshi watched from the shadows, too afraid to approach. Too awed to look away.


    Vasilisa swayed uncertainly. The consuming fire was guttering out, and exhaustion reclaimed its hold once more. She remained barely upright, bracing herself against the Shargaz. And the silence pressed in.


    Eyes wide with horror carved into her like knives. This was not the awe of the refugees, clamouring in rapture from her song. It was cold, paralyzing fear. Even if they did not see the serpent, they saw her. Would they call her a witch? Would they run?


    Austeja stepped forward from the crowd, and Vasilisa tensed, swallowing down the fear crawling up her throat.


    The Vorodzhi chieftain¡¯s daughter fell to her knees, and bowed her head. ¡°All praise to the She-Bear of Belnopyl,¡± she whispered. ¡°All praise to Vasilisa the Fair.¡±


    Others followed. At first a slow trickle, but then a stream of humanity. Men and women, young and old, sank to their knees alongside Austeja, whispering a prayer to the one that saved them. The only thing left to fear. She had won adoration before - this was fear, of a kind not even the old gods enjoyed.


    The Apostle¡¯s ashes scattered with the wind, vanishing into the dark sky.


    Below the cold eyes of the stars, Vasilisa the Fair stood tall as the town knelt before her.


    And she did not know whether to weep, or to run.