Riders of the Whispering Wind: The wind carries the cry of a warrior’s soul
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First 3 Chapters sample :
Chapter 1: Whispers on the Wind
The
wind, a constant across the immensity of the steppe, carried more than just the
scent of dry grass and coming snow. It carried whispers. Temujin, perched on a
low rise, felt it against his cheek, a rough caress that mirrored the anxieties
knotting his stomach. Below, the yurts of his tribe, nestled in a shallow dip
of the land, looked vulnerable, like sheep huddled against an unseen predator.
Smoke, thin and grey, struggled skyward – the only sign of life against the
vast, brown-and-grey canvas of the late autumn steppe. He tightened the worn leather
grip of his bow, the familiar weight a small comfort.
He scanned the familiar landscape. The frozen riverbed
where they watered their horses – his
father's horses, until recently – wound its way south. The rolling hills,
usually dotted with their grazing herds, were bare, the animals already moved
to the winter pastures closer to the mountains. Even the line of scraggly trees
marking the edge of their territory seemed to huddle together, as if bracing
against the wind's mournful song. It was a harsh land, demanding, but theirs. Or so he'd believed. The
whispers on the wind now spoke of a different master: Batu Khan. The name felt
like a curse, even unspoken.
He
heard the muffled bleating of the few remaining sheep, a sound that used to
bring a sense of peace, of continuity. Now, it only amplified the gnawing
unease that had settled in his gut since the elders had ridden out, summoned to
a council with the Mongol envoys. His father had ridden with them. A hawk
circled high overhead, a black speck against the pale sky. He envied its
freedom. He could not shake the feeling of dread.
Khasar,
his father's closest friend, a man whose frame was as weathered and tough as
the ancient pines clinging to the northern slopes, stood beside him. Khasar
rarely spoke unnecessarily, but his silence today felt heavier than usual,
pressing down on Temujin like the coming winter. He, too, stared towards the
south.
"They
should have returned by now," Temujin finally said, the words more a
statement than a question. He kept his voice low, not wanting to carry his
worry to the yurts below. He wouldn't burden the women and children with his
fears, not yet.
Khasar
grunted, his gaze still fixed on the horizon. "The Mongols are not known
for their swift councils. Nor their honesty." He shifted his weight, the
movement stiff, a subtle betrayal of his age. "Your father knew the
risks."
Temujin flinched. He knew the risks too. Every tribesman
knew them. The Mongols demanded tribute, horses, supplies… and sometimes, people. His father, a proud man, a
leader who valued the freedom of his tribe above all else, had resisted those
demands before, finding ways to appease the Mongols without completely
submitting. But the whispers on the wind had grown louder, more insistent, in
recent moons. The Mongols' patience, it seemed, was wearing thin. Temujin
touched the small, intricately carved wolf's head hanging from a leather thong
around his neck – a gift from his father, a symbol of their clan. He gripped it
tightly, drawing a small measure of strength from the familiar feel of the
wood.
Three
riders appeared on the horizon, small figures against the vastness of the
steppe, growing larger with each passing moment. Temujin felt a flicker of
hope, quickly followed by a wave of dread. Three riders… there had been seven
elders who rode out.
He
recognized Bortei, his cousin, a skilled scout, even from this distance.
Bortei's posture on his horse, slumped and weary, told Temujin everything he
needed to know. The news would not be good. He braced himself.
As
the riders drew closer, Temujin could see the grim expressions on their faces,
the dust and grime that coated their clothing, the exhaustion in their eyes.
Bortei's horse, usually so spirited, was lathered in sweat, its head hanging
low.
Bortei reined in sharply before Temujin and Khasar,
dismounting with a stiffness that belied his youth. He didn't meet Temujin's
gaze. "They… they demanded more than we could give," Bortei said, his
voice hoarse, his words clipped. "Horses. Supplies. People." He swallowed hard, his throat working. "Your
father… he refused."
Temujin
felt a coldness settle over him, a numbness that spread through his limbs. He
had known, deep down, that this was coming. But hearing the words, hearing the
confirmation of his worst fears, was still a blow, a physical pain that stole
his breath.
"Where
is he?" Temujin asked, his voice barely a whisper, his gaze fixed on
Bortei's averted eyes. He already knew the answer.
Bortei
finally looked up, his face a mask of grief and anger. "The elders… they
tried to bargain. Your father… he spoke out. He called the Mongol envoy a… a
dog." He paused, his voice cracking. "They killed them, Temujin. All
of them. They killed them right there, in front of everyone. They said it was a
lesson. A warning."
Temujin
felt a wave of nausea, a surge of rage so intense that it made his vision blur.
He wanted to scream, to rage, to tear the world apart. But he forced himself to
remain calm, to control his emotions. He had to be strong. He had to be a
leader. He had to think. His father was gone. And the whispers on the wind had
become a roar. The roar of the Mongol horde. He took a shaky breath.
He
looked at Khasar, his old friend's face a mask of grief, his eyes filled with a
shared pain, a shared rage. He saw the other riders, their faces grim, their
eyes filled with a mixture of fear and determination. He saw the yurts below,
the smoke still rising peacefully, the unsuspecting villagers going about their
daily lives. He had to protect them. He had to avenge his father. He had to
fight. He felt, in that moment, very much alone, but also resolute. He would
face the storm.
Chapter 2: The Khan's Demand
The smoke from the hastily built funeral pyres still hung
heavy in the frigid air, a bitter perfume mingling with the metallic tang of
shed blood. Inside the chieftain's yurt – his yurt now, a reality that felt
sharp and wrong – Temujin knelt, the warmth of the central fire doing little to
combat the chill that had settled deep in his bones. He wasn't just cold; he
was hollowed out, grief a raw wound. Yet, beneath it, fury simmered. His
father, the elders… murdered. Not in battle, but under a flag of truce.
Khasar stood near the entrance flap, a grim statue carved
from grief and weathered experience. His presence was a comfort, but also a
reminder of the void left behind. Leadership had fallen upon Temujin’s
shoulders not through ceremony, but through massacre. He was barely a man, yet
the weight of his entire tribe rested upon him.
The yurt flap was thrust open violently, violating the
sanctity of their mourning. Jochi, the Mongol envoy – the same man whose
pronouncements had led to the elders' deaths – strode in, flanked by two
impassive guards. He offered no greeting, no respect for their loss. His
scarred face was set in a sneer, his eyes cold and appraising as they swept
over the diminished state of the chieftain's yurt.
"The Great Khan," Jochi began, his accented voice
grating, "was… displeased… by the disrespect shown by your former
elders." He waved a dismissive hand. "He offers you, the new leader,
a chance to rectify their fatal error."
Temujin rose slowly, deliberately, forcing his body to obey,
forcing his face into a mask of neutrality. He would not show this Mongol dog
his grief, nor his rage. Not yet. "The Khan's displeasure is noted,"
Temujin said, his voice surprisingly steady, though ice seemed to form around
his heart.
Jochi smirked, clearly enjoying his position of power.
"Noted? It must be addressed. The previous tribute offered was an insult.
Now, the price for your tribe's continued existence has… increased." He
paused, savoring the moment. "Double the furs. Fifty of your best horses –
war-ready. And," his gaze lingered, cruel and possessive, "twenty of
your young people. Strong backs for labor. Swift hands for service."
The demand for "young people" struck like a
physical blow. His sister, barely a woman. The other youths, the future of
their tribe, reduced to chattel, to slaves for Mongol warriors. Temujin's hand
tightened on the wolf's head amulet beneath his deel. He felt Khasar shift
beside him, a low growl rumbling in the old warrior's chest.
"That is… impossible," Temujin stated, keeping his
voice level with immense effort. "Our herds were thinned by the winter.
Our people are few. Such a tribute would leave us destitute, unable to
survive." He gestured subtly to the emptiness of the yurt, the lack of
wealth, the evidence of their recent loss. "We mourn our leaders. We have
little left to give."
Jochi laughed, a harsh, barking sound devoid of humor.
"Your survival is dependent on the Khan's generosity, tribesman. Not the
size of your herds. He demands obedience. The price is set." He stepped
closer, invading Temujin's space, his breath foul with the smell of stale
kumis. "Do you understand the cost of refusal? Your father learned it. Do
you wish to share his fate?"
The direct threat, the callous reference to his father's
murder, nearly broke Temujin's control. He could feel the heat rising in his
face, the tremor in his hands. Khasar placed a subtle hand on his back, a
silent warning, a reminder to stay focused.
"We are warriors of the steppe," Temujin said, his
voice low and tight. "We do not fear death. But we will not willingly
condemn our people to starvation or slavery." He held Jochi's gaze.
"Is there no room for negotiation? A smaller tribute, perhaps, paid over
time?"
Jochi spat on the ground near Temujin's feet.
"Negotiation? The time for negotiation ended when your father called Batu
Khan's envoy a dog. Now is the time for obedience. Or annihilation." He
straightened, his expression hardening. "You have three days,
chieftain," he sneered, emphasizing the title with mockery. "Three
days to gather the horses, the furs, the people. Three days to demonstrate your
submission."
He turned abruptly, his guards falling in behind him. At the
yurt entrance, he paused, looking back, his eyes locking onto Temujin's.
"I will return on the morning of the fourth day," he said, his voice
cold and final. "With enough warriors to collect the tribute… or to
collect your heads. Choose wisely. The lives of your tribe depend on it."
The yurt flap fell shut, leaving Temujin and Khasar in the
heavy silence, the envoy's threats echoing in the suddenly cold air. Temujin
stood frozen for a long moment, the weight of the ultimatum crushing him. Three
days. Submit, condemn his people to servitude, betray his father's defiance. Or
resist, and face certain destruction.
He looked at Khasar, seeing the shared grief, the shared
rage, the shared understanding in his old friend's eyes. There was no real
choice, not for men of the steppe. Submission was a slower death.
"Gather the warriors, Khasar," Temujin said, his
voice barely a whisper, yet filled with a new, cold resolve. "We have
three days to prepare." Not for tribute. But for war. The inferno was
coming.
Chapter 3: Inferno
The
dawn of the fourth day brought not the sun, but the storm. It began not with a
roar, but with a chilling wave of silence, quickly shattered by the high,
ululating war cries of Mongol horsemen cresting the southern hills. They
appeared as if summoned by Jochi's threat, a dark tide flowing across the
snow-dusted steppe, their numbers far exceeding the envoy's initial escort.
This was not a collection party; it was an extermination force.
Temujin
stood before his yurt, sword in hand, his heart pounding a frantic rhythm
against his ribs. He had used the three days well, organizing defenses,
assigning positions, trying to prepare his people for the inevitable. But
seeing the scale of the Mongol assault, the sheer, overwhelming force arrayed
against them, threatened to extinguish the fragile ember of hope he had
painstakingly kindled.
"To
your positions!" he roared, his voice barely audible above the rising din.
"Hold the barricades! Protect the women and children!"
Warriors
scrambled, grabbing spears, bows, and axes. The air filled with the sounds of
shouting, the whinnying of startled horses, the terrified cries of children.
The Mongols charged, their horses thundering across the frozen ground, arrows
already whistling through the air. The inferno had begun.
Temujin
plunged into the chaos, his sword a flashing arc of steel. He fought with a
cold fury, cutting down the first Mongol warrior who breached the hastily
erected barricade. He saw Khasar nearby, rallying a group of older men, their
faces grim, their spears held steady. Bortei was further out, loosing arrows
with deadly speed, trying to disrupt the Mongol charge.
But
the Mongols were relentless, their numbers overwhelming. They poured over the
barricades, their swords and axes flashing. The fighting dissolved into a
brutal, chaotic melee, pockets of desperate resistance swallowed by the Mongol
tide. Yurts erupted in flames as soldiers tossed torches onto the felt walls,
the smoke adding to the choking confusion.
Temujin
fought his way towards the center of the village, where the women and children
had taken shelter in the largest yurts. He had to protect them. He had to get
them out. He saw familiar faces fall, heard screams cut short, smelled the
sickeningly sweet scent of burning flesh and spilled blood. His vision
narrowed, focused only on survival, on killing the enemy before him.
He
felt a searing pain in his side as a spear grazed his ribs. He ignored it,
spinning, his sword lashing out, felling another Mongol. He pushed forward,
shoving through the press of bodies, driven by a desperate urgency.
He reached the cluster of yurts where the non-combatants
sheltered, only to find Mongol warriors already there, dragging people out,
binding their wrists. He saw his mother, her face pale but her eyes blazing
with defiance, trying to shield a small child. He felt a surge of helpless
rage. Then, his eyes caught sight of another familiar figure being roughly
seized – Anya, the weaver's
daughter, her eyes wide with terror as a burly Mongol bound her hands. Before
he could even fully register that horror, another movement seared his vision. A
different Mongol warrior, laughing cruelly, grabbed a young woman struggling
fiercely near the edge of the chaos. With a sickening lurch, Temujin recognized
her. His sister. Altanai. She was
being dragged away, kicking and screaming, towards the growing knot of
captives. "ALTANAI!"
He roared, a primal scream of anguish and fury, and
launched himself towards his sister, ignoring the pain in his side, his sword
raised high. He would save her. He had
to save her. He would cut down anyone who stood in his way. He had to try.
He
carved through two Mongol soldiers who stood in his path, their surprise
momentarily halting them. He was almost upon the warrior holding Altanai, his
sword descending… when a crushing blow struck him from behind, just below the
skull. Stars exploded behind his eyes. The world tilted, spun, dissolved into a
disorienting blur.
He
hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the remaining breath from his lungs.
He tried to push himself up, tried to reach his sword, but his limbs felt
heavy, unresponsive. He saw, through a swimming haze, his sister being dragged
further away, her screams echoing in his ears. He saw the Mongol warrior who
had struck him down raise his heavy mace for a final, killing blow.
He closed his eyes, bracing himself for the inevitable. He
had failed. He had failed to protect his people. He had failed to save Anya. He
had failed Altanai. He had failed… everything. But as the darkness closed in,
he heard a shout, sharp and furious – Khasar's
voice – and the sharp, ringing clash of steel meeting steel very close by.
Was it help? Or just the final sounds of his world ending? He knew no more.
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