Ashes of Empires

A windy stream that flowed from the distant icy peaks of the Tsagaan Mountains separated the two city-sized camps. A great green forest concealed the true size of both camps, as only the largest yurts of the rich Noyans inhabited the circular clearing. 

Bakar, unlike his nearby companion Arik, calmly watched as the two cities busted with activity. Even though they were here to watch their Khans fight to the death, life went on, people prepared their dinners and tended to their herds. Bakar could even see small groups of people taking the opportunity to trade with their opposites. 

The migration to the eerie forest had taken nearly three tension-filled days. Tomorrow morning, either the tribe of Chagadai or the tribe of Kızıl Kurtlar would be absorbed by the other, and life would change. 

"Can you believe it? We are going to see the Khan get to fight!" outburst Arik, with excitement-filled words.

"My father once told me he saw him slay five men without a single scrape. This 'Chagadai' is in for a rude awakening when they finally fight tomorrow." 

Bakar half ignored Arik's words. Instead, he found himself tracing the lines of his armband. He had found it to be the best way to keep himself from touching his shoulder where his new tattoo lay scabbing and itching. 

'Whack'

"Ouch! What was that for Maral?" The sound of the slap reverberated in the air, a red handprint added a flare to Ariks otherwise pristine face.

"Shush Arik, can't you see that Bakar is thinking. I for one would like to hear what's on his mind." Maral's words drew a dumbfounded look from Arik.

Drobei spoke on behalf of the reeling Arik, "Since when do you care what he thinks?" 

Bakar carefully stepped off the large, out-of-place boulder he had perched up on. The stone had given him the perfect vantage point to see above the trees that descended the small mountainside the group had followed him to. 

"Arik, This fight will not go as you believe it will." 

Bakars solemn words drew the attention of the entire party. Maral was the first to give him attention, set on avoiding Drobeis's question. The other too gave each other questioning looks then returned the look to Bakar.

"Go to the top of the bolder and tell me what you see." 

Doing as obeyed Arik started first.

"Nothing. Tents and trees, what are you getting at."

Maral stayed silent rather than admit to not understanding. Drobei gave him a nod of agreement.

"Good. Drobei sees as I see, hopefully Maral and Arik will learn to think as he does." He thought to himself 

Drobei took the silence as an opportunity to speak on behalf of the others 

"The campfires extend deep into the forest, they must outnumber us four to one."

"What else?"

Drobei took another look at the camp but stayed silent, unable to find anything else.

"There is more than one banner flying above the Chagadai camp. At least six others, but that's not the important thing. Arik, as your family married into our tribe, tell me, what is the only tribe to have a purple and yellow banner."

Suddenly it struck all three of them. In unison, they spoke "The Malik Tribe!"

"Yes. Our closest allies, A tribe that has fought against every Ilkhan and confederation alongside us for nearly two hundred years."

Bakar Continued, "Arik, your own family came from their tribe as a sign of friendship. If their banner flies alongside the banner of Chagadai, it means he defeated them. It also means he had kept their loyalty long enough without having to absorb them completely."

The Malik tribe followed the same migration patterns as their tribe, so Bakar had seen the tribe many times. Their own Khan was a warrior on par with Khan Tolon.

Arik slid off the rock and drew himself up face-to-face with Bakar. His face still had the slight impression of Maral's handprint but also had the rough accent of anger.

"Watch your mouth, Bakar. Our Khan would not be defeated by someone we only heard about recently." Arik started towards the pathway the group had come from, but with a sudden turn, he started again. "You speak like a traitor. Maybe the rest of the Tribe was right, an orphaned rat like you should not have been given the arm ring." He spat on the ground and stomped away.

Arik's words failed to faze him; it was nothing that he was not used to hearing. Arik would return with an apology in a few days, and Bakar would put on a show of forgiveness for the others. It was one of the many games Bakar had to play with his peers. 

The path to the camp was little more than trampled grass the group had made as they wandered one by one through the unusually lush forest. 

The grass wasn't given time to right itself as the group came walking back the way they came. In lockstep behind him, they stomped sticks, made the occasional jape, or noted the location of small animals they could come back for. 

The bounty of the land would have convinced any of the sedentary people to build their wood and thatch homes here. But the people of the steppe knew better. "Come winter the temperatures cause a frost, the animals would become sparse, and finally the monsters of winter would come to hunt." thought Bakar.

In an hour, they had passed small streams with odd green and blue fish, fruit-bearing bushes that gave off an aroma that would lure any unaware of their poison to pick from their branches, and once or twice, they had passed by tribesmen gathering food or wood. Maral had stopped by a younger couple and spoke to them of the squires they had passed adding some time to their journey. 

Arik's footprints could be seen here or there, other signs of his passage were so fresh it seemed as though they could round a tree and he would be there. When they had passed by a sentry on guard from attack Bakar caught a faint glimpse of Arik's long black hair as he entered the large tent of his family. 

With Maral and Drobei leaving to attend to their daily tasks, he made his way to the ugly green tent of their shaman, Tartar. Where Ghoa's Yurt seemed to announce its presence with odd smells and fragrances, Tartar's tent seemed hidden in plain sight. Only the green made it stand out from the other tents, and yet it always drew one's attention. The cold uneasiness of magic filled the air, felt but unseen. 

Once, out of curiosity, Bakar had asked Tartar about why that was. 

"Magic is a powerful thing, Young one. It defies the laws that bind our perception of reality together. Think of it as blood from an open cut, it seeps out of the body and stains the skin until it heals and is washed away. When a user of magic, be they a wizard, witch, or even the wielder of an enchanted item, is present, it acts as a cut in our reality; magic bleeds into our realm of being." Tartar explained 

The inside of Yurt was foggy "And smelly," thought Bakar. Tartar sat in the corner, packing his pipe for another hit of tobacco, humming a tune he didn't know. 

"Father." He Brought a chair closer to the man. Death seemed to linger around Tartar, blind, frail, and ancient by even the standards of the longer-lived sedimentary peoples.

"Blood Stallion, come closer. No, come even closer, yes, that's good enough. Tell me, young one, how does your mark heal? Good, I hope." Tartar had started to call him exclusively by his spirit name, saying the words almost reverently. What he knew of it he didn't share with Bakar.

"It heals well." He replied

The elderly shaman pointed a finger at the packed bowl of his pipe "digitus ignis" An ember drifted down and lit a small fire in the pipe. Tartar took a long drag.

"Good, good. Tell me why you have come. Our lesson on magic isn't for another few hours."

"Tell me, Father, have the Gods of Wind, grass, or horses given you any visions of our future."

Tartar, even with his blind eyes, seemed to sense the hesitant look on his face 

"Perhaps they have, perhaps they have not. Let me answer your question with another question Blood Stallion. If the gods deemed in their infinite wisdom to grant me... their humble servant..." He waved his hands high in the air "Why would I tell you?' 

"Because, my humble father." He replied mockingly, "I wish to be prepared." 

"If you require the gods' intervention to be prepared then they have given you the wrong Spirit name."

"Ah yes, my spirit name. Blood Stallion." The words rolled surprisingly comfortably off of Bakars tongue. "You, in your infinite wisdom still have not shared the meaning of the name."

With a flash of anger completely unknown to Bakar, the shaman declared. "It is not my place to say! Boy." Tartar continued. "All I can say to your question is this. You do not need me to tell you what you already know to be true. The real question is, are you prepared to make the most of the coming changes?" 

 Bakar was halfway out of the tent when the elder spoke again.

"Come back in an hour, Blood Stallion; I am old young one, almost two hundred and eighty, I have much to teach you and too little time. From now on our magic lessons will take most of your time."