God Within Us

As the evening fell, the many gathered Khormchak tribes raised vast feasting platforms around the base of the holy Khurvan mountains - and beneath the tent of the Great Khan.

The full wealth of every tribe was on display: rare imported hardwood furniture, exotic spices and wines, and finely-crafted gold and silver bowls from which every man quaffed an ocean of wine and arkhi spirits. Slaves served whole roasted pig, mountains of fried rice decorated with raisins, dumplings dripping with juices from spiced lamb, and freshly-baked, crispy golden bread topped with seeds.

Nariman floated between a dozen of the feasting camps with his men as the hour of the khans’ gathering approached. He ate only small portions from each table he visited, and politely refused any wine or arkhi - and for this, the khans he visited knew he was here only for the matter of the kurultai.

Many of the khans whom he visited promised their voices: boisterous Adilet of the Isty, wise Aidar of the Tama, and the cunning Shamil of the Sharkesh. Each of them bestowed upon him lavish gifts as signs of their fealty - gold, horses, and slaves - but some dared to offer more.

“A man needs a wife,” insisted Khan Alishir, who himself had nine women to keep his tent warm during the cold steppe nights. “And you, Nariman-mirza, need one more than most. An heir must have a woman to continue the White Khan’s line.”

The comment stung the first son of Tsaagandai, but he held his tongue and his fists from lashing out at the khan - Alishir-khan commanded ten thousand riders beneath his banner, and held sway over three other tribes whose voices were needed now more than ever.

“Fate has given me poor luck with my previous wives. Which poor woman would you have me marry?” Nariman said as he forced a casual laugh.

He was only sixteen years of age when he wed his first wife, a girl from the Qara-Isyqs as part of a marriage alliance. But she had perished just a year after their union - taken by a wasting disease that had also snatched away the chance at life from the child in her belly.

His second wife was a foreign princess from the eastern Tan Ninh - a frail thing unaccustomed to the harsh life of the steppe - who died giving him a stillborn son.

Nariman had loved both as a true husband should, but love only made burying both his wives and unborn children in the ancestral hills that much more agonizing. Twenty-five years on, it was a curious thing for the first-born son of the White Khan to remain unmarried - but it also presented a valuable chip in the diplomatic games of the khans. One which Alishir clearly sought out.

“I have a daughter,” replied Alishir as he leaned back against a mountain of silk pillows. “Beautiful and wise, with good hips to bear you a strong baghatur for a son. But if she is not to your liking…I have three others.”

Nariman tried to picture this daughter of Alishir’s, what a life with her would look like. But when he closed his eyes, he once again only saw biting, lashing flames. They were growing stronger, more vivid, more hungry as the night passed.

“I will gladly meet your daughter once the kurultai has passed,” Nariman said hastily. That much was enough to keep Alishir content, and the khan gave him a firm shake of the hand as Nariman left his feasting tent and stepped out into the cool night air.

He saw his siblings were hard at work gathering allies as well. Talgat was speaking in hushed tones with Arman-khan from the southern mountain tribes, while Gulsezim danced and entertained a small gathering of three khans whose names were hazy in his mind. There were almost forty tribes gathered at the Khurvan peaks, and he was only one man, unable to speak with all of the tribal leaders before the gathering began. His siblings were both seasoned in the ways of politics, and they did their part as well as he.

When Gulsezim had finished speaking with the three khans she strode across the grounds to him - standing proud and regal in a bright red-and-purple dress decorated with small golden discs. Wrapped around her waist was their father’s gift, a broad sash of silk decorated with nine black gemstones.

“Brother,” said Gulsezim as she stepped to meet him, sipping wine from a golden goblet. “How goes your hunt? Have the khans gotten tired of throwing their daughters at you yet?”

“Just the one, so far.” Nariman said as he took the goblet from Gulsezim’s hands disapprovingly. “Don’t let the festivities dull your mind. I need you and Talgat sharp and ready. Haven’t you noticed Jirghadai hasn’t shown up yet?”

Jirghadai’s host arrived several hours ago - twenty thousand under the banner of the Qarakesek, and another twenty made up of his four supporters, the Zhalair, Suan, Bura, and Oshaks who once declared him their Gur-Khan, the universal ruler of all Khormchaks.

But though the festivities were in full swing - and the hour of the final gathering and vote was near - Nariman had not seen any traces of the khans or even any envoys. Instead, the Quanli and their allies had simply struck camp on the edge of the Valley of Milk - and remained there, while the rest of the tribes mingled.

It must be a trick, Nariman thought. Some kind of ruse. How can he just sit there and hope to bring allies to his banner?

Their own father, Tsaagandai, remained in his tent as well - content to simply overlook the gathering festivities. More often than not, Nariman felt that was all his father was content to do - to watch, and let his children do the work of maintaining the Horde on his behalf while he surrounded himself with scrolls and sorcerers gathered from all around the Horde’s domain and beyond. And as much as he and Gulsezim and Talgat worked to swing allies to their side, the White Khan’s absence from the festivities of the kurultai sowed doubt in some minds.

What foolishness…the two great rivals of the steppe, and both remain hidden in their tents!

Nariman’s thoughts were interrupted by the echoing booms of shamans’ drums. He looked to the top of the Khurvan, and saw a dozen shamans kneeling above in the peaks, beating their leather drums while another shaman raised a great horn to his lips and blasted a low, roaring call for the khans to gather for the kurultai.

Too late. Now comes the moment of truth.

Nariman clapped Gulsezim on the shoulder, and emptied the golden goblet onto the ground before leaving her to make for the White Khan’s tent. All around him, men left their tables and cookfires to join the stream of Khormchaks accompanying their khans to the vote - keshik guards with gilded swords, shamans to pass final words of advice, and slaves to carry carpets, pillows, and furniture for the others in the khans’ entourages.

The common men and the slaves all gathered around the lower reaches of the mountain, waiting in solemn silence for their new overlord. The khans and Tsaagandai’s children made their way to the top of the Khurvan. Nariman spotted among the khans the leaders of the allied Quanli tribes, who kept to themselves and spoke in whispers.

But there was no sign of Jirghadai.

At the summit of the Khurvan Nariman stepped into his father’s waiting tent - a gigantic manor of felt and silk enough to house ten families within its walls. The stream of khans both lesser and greater slowly trickled in, seating themselves in a great circle around the tent’s central fire and beneath the watching eye of the White Khan.

Tsaagandai looked every bit the part of the Great Khan of the Khormchak Horde, seated upon his golden throne that was raised above the floor of the other gathered nobles. He was clad in a white silk robe, fastened with gold, and wore atop his head only a simple felt headdress. In this manner, to the outsider, he might have seemed a lesser to the other khans who wore bright, vibrant colors and bedecked themselves with rings and other jewels.

Still, even at nearly seventy years of age and dressed in the simple, traditional manner of the Khormchaks, his father’s presence seemed to suffocate the entire room. None of the other khans dared to look Tsaagandai in the eye as they took their seats - speaking only in hushed whispers among themselves. At that moment, Nariman believed even the more hesitant khans were sure to cast their votes in the White Khan’s favor out of fear.

Nariman scanned the room as he stepped around the tent to take his place closest to his father’s throne. He saw slaves patiently waiting at the far side of the room with wine, and saw among them the Yllahanan senator’s pet - dressed in shabby rags with his eyes fixed to the ground.

But still, there was no sign of Jirghadai.

Soon the rest of the khans had finished seating themselves, and for a moment there was only the crackling of the central fire to fill the silence.

Then, the wooden boards of the throne’s platform creaked as Tsaagandai-khan stood from his seat, and slowly stepped down into the center of the gathered khans - Nariman’s eyes following his every move. The White Khan’s piercing eyes glowed in the light of the fire as his gaze swept over the sitting men. His father’s lips twisted into a thin smile as he spread his arms out.

“Look at all of you,” said Tsaagandai, his voice low and hoarse with age. Nariman saw the khans swiveling their heads about to glance at one another in confusion. “Look around, my brothers of the steppe. Forty tribes, forty khans - all gathered together, beneath one roof, beneath one tent. I have traveled far and wide, seen a thousand sights that most men here could only dream of - the great mountain fortresses of Tan Ninh, the water-temples of Khaysong, the marble sun-altars to the Gilder of Huwaq. But none are as fantastic a sight as this.

“Many years ago, no-one could have imagined it. Khans of the Isty sitting next to Sharkesh, khans of the Tama sitting next to Kete, khans of the Kerderi sitting next to Taz. It was a dream - a distant one. The idea of a united steppe, all the tribes together - a dream. But now here we are.

“And how did we reach this point, my brothers? How did we turn this distant dream into reality? The unity we share today was not handed to us as a gift; it was earned with the sweat and blood of warriors, with the pursuit of a single vision that many once laughed at your Great Khan for imagining.

“I remember the days when our tribes, like untamed and wild stallions, all roamed in separate directions and squabbled like children. Khormchaks killing Khormchaks in endless petty blood feuds - our rage and thirst for conquest turned against ourselves in raids on our own kinsmen so one man can have...what? A few more heads of cattle than his neighbor? A few more wives than his rival? A meager plunder of old silks and chipped silver coins? Are the lives of Khormchak sons worth so little?”

“NO!” came the shouts from the khans, a few of them banging their fists upon the floorboards of the great tent.

“No!” repeated Tsaagandai, seeming to grow taller and prouder as he walked about the circled khans. “And look where we stand now! Look what we have achieved once we turned our swords away from one another’s throats, and aimed them at the cause of a united horde!”

Tsaagandai gestured to the walls of the yurt, from which hung the many trophies of broken nations now tributaries to the Horde - a gilded blade from the emirate of Tigrinistan, a sun banner from the subjugated Huwqais, a decorated metal shield from the kingdom of Mouru, which once sought to conquer the steppe for itself.

“These are not just trophies - these are proof of the better future we have carved for our own! United, we have brought ourselves more wealth than any of our ancestors could have ever dreamed possible. We do not need to raid our neighbors any longer - now they come to us, and give us their wealth as tribute and tax. The silk adorning our women and children, the coins and jewels jingling in our purses, the abundance that graces every home - these are the rewards of casting aside the shackles of division. These are the rewards of your ancestors giving their voices to raise up one khan, one ruler, one horde!

“And as we stand on this sacred ground, surrounded by the legacy of conquest, let us not forget that this prosperity, and our unity, must last. Let the tales of our victories and our wealth inspire our children and our children’s children, and may they continue the tradition that has brought us here - to decide who among us all shall lead our people ever on!”

“TSAAGANDAI!” came the shouts from many of the khans, their voices swelling into a single, booming call. “TSAAGANDAI! TSAAGANDAI! TSAAGANDAI-KHAN!”

Nariman’s eyes swept over the shouting khans, his skin buzzing from his father’s speech - he had forgotten how his father was able to stir men into a fervor, how he had rallied the other tribes to the Qarakesek. Those khans with whom he and Gulsezim and Talgat had treated had been the first to stand and shout - a little more than a dozen - but as they shouted many others who had once been fickle joined the call as well, convinced this kurultai would proceed much as the last had.

Besides the Quanli’s allies, there were only a few khans who remained silent - too few to sway the kurultai’s decision in any capacity. The khans of the Suan, the Zhalair, the Bura, and the Oshaks simply muttered asides to each other, or their silent neighbors.

Spirits…we’ve done it. We’ve won.

Nariman and Gulsezim and Talgat prepared to join their voices to the swelling call when the sound of a great horn split through the air as sharp as a blade.

It was a terrible sound - a wailing call filled with rage and pain. Nariman covered his ears as the call grew louder, shrieking so strongly he swore he felt the floorboards and roof of the yurt begin to shake from the noise. He tried to yell out for the guards, to his siblings, but could not even hear his own voice over the horn’s call. It filled the whole world, and deafened every man in the tent.

Nariman feared the sound would never end - that it would grow louder and louder until his head popped from the noise. And then it stopped.

The flap to the White Khan’s tent rose soundlessly, and a man stepped inside.

Jirghadai, the Blackwind.