Our next stop was a secluded cabin nestled in the woods. The cabin, modest and functional, served as a base for the next phase of our training. Kara and his men took this opportunity to teach me the art of crafting a Turkish war bow, a weapon renowned for its efficiency in mounted archery. They also demonstrated how to prepare survival food while traveling on horseback, a crucial skill for enduring long journeys in the wild.
The display of horse archery was nothing short of mesmerizing. Kara and his men, adept and agile, showcased their prowess with a level of skill that left me in awe. Their horses, smaller than the sturdy European breeds I was accustomed to, seemed incredibly nimble and responsive. It became clear that the size of the horses contributed to their agility, making them exceptionally suited for the quick, precise movements required in mounted archery.
The two men who had accompanied us from the carriage--one with a ginger beard and the other with a piercing gaze--watched the demonstration with keen interest. It soon became apparent that they were not merely spectators but students in their own right. Their presence underscored the fact that mastering these skills was not a trivial endeavor; it required both dedication and natural aptitude.
Over the weeks that followed, we traveled across various parts of Europe, setting up camp in different locations. Each new place offered unique challenges and learning opportunities. We sourced supplies from reliable sellers, ensuring we were well-prepared for the next leg of our journey. My training continued, focusing on survival skills and tactics for open fields and forest terrains.
As time passed, I encountered a myriad of new faces and absorbed countless lessons. Every interaction, every skill learned, contributed to my understanding of the world I was now a part of. The experience was both demanding and enlightening, shaping me into a more capable and resourceful individual.
After spending a year in Kara's company, I had grown accustomed to the harsh realities of life on the road. Riding horses had become second nature, though the constant strain was a persistent discomfort. My groin ached almost continuously, but I bore the pain as part of my new existence.
One chilly morning, Kara gathered us together with an air of excitement. "We're about to meet some real mother fuckers today," he announced, his voice laced with both anticipation and mischief. His casual tone did little to ease my growing sense of apprehension. We set off, our horses trotting purposefully towards our destination.
When we arrived, a group of Turkic men awaited us, their presence commanding attention. They were shorter than me and lacked the beards that Kara sported. The leader of the group, an older man with a grizzled appearance, approached us with a hearty laugh.
"Ah, Kara! You've finally shown your face! I see you've grown quite the beard. Trying to pass for a true Turk, are you?"
Kara's eyes narrowed, but a wry smile spread across his face. "And you've managed to keep your face as smooth as a baby's bottom. Is that your secret to eternal youth, old fart?"
The leader chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. "Maybe. Or perhaps I just know how to avoid being mistaken for a wild mountain goat."
Their exchange was lighthearted, but I could sense the underlying respect and camaraderie. Kara's irritation was evident, yet he managed to counter with humor. After the jokes had run their course, we settled into a simple meal of pastirma, dried beef, and kımız, a fermented horse milk drink.
Once the pleasantries were over, we settled down for a meal. The food was simple: pastirma, dried beef, and kımız, a fermented horse milk drink. The fare was basic but nourishing, and it provided the sustenance we needed for what lay ahead.
After eating, we moved on to our next destination, traveling through the rural landscape until we came across a large herd of wild cattle. The Turkic men accompanying us spoke with a dialect so peculiar that I struggled to keep up. My training had equipped me with enough linguistic skills to grasp the general meaning of their words, but their rapid speech and mixed vocabulary made comprehension challenging.
I was reminded of how much I had learned from Kara and his men, not just about languages but about the harsh realities of survival. As we arrived at the herd, I noticed an increase in our numbers. The scene before me was unsettling. When I remarked on how we finally had enough to hunt the cattle, Kara's response was startling. He informed me that we are not here for hunting, boy.
The realization hit me like a cold wave. My initial confusion transformed into a sobering understanding of the gravity of our situation. The herd was not just a target for sport; it was part of a larger strategy. The training, the journeys, and our encounters had all been leading up to this moment. The lines between training and actual warfare had blurred, and the reality of our mission had become clear.
I looked around at the men who had once seemed like mere companions or trainers. They were now integral parts of a serious and dangerous plan. The weight of what was to come settled heavily on my shoulders. I was no longer just learning or preparing; I was about to step into a role that demanded not only skill but also the readiness for real conflict. The path ahead was fraught with uncertainty, but one thing was clear: this was more than just training--it was a war preparation, and I was at its center.
Kara smiled and said, "This is nothing compared to what you are about to see."
The morning air was crisp as we prepared for the day's task. Our group had gathered at the edge of the field, the wild herd of cattle milling in the distance. Kara's voice cut through the chatter, giving precise instructions. The first few men spurred their horses into action, riding towards the herd to get them moving. I watched intently, feeling a mix of excitement and nerves.
As one of the men launched an arrow into the air, its whistle slicing through the stillness, a thrill surged through me. I saw the others around me prepare for their turn, their movements synchronized as if rehearsed. Kara, who had a nonchalant demeanor, seemed utterly at ease, even yawning as if this was a routine task. His calm was both reassuring and slightly intimidating.
"Deh!" Kara commanded suddenly. The order was clear and authoritative. Without hesitation, the horsemen around me charged forward. I scrambled to keep up, feeling the rush of adrenaline as I fell into formation with the others.
We encircled the herd, the chaos of panicked animals creating a tumultuous scene. The cattle, once calm, were now a swirling mass of motion, pushing against each other in confusion. I could see the intensity in the faces of the men around me; everyone was focused and silent, each person playing their part in the grand strategy.
As we maneuvered the herd towards an open field, Kara gave another order. The formation shifted, deliberately leaving gaps to allow some cattle to escape. The plan was becoming clear: they were letting a portion of the herd slip through to lure them into a trap for a greater prize.
My heart pounded in my chest as I watched the cattle rushing towards the exit. When Kara signaled, the men began shooting. The air was thick with tension and concentration. I took my place, an arrow nocked and ready. The silence was almost deafening, broken only by the occasional thud of arrows finding their marks.
I felt the weight of eyes on me, and I focused intensely. Drawing three arrows from my quiver, I held two between my fingers and nocked the third. With a deep breath, I took aim and fired. One by one, my arrows flew true, each hitting its target with precision. The satisfaction of each successful shot bolstered my confidence.
Kara, observing from his vantage point, signaled for us to move back. We left the herd, having successfully culled a number of cattle. Returning to the starting point, I saw that the other men had already begun cooking. The smell of roasting meat filled the air, mingling with the earthy scent of the camp.
We brought the meat to the fire, and Kara and his men showed me how to properly process the cattle. I noticed their preference for using every part of the animal, particularly the offal. They explained that offal was easier to preserve and essential for survival in harsh conditions.
As night fell, we set up camp, and the men gathered around the fire. The warmth and camaraderie were comforting. In the morning, they resumed teaching me, this time focusing on horse archery. I was given the chance to use their bows, feeling the powerful draw of the weapon and the thrill of releasing the arrow while mounted.
It was in these moments, amid the shared effort and the practical lessons, that I felt a profound sense of belonging. The camaraderie of the group, the rhythmic pulse of our activities, and the feeling of contributing to something larger than myself were deeply fulfilling. For the first time in years, I felt as though I was part of a cohesive unit, finding my place in the midst of the chaos and learning what it truly meant to be part of this world.
Months of relentless training and travel had forged me into something more akin to a seasoned nomad. The routine was grueling but necessary. Each day, I was assigned multiple horses and tasked with delivering messages across the sprawling lands. These courier missions were monotonous and physically demanding, marked by long stretches of solitude and the constant care of the animals. The repetitive diet of meat, bread, and dairy had become a source of fatigue, wearing on my spirits.
One day, as I reached a bustling harbor on one such mission, I noticed a group of Turkish warriors based on their distinct sigils. With my horses in tow, I approached them, hoping to seek assistance or perhaps a brief respite. The warriors, however, were dismissive. They examined the horses, their scrutiny bordering on disdain, and then instructed me to leave, saying, "fuck off now."
Frustration bubbled up inside me. The incessant travel and the harsh treatment had frayed my patience. I retorted sharply, "Siktir doğru konuş," a phrase that translates roughly to "get lost, speak properly." One of the warriors looked at me, puzzled. "What did you say again?" he asked, his tone incredulous.
My irritation flared, and I shot back, "Kulağın da mı işitmez be ahmak?" which means "Are your ears deaf, you fool?" The guard, taken aback by my audacity, moved towards me with an aggressive stance. In that split second, I felt the cold steel of the blade Kara had given me--my only weapon--press against the guard's neck. His shock was palpable.
Before the situation could escalate further, another guard drew his sword and advanced towards me. The threat of an impending conflict loomed large, but just as uncertainty gripped me, I heard Kara's familiar laugh echoing from a distance. His laughter was unexpectedly reassuring, and it cut through the tension. "You're quick-tempered like a Turk now," Kara called out, his tone lighthearted despite the seriousness of the moment.
The guard, now recognizing Kara, immediately shifted his stance. He pushed me away with a gesture of deference and took up a more respectful posture, saluting Kara. The change in demeanor was instantaneous; the guards were clearly taken aback by Kara's presence, and their confusion deepened upon recognizing the connection between us. They promptly apologized, their respect for Kara's authority evident in their response.
As Kara led me away, the guard muttered, "Why act like a peasant? You should have announced who you were." I offered a brief apology, though it was clear that the misunderstanding was more a matter of protocol than offense. I said sorry. Kara, with a knowing smile, said, "Don't be," and reassured me, guiding me towards a grand ship docked at the harbor--a vessel far larger and more imposing than any I had seen before.