God Within Us

A soft gust of wind caused the assassin’s robe to flutter as his corpse lay in the middle of the field. Yesugei squinted at the dead man as Targatai raised his lantern higher over the body.

In the darkness of night, six cold corpses broke the swaying silhouette of the steppe grasses. Flies had already begun to set on the dead men by the time Kaveh fetched Targatai and Khenbish from camp - and Yesugei wrinkled his nose at the rank smell of death that rose off one of the assassins as he leaned in close.

The assassins’ eyes lost their yellow hue, fading into mundane brown and black as they were cut down by their arrows and blades. Yesugei would have thought the glowing eyes a strange trick of the light or perhaps the work of his overactive mind had he not heard much the same from Kaveh and Tseren. He peeled back the loose leather mask that concealed one assassin’s face, and was surprised to see a long, narrow, rough-shaved, but ordinary human visage. The corpse’s tanned skin and high cheekbones called to mind Yesugei’s memories of when he had first met Tseren, and he glanced from the dead man to the shaman. There was no doubt about it.

“These killers are modkhai,” muttered Yesugei as he stood up, pushing aside the leather masks of the other corpses lined up off the side of the road. Each of the dead men bore similar, striking features as the first assassin - some of them even wore small beaded charms in their hair which rattled as their bodies shifted. “Tseren, did you know these killers?”

Targatai, Khenbish, and Kaveh turned to look at the shaman who didn’t respond at first - seeming deep in thought as he sat cross-legged and studied the circle of bloodless, mutilated corpses. Only after a moment of silence had passed did the aged shaman stand up and turn to look at the Yesugei and the others.

“Nonsense. I left the Mother Woods a long time ago.” said Tseren as he moved to pass by Kaveh.

“But-” Kaveh placed one hand on Tseren’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “We still have questions.”

“Your people are a solitary lot, aren’t they?” Yesugei stepped closer to Tseren, keeping one hand on the crystal-encrusted pommel of his shamshir. “From what my father told me, you were the first to ever leave these ‘Mother Woods’ in decades. So what would drive six of your folk to not only leave, but gather up and cross two thousand miles to practice their blood magic on Quanli land?”

Tseren scowled, and spit to the side as he pushed himself back off of Kaveh’s shoulder. His bloody antler-knife glinted silver in the moonlight as it dangled from his belt.

“I don’t like your tone, boy. You question my loyalty? I’ve been in service to Tsagaandai-khan since before you could even mount a horse,” the shaman hissed, his eyes piercing daggers at Targatai and Khenbish as they slowly drew forward in front of Kaveh. “If you really think I sold you out to these cursed men, then by all means, go ahead and take my head and plant it before your father’s throne. But it’ll be the stupidest mistake you’ll ever make.”

“Cursed?” The word sounded strange to Yesugei. “You mean their golden eyes?”

“Yes, cursed,” sighed Tseren, placing his hands on his hips as he contemplated on what to say. “I’d only heard stories from the wise men about this, but my people had dealt with something of the sort before. A sickness of the mind, spread by creatures that tainted our lands long ago.”

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” chuckled Targatai as he drew his hand to the long dagger at his belt. “You’d say anything to save your wretched skin. Jirghadai-khan was a sworn blood brother to the Great Khan even before you crawled out from the woods - look how that turned out. Treachery surrounds our khan everywhere - and you look mighty suspicious in my eyes, modkhai..”

But something in the shaman’s words - the way he had suddenly sobered and grown ever more serious since they had first seen the curse sigil - caused Yesugei to feel a shift in his heart. He had always heard stories of magic: the sun-worshippers to the distant west who called upon the life-giving sun to enact miracles, the southern elves who dwelled in high towers and plied their trade with the blood of slaves, and the northern forest-dwellers who danced wearing animal skins in sacred groves. But to talk of curses and monsters with such certainty seemed absurd - yet Tseren seemed ready to stake his life on it. What if he was correct? was the thought on Yesugei’s mind.

“Tell me more about this curse,” Yesugei blurted out. In the darkness he saw Targatai and Khenbish turn to look at him in incredulity. Kaveh looked back as well - Yesugei knew his half-brother had his doubts, but he also knew that Kav trusted his senses, and knew Yesugei to be the more reasonable between them for years. He cleared his throat, then spoke again. “What creatures? Explain. What does all this mean - the bodies, these killers?”

“These bodies…they’re part of an old heretical ritual, carried out by kin of the Modkhai to invoke evil spirits.” Tseren reached up to his messy braided hair which was decorated with faded charms and strange crystals. From deep within one of the greasy locks he pulled out a strange black gem - it resembled a small pit of darkness, and swallowed up the soft orange glare of Targatai’s lantern as Tseren presented it to the four men. “The wise men said the spirits emerged from black crystals like these during a time of war between two tribes. Spirits which brought ruin to our lands, and made gold-eyed slaves of our people. They disappeared many eons ago, when the gods heard the suffering of our people and drove them back into the distant north where no mortal men could live. Our shamans told us these crystals from which the spirits were born could protect us from their curses and rot - the eldest son from each family has one of them braided into his hair, so he might be able to resist and fight the spirits if they were to ever return.”

Yesugei beheld the black gem Tseren held - its eerie, swirling darkness - and found his thumb drifting over the black crystal eyes of the silver horse’s head on the pommel of his sword. The weapon had been given to him by his father when he had become a man, when he had taken his first life in combat against the Quanli. The gems were so small he had never given them much thought - believing them to be onyx or dark agate. But he now studied the dark eyes closer, feeling as though he was truly looking at them for the first time, and within them saw that same swirling void - one from which neither lantern nor moonlight could escape.

“Yes, you see it now, don't you?” Tseren said quietly as he watched Yesugei studying the handle of his shamshir. “Tsagaandai-khan saw fit to give not just his eldest, but all his true-born children trinkets to ward you from the curse - bought them at no small expense from my people, back when you and Kaveh were still little children. I told your father the same stories I told you now - and he listened, that he did.”

Yesugei saw Kaveh shift his spear into his offhand as he reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a soft white square of silk, decorated with golden embroidery and studded with a dozen tiny black gemstones along each edge. He had seen the silken scarf only a handful of times - it was the last gift Kav’s mother had passed down to him before she had perished from a fever ten summers ago. Yesugei searched his mind, trying to recall the gifts his siblings had all received - his oldest half-brother Nariman, who received a gilded suit of lamellar; his sister Gulsezim and her broad sash of layered silk; all thirteen other of Tsagaandai-khan’s true-born children and their gifts of adulthood. Did they all bear these small crystals, these little dots of darkness? He had never noticed, never given them much thought in all his years.

Yesugei’s mind spun with half-remembered memories, but his thoughts were interrupted by the jingling of metal plates as Kaveh clapped one hand on Khenbish’s armored shoulder, setting the keshik at ease.

“We can stand around and accuse one another of things all night long-” Kaveh paused, giving a wide, loud yawn as he scratched underneath his felt cap and placed the silk square back into his pocket. “But I’d much rather we do all the accusing and magic-talk sitting around a nice, warm fire in a yurt - wouldn’t you?”

“Aye, I’d be amenable to that,” said Tseren. “And if you’re going to gut me, I’d at least like a drink - I’d say I earned it today, didn’t I?”

Targatai offered little more than a half-hearted grumble before stepping away, followed by Khenbish and Kaveh as they summoned their exhausted horses to ride back to camp. Yesugei followed suit, as did the shaman who breathed a sigh of relief and gave an appreciative nod to him as he mounted his steed. The prospect of coming to a warm fire seemed overwhelmingly enticing to Yesugei as well - and only made him more aware of the dropping temperature as the steppe began to freeze beneath the dark speckled skies.

The five of them rode back to camp in relative silence - Targatai’s lantern bobbing up and down as he led the way back to their finished camp. A humble yurt decorated with furs and the symbol of the Qarakesek sat just next to a low ridge, and once inside Yesugei immediately sank onto the carpeted floor with a tired sigh. Khenbish quickly set about setting a fire, and soon the small handful of embers that glowed on a bunch of dried grass and sticks became a flickering, crackling flame that filled the yurt with a homely warm glow.

Yesugei’s stomach growled for sustenance, and he winced as he tried to sit up and braced himself too harshly on his injured arm. The wound’s pain had softened into a dull ache, but every errant movement or flex of muscle sent a sharp knife of pain twisting through his entire left arm - his strong arm. He grunted in annoyance as he unbuckled one of his satchels, and pulled out a hunk of wrapped cheese and dried meat.

The salted meat and cheese caused Yesugei’s tongue to burn as he ate, and he washed it down with a sip of arkhi from Tseren’s wineskin before tossing across the yurt to its former owner. Tseren caught the wineskin clumsily, and raised an eyebrow at Yesugei as he sloshed the contents in the leather container.

“In moderation,” warned Yesugei. “I want you in shape to ride and explain more at first light.”

Tseren gave him a crooked-toothed smile before taking a hearty gulp from the wineskin. As the shaman drank, Yesugei had half a mind to ask him more about the creatures and curses he spoke of, but already his eyes struggled to remain open in the comfort of his bedroll and the warmth of the fire. He gave a wide yawn, and half-heard a conversation between the keshiks and Kaveh on who would keep guard. If they had been traveling with a larger host and more soldiers they would have held shifts, but five men moved in greater stealth, and risked less chance of being caught out in the day by roving bands of bandits or tribal warbands looking to settle a blood feud with the Qarakesek. After a few mutterings which faded in and out of Yesugei’s hearing, he saw Targatai step out of the yurt with his bow and lantern in hand to take the first watch.

As Yesugei snuggled into a more comfortable position on his bedroll he saw Kaveh resting on his back, examining the silk handkerchief once more. Yesugei’s own mind drew to his shamshir, and he pulled the sheathed blade closer to examine the silver horse’s head. He found himself strangely drawn in by the little black pools of darkness that were embedded in the horse’s eyes - the way the darkness seemed to write and twist behind the sheer, carefully-cut crystal face. As his eyelids grew unbearably heavy, Yesugei let himself fall away into a deep slumber, letting the sheathed shamshir rest by his side close at hand. Before his eyes closed, he cast one final look at the gemstones and their mysterious darkness.

A face…?

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

***

The next morning, Yesugei opened his eyes to the sound of sizzling meat. The heavy smell of garlic, lard, and spices wafted out of a small iron pan as Khenbish stabbed at a thick, wide slice of red fermented sausage and passed it over to Kaveh’s waiting plate. Yesugei rubbed the sleep out of his eyes and sat up straight, seeing Khenbish, Targatai, and Kaveh sitting cross-legged around the yurt’s central fire. Outside, he saw Tseren kneeling and muttering prayers to the open steppe.

“Shit, he woke up.” said Kaveh in between bites of sausage and hard bread.

“Eating sudžuk without your brother?” sighed Yesugei, shaking his head in disapproval as he reached into the pan and fished out a slice. “Have you no respect at all for your elders, Kav?”

The sausage slice exploded with juicy flavor as Yesugei popped it into his mouth, flooding his tongue with burning peppery heat and the pungent taste of garlic mixed with fatty lamb. Targatai poured an aromatic tea into a fine porcelain cup and offered it to him as he savored the taste of the sausage in the morning light that filtered through the top. For a moment, everything seemed peaceful - even the insistent ache of his injured arm subsided as he rested in the comfort of the yurt with its colorful, carpeted walls.

Tseren poked his head in through the yurt entrance, his expression grim once more. “Quanli riders, approaching from the north.”

Yesugei's stomach dropped. Bowls and cups clattered loudly to the floor as the four men stood up, grabbing weapons and armor up from their seats. The armored Targatai and Khenbish drew out first, bow and glaive in hand. Kaveh followed after them, flashing a look of concern at Yesugei as they stepped out - neither of them bothered to pack armor, believing the horse-hair banner of the Great Khan would protect them. But the Great Khan’s ulus was far away, and the paranoia of last night’s attack was still fresh in their minds. It was a miracle they had emerged unscathed from fighting the Modkhai - if it came to blows with a tribal raiding party bearing proper arms and armor, they would pay dearly.

Yesugei squinted his eyes as the morning light hit his face and reflected blindingly off of Khenbish’s armor. The keshiks ran to their tied horses, loosing and mounting their own steeds and guiding the others from the open field to the other end of the ridge. Yesugei assessed the terrain - if it came to a fight, the stony ridge would serve them well, protecting them from arrow-fire and forcing any lancers to have to dismount or risk having their horse shot out from under them as they ascended the slope’s rocky, uneven face. But raiding parties and patrols in the steppe moved in numbers, often in the dozens. Even if they cut down three or four for every one of theirs, if the enemy was determined enough they would take all of their heads. Giving up the ridge to escape would open their backs to pursuing arrows. But raiders were also a disorganized lot, and few Khormchaks besides the Qarakesek were fanatical enough to be willing to wage a hard battle against seasoned fighters for a pittance of loot - Yesugei and the others had packed little silver, no gold, and had no other luxuries besides the yurt and enough wine, tea, and food to keep themselves satiated.

Yesugei pressed his hand and ear to the ground as Kaveh retreated behind the low ridge after Tseren and the keshiks to make a stand. In the open steppe, he felt the ground rumble lightly as he sensed the riders drawing closer, yet still beyond the horizon. He closed his eyes and counted the rhythmic beats for as long as he dared - through the seeming random pounding of distant hooves he counted five, ten…close to two dozen riders, if each man had only one horse, which was rarely the case save for stealthy travel.

By the time Yesugei scrambled up the stony ridge he was able to see the horsemen in the distance - a dozen warriors clad in metal scales and leather with each guiding a second horse laden with supplies. The riders' leader bore a large banner of his own. Thrust directly towards the sky, the white horse-hair banner fluttered wildly in the growing wind while the silver lightning sigil of the Quanli glinted threateningly. Little more than a decade ago, his father and his sworn allies had rallied against the same banner in battle. Less than six years ago, Yesugei himself had ridden in raids against the Quanli, drawing his first blood against their warriors and taking a hoard of silver for himself from a slain noyan’s tent.

Let us hope this story ends much the same as the ones before, thought Yesugei. He cast a glance over to the rest of his companions. Targatai and Khenbish looked on ahead, their faces still and their eyes hardened for battle. The two keshiks were among the most junior of Tsaagandai-khan’s bodyguards, but out of the five of them, they were by far the most battle-tested from punitive raids against the western Klyazmites and skirmishes with lesser tribes. Kaveh clutched his spear tightly in one hand as he fiddled with a small wicker shield in his other hand - Yesugei gave his brother a reassuring nod, and steeled his resolve.

Yesugei searched for Tseren among their ranks, and saw him kneeling on the ground a few steps further down the ridge. The shaman’s fingers twisted along a small charm as he began to chant a prayer in a harsh tongue.

“Black spirits of the East, scourge of men,” growled Tseren as he drew from his pack a wide, round drum of stretched horse-leather. “I call upon you, and give to you my spirit - if foes approach us, blood and blood-sworn of the Universal Khan, drive them away before us!”

Tseren continued his prayer, kneeling back as he raised the drum to the sky and struck it so hard Yesugei felt his heart skip a beat. The pounding grew louder and faster as Tseren’s growling prayer flowed into a wordless, guttural song to the Eastern realm of the forty-four black spirits - evil spirits who dwelled in the earth, skies, and waters, and dealt in curses and strife. Yesugei felt bumps appear on his skin as the prayer continued, felt the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rise as the very air seemed to become charged, filled with a strange energy that was both mystifying and frightening. The staccato pounding of the drum soon merged with the sound of the galloping riders as they drew closer. Yesugei gave a rattling breath and then stood tall, grabbing the white banner of the Great Khan. He rushed up to the edge of the ridge and drove the pointed bottom of the lance into the rocky ground, keeping his other hand close to his shamshir as the riders approached. The Quanli raiders’ shining armor rattled loudly as they gave whoops and cheers, and slowed to a stop by the abandoned campground as Tseren gave one final, rattling cry to the skies.

The riders stood forty feet from the ridge. The steel blades of the Quanli glaives and swords - ugly and pitted from use - glinted in the morning light. None of the men among the riders looked green or infirm, and their armor was dirty and worn from battles and many days spent out in the dusty steppe.

The look of killers. Veterans. Yesugei thought as he silently took count and measure of the riders. Perhaps some of them will recognize me.

Yesugei felt his breathing quicken, but stood firm as he called out to the band’s leader - a thin man dressed head-to-toe in iron scale who held a horse whip in one hand, and his tribe’s fluttering banner in the other.

“You stand before Yesugei, son of-”

“I know who you are, boy.” interrupted the Quanli leader, his voice dripping with thinly-veiled poison. “Ninth son of Tsaagandai-khan. I saw you at the kurultai. And at the White Pinch before then.”

White Pinch. So he was there. Visions of battle flashed in Yesugei’s mind as he searched for a face, but all he could recall was the dust, sweltering heat, and the feeling of terror mixed with blood-rage during his first battle raiding the campgrounds of the Quanli vanguard. Faces were blurred, melted into the uniform swirl of dark brown and crimson.

“You know me, but I do not know your name, baghatur,” replied Yesugei, keeping his voice even, and his hand grasped tightly on the handle of his shamshir. “Tell me your name, so we can speak as equals. As men and warriors.”

“You speak with Ardager, noyan of a Quanli mingghan.” Announced one of the other riders with a puff of his chest. The horse whip flashed through the air, and the rider stumbled back a few paces with a cry as the Quanli commander’s leather whip bit into his cheek for speaking out of turn.

“A mingghan…” mused Yesugei as he studied the commander named Ardager. “At the White Pinch I only knew of Murat-noyan. You must have done well to earn command of a thousand Quanli riders, Ardager-noyan.”

“I thank you for your praise, Yesugei-mirza.” Ardager tilted his head downwards as a show of respect, but he didn’t bother to hide his distaste as he spat out Yesugei’s royal title.

“What business do you have with the blood and blood-sworn of the Great Khan?”

“Just a small matter, really,” said Ardager with a wolfish smile that sent a chill down Yesugei’s spine. It was the kind of smile a hunter had when he had finally cornered his prey. “My men were traveling along the road when we came across a foul incantation - bodies of Quanli women and children piled like so much meat. Blood magic. Our scouts heard tell of a roving band with a Modkhai shaman among them, and we thought to ask some questions.”

“You mean to accuse us of that butchery?” asked Yesugei. His knuckles cracked and turned white as he gripped his shamshir tight.

“You speak as if you have heard of this before.”

“Indeed we have,” said Yesugei. “And I’m afraid your search ended before it had even started - we ourselves were ambushed by killers not far from the butchery you describe. Modkhai bandits with stone-tipped arrows and swords. My riders cut them down to a man - we left the heathens to rot in the grass.”

“So you say, Yesugei-mirza,” The Quanli commander trotted a nonchalant line before his men. “But whose word except-”

“You have the word of the blood of the White Khan,” interrupted Yesugei sharply. “We have no quarrel with your people or Jirghadai-khan. Unless you mean to accuse us of lying and the butchery of children.”

His confrontational reply seemed to take the wind out of Ardager’s play at the cool interrogator, and the commander hissed in annoyance before spitting back, “Someone must answer for this - the Great Khan holds close ties with the wood-dwellers. Jirghadai-khan will demand justice.”

“Then by all means, your khan may do so come the next kurultai,” said Yesugei. “He needn’t wait long - the tribes already begin to convene at Khurvan. But until then, it is not the place of a noyan to make demands of the Great Khan.”

“You forget your own place, mirza,” spat Ardager as he sharply turned his steed towards the ridge. Above their heads, the once blue skies began to darken, and Yesugei felt the air become charged once more. “You dare to insult a noyan on the lands of his own people with your backtalk? Such behavior from the Great Khan or the Crown Prince might go unanswered, but you are no Great Khan and no heir. Do not make me laugh with how you pretend to be one of note, ninth son of Tsaagandai-khan.”

Yesugei resisted the urge to draw his bow and put an arrow through the exposed throat of the Quanli commander, even as he paced slowly, enticingly just fifty feet before him. He sensed Ardager’s plan - failing to use the butchery as an excuse to stir trouble, he wished to draw one of them into attacking first. Even the great Tsaagandai-khan would have no choice but to pay heavy reparations and ask forgiveness if his own sons started a skirmish with as eminent and respected a tribe as the Quanli. But Yesugei also sensed a faltering in Ardager’s demeanor; this was no planned attack or ambush, but probably a whimsy, an impetuous attempt by a puffed-up commander to show some cunning in the hopes of receiving some reward or title from Jirghadai-khan. Ardager was hesitant to attack - his ideal plan falling apart at the seams as he realized the ninth son of Tsaagandai-khan and his companions would not make themselves easy prey if it came to blows. Now, unwilling to fight, it was a matter of spitting barbed words and saving face for the Quanli commander.

“It seems we both forget ourselves, Ardager-noyan,” said Yesugei, giving an easy smile. “But you have found your answers as to who attacked your folk, and my men must make quick time - we seek to meet with Dagun-noyan.”

“The tax-collector?” huffed Ardager, already swiveling his steed around to make his way back north. “Another matter Jirghadai-khan will bring to your father’s attention. My men received complaints from our Klyazmite subjects that your emissary was draining the wine-stores of every outpost from here to Tosont. Does the Great Khan usually make tax-collectors of wretched drunks?”

Yesugei’s mind spun as he contemplated Ardager’s final words. He flashed a quick glance downwards to the keshiks and Kaveh - and saw the Noyan’s words were not lost on them either. Klyazmite settlers formed small outposts for trade and Khormchak messengers every few dozen miles - they had assumed Dagun would have wanted to travel quickly, efficiently, which meant a direct path from the capital city of Khurvan to the border. It never struck him until now that perhaps Tseren wasn’t the only one of his father’s subjects who liked easy food and drink - and where there were inns, there would be answers as to Dagun’s whereabouts, surely. He brought his attention back to the Quanli riders as they slowly began to disperse, following after their commander who rode off in a huff - his face preserved with one final jab at the Qarakesek.

As the Quanli rode off a bright flash exploded from the darkened skies, followed by the deafening roar of thunder that seemed to shake the world. Yesugei felt himself jump, and saw before him several Quanli horses startle violently, throwing their riders from their backs whilst others dropped their lances to keep their horses from rushing off. Ardager’s armor jingled loudly as he gave a cry and was bucked off from his dark steed, landing painfully on his back with a puff of dust. Yesugei and the four crouching men allowed themselves a chuckle as they watched the Quanli struggle to rein in their mounts, swearing and cursing the spirits whilst their horses trampled and dirtied the tribal banner that lay in the middle of the frightened herd.

The silver lightning sigil of the Quanli now looked nowhere near as impressive as before - thrown from its proud place in the sky by the rumble of very real lightning from the heavens.

Only when the Quanli had fully dispersed and disappeared over the horizon did Yesugei and the others make their way down from the ridge and back to their camp. The Quanli left their baggage upset and overturned every which way in their hasty retreat, but none of their possessions seemed to be missing. The small fire in the yurt still burned, and Yesugei knelt down to snatch another piece of sausage from the still-hot pan that sat just next to the flame.

“You know the noyan won’t let that little encounter of ours slide, right?” said Kaveh as he sidled up next to Yesugei. “I’d say we’d best give him a wide berth during the kurultai.”

“He’s just as much at fault as we are, the dolt,” responded Yesugei between mouthfuls of bread and more sausage. The fear of death and the high of sending the Quanli riders retreating in disarray awakened the sort of hunger in Yesugei that normally came after surviving a battle, and he sat cross-legged as he continued to eat. “And besides, he embarrassed himself. You saw how he backed down - he has no spine, no appetite for danger while he is at the front. I dare say he wouldn’t have had the balls to attack us even if he had a hundred riders.”

"You speak as though you wanted him to kill us." Kaveh gave a laugh, and picked up two discarded porcelain cups from the ground. He poured out more dark, rich 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 Tsaagandai-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.

Outside, the dark clouds began to recede. Soon, the morning light shone once more upon the steppe, and the familiar whispers of the swaying grass called to Yesugei. He swore he heard the sound of a woman's cry carry along the shifting blades, but set the thought aside in his mind as Kaveh poured some more tea.