Upon the plainswind
Three men stand at a fire. Around them is a camp, horsemen coming and going as they begin their slow dispersal into hills and plains. Into their home by compact older than the oldest man of adventuring. Archers converse with warriors, messengers come and go, and the far-ranging outriders thunder in the distance to bring and take Noyan words to encampments distant and deep.
“You will not go with the calling, cousin?” One of them is proud, a dark braid tightly severe and his face questioning as he turns to look at the other. “Virrti waits even now with daub blood and heart-flesh, and Thoksikh’s riders brought word last morn that there are still dozens more encampments willing to journey under your banner. And that just of what riders reached so far!”
“The thief yielded, cousin Keidou,” Noyan Tokhta answers, his silvered mane loosely flowing with the eastern plainswind. “Our land’s spirits need not judge and jury the outlanders. Seeking time from their duty to escort the dead would risk final condemnation to the souls of outlander and tribe both.”
“Cousin!” Noyan Keidou’s tone is offended, disgusted. “That was not the yield rightfully ours, and it was to a worthless stone-sitter’s opinion! They openly defy you, refuse and reject what is holy! The outlanders don’t respect you. They obviously never did. They respect only strength. They even boasted to each other that they could just kill you when you demanded what is ours of them! We should have shown strength. Taken their tongues for such insolence! Not loosed peace-loving horse. And your prophecy says-”
“Keidou.” Noyan Tokhta’s voice is a quiet interruption as he watches the flames. “I know you would still ride for my honour, would lead battle yourself. I know that is why you still pressure me so. But we – I – can say we preserved the compact we swore to the Yekes Ghoum in the first years of our roaming. None in hill or plain can deny that. I would not trouble the holy for what I think settled in profane.”
“And the outlanders?”
“Let stone-sitters blather, begrudge, and bitter. True face is seen and my prophecy is not incumbent. That is enough to content me.”
Noyan Tokhta’s cousin frowns at the words. For something is not quite true in Noyan Keidou’s face, some unseen disagreement or difference, but his cousin does not notice. Fixated upon the fire and his own thought does his attention remain.
“He is right though, uncle,” the voice of a third rings out from behind the two. Female, insouciant, and swaggering comes the calescent hair and bright eyes of Tokhta’s niece. One of Khutan’s hands rests upon the Pyramid’s blade hilt at her side. “A sword of treachery,” she quotes. “And from the west,” she continues, “a great scaled besides, hiding face beneath flesh soft and flesh hard.”
A wave of the hand dismisses the youngest Noyan. “The Yekes Ghoum give much meaning in their cryptic,” Tokhta says. “You have prophecy your own, Khutan. Should you consider yours, and not mine?”
With a roll of the eyes, Noyan Khutan offers an exaggerated bow. “Suit yourself, uncle,” she laughs. “I only asked to hear the meeting.”
“Be welcome to it,” Noyan Tokhta dismisses again with distraction. “My need is to where my encampment will next travel. And on renewing oath and bond. In new-come wilder days it is not just the twelve and thrice twelve at this convocation that concern me, or just the three who went forth. I must ride twice the hard to constrain what outlanders broke.”
But he is unsure. He worries his feet follow still the footsteps of destiny laid out since the first silvering. Is prophecy soon incumbent after all? Will renewing encampment ties in blood-oath risk unleashing them for true? Should he instead loose the reins and let steeds ride where they will? These questions and more weigh heavy, and the Noyan has no certain answer to give. It is long years since he felt the battle thirst of youth, let the wildness race free. Longer still since he first heard Doom and foretelling to herald it.
“At least take the thief’s hands-”
“No, cousin!” Tokhta’s voice is firm now. Much firmer than before, ringing with the unmistakable. “Noyan Isha tells us Scar-southward is in new chaos. If your blood still ups and you would raid in your encampment’s roaming, then take the quiet ways to strike long-traitors and sea-striders for riches. If the lands west beyond great rocks are as barren broken and absent compact to Yekes Ghoum as outlander thieves claim, then they will all be dead in a generation anyway and we need not them. Be silent.”
Noyan Keidou flinches and words die upon his tongue, no matter his attempt to hide it. Noyan Khutan withdraws quickly and quietly. And upon the flame’s other side, the cruelly monstrous features of Noyan Kuhl twist to begrudging quiescence atop the towering muscle of giants. He will slay no stone-sitter today, nor glory in the spilled vitae of wife and child. Meropis will not drown in blood.
As the Qaghan commands.
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Summary: An era of peace erodes.
Penned by My hand on the 19th of Mayan, in the year 994 AF.