The journey to Samarqand was a blur for Rufus, filled with a mix of dread and uncertainty. Chained and under the watchful eyes of Kormos's warriors, he was acutely aware of the precariousness of his situation. Beside him, Amala and Suomi shared his grim silence, each lost in their thoughts about the unfolding events.
He was chained in a large chariot with iron doors, and the chains restricted his divine powers. Stripped of all his clothes, he had to endure the cold winds of the steppe air.
One day, Kormos entered. He lifted Rufus's unconscious head and slapped him awake.
"Wake up, human," the god said.
Rufus managed to open one eye, though his strength was drained by the powerful sorcery binding him to the chariot.
"The sorcerers were more than happy to bind you here, given that you ruined their city," Kormos said. "You humans spared their cities only if the sorcerers aided Antigonus, the Rot-Eye, but then they experimented on their own people, creating horrid magic for Antigonus, who was curious about their powers. Though my father and I spared their cities, you decided to finish the job and make them suffer as well."
"What happened was an accident," Rufus replied, blood dripping from his mouth. "And we are not solely to blame. One of the sorcerers is also responsible, but he's dead now, punished for his own greed and impatience."
"Sorcerers are always greedy. They summon terrible things, equal to the power of gods, but they can't always control them. You humans love to exploit that, don't you?" Kormos baited him.
"You really don't like humans, do you?" Rufus grinned. "What happened? Did Iskander smack your ass too hard?"
Kormos's expression darkened at Rufus's defiance. "Arrogant human," he growled, his voice a low rumble of anger. "Your kind's hubris knows no bounds. You're nothing like Iskander—nowhere close to him."
Surprised by Kormos's tone, Rufus asked, "You don't hate Iskander?"
"Hah, I do. But how can one not admire him as well?" Kormos replied. "Such arrogance, matched only by his skills and power. Yes, he mortally wounded Cyrus, but he showed such magnanimity in his victory.
"Did you know, he marched into the Scythian steppes with his seasoned army? Many times my father and I marched out, ready for battle, but not once—NOT ONCE—did he even turn his head to acknowledge us." Kormos smiled. "What a madman."
"During the battle that decided the fate of our heaven, I was close to striking him down as he fought off hordes of Scythian riders. I was just about to sever his head when one of his generals declawed me. I think his name was Hepha… Hel… who cares. But that moment, I later realized, was perhaps the greatest of my life. My action would have had such consequential weight."
Kormos snapped back to the present, his gaze hardening as he looked at Rufus. "But you—you destroy, burn, pillage, like other humans. Like Antigonus the Rot-Eye..."
"Blame me all you want," Rufus retorted, staring right at Kormos. "But now I see what the old man of the mountain said about you gods."
Kormos glared at Rufus, a mortal who still dared defy him.
"The most dread-inducing aspect of the gods is their all-too-mortal fallibility, making them just as prone to mistakes as we are," Rufus said. "And now, here you are, taking out your hatred on us because your ego got hurt."
Kormos's eyes flared with anger. He pressed his blade-like claws—the same claws used by Night Screamer demons—against Rufus's throat.
"You want to hear about MY mistakes, human? Oh, I've made them. I've made MANY mistakes with MANY beings. The only reason I don't slay you right here and now is that my father wishes to know what the old man of the mountain is conspiring," Kormos snarled.
~~
Kormos's past was filled with battle. He had lost limbs, his body scarred beyond recognition. From his deeds, he built a warlike state, nestled between the Scethian steppes and the jungles of the Hindu Kush, in the mountains where many Night Screamers dwelled—demons of the foulest kind in all the Sassan heavens.
He had joined his father, Arslan, on the conquest of the Sassan heaven, traveled to distant worlds, and battled many foes. But the most legendary of his accomplishments was the founding of the Afhanin state.
Kormos had not yet reached godhood when he created his own kingdom. He was born to Arslan, a god, and a mortal Sassan woman. His mother died early from disease, and his father was absent, busy conquering the world of Isra and waging war against the djinn.
Raised amidst the brutal warrior culture of the Scethian steppes, Kormos learned early on what mattered most: power and the deeds one accomplished—whether it was pillaging a rival or slaying a mighty foe.
He formed his own tribe, hoping to catch his father's attention. But many others had done the same; Kormos was not the only son of Arslan. Even so, he was certain he would be the one to reach godhood.
Destined to raid the cities of the Hindu Kush, Kormos found his path blocked by the great bastions that guarded the only entrance to the rich lands beyond. He knew he was not yet powerful enough to survive such an ordeal.
Instead, he looked to the mountains. There, he saw a way into the lands beyond. But when he led his nomadic warriors to the foot of the mountains, they hesitated. From deep within the peaks came the piercing screams of the Night Screamers, demons that haunted the highlands. Kormos, seeing the fear in his warriors, called them cowards and resolved to enter the mountains alone.
The future god ventured into the mountains by himself. There, he encountered six Night Screamers in total. He fought them for four days without rest. During the battles, he lost both his arms, but in the end, he slew the final demon. However, the victory came at a price—he fell from a cliff, tumbling down the mountainside alongside the body of the dead Night Screamer.
Despite his grievous injuries, Kormos survived. He dragged himself to the gates of the city of Parthava, carrying the corpse of the Night Screamer in his mouth. There, he howled for entry and made a bargain with the city: he promised to end all future raids on Parthava if they would forge the demon's hands onto his body.
And so they did.
When Kormos returned to his tribe, now more powerful than ever, he exacted vengeance. He slashed the face of every warrior who had abandoned him in the mountains. To hide their grotesque disfigurement, they donned masks, forever marked by their shame.
Kormos then led his tribe back into the mountains and forced them to settle there, a treacherous existence for the nomadic people. From this stronghold, he descended into the lowlands and sacked many cities of the Hindu Kush. His conquests culminated in a great victory over the barbaric Multans.
With the loot he amassed, Kormos began constructing a mighty capital. He forced slaves to carve the city into the side of a great mountain, a monument to his power.
Afterward, Kormos returned to the steppes and waged war against his brothers, the other sons of Arslan. One by one, he slew them all until none remained. When Arslan heard of his deeds, he summoned Kormos to join him in his conquest of the universe, where Kormos would continue the bloody path he had chosen. By his side marched the masked warriors of the newly-formed Afhanin state, their loyalty to Kormos sealed in blood and shame.