Convocation

Three figures stand upon a hillock, their gaze overlooking a growing crowd below. Further out, new emissaries, new riders, join the expanding encampment.

Each of the three is titled Noyan, each of mighty call among the tribes of the Daoric.

“I must know. You have been silent, but I can be silent no more. Did you summon us for prophecy, cousin Tokhta?” The first asks with eyes bright, face eager. He grips the scimitar at his waist with a hand turned white at the knuckle. “Rumour runs rampant among tribe and clan from near and far.”

“For protection, cousin Keidou,” replies the second after a long moment. Grand trailing moustaches sweep from face to beneath his chin, and his hand too grips a scimitar hilt albeit with a lighter touch. “We must again guard what we have, what is ours beneath blue sky. The Yekes Ghoum warned us that the north would not respect us in the end. Warned us that we would have to make it known, even if it were to risk return to harder, harsher ways.”

Noyan Keidou turns his gaze to the Noyan Tokhta, confusion writ large in his eyes.

“Two score tribes gather from across our Daoric sea,” he demands, “and you would still seek only to protect? To state again what is already ours? What all beneath great sky knows is ours? Look at what comes to this ancient meeting place just for your honour, cousin! They are here for you!”

“Two score tribes is still not enough for that particular quorum, cousin,” says the Noyan.

“If you would only just take the title! Chaghut is senior among even the first twelve. You lead Chaghut! Yes, you love peace. Your people love peace. Let my tribe and encampment make the war for you! It is what we learn, what we will do!” Noyan Keidou’s voice echoes with charisma, with need. He wants this. He is ready for this. “The remaining two and thirds would come,” he continues, “bringing their forty thousand horse and more to be united in the horde!”

Noyan Tokhta laughs, but there is little mirth in it. “There is time yet to what I granted the invaders, cousin,” he at last demurs. “I am a man of my word, even if they are perhaps not. I will give them the seven to state their yield in formal.”

“You will risk opprobrium just for that, cousin. You have for years offered outlanders friendship, made your encampment seen when our way is within the Daoric sea, and now they spit in your face. But to spit in your face is to spit in the faces of all and every one of us. The honour of us all, the honour of each of us in separate! All is offended.”

“I find that I am able to bear up under their distaste with great ease, cousin Keidou,” says Noyan Tokhta. “When a small dog yaps beneath your knee, do you pay much note to the pup? And there are still some who present spit to us on nothing save their palm in agreement. If they give me what I demand, then we will but demonstrate.”

Noyan Keidou turns, grumbling, to watch the gathering tribes below.

“Are you with me, cousin?”

Noyan Tokhta’s voice is quiet. Almost, for a moment, uncertain, as one atop a golden sea’s wave sees the coming rush and wonders.

“Always, cousin,” says Noyan Keidou at last, in a dispelling of doubt. He chuckles. “Even when you are simple. Foolish.”

“It is because you are my blood that I let go such insult!” Noyan Tokhta’s smile is wide. Noyan Keidou’s laugh echoes out yet further, but his own smile only barely reaches his eyes. He yet wishes for blood much heightened. He would tear down rock and stone and set the world alight, then bask in the warmth of the flame. But the Noyan Tokhta is his blood by mother and by mare’s milk, and so he says no more.

The third of the trio says nothing to it all, his countenance grim and his mien one of only cold fury. He would have blood if the stone-sitters must weep it from ruined eyes at the witnessed corpses of their children.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Summary: A meeting of three clan lords from both the Daoric and Sarave, in a meeting place never visited by Sapient adventurers.

Penned by My hand on the 17th of Miraman, in the year 993 AF.