The broken world

The first few days of their journey south were calm. At first, the soldiers flinched at the sight of Yukinari, but gradually they seemed to grow accustomed to him. In contrast to the living corpse, Gerel became almost unremarkable. Some even dared to speak with him. “Where exactly are we going, General?” someone asked. Gerel had asked himself the same question as soon as Tokhung had agreed to the campaign. The Wastelands were his last, though not only, hope of finding magic. But he wasn’t about to plunge headlong into uncertainty — he wasn’t suicidal. He needed to start with the nomads. Seek them out. But where? And what, exactly, was he looking for? Then he recalled an event from a year and a half ago, late one summer. Soldiers from the Namdo fortress had found a wounded fox-girl in the steppe. The Three Brothers, she had said. Gerel knew the place — three jagged peaks rising from a flat, barren steppe like grotesque game pieces. Between the peaks lay a valley, sustained by streams flowing down from the mountains, with water and lush grass always in abundance. The nomadic clans constantly shifted their camps in search of pasture and water, but the clan of Baatar returned to the Three Brothers regularly. “Do you think there might be others like her there?” a young soldier had asked at the time, standing over the fox-girl’s lifeless body. Gerel had dismissed the question, not because it was foolish, but because it unnerved him. He feared that the yaoguai might bring back all the horrors of those years he had spent with the clan of Khan Baatar. To go there meant confronting his own past — a childhood he had spent years trying, with limited success, to forget. But sooner or later, he had to face it. Didn’t he? He had inquired whose lands the area now belonged to. “The ulus of Öelun Khatun,” came the reply. Öelun. The name stirred something in his memory, but the thought remained elusive. It was a common name among the nomads, after all. He had never met this Öelun Khatun; her tribal alliance roamed close to the borders of Cheongju but had never raided or posed a threat to the settlements there. Still, Gerel reminded himself that large tribal coalitions always posed a threat. That alone was reason enough to head there. Whoever lived in the valley of the Three Brothers now, he had no intention of attacking them without cause. His first priority was to understand the situation. “We’ll go ahead, just the dead man and me,” Gerel told the soldiers when the three peaks came into view. “If they see a large approaching force, they’ll attack on sight. I want to talk first. Stay nearby. If things go badly and I’m in danger, I’ll call for help.” He touched the signal horn slung around his chest. “If the horn doesn’t sound, wait… let’s say five hours, and then attack.” The soldiers’ faces betrayed doubt, but none dared argue. If the general wanted to kill himself in such a peculiar way, that was his prerogative. As they approached the valley, a group of ten riders galloped toward them. A few arrows hissed through the air but flew over their heads — an effort to intimidate rather than kill. Clearly, the nomads didn’t perceive two strangers as a genuine threat. Gerel removed the hood he wore to shield himself from the cold, sun, and rain, and waved it in the air by its long ends — a gesture universally recognized as a sign of peace. The riders encircled them in a loose semicircle, bows drawn and arrows nocked. “By the Phoenix!” one of the riders exclaimed. “If that isn’t General Gerel, then I must be the emperor.” “You’re certainly no emperor,” another replied. “And who’s the one with him? Doesn’t look like one of them…” “Definitely not one of them. But strange…” The riders circled warily, as though more afraid of taking Gerel prisoner than eager. Gerel noticed the way they spoke of "them" — the Strangers, of course — with such confidence. They must have encountered them recently, and the two young men speaking now were barely more than boys. “Take me to your khatun. I come in peace,” he said. He was surprised by how easily the words of the nomadic tongue, which he hadn’t spoken in years, came to him. His voice carried a commanding tone, and the riders obeyed. What else could they do with a prisoner like him? When they entered the valley, Gerel was startled to see not just yurts, but proper houses of wood and stone. A single glance was enough to tell him they had been built by slaves. The structures were eclectic — Cheongjuan, Yuiguian, Ryukokuan. It seemed Öelun Khatun sought to settle her people — a commendable but futile ambition. “A whole city you have here,” he remarked. A Cheongjuan soldier would never let a captive draw them into conversation, but these were no soldiers. Just undisciplined savages with bows. One of them eagerly replied: “Our city will be a capital.” “A capital of what?” Gerel asked, genuinely curious. “The capital of a great southern empire. That’s what Queen Öelun says. Other tribes will unite around ours, and we’ll conquer the whole world.” An empire? Unlikely. The idea of building a city was hardly revolutionary — on the contrary, it was obvious. A permanent settlement with solid buildings freed people from the whims of weather and seasons, allowed them to store food, and, with defenses, provided protection from raids. So why hadn’t all nomads built cities? Because a city wasn’t just a cluster of buildings erected by slaves. A city required laws, taxes, writing, an organized military, specialized professions, mining, metallurgy, currency. Nomads had no desire to delve into the complexities of urban life. Born and dying on horseback, bow in hand and quiver at their backs, any other existence seemed degrading to them. They thrived on war and plunder, not civilization. “You might conquer something,” Gerel conceded. He could imagine a vast horde pouring from the steppes, thousands of southerners filling half the world, indomitable, razing everything in their path. “But hardly for long. You won’t create an empire. You’ll never build anything of your own; all you know is how to steal and destroy…” He immediately regretted the words. He hadn’t come here to provoke a fight, and antagonizing them served no purpose. But his hatred of the nomads ran deep. The rider who had spoken of an empire said nothing in response, but his glare was cold. At the entrance to a large building that served as a palace, they confiscated their weapons and bound their hands behind their backs. The dead man looked to Gerel questioningly, but Gerel shook his head. Not yet. A shove from behind forced him to his knees. “Bow before Queen Öelun!” Öelun needed no introduction. Her rich embroidered clothing, a jewel-encrusted Yuiguian sword, and a belt of gold medallions — all marked her as the leader. “Well, well… what an unexpected guest,” Öelun Khatun drawled, her cold eyes studying Gerel. “More than I could have dreamed. You, at my feet, on your knees…” And then he remembered her. Now around forty, the years had not been kind to her, as they were to the pampered northern ladies. Sun and wind had darkened her skin to a deep brown, lined her face with wrinkles, and streaked her beaded braids with gray. But he had known her as a young woman once. Not known, exactly, but seen often. She had been Baatar Khan’s wife. “Öelun Ujin,” he blurted out. Her grip tightened on the handle of the long whip she carried. Nomads usually cracked such a whip near their horses — not to beat, but to frighten and direct them. “You remember… I remember you too. You, and your mother…” Her voice was soft, almost caressing, as the whip’s handle traced a line along his face, lifting his chin. “You look so much like her, even if you are human…” It was then he realized how grave a mistake he had made coming here. Öelun had not refrained from raiding Cheongju because she sought peace, but because she had been preparing. Gathering strength for revenge. Still, he said, “I only wish to talk. I’ve come in peace.” “Peace…” she mused. “Do you truly think, after all the harm you’ve done to the tribes of the South, anyone would believe you?” “I give you my word—” “Your word?” She laughed softly. “The word of a freak, a tyrant’s lackey?” Her voice was still gentle, almost tender, as she ran the whip’s handle down his neck. The braid of the handle caressed his skin gently, like fingers. “If only someone had realized back then how dangerous one boy could become… One boy, whose head should have been smashed and fed to the dogs...” Gerel had already given up hope, but tried to appeal to her logic. “Even if you unite several tribes under your rule, Cheongju, a powerful empire, is no match for you. Isn’t a bad peace better than war? Or are you really willing to send your entire people to their deaths out of sheer hatred for me?” “Yes,” she said simply. “You destroyed my home, and I will destroy yours.” He couldn’t help but grin — it was so absurd to hear the word “home” applied to Cheongju. But this only increased Öelun’s rage — hatred could finally be clearly heard in her voice: “You’re laughing... you killed my husband, you bastard...” “If I could, I would kill him again,” Gerel said honestly. The khatun’s hand trembled, the whip froze. “And I would have killed your mother if that creature hadn’t been sold to Cheongju,” she spat. “You hated her? But why?” The end of the whip was dangerously pressing against his neck, but he could not force himself to remain silent. “What did you feel when your husband fucked my mother: jealousy? Sympathy? Disgust?” She struck. The whip split Gerel’s cheek open and pulled out a groan. Blood ran, dripping onto the floor. It was good that Öelun did not touch his eyes. “Guess I haven't butcher enough of your kin”, he said with pure hatred. “Not enough. And never will be enough. You can’t butcher us all…” Öelun Khatun smirked. “Take them... to those.” Gerel saw how Shadow tensed up, getting ready to defend Gerel and himself, and said to him: “No, do not resist. Let's wait.” With his hands tied, even the undead had little chance against the many armed southerners filling the house. Besides, Öelun had said — to those. What those? He wanted to find out. “Signal the alarm,” Öelun ordered. “If these two came here, they didn’t come alone. Every able archer, prepare for battle.”