God Within Us

You owe me a new sword,” complained Kargasha. The warrior drew his thumb along the ugly blade, which now ended three inches above the hilt in a deformed, blackened mess.

Yesugei paid the Klyazmite no mind. Once seated comfortably in the saddle, he found himself absorbed by the glowing lines carved deep into his hand. The light had faded since the morning had passed, but he was still able to rouse a faint glow now and then whenever he clenched his hand into a fist. More blackened and cracked stone lay in place of flesh along his shoulder and creeping up along his neck where the wolf's teeth had savaged him, and from there too he felt a faint warmth and glow. Once studying the lines had become tiresome, he covered up his fist as best he could with a beaten leather glove, and drew his robe tight around himself to cover his neck.

When the morning had arisen, they found the corpses of the wolves rotting where they fell, but the flaming chieftain of their pack had disappeared. Only a burnt patch of grass marked where the wolf had fallen - the flames that consumed its body did not even leave bones behind. Still, the spirit had been weakened, that much he and Tuyaara both concluded in quiet away from the Klyazmites. If it chose to chase after them again, it would need to cross the thousands of miles between them and the Hungry Steppe once more - and all the while they would be riding ever further.

“We never asked where exactly your own path lies.” Yesugei said to Bykov once the burnt willow was a speck on the horizon. The two warriors had made their stand valiantly against the Flame-Kissed, and even Tuyaara now judged they bore no ill intent. For travel companions, fate could have drawn far worse characters and temperament than two baghatur of passable honor.

“Chernogorsk,” replied the warrior. “The Giant’s Grave, as folk from the lowlands call it.”

“I don’t suppose we might find a dead giant there?”

“Not a giant,” Bykov grinned. “The giant - Svyatogor was his name, and the mountains were his domain long ago. There be a story and a song, but that can wait once we’ve passed beneath the Blackhand Gate.”

Their group made good speed along the flat riverlands west of the mountains, but soon the way became steep and difficult. The dirt road became increasingly rocky and twisted as they slowly climbed up, and a bitter wind that blew down from the dark peaks set the trees about them whispering. By the gray and overcast noon, they were at the knees of the God-Spine mountains - when Yesugei turned back to look at their progress, the land stretched out below him dizzyingly.

“Don’t fall,” cautioned Kargasha with a smirk. “Be a shame to write an end to your song with ‘and then he fell off a mountain, the end’.”

Yesugei gave a start, and wheeled his steed back towards the high road once more. “I wasn’t aware I was traveling with a troubadour. You and Bykov surprise me more and more, Kargasha.”

“What kind of man wouldn’t write a song about last night?” Pushing a strand of black hair aside, the warrior grinned. He seemed more at ease now, amidst the chill winds of the mountains. “Flaming wolves…and do all of them speak the Khormchak tongue?”

“Only ones from the steppe,” came Yesugei’s reply. “If we come upon another one in the mountains, perhaps you can chat to it in your tongue.”

“More like to find a badger than any wolves,” laughed Kargasha. He placed a hand on the pommel of the ruined sword, still in its battered leather sheath, and looked to Yesugei’s single gloved hand clutching the reins. “But…I would rather not. I like my hands as they are, soft and gentle, perfect for caressing a lady’s cheek…”

Yesugei followed the warrior’s averted gaze, and saw he was staring at Tuyaara, who rode further up along the road with Bykov at her side. She had a certain beauty as all Modkhai did, with high cheekbones and a rounded face slightly tanned by the sun - though he also recalled how the shaman had laid low one of Böri’s warriors with her horsewhip. He snorted, then gave Kargasha’s side a small shove with the tip of his boot. “That’s no lady you’re looking at - she’s a shaman of the Modkhai, and my folk say their women eat manflesh. Go about caressing her cheek, and most likely she’ll keep the hand.”

Kargasha scowled, but said nothing when Tuyaara turned to ask them what was amiss. Yesugei grinned as they rode on beneath the looming peaks. They went on for a while along the stony trail, rising higher and higher. Eventually the road began to grow narrower as it turned beneath a sheer rock face to one side, and ended in a sharp drop into a valley on the other. When they passed by the high cliffs above, Yesugei suddenly heard the soft clattering of small pebbles falling along the stone face to his right. Looking high up to the top of the cliff, he saw a figure standing dark against the gray skies behind it. The dim light of the afternoon flashed against the silvered helmet the figure wore…and against the bare sword that was clenched in a gauntleted hand.

Yesugei made to draw his bow, but then he heard the figure call down to them in the rough tongue of the Klyazmites, his voice booming out across the stony peaks. “Who would come by the Blackhand Gate?”

Kargasha gave a tired smile as he looked up towards the figure. “An ox and a crow! And two falcons, far from home!”

“Falcons?” came the reply, amused and surprised. The figure disappeared behind the edge of the cliff, and from up ahead Yesugei saw more pebbles tumble down along the sloping face of the mountainside. A moment later, the figure slid into view, kicking up a cloud of dust as he nimbly came down the mountain to stand before them on the road ahead. The silvered helmet was not that of Chirlan’s killers, nor was the face beneath it that of a Modkhai - the man removed his helmet to reveal a pale face with a crooked nose, and long black hair that spilled out around his shoulders.

The man studied each of them carefully, but when his eyes fell upon Kargasha his face broke into a wide smile. “Brother dearest - you look like shit.”

***

They passed by the Blackhand Gate as the rays of light streaming through the clouds began to fade into the west. Two large towers flanked a stout iron gate and a timber guardhouse, checking any travelers that sought to make their passage along the high road. As they rode closer to the pass however, Yesugei saw that the towers were in a shoddy state - their roofs had collapsed, and several large chunks were missing from the tower walls, exposing wooden beams that were laid in recent repair. His father’s men would have made quick, bloody work of whatever defenders sat along the pass, though even so it must have cost them dearly to assault it.

A face poked out from the guardhouse, and at the mountain watcher’s call the gates swung open into the courtyard. When they were dismounted and the horses led aside by a servant, Kargasha’s brother - the boyar of the Blackhand Gate, it seemed - beckoned them to his hall to take shelter from the chill of the coming night.

“We haven’t seen Khormchaks come through his way since the Troubled Days - I would have a story, but only after food.” Spoke the boyar Lavr as he laid aside his heavy sable cloak and sword, and bid the others to do the same. Reluctantly, Yesugei put his bow into the trust of a young black-haired serving boy.

They went into the boyar’s hall, and sat by the great fireplace. The boyar’s wife emerged from the upper floor of the hall on hearing of their arrival, and after embracing her husband she sent a handful of servants to bring their guests beer and trenchers bearing bread and salt. Soon the darkness of night swept over the Blackhand Gate, but inside the hall it was bright and warm - though Yesugei noticed Kargasha sat uneasy at one end of the table. Indeed, it seemed unusual - Kargasha was several years, perhaps a decade older than his brother who sat opposite him, yet it was the younger brother who was lord, and the elder an errant wanderer.

Still, he sensed no misgivings between the two men, at least none they wished to dredge up at the dinner table. In the company of Lavr’s wife Anfisa and their three sons, their company broke bread and salt as guests. Tuyaara, who just yesterday shunned the offered wine Yesugei had been given by Böri, now heartily drank down two cups of beer as if to distract herself from remembering the fight beneath the willow. At length, after downing a great horn of beer, Lavr gave a sigh before fixing the two Khormchaks at his table with a friendly, but questioning look.

“When last they had passed through my gates,” the boyar explained slowly. “Kargasha and Bykov were heading by to track down a murderer from Chernogorsk. But instead of a murderer’s head in hand, they come back with two Khormchaks, alive and well. Strange tidings, to be sure.”

That was the first Yesugei had heard of the two warriors on the search for a murderer - no mention of the warrior’s task had come up during their march along the God-Spine. He gave a sidelong glance at Bykov, and saw his face was red with embarrassment. Eventually, the rotund warrior replied, “There were other matters, my lord. The lowlands are awash with war - we saw smoke rising up from all along the border, and more else, besides.”

The news of war did not seem to shock the boyar, who leaned back in his seat. “The night is long. I would hear of what else you saw,” he said, pausing as servants emerged into the hall bearing a hearty dinner of roasted goat and seasoned broth. “Excellent - no better way to meet news than with good food.”

For a while, Yesugei sat and ate quietly the food that was laid out in front of him as Bykov explained his and Kargasha’s travels down from the God-Spine - a scuffle with some southbound merchants, combing the woods for their fugitive, and eventually, their return home once they heard news from the charcoal-burners of war and brigands creeping up from the south. Yesugei was vaguely aware that Lavr’s sons - the oldest nearly a man, the youngest a boy of five summers - were more occupied in staring at the Khormchak nomad rather than listening to Bykov’s long, meandering tale. Indeed, even Lavr only seemed to be half-listening to Bykov’s story, and he began pushing about the food on his plate impatiently as the fat warrior’s story came to their meeting by the willow.

Kargasha and Bykov looked to the two Khormchaks expectantly, waiting for their story. When Tuyaara did not make any motion to speak, Yesugei pushed aside his plate and looked carefully at the boyar. Lavr leaned forward, listening intently - he did not seem the type to suffer fools. Still, he was willing to listen, and if he claimed his story to be madness he would have to second-guess even his own brother. There was no better chance to give his story.

Yesugei sighed, and pulled off his glove. Several gasps rang through the hall, and boyar Lavr suddenly sat upright, his face twisted into a look of disgust as he beheld the blackened, glowing hand.

“The night is long, my lord,” Yesugei spoke, flexing his burnt fingers. “And I fear some day it will never end - with the things I’ve seen, and the things that might come to pass.”

The cracks running along the stone-like flesh gave off a soft pale glow, and for a moment the boyar seemed ready to leap aside - fearing some sorcery was being cast. When no ill magic spilled from the nomad’s deformed hand, Lavr sat forward in his seat once more, and urged his three sons to leave him with the guests in peace. The oldest - Zhenka - remained stubbornly seated.

“I am your heir, and soon to serve in the druzhina,” the boy insisted, puffing his chest out slightly. “Let me stay. I am old enough for whatever news this…foreigner brings us.”

Lavr made to raise his voice at the boy, but Kargasha spoke first in his nephew’s favor. “You’ve had your Zhenka serve as castellan before, haven’t you, brother? As far as I make it, it’s only right for a boyar to inform his second-in-command of what threats might come upon our door.”

“And you speak this judgement with the wisdom of rule?” spoke Lavr as he cast a withering glare at Kargasha. “The wisdom of a father?”

Kargasha glowered at Lavr but remained silent, biting back whatever reply he had in store.

“I thought so.” Said Lavr with a shake of his head and a sigh. “Still…if I were to send him away I suppose you’d just tell him later on, wouldn’t you?”

Zhenka beamed, and remained in his seat as Anfisa escorted the two younger boys away.

“Speak your tale, then.” muttered Lavr once his sons were gone from the great hall. “And perhaps I might give you some news of my own. Strange times are upon us all.”

Yesugei laid his burnt hand flat out onto the table, wondering how much he dared to say. Loyalty was in thin supply he knew, and if Dagun’s talk was to be believed the Klyazmite boyars were not to be counted among the most honorable of men - yet for Stribor and his brigands’ dishonor, so too did Bykov and Kargasha fight bravely alongside a stranger on the road when they could have taken flight. He looked to Tuyaara, but could not make out what she thought of the matter. He supposed it did not matter - not even she knew the full extent of the coming Harvest, for all the wisdom of the Modkhai.

He began his story at its beginning, in the golden grasses of the Hungry Steppe. When he was still the ninth son among many. When his brother still lived.