284. The Hawk Flies (5)
Time on the steppe flows slower than the wind. Unlike the occasional gales that flip over the gers, time sometimes feels graspable, leisurely, yet never stops flowing.
Among those who call themselves descendants of Tetai or Terguai, there’s an old joke. When you run faster than the wind, you might occasionally join your long-dead ancestors. It’s just superstition, and most Tetai don’t truly believe it.
But one man, clinging to such a joke, was now racing across the steppe.
-Thud thud thud thud thud!
A group of mounted warriors clung closely to the man. The leader, kicking up a cloud of dust, approached and shouted hoarsely.
“How many days has it been now!”
“……”
The middle-aged man, with sunken, haggard eyes, glanced at him silently and tightly pulled the reins. The horse, frothing at the mouth, obediently followed his lead without resistance.
The young man gritted his teeth and shouted.
“Stop this! You shouldn’t believe that crazy old man’s words! My lord!”
“……”
“Stop! Please!”
-Neigh!
The young man, who had been shouting beside him, almost forcibly snatched the reins. The man, exhausted from the long chase, weakly let go.
The sudden braking startled the horse, causing it to rear up. The middle-aged man tumbled ungracefully to the ground. Dust rose in a puff. As the man coughed weakly, the young man hurriedly dismounted and rushed over.
“My lord! Damn it! Are you alright?”
The man coughed without a word. The young man bowed his head deeply and immediately drew his sword, plunging it into the ground. It was a gesture to cut his own neck. But the man, without a word, staggered to his feet and patted the horse’s neck.
“Do you know what state the ger is in now? While you’ve been wandering, bewitched by that old lunatic, our clan has been chased around! Are you going to follow that damned shaman even after we all die?”
“Where is… Takai?”
“He’s dead! Damn it! He died five days ago!”
“Dead…”
The man climbed back onto the horse. He bit his dry lips and bowed his head. The young man, looking at his dirt-covered clothes, tightly closed his eyes and said.
“So… has Turgenjin appeared? Didn’t we run for a week?”
“No.”
“Then that old man has gone senile!”
“It must be my fault.”
“Please don’t say that, my lord. Let’s return to the ger, have a drink, and rest…”
“I can’t. But… fine. Let’s go back.”
As the man turned the horse, the five or six young men who had been chasing him followed.
* * *
His clan was being pursued. A common conflict on the steppe. And a common death. The number of warriors in the clan was dwindling day by day, and the faces of the warriors, unable to find food, showed increasing anxiety and despair.
Once, his clan had been prosperous enough to set up a hundred gers. But now, that number had halved, and the number of young men who could fight was even fewer. Ruin was imminent. And it all began with the death of a child.
At least, the man believed so.
“Let go of me! You fools!”
“Shut up! Be grateful we haven’t cut your throat yet!”
The young men had dragged the clan shaman, who had always whispered nonsense to their lord, and made him kneel in the plaza. Since the man himself had said, “I did not meet Turgenjin’s soul,” it meant all his advice was nonsense.
The old, sick shaman foamed at the mouth and struggled. The man looked down at him and thought of himself and his clan. Sick, old, and weak.
“My lord! What shall we do with him!”
The young men drew their swords and shouted. Cutting a throat with a blade was a cruel act, not even considering traditional execution methods. The soul would be bound to the earth. The man quietly waved his hand to silence them.
He stepped forward and said.
“There was no soul of Turgenjin there.”
“Since he died by the blade, he must have been dragged underground.”
“You senile old fool!”
-Clang!
The young men, hearing the old man’s cackling response, shouted in anger. The man waved his hand again to calm them and quietly asked.
“But there were other signs.”
“What signs did you see?”
“Far to the north. And to the east. When the sun rose, I saw blood spreading across the sky. What does it mean?”
“It’s a vision, my lord. Those who thrust a blade into Turgenjin’s neck must be in that direction.”
“…Did you see your own death?”
“Yes, my lord. I saw that I would die today. At this very moment.”
“Could Turgenjin return to life?”
“That’s impossible, my lord. But I saw the day you would achieve something greater. You, the hawk of the sky, the ruler of thousands of gers, the scar of the world. Great Kagan, take my head.”
“Kagan?”
The young men shrank back at the blasphemous word and murmured. It was a word that had form but had never been realized. The leader of all clans. The clan of clans. The king of kings. Kagan.
As the young men looked at the man’s face, he gazed down at the cackling old man with sunken eyes. He then drew his sword and struck the old man’s neck.
-Slice!
The head fell and rolled on the ground. Blood gushed and soaked the ground. The young men, fearing the curse in the shaman’s blood, muttered superstitious incantations and stepped back.
But the man leaned close to the fallen old man’s head and whispered quietly.
“I will believe you.”
Your death has fulfilled your prophecy, so I will trust your other visions as well.
He believed it. The man smiled, looked at the old man’s pale face, then turned and headed toward his ger.
* * *
Following the man’s orders, a feast was held for the first time in a while. While fleeing to avoid pursuit, the man had carefully rationed the food, but now he released it all to feed the warriors until they were full.
The clan’s young men ate, drank, and chatted happily after a long time. However, silence lingered inside the man’s ger. The young man who had been managing the clan in the man’s absence carefully set down his cup and spoke cautiously.
“My lord, what will you do now? Do you truly intend to fight them?”
“Are their numbers that great?”
“…They easily outnumber us by twice.”
“Then how many do you think those Spire Cities have?”
“My lord…”
The Spire Cities. That was what they called those so-called ‘civilized’ gentlemen. At those words, the young man grew even more frightened. Barely a hundred men. Even counting the entire tribe, they were only around five hundred. How could they possibly face the armies of the cities?
“Turgenjin was like a nephew to me. I am sad too. But my lord, you must regain your senses. Right now, we can hardly even stand against the Tumichout guys.”
“The scar of the world. Isn’t that a splendid phrase?”
“My lord…!”
“Enough.”
The man downed the cup of mare’s milk in one gulp and wiped his face. His gloomy voice echoed under his rough grip.
“Takai’s death… Has it been five days?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Do you still grieve as you did five days ago?”
“…Yes?”
As the young man was taken aback by the sudden question, the man continued.
“It was a five-day scar. The death of your brother and my subordinate. Turgenjin’s death. How long will it ache? A month? Half a year? Maybe even three years. That’s how long the scar will last. Bayar, it’s just that much.”
“My lord.”
“Bayar. Your death won’t leave a scar for long either.”
The man lowered his hand and looked at his loyal subordinate. Then he turned his gaze to the map hanging in a corner of the ger. The old, worn parchment map showed the paths they had fled, the encirclements by hostile clans, and the complicated routes they would take to start wandering again.
And above it, faintly visible, were small dots that no one paid attention to. Dots representing the Spire Cities. Of course, their clan had nothing to do with them. Their produce wasn’t abundant enough to trade.
But not anymore.
“I will leave the deepest scar.”
It wasn’t a petty desire for revenge. What he gained from his son’s futile death was the fear that everyone’s end might also fade away so commonly and vainly.
Old wounds become traces. But scars never disappear.
The Spire Cities. Those ‘noble’ gentlemen. The Amarr Tribe, who had to kneel and beg desperately for even a trivial iron tool, let alone a pot or stirrup.
Ten days galloping across the steppe. Ten days and nights the man spent wanting to meet his son’s soul. During that time, voices whispered in the wind.
Unlike what he had told the dead shaman, he hadn’t just seen omens. Beside him, it wasn’t his son’s voice but someone else’s that constantly echoed.
[They have something they can never refuse, and something your clan can produce in abundance. Something that is very common in this steppe.]
[Death.]
Time flows slowly on the steppe. The moment you ride a horse, running faster than the wind, time slows even more. During that long time, the man focused on the one voice that kept echoing—
Finally, he felt a surge of power spreading through his body. Sticky, hot, and intense power. The moment he accepted that power, which he had once rejected, along with the shaman’s death. The man decided to call that power ‘destiny.’
“Today. Right now, we will strike the Tumichout guys.”
“Isn’t it too late?”
“That’s why they won’t be prepared either. Haven’t we fed the warriors enough?”
“They will be terrified.”
“They should fear me more than them.”
The man stood up as he spoke. He didn’t look like someone who had spent nearly ten days suffering on horseback. An unknown power seemed to flow from him. Flames seemed to pour from his eyes.
As he left the ger, he saw his subordinates gathered around the campfire, roasting meat and drinking. They were drunk and chattering, but when they saw the man, they flinched.
The steppe night. Under the dark sky, the man’s figure seemed to swell enormously. Half-terrified and half-awed by his presence, the clan warriors bowed their heads.
“Raise your cups. Warriors of Amar.”
The man walked out without stopping. As the young men hastily raised their cups, the man snatched the cup from the nearest warrior and drank it in one gulp.
“Raise your cups!”
His shout shook the entire camp. As the young men stood up and raised their cups high, the man walked out of the camp. The young men followed him almost as if entranced.
At first, confusion, then tension. Soon, a sense of exhilaration swept through the camp. Like the sun finally rising after a long slumber. Something, something is happening. Something is happening! The young men’s hearts raced as they looked at the man’s massive back.
At the edge of the camp, where the horses were tied, the man turned and shouted.
“Like the time we mourned Turgenjin and many warriors’ deaths! A week, ten days, half a year? It won’t remain as just a ‘trace.’ Warriors of Amar. I, and you, will not remain in mere grief!”
The man spurred his stirrup and firmly gripped the horse’s reins.
“Your names will be remembered forever across this world. I will make it so! From children to the elderly, everyone on this land will fear us! ‘Luweweingar (The Falcons)’! We are not mere traces! Warriors of Amar, mount your horses!”
At his words, the young men scrambled to find their mounts. The ranks were tangled and chaotic from the alcohol and excitement. The man looked at them and shouted.
“We will become scars! Urya (Advance)! Urya! Our names will live forever! Urya, Luweweingarya (Advance, Falcons)!!”
With his shout, the man leaped into the shadow of the steppe where night lay low. The clan warriors followed him immediately, shouting loudly as they galloped.
That was Karadskar. In the dialect of the Great Wilderness, it meant ‘Scar of the World.’ The birth of Kagan Amar, the great chieftain of the White Horse Clan.
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