In the dim light of the morning, Naci and Horohan stir, awakening to the distant chirping of an eagle. The sound pierces the stillness of their yurt, signaling the start of a new day. Naci rubs her eyes, glancing at the spot where she'd left her fledgling eagle the night before. Her heart swells with warmth as she sees her bird snuggled under the wings of Khatan who seems to have taken a protective role over the younger bird.
Smiling, Naci rises, careful not to disturb Horohan as she moves to dress.
"You need to feed her," Horohan says softly, her eyes following Naci as she approaches the birds.
"I know," Naci replies, carefully lifting her young eagle into her arms. She reaches for a pouch of dried meat, breaking off small pieces to offer to the young bird. As she feeds it, Naci begins to hum a tune—a melody for the wide and open skies.
Horohan watches this interaction, captivated not just by the care Naci shows the bird but also by the haunting beauty of her voice.
Unable to resist, Horohan adds her own voice to the tune. She's not quite sure about the words, but the melody is simple enough, and there's a particular joy in making it their own. Their voices intertwine in the small, intimate space, filling the yurt with a music that's as unexpected as it is beautiful.
After their impromptu morning serenade, Naci and Horohan prepare to face the day. Donning their outer garments and securing their weapons, they perform a series of rituals designed to ensure swift and safe travels. The incense burns low, its smoke swirling into intricate patterns as they chant ancient verses, sealing their intentions.
Just as they are about to step out of the yurt, the flap lifts and Naci's father, the chieftain, steps in, followed by Jabliu's shaman priest adorned with talismans and ritual paint.
"Naci, Horohan, I wish to bless your journey," the chieftain says, his eyes filled with concern.
"Father," Naci nods, her face softening.
The old shaman priest moves forward, intoning blessings, sprinkling them with an infusion of sacred herbs. The air becomes thick with the earthy scent.
"As you journey through Tepr, remember my teachings, Naci," the chieftain turns his gaze towards his daughter, his voice laced with a solemnity that she recognizes all too well. "Especially the books I had you read."
Horohan's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "You can read?"
Naci grins, a flicker of pride dancing in her eyes. "Yes, my father taught me. Moukopl, and Bugr."
"Bugr?" Horohan echoes, clearly intrigued.
"It's a dead language," Naci explains, her voice tinged with pride. "It was spoken by an ancient empire that predates even the Moukopl. The empire was so vast, they say its lands connected this world with the next."
A look of awe settles on Horohan's face. "I can also read Moukopl, but that's because I was raised as an heir. That kind of knowledge is usually reserved for men. I don't think we ever discussed Bugr in Alinkar… Or maybe I wasn't diligent enough during my studies."
"Most documents written in Bugr are either lost or carefully preserved, studied only in Moukopl libraries," the chieftain explains. "It's no surprise you've never encountered any."
As the blessings and incense linger in the air, Naci and Horohan take their eagles and step outside. The chill of the morning is still fresh, but the sun rises higher, promising the onset of a warmer day. Mounting their horses, they share a look of determination before setting off toward their first destination: the Nedai tribe to the west.
The vast steppes of Tepr stretch before them, a seemingly endless tapestry of grasslands and occasional clusters of trees, touched by the shadows of passing clouds. The horses' hooves create a rhythmic cadence, as if harmonizing with the wind that sweeps across the land, carrying scents of earth and freedom. Naci's eagle covered from the wind within her breasts, while Khatan is perched on Horohan's arm, alert and taking in its surrounding.
Time seems to lose its meaning as they ride through the endless plains, where one stretch of land looks almost indistinguishable from the next. Their hearts are lighter, but the weight of their mission fills the spaces between spoken words and shared glances. Occasionally, they pass by a shepherd or a lone trader and courteous nods are exchanged.
As the sun reaches its zenith, casting shorter shadows on the ground, Naci senses that they are drawing near to the border of Nedai territory. She signals for them to slow down, reining in her horse with a gentle tug.
"We should be respectful. Rushing through another tribe's land uninvited is bad manners," Naci advises, her eyes scanning the horizon for any signs of the Nedai tribe.
Horohan nods, her eyes equally attentive. "Agreed. We should be cautious and show our intentions are peaceful."
A short time after slowing their pace, Naci spots two figures in the distance. As they approach, the figures resolve into a couple of shepherds, their flocks grazing lazily on the sparse vegetation. Naci raises her hand in greeting, eliciting a similar gesture from the shepherds.
Pulling the reins gently, Naci brings her horse to a stop beside the two men. "Greetings. I am Naci of Jabliu, and this is Horohan, my companion. We're seeking the Nedai. Could you point us in the direction of the current settlement?"
One of the shepherds, a man with weathered skin and lines etched from years, gestures westward with his crook. "We're Nedai. It isn't far from here. Just continue westward for another hundred leaps or so, and you'll come across our encampment."
Naci offers a grateful smile. "Thank you, we appreciate your guidance."
Horohan nods, echoing the sentiment. "Your help is invaluable."
As they near the entrance of the Nedai settlement, Naci feels the weight of their mission settle more heavily on her shoulders. Horohan senses it too; their eyes meet for a moment, a silent understanding passing between them.
Raising her voice so it carries through the encampment, Naci calls out, "Greetings, people of Nedai! I am Naci of Jabliu, daughter of your friend and ally, Tseren of Jabliu. With me is Horohan, my companion. We come in peace and wish to speak with your chieftain, Batu, and the council of elders."
The buzz of activity in the camp lessens as people turn their attention toward the newcomers. Naci and Horohan both notice that, like in Jabliu, the settlement seems short on men—mostly women, children, and elders move about.
After a short moment, a figure emerges from the largest yurt at the center of the encampment. It's the chieftain of the Nedai, a man Naci recognizes as an old friend of her father.
"Naci, daughter of Tseren! It's been many seasons since we last saw each other," the chieftain greets warmly, embracing Naci briefly.
"Chieftain Batu, it's good to see you," Naci replies, her face tinged with both relief and gravity. "I wish our visit was under happier circumstances."
"You bring news?" Batu's eyes turn solemn, sensing the weight of her words. The chieftain's smile fades, replaced by a look of concern. "Then we should speak. But come, let's not stand out here like strangers."
Leading them into his yurt, the chieftain offers them seats and refreshments before sitting down himself. "Now, what brings you here?"
Naci nods. "There has been a diplomatic incident with the Alinkar. On top of that, many of our men have been drafted by the Moukopl army. Jabliu is vulnerable and may soon be at war. We came to ask for your assistance, as allies and friends."
The chieftain's expression turns grave. "Naci, I wish we could help you. Truly, I do. But we find ourselves in the same unfortunate situation. Our men have also been drafted by the Moukopl army. We have barely enough hands to take care of our livestock, let alone send aid in a time of war."
Naci feels the weight of Batu's words sink deep into her chest, each syllable like a stone piling upon her already heavy heart. This was supposed to be their best chance at securing aid, given the close ties between Jabliu and Nedai.
Just then, the flap of the yurt opens, and a woman steps inside—Batu's wife, Tuya. "Ah, Naci, it's good to see you, although I wish it were under better circumstances."
"Thank you, Tuya," Naci replies, forcing a small smile.
"Will you be staying the night? Our yurt is open to you," Tuya offers warmly.
"We'd be honored," Naci accepts, grateful for the kindness.
Batu turns to them, concern still clouding his eyes. "Will you head back to Jabliu after this?"
"We have two more tribes to visit. Others who might be willing to assist us," Naci explains.
Batu nods. "Then I wish you all the luck in the world, my friends."
The rest of the day passes in domestic simplicity. Naci and Horohan lend their hands to Tuya and her daughters, helping with chores ranging from tending to the livestock to preparing food. It's a welcome distraction, but the looming reality of their mission is never far from Naci's thoughts.
By evening, they all share a modest supper of meat and root vegetables, cooked in a stew that fills the yurt with its comforting aroma. Soon after, Naci and Horohan unroll their sleeping mats in a corner of the yurt, cocooned in layers of felt and fabric against the night's chill.
Once they lie down, Horohan finally breaks the silence. "Naci, have you noticed something odd?"
"What do you mean?" Naci asks, her eyes meeting Horohan's in the dim light.
"It's strange, isn't it? Both Jabliu and Nedai have lost so many men to the Moukopl draft. Yet, the Alinkar have only taken a handful. It's like we … they're getting special treatment or something."
Lulled by the quiet conversations of Batu and Tuya on the other side of the yurt and the occasional bleat of a sheep outside, Naci and Horohan close their eyes. Despite the comfort of the yurt and the warmth of their hosts, sleep is a long time coming, chased away by the questions and worries that fill the dark spaces of their minds.
The first rays of the morning sun filter through the fabric of the yurt, painting patterns of light and shadow across its interior. After a quick breakfast and farewells, Naci and Horohan saddle their mounts and prepare to leave the Nedai encampment.
"May the wind be at your back," Batu offers, his eyes solemn yet hopeful.
"Thank you, Batu. And may your tribe find the strength to endure these trying times," Naci replies.
With a final glance back at the faces that have shown them hospitality and kindness, they spur their mounts forward and set out for the North, toward the Orogol settlement.
As they navigate through the rugged landscape, Horohan breaks the silence. "I've had dealings with the Orogol before. They've got some sort of relationship with the Alinkar as well. Always struck me as the type to keep their options open, if you know what I mean."
"So they engage in double-dealing," Naci observes, her tone tinged with skepticism.
"Seems like it," Horohan confirms. "But they're on the way to the Haikam, and who knows? We might catch them in a generous mood."
Naci nods, considering the new information. "Well, they might be our least likely ally, but given our situation, we can't afford to leave any stone unturned."
The journey is long, the weight of their mission pulling at them with each mile they cover. Yet, the landscape changes around them, as if to match the shifting mood—from the rolling hills and plains to more jagged terrains and towering cliffs that serve as a prelude to Orogol territory.
They reach the Orogol settlement way after noon, the sun angling toward the western horizon. The landscape here is starkly different from Jabliu and Nedai—more rugged, more jagged. The atmosphere feels charged with a different kind of energy.
Naci takes a deep breath, gathering her thoughts before she calls out, "Greetings, people of Orogol! I am Naci of Jabliu, daughter of Tseren of Jabliu, your friend and ally. With me is Horohan, my companion. We come in peace and seek an audience with your chieftain and council."
Just like in Nedai, the hum of activity quiets down. Eyes turn toward them—curious, cautious, perhaps a little intrigued. But there's no chieftain stepping out from the largest yurt this time. Instead, the flap of a modest tent off to the side flutters open, and a man steps out.
He doesn't look like any shaman Naci has ever seen. Far too young, his eyes sly and slanting in a way that instantly reminds her of a fox. A mischievous smile stretches across his face as he saunters toward them.
"You don't seem old enough to be a shaman," Horohan mutters, a note of suspicion coloring his voice.
"Ah, but who says a shaman has to be old?" the young man retorts, his eyes twinkling. "Age is but a number; wisdom doesn't always come with years."
Naci watches him carefully, uncertain of how to read him. "You are the shaman? Where is your chieftain?"
"I am," he replies, the grin still on his face. "The name's Konir, by the way. What brings you here? Seeking blessings from the spirits? Or perhaps something else?"
Naci exhales softly, keeping her eyes fixed on Konir. "We've come for something far more mundane, I'm afraid. Jabliu, our tribe, faces difficult times. We're here to ask for your support and alliance in the events that may unfold."
Konir's eyes narrow for a moment, the fox-like quality becoming more pronounced. "Interesting. Trouble has a way of finding its way, doesn't it? Well, you better come with me. The council will want to hear of this."
As they follow Konir through the encampment, both Naci and Horohan can't help but notice something strikingly different about the Orogol settlement compared to Jabliu and Nedai. There are more young men here—fit, capable-looking, and not in short supply. It's a stark contrast that heightens their sense of caution.
"Quite the vibrant community you have here," Naci comments, her eyes scanning the crowd.
"We try to keep things lively," Konir responds, his voice tinged with an ambiguous note that doesn't sit well with Naci.
Finally, they arrive at a large yurt near the center of the encampment. Konir holds the flap open, motioning for them to enter. "After you," he says, the smile never leaving his face.
Just as they're about to step inside, a subtle movement catches Horohan's eye. She turns her head slightly, just enough to see a figure in light armor darting out from behind the yurt. The man mounts a horse with an urgency that implies something more than a casual outing and spurs it into a gallop, quickly disappearing from sight.