God Within Us

Trails of smoke rose up into the sky like twisting fingers of the plains as the riders made their way towards the Baskord tent-city. Tied up and thrown over the back of the noyan’s horse, Yesugei's crushed leg screamed with pain every time the stallion bucked and swayed - and the noyan sneered at his agony.

“Enjoy the ride while you can, Qarakesek,” said Arsen-noyan. “Soon you’ll sup on far worse when Böri-khan has his way with you.”

The felt roofs of the yurts rose up over the horizon, splashes of green, blue, and red standing defiantly in the ashen fields. Warriors, artisans, cooks and children all gathered to holler their greetings to the triumphant noyan and his plunder - three of Stribor’s wagons, piled high with food, clothes, and coin, all now stolen twice over.

Arsen let his men cut his plunder loose from the wagons as they drew to the center of the camp, and a cry rose up from the gathered crowd as the tribesmen rushed forward to snatch the choicest loot piled on the ground. One woman emerged from the crowd with a necklace of silver filigree resting over her sheepskin robe, another woman struggled with a man over a large silvered plate, and three warriors stretched out a long embroidered cloth between them and used it to launch some of the younger children into the air with shrieks and hoots. The loot however was a paltry sum in all - a far cry from the plunder that the Baskords might have earned from raids against Huwaq in the days when they still roamed the native steppes. Still, the Baskords in exile seemed a wretchedly-poor bunch compared to even the lowliest tribes of the steppe - Arsen's trinkets might well have seemed the world to some.

Two of Arsen’s riders rode further through the camp to inform the khan of their coming, and behind them Arsen rode proudly through the camp as though he were a conqueror. He brought them to a stop outside the khan’s tent - a great yurt atop a raised wooden platform bearing the Baskord trident, which had once flown against the Qarakesek in battle alongside a dozen others.

Now they’ve carried it far from home, and me with them.

With a contemptuous shove Arsen pushed Yesugei from his stallion. He landed half on his feet as he fell, and when his injured leg buckled against 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,” declared Arsen as he planted his boot onto Yesugei’s back, forcing him lower until his brow touched the earth. “And you would do well to kneel, Qarakesek.”

When Arsen’s boot rose off his back, Yesugei saw before him four noyans - grizzled and fierce in long sheepskin robes and furs - standing behind a pale-eyed man wearing a brilliant coat of gilded scales over an orange silk robe, his black hair twisted into two long braids that hung over his shoulders.

The Baskord khan looked down on him as another man might a worm - but then his eyes flicked to Arsen, and Yesugei saw the khan’s anger was not merely reserved for himself.

“I accept your gifts, Arsen-noyan,” the khan spoke, his lips pursed with silent anger. “You and those under your command may claim half of the plunder - the rest, divide between the folk of the tribe.”

Arsen nodded to the riders at his back, and they galloped back to the burgeoning crowd of gawkers with horsewhips in hand to aid their brothers. As other onlookers watched on, Böri-khan spread his arms wide and let his voice boom out over the camp, “Gather strong wine, and set the servants to work! Tonight we feast, and hold Arsen-noyan as baghatur!”

A cheer rose up from the men and women gathered around the khan’s tent, and as they roared for the noyan’s triumph Böri 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 pulled Yesugei up to his feet, walking with a satisfied swagger into the Khan's tent. Yesugei saw him for what he was - a proud lamb walking into the maw of a terrible beast, far from the eyes of the rest of the tribe. The khan's anger was a terrible thing, but to quarrel in the open would only invite rumors and further disunity within the tribe - many Khormchak ulus of the past had fractured into pieces when such noyans as Arsen disrupted the delicate balance of power and wealth, and the hierarchy of the nobility.

As he ascended towards the khan's tent Yesugei's eyes flicked across the city of yurts sprawled out across the plains. From a brief glance he counted two, perhaps three thousand felt roofs stretching over the horizon - yet he saw only a small handful of Baskord warriors patrolling the outskirts, and none of the hallmarks for war. Instead of fletching arrows or preparing their husbands’, brothers’, and sons' armor, he saw most free women of the camp still tending to the mundane tasks of life - sewing, herding sheep, and grinding wheat into flour, of which there seemed little stockpiled for an ulus on the march. The few smiths he saw in camp did not beat 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 seemed to care little, and instead filled his fellow nobles’ ears with his story of how he routed the southerners through the ascent to the khan’s tent. In the same breath Stribor’s force went from thirty to fifty strong, and the southerners’ dead and wounded from three times Arsen’s own to five.

“Aye, armored and horsed they might have been,” said Arsen as the tent flap behind him closed. “But too few to protect all their plunder, and too stupid to avoid my feint. My boys reminded them dearly why their ancestors always trembled before the sound of Khormchak hooves, that we did!”

The Baskord khan’s tent was large, but shadowy and sparsely-decorated - only a small handful of gold and silver tribute trinkets sat upon his shelves, and in one corner Yesugei spied the silver horns of the Baskord war banner collecting dust, left unfurled and tucked away since the tribe was forced west. As soon as they were seated within the silence of the khan’s tent, and Yesugei unceremoniously left to lie on the hard wooden floor, one of the noyans raised his hand to Arsen and spoke sharply. “That’s enough, Arsen. If I hear any more of this...this...this damn foolishness, my head will burst.”

“Foolishness?” sputtered Arsen, his joy twisting into a dark anger as he turned to look at the noyan who had raised his voice. “I don’t understand-”

“And that’s exactly it,” spoke up another noyan - a longbeard wearing a dyed red robe and a pointed felt cap. “You don’t understand. That is why our khan allowed you to prance around the camp like a show horse instead of skinning you alive for this folly you’ve brought on all our heads.”

“A folly?” roared Arsen as he shot back up to his feet. With his head bowed low, Yesugei allowed a small smile to creep to his lips as Arsen spat, “Did I offend you all by being daring while the rest of you sat around watching our people starve?”

Böri-khan sat upon his throne silently, a red chapan draped over his shoulders. Arsen looked at each of the noyans confusedly, 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, Böri?”

Yesugei sensed the sudden chill that fell upon the room, the noyans shifting uncomfortably in their seats as they turned to look at the khan. Arsen danced blindly along the thin line of treason with his talk, that much was known, but the khan’s honor was his to defend alone.

Böri rose to his feet, and his shined boots clacked along the varnished floorboards as he stepped towards Arsen without a word, his face an impassive mask. As his khan drew nearer the noyan took a step back, but then straightened his spine and stood his ground proudly in challenge. Arsen met the khan’s gaze bravely - and was so focused on returning Böri’s stare that he did not see the slap coming his way.

The Baskord khan’s hand painted a red welt across Arsen’s face with a deafening smack, knocking the noyan to the floor. Before Arsen could stagger to his feet Böri lifted him up by the collar, bringing them face to face once more.

“My khan,” corrected Böri coldly. “I am no longer a boy, and you swore an oath to serve me as your khan. Or have you forgotten your oath as well as 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 Böri 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 the boyar runs to them and tells them he was robbed by our tribe?”

Arsen’s mouth opened and shut stupidly as he tried to come up with a reply, and Böri dropped the noyan back to the floor in disgust. “Our pact with the Old Griffon was to fight the wolves of the steppe, not their dirty little civil wars - and that was our shield. Have you forgotten what became of my father and yours the last time we struck before sensing the winds of fortune?

“We could have had peace, if only for a while. We could have had time to prepare our riders in force, and strike a new deal with whomever grew desperate enough to call on our banners. But now you’ve robbed me of my time, our time - and all for what? A few trinkets? A few scraps of food that will feed ten families for a day when we’ve a thousand more under our rule?”

Arsen clenched his fists bitterly as he bowed his head, but he made no move to strike out at the khan - chastened as he was. Even in the shade of the tent, Yesugei saw Arsen's face was red all over with embarrassment - and illness as Böri’s words sank through the noyan’s thick skull.

“I-I did not know, my khan,” Arsen managed, bowing his head low to the ground. “I’ll make amends however I can. I would pay for this mistake with blood and valor...ah, let me lead my men first into what battles are to come from my folly! Yes!”

“We’ll have battles enough on our hands,” Böri replied. “But I’d have you make amends for the lives wasted by your hands instead. How many men perished in your attack?”

“Six, my khan." Arsen swallowed nervously. "Two felled by arrows, and four killed by the mage in the boyar’s company.”

“Those were good men who died for this folly, sons, brothers, and husbands all,” said Böri. “To each family that lost a son or a brother, you will give ten sheep and lands from your own to graze them. And for each wife you've left a widow, you will give them the sheep and four horses. Then you will take the widows as your own wives, and care for them and theirs as you would your own.”

"My khan-"

"Choose your next words carefully," hissed Böri, and Arsen's plea withered to dust in his throat. “And be glad I am giving you wives instead of steel for your stupidity. Now go, baghatur, get out of my sight and thank the Eternal Sky for granting you life before I change my mind."

Arsen slowly rose to his feet, anger burning plainly in his eyes, but he held his runaway tongue as he left the tent. The silence left in the noyan's wake lingered a moment longer, and then Böri strode over and turned Yesugei onto his back.

“Arsen has left me with precious little patience,” spoke Böri as he stroked his moustache, his pale, almost gray eyes boring holes through Yesugei's own. “Lie to me, and you will die by inches, Qarakesek. Who are you, and why are you this far west?”

The merchant from Shigir, the envoy of the Great Khan, and the ninth son of Tsaagandai searched Böri-khan's eyes before he spoke. Within the cold, gray stare he saw a strange glint - like light reflecting off of smooth ice. A hint of recognition.

He knows…he already knows…

Yesugei's cracked lips parted to speak. In a way, it was a relief - he grew tired of his false names, tired of scrounging through forests and hills as a nameless, insignificant soul when he had once been held so high. He had lost his brother, his companions, and his pride. 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 Tsaagandai. Mirza of the Qarakesek.”

The Baskord khan's eyes closed, and the corners of his lips twisted into a small smile.

“Yes…” Böri spoke. “You look so very much like him.”

Böri brought one hand to Yesugei’s face, and tugged the ragged mess of hairs on his chin that had grown into a beard from the days in Stribor’s captivity. “I see your father in your face, Yesugei-mirza. I see his face when he exiled us from our home.”

“My brother Nariman had demanded you and your people put to death,” Yesugei replied. Sometimes, he had wondered whether his eldest brother was more of Jirghadai's blood than their father's - Nariman's voice had always been the strongest to massacre their enemies when they were defeated, and the most bitter in seeking vengeance against slights. “The choice was yours and yours alone - and it was a far better choice than others were offered.”

“But not as good as some others,” spoke up the red-clad longbeard. “The Bura, the Oshaks…even the damned 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 noyan wearing a green kaftan and a long-eared felt cap. “How many of our own noyans were killed like common dogs at Ongainur and other battles? How many had their throats cut like sheep instead of dying as men?”

The last noyan, a tall, shaggy-bearded man with an ugly scar across his right cheek, stood up and placed his hand on the hilt of his dagger - a long, curved throatslitter. “My khan, I would bleed him for you and for the sons I lost at Ongainur. The Eternal Sky has given us this princeling as a gift - we should slice him from ear to ear, then send his head back to his wretched father for sins repaid.”

Böri-khan grinned at the words of his noyans. “My men can scarcely agree on the color of the sky, Yesugei-mirza. Yet for your death, they stand as one. However-”

The khan grasped him by his ropes, and lifted Yesugei to his knees. Then there was a knife in his hands, and a moment later Yesugei felt the crushing binds fall loose and hit the floor of the tent with a muted thump. Immediately there rose a cry from one of the noyans.

“My khan-” spoke the longbeard as he shot to his feet, yet a raise of his khan’s hand forced him to silence. The other noyans did not move, but their eyes betrayed the outrage their lips dared not to utter.

His arms ached furiously from the ropes - Yesugei rubbed his soreness away as he rose to his feet beneath the Baskord khan’s knife.

“My blood feud is with your father, Yesugei-mirza,” spoke Böri as he placed a hand on the Qarakesek princeling’s shoulder. “Just as your father’s feud 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.”

Yesugei nodded slowly, feeling the pointed, dagger-like rage of the noyans’ eyes upon him. Only the Baskord khan stood between him and the noyans’ knives which hungered for Qarakesek blood - yet the feeling of dread did not leave his gut. It cannot be. The stone must turn - or the noyans will kill their khan themselves for his weakness.

The Baskord khan’s grip tightened on his shoulder, Böri’s expression growing grim - and the bitterness and sorrow that reared its head in his eyes made the khan seem old beyond his years. Then the stone turned. “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 in our exile: old and young, slaves and warriors, mothers and children. Their spirits linger with us wherever we go - those who were denied the Eternal Sky’s embrace…and they will be your judge.”

Böri turned to his throne, looking past the gathered noyans, and Yesugei saw something in the shadows stir. A man clad in aged leathers rose up from the right side of the throne, the beads sewn to his veil clacking lightly as the shaman slowly walked into the light streaming from the top of the yurt.

“Aysen-guai,” Böri 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 tomorrow morn.”

Then the khan turned to Yesugei, and sheathed his knife with a thin, wolfish grin. “When the sun rises, I will give you the same mercy your father had given me. A chance for freedom: one that you shall earn by the tip of the sword, as all your kin have lived by. If the spirits judge you worthy of life and you survive...I shall send you from my lands ahorse as your father did. But if the spirits find themselves without mercy…you will join those your father damned.”

Yesugei’s gaze flicked across the noyans. Every one of them stood tall and strong, and every one was old enough to have seen and fought a dozen skirmishes during the clashes of the hordes. With a bow, even weak as he was, he was certain he could outshoot and outmaneuver every one of the men that stood before him. The humble bow which he had trained with since he could walk was the weapon which had won the Great Horde all of its battles - yet now it was the sword, that weapon for singers’ stories and duels, on which his life hung in the balance. He almost wanted to laugh, if the heavy dread in his stomach did not crush the laughter in his gut.

“Who will I fight, then?” He dared to ask - the ninth son of Tsaagandai standing tall and proud as he had not for what seemed an age. "Whose blood will the spirits taste come the morning?"

Silence, but only for a moment.

“Me,” said Böri-khan. “You shall face me, son of the Qarakesek. Your freedom will be writ in my blood - and my vengeance in yours. Let us see which the spirits hold higher."