The Storm Before the Civil War
In the shadowed halls of borderlands, tension simmered like a cauldron on the brink of boiling over. The death of Timurtas, the legendary Wolf King, had left a vacuum of power, and the realm was on the precipice of a civil war that could tear it apart.On one side stood the forces of tradition and old Tengrist beliefs, rallying behind Kutay, the rightful heir to the throne. Kutay, fueled by ambition and a desire to restore what he saw as the true path of the Göktürks, had drawn to his cause the old guard--those who had never fully accepted the reforms of Ashina and the new Tengrist ways that had emerged under Timurtas. These warriors and shamans, hardened by years of service and steeped in the ancient traditions, saw in Kutay a leader who could return them to the days of conquest and glory, untainted by the political machinations and alliances that had softened their empire.Kutay's vision was clear: to reclaim the throne, purge the influence of Ashina's reformed Tengriism, and restore the warrior code that had once made their people feared across the world. He was not without support; his charisma and lineage drew many to his side, especially those disillusioned with the current state of the empire. But his ambition was as dangerous as it was inspiring, and his plans were already setting the stage for a conflict that would shake Turk-il to its very core.On the other side stood Kara, the formidable warrior with a brutal past, former Marshal Kılıj, and the enigmatic Wolfram Cengiz, a figure who had been thrust into the heart of Turk-il's political storm. Kara, who had served both Turkic and Hunnic armies, embodied the new warrior spirit, a blend of old and new, unafraid to forge a path forward even if it meant breaking with some of the traditions of the past. He was a man who respected strength but also understood the necessity of adaptation, a lesson learned through years of battle and service under Timurtas.Kılıj, the former Marshal, was a man of honor and duty, a commander who had seen the empire through its greatest challenges and knew the cost of war. His loyalty to Timurtas and the reforms of Ashina was unwavering, and he viewed Kutay's ambitions with a wary eye. To him, Kutay represented a step backward, a return to the chaos and bloodshed that had once threatened to consume their people.And then there was Wolfram Cengiz, a man caught between worlds--half Göktürk, half Holy Roman, and heir to a legacy he was only beginning to understand. Marked by his time with Kara and forged in the fires of Turk-il's political intrigue, Wolfram was a wild card, a young man with the potential to shape the future of the empire in ways no one could predict. His presence alone was enough to unsettle the balance, as both sides recognized in him a possible heir to Timurtas's vision, or a pawn to be used in their own schemes.The realm was on edge, the air thick with the sense of impending conflict. Whispers of betrayal and conspiracy spread through the courts and camps like wildfire, as both sides prepared for the inevitable clash. The tension between the forces of Kutay and the loyalists to Timurtas's legacy was palpable, a prelude to the civil war that loomed on the horizon.As the factions solidified, the lines were drawn not just by blood or tradition, but by the visions of what Turk-il could become. The question of who would sit on the throne was no longer just a matter of succession--it was a battle for the soul of the empire, a struggle between the old ways and the new, between the past and the future.And as both sides prepared for the storm that was coming, the only certainty was that Turk-il would never be the same again.
The Gathering Storm: Kutay's March to Oghuz-il
Kutay rode with a singular purpose, his eyes set on the capital of Türk-il, the ancient city once known as Oghuz-il. The weight of tradition pressed heavily upon him, for it was an unspoken rule that all commanders must ride to the capital to select a new ruler. The journey was not just a march—it was a statement of intent, a declaration that the time had come to reclaim the throne and restore the empire to its rightful path. Behind him rode his loyal followers, a force that had grown with each passing mile, swelling with warriors eager to see the old ways reinstated.
As Kutay advanced, the atmosphere in Constantinople was anything but calm. The festival that had brought the city to life had quickly turned into a source of tension. Timurtas's unexpected death had left a vacuum that no one was ready to fill, and the city's leadership was paralyzed by indecision. Kılıj, the former Marshal and a man deeply loyal to Timurtas's legacy, found himself in a difficult position. He was the commander of 40,000 men, a force powerful enough to control Constantinople, but staying in the city would be seen as an act of rebellion. Yet leaving for Oghuz-il would mean abandoning the city to chaos.
Kılıj knew that he had to act swiftly, but he also needed counsel. The news of Kutay's march to the capital only added to his worries. Kutay was a man with a clear vision—one that did not align with the future Kılıj had in mind for Turk-il. The stakes were high, and the choices he made in the coming days would determine the fate of the empire.
As tensions mounted, Kılıj received an unexpected message. Kara, the shadowy warrior known for his ruthless efficiency and vast network of contacts, had requested a secret meeting. Kara was not a man who made such requests lightly. His reputation as the one you called upon for silent or dirty work was well-known, and his connections stretched across the empire, though he went by different names in each realm. Kılıj knew that if anyone could navigate the murky waters of the current crisis, it was Kara.
The city of Constantinople was on high alert. The streets, once filled with festival-goers, were now tense with the presence of soldiers and guards. Nobles and royals who had gathered for the festival were being escorted to the harbor, a precautionary measure to reduce chaos in case the situation worsened. Kılıj's mind raced as he considered his options. The empire was at a crossroads, and the decisions made in the next few days would shape its future for generations to come.
He had no choice but to meet with Kara. The situation demanded it. He needed to understand the full scope of the threats facing the empire, and Kara was the only one who could provide the information he needed. But Kılıj also knew that meeting with Kara meant delving into the darker side of politics, a world of secrets and shadows where trust was a rare commodity.
As he prepared for the meeting, Kılıj couldn't shake the feeling that the empire was on the brink of something terrible. Kutay's march to Oghuz-il was not just about claiming the throne—it was a call to arms, a rallying cry for those who believed in the old ways. And with each step Kutay took, the likelihood of civil war grew ever closer.
Kılıj had to act, and he had to act now. The fate of Türk-il hung in the balance, and the storm was fast approaching.
The Meeting in the Shadows
The night was thick with tension as Kılıj made his way to the secluded meeting point. The moon was a mere sliver in the sky, offering little light to the darkened streets of Constantinople. He was on edge, every rustle of leaves and distant footfall setting his nerves on fire. The events of the past days weighed heavily on his mind—Timurtas's death, the looming threat of civil war, and the unsettling presence of Kutay.
As Kılıj reached the agreed location, a deserted courtyard hidden away from prying eyes, he couldn't shake the guilt that gnawed at him. He hadn't been there when Kutay challenged Timurtas, hadn't stood by the old man's side when he needed him most. Instead, he had been overseeing the city's security, ensuring the safety of the festival's attendees, blissfully unaware of the treachery unfolding within the council.
He scanned the shadows, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Kara was late, and that only made Kılıj more anxious. His doubts about Kara's loyalty surfaced again. Kutay had always been a dangerous man, ambitious and ruthless. Kılıj couldn't help but wonder if Kara, despite his disdain for Kutay, was somehow complicit in the plot against Timurtas. After all, Kara's loyalties were as shadowy as his methods.
Suddenly, a figure emerged from the darkness. Kara, with his usual air of nonchalance, approached, his face partially obscured by the hood of his cloak. Despite his casual demeanor, there was a sharpness in Kara's eyes that Kılıj didn't miss.
"You're late," Kılıj said, his voice edged with irritation.
Kara smirked, "I'm here, aren't I? You should be more worried about the wolves circling the throne, not a few minutes of my time."
Kılıj took a deep breath, steadying himself. "Do you have anything to do with this, Kara? Did you know Kutay would strike against Timurtas?"
Kara's smirk faded, replaced by a more serious expression. "I don't like Kutay, Kılıj. He's a sadistic bastard, and that's putting it kindly. But…" Kara hesitated, searching for the right words, "he represents a return to what we were—warriors, conquerors, men who took what they wanted and held onto it with blood and iron. He's what the old ways demand, but I'm not blind. The man's not fit to rule. Not with the madness in his eyes."
Kılıj frowned. "So you support him, even knowing what he is?"
Kara shrugged, a shadow of conflict passing over his features. "I support the vision, not the man. We've grown soft, Kılıj. You know it as well as I do. Festivals, politics, alliances… Timurtas was a legend, but even he was steering us towards something we're not. Kutay… he's a warrior, but not a leader. He's everything the old ways want, but everything this realm doesn't need."
Kılıj nodded slowly, understanding Kara's dilemma. "And what do you want, Kara? Do you want Kutay on the throne?"
Kara met Kılıj's gaze, his voice low and dangerous. "I want a Kagan who remembers that we are wolves, not sheep. But Kutay… if he takes the throne, he'll tear this empire apart. And that's something I can't allow, even if it means going against everything I've believed in."
There was a long silence between them, each man lost in his thoughts. Kılıj broke the silence, his voice heavy with the weight of his decision. "Kutay is on his way to Oghuz-il. If he gets there, the council will have no choice but to accept him. But if we move fast, we can stop him before he claims the throne."
Kara's eyes narrowed. "What's your plan?"
Kılıj tightened his grip on his sword. "We need to gather those loyal to Timurtas's vision, those who know that the future isn't in returning to the past but in adapting to the present. We stop Kutay on his way to the capital, and we ensure that the next ruler is someone who can lead this empire into the future, not drag it back into the dark."
Kara considered this, his mind racing. "And what of the boy, Wolfram? He's got potential, but he's not one of us."
Kılıj's expression softened. "Wolfram has been shaped by both worlds. He understands the strength of the past and the necessity of the future. With the right guidance, he could be the bridge we need."
Kara sighed, the weight of the situation pressing down on him. "If we do this, there's no turning back. The lines will be drawn, and there will be blood."
Kılıj nodded. "There's no other way."
Kara looked up at the night sky, the stars barely visible through the thick clouds. "Then let's hope Tengri's watching over us, because we're going to need all the help we can get."
The two men stood in the darkness, their resolve solidifying. The storm was coming, and they would be at its center, fighting not just for the throne but for the soul of the empire itself.
The Shadow Confrontation
Kılıj and Kara stood in the shadows, the weight of their discussion heavy between them. The air was thick with the tension of decisions yet to be made, and both men knew that the path they were about to take would change the fate of the empire.
But then, a rustling sound caught Kılıj's attention. His instincts flared, and his hand shot to the hilt of his sword. "Someone's there," he hissed, his voice low and sharp. Without hesitation, he whistled—a signal to alert Kara that they were being watched.
Kara turned around, his eyes narrowing as he tried to peer through the darkness. "That must be the pimple that's been growing up on my ass," he muttered with a smirk, referring to Wolfram in his usual joking manner. But before he could say anything more, Kılıj, ever the cautious warrior, pulled a throwing knife from his belt and flung it toward the shadow.
"Hey, stop!" Kara shouted, surprised by Kılıj's sudden action.
A metallic click rang out as the knife was deftly blocked. From the darkness, Wolfram emerged, the knife clutched in his hand, unharmed but clearly shaken. "Umm, I'm sorry, I just wanted to…" Wolfram began, his voice uncertain, trying to explain his presence.
Before he could finish, Kara's rough voice cut him off, laced with both frustration and a hint of relief. "You little bastard, you almost got yourself killed. Do you know who this man is?" His tone was scolding, but there was an underlying care, a reflection of the bond that had developed between them during their travels.
Kılıj, who had been ready to strike down an enemy, now found himself amused by the situation. The young man had shown some skill, even if it was just in defending himself. "Come, boy," Kılıj said, his voice now calmer, almost inviting. "Join us. I'd like to hear your opinion."
Wolfram hesitated, standing on the edge of the conversation, unsure of his place. Part of him longed for the simplicity of his former life, to return to Alamannia, to leave behind the chaos and the war that seemed inevitable. But another part, the part that had been forged in the fires of battle and hardened by the years spent with Kara and the nomads, felt a pull toward the unfolding events. There was a resolve within him, a desire to see how this would all play out, to understand the world he had been thrust into.
"I…" Wolfram began, searching for the right words. "I'm not sure where I stand in all this. Part of me wants to go back, to leave this war behind. But… another part of me knows I can't turn away now. I've come too far."
Kara grunted, a mix of approval and impatience in his voice. "There's no going back, boy. Not now. Not ever. You're in this, whether you like it or not."
Kılıj nodded, his eyes studying Wolfram. "You've seen enough to know that this is more than just a struggle for power. It's about the future of not only our people but your people back in Europe too. And like it or not, you have a part to play in that."
Wolfram looked between the two men, feeling the weight of their words. He knew that he was at a crossroads. His decisions here would shape not just his future, but the future of the entire empire. And as much as he longed for the simplicity of his old life, he couldn't deny the pull of destiny that seemed to be dragging him deeper into the heart of the storm.
With a deep breath, Wolfram nodded. "Alright. I'm in. What do we do now?"
Kara clapped him on the back, his usual roughness tempered with a hint of pride. "Now, we prepare, boy. We prepare for the fight of our lives."
The three of them stood together in the darkness, the weight of their decision settling over them like a shroud. The storm was coming, and they would face it together.
Kılıj, after a moment of contemplation, broke the silence. "We can't afford to stay in one place. If Kutay is on his way to the capital, he could seize control before we even get there. We need to split our forces."
Kara raised an eyebrow, his warrior instincts bristling at the thought of dividing their strength. "Split the army? You want to ride to the capital with half our men, leaving the rest to go after Kutay? That's a dangerous game, Marshal."
Kılıj nodded, his expression serious. "Dangerous, yes, but necessary. I'll take 20,000 of our best riders and make for Türk-il. The capital needs to know that we're still in control, that we won't let this empire fall into chaos. Meanwhile, Kara, you and Wolfram will lead the other 20,000 to intercept Kutay. Find him before he reaches the city. We can't let him gather support or rally more forces to his side."
Wolfram, still processing the gravity of the situation, looked between the two men. "But what if we fail? What if we can't stop him in time?"
Kara, ever the pragmatist, smirked. "Then we make sure he regrets ever trying. But don't worry, boy—we won't fail. We don't have the numbers, but we've got the element of surprise. Kutay won't know what hit him."
Kılıj placed a hand on Wolfram's shoulder, his gaze firm. "You've been thrown into the fire, Gengiz. This is your chance to prove yourself, to show that you're more than just a hostage, more than just a pawn in this game. Lead those men with Kara, find Kutay, and stop him. The future of this realm depends on it."
Wolfram took a deep breath, feeling the weight of responsibility settle over him. He had trained for this, been molded by years of hardship and tutelage under Kara. Now it was time to step into the role he had been preparing for, whether he was ready or not.
Kara gave him a reassuring nod, a rare moment of camaraderie. "We ride at first light. Get some rest, boy—you'll need it."
As the first light of dawn broke over the city, Kılıj stood before the assembled council in the grand hall of Constantinople. The tension in the room was palpable, the stakes clear to every man and woman present. Kılıj, his voice steady and commanding, addressed them with the authority of his rank.
"I shall ride back to Türk-il to convene the Kurultay at once," he began, his eyes sweeping over the council members. "But before I leave, as Marshal of this empire, I appoint Ilkay Khatun as regent in my absence. Her orders are my orders. Do you understand?"
A murmur of agreement spread through the hall, the council members bowing their heads in acknowledgment. Ilkay Khatun, standing tall beside Kılıj, radiated a calm authority that reassured those present. She nodded to Kılıj, her eyes meeting his with mutual respect and understanding.
Without further delay, Kılıj turned on his heel and marched out of the hall, his cloak billowing behind him. The city was already stirring with the early morning activities, but the atmosphere was tense. The sight of soldiers preparing to leave had not gone unnoticed by the populace, and a sense of urgency hung in the air.
At the city gates, Kılıj paused. The gates were flanked by two hooded figures, one of whom was unmistakably Kara, his towering frame making him easily recognizable even under the cloak. Kara gave Kılıj a gentle nod, a silent salute that spoke volumes about their mutual understanding and respect.
Kılıj acknowledged him with a nod of his own before turning to the other hooded figure—Wolfram Gengiz. The young man was less imposing than Kara, but there was a determination in his eyes that Kılıj couldn't help but respect.
With a final glance at the city, Kılıj mounted his horse. The gates creaked open, and the army began to move, a disciplined force of 18,000 men, leaving behind 2,000 to guard the city under Ilkay Khatun's command. As the column of soldiers marched out of Constantinople, Kılıj rode ahead, but he didn't have to wait long. A few miles out, as they left the city behind, he reined in his horse and waited.
With the plan set, the three men parted ways. Kılıj would ride to Türk-il with half the army, while Kara and Wolfram would take the remaining 20,000 men to hunt down Kutay. The stakes had never been higher, and the fate of the empire now rested on their shoulders.
As Kılıj met Kara and Wolfram Gengiz just outside the city, he dismounted his horse, signaling his Tümen leader to approach. The seasoned warrior came forward, who approached with Kılıj's 16-year-old son, Batun, by his side. Kılıj looked at Kara with a serious expression and spoke with the authority that only years of command could give, "You shall gather the rest of the Tümen and move swiftly to catch Kutay. My son, Batun, will go with you. The fate of our people rests on our speed and precision. Do not falter."
The Tümen leader nodded solemnly, understanding the gravity of the task. His son, Batun, looked on with a mixture of determination and youthful eagerness. After a brief exchange, Kılıj mounted his horse once more and rode off with his contingent, leaving the trio behind.
As the dust from Kılıj's departure settled, Kara glanced at the Tümen leader, then at Wolfram and Batun. He let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head as he muttered, "I'm a total babysitter now."
Wolfram, feeling a rare moment of lightness amidst the tension, smirked and said, "Oh yes, Kara the mighty babysitter."
Kara's eyes narrowed, his expression a mix of irritation and amusement. "It's bebek bakıcısı, not babysitter, you language-mangling barbarian," he snapped, correcting Wolfram's Turkish grammar with the intent to annoy him.
Wolfram chuckled, pleased with himself for getting under Kara's skin. The two shared a brief moment of camaraderie, a rarity in their otherwise tense relationship. Batun, sensing the humor in the exchange, smiled quietly, while the Tümen leader simply shook his head, accustomed to the dynamic between the two.
With their orders clear, the small group spurred their horses forward, heading out to gather the rest of the army. As they rode, the banter between Kara and Wolfram continued, lightening the heavy burden they all bore. The road ahead was uncertain, and the stakes were higher than ever, but for now, they found strength in each other's company as they prepared for the challenges to come.
As they rode back, Kara and the Tümen leader fell into a conversation. Kara, squinting at the Tümen leader, finally spoke up, "So you must be Altay, huh?"
The Tümen leader responded respectfully, "Chagatai, beyim."
Kara furrowed his brow, clearly puzzled. "Yes, that's what I'm saying—Altay."
The Tümen leader looked slightly exasperated but kept his tone respectful. "No, my lord, it's Chagatai."
Kara's confusion deepened. "Chagatai? Altay? What kind of name is this? You people need simpler names!"
The back-and-forth continued, with Kara stubbornly sticking to his pronunciation while Chagatai patiently tried to correct him. Their exchange became increasingly absurd, with each trying to outdo the other in pronouncing the name correctly—or incorrectly, in Kara's case.
Wolfram, riding alongside them, couldn't help but grin. He usually found himself on the receiving end of Kara's teasing and corrections, but this time, he was more than happy to sit back and enjoy the show. The sight of Kara, normally so imposing and serious, getting flustered over a simple name was a rare and amusing spectacle. The light-hearted dispute served as a brief, welcome distraction from the heavy responsibility they all bore as they continued their journey.
As they continued their journey, Kara glanced around the landscape, scanning for any signs of movement. "We have to find the Jaghuns," he muttered. "They must be pasturing the horses nearby."
Wolfram, intrigued by the unfamiliar term, turned to Kara. "Jaghuns? What are those?"
Kara smirked, realizing this was another chance to impart some knowledge. "Jaghuns, boy, are units in our army. The Turks have used this system for centuries. It's a part of our decimal military structure."
Chagatai, eager to contribute, chimed in. "You see, Wolfram, the Turkish military is organized into units of ten. A 'Jagun' is a unit of ten soldiers. Ten Jaghuns make a 'Mingghan,' which is a hundred soldiers. And ten Mingghans make a 'Tümen,' a unit of ten thousand soldiers."
Wolfram nodded, trying to keep up. "So, the Tümen leader," he gestured toward Chagatai, "commands ten thousand men?"
"Exactly," Chagatai confirmed. "But it's more than just numbers. The system allows us to be incredibly flexible and efficient on the battlefield. Each unit can operate independently or as part of a larger force, making it easier to manage and deploy troops."
Kara, always one to add his perspective, grinned and added, "It's how we keep discipline and order, even when things get chaotic. Everyone knows their place, their role. And when the time comes, they move like clockwork. It's why our armies have been feared for so long."
Wolfram absorbed the information, fascinated by the military precision and organization behind the Turkish forces. "It's impressive," he admitted. "I've never seen anything like it."
Chagatai nodded proudly. "It's a system that's stood the test of time. And it's what keeps us strong, even when we're outnumbered."
Kara, with a hint of pride in his voice, added, "And now you're a part of it, Wolfram. So pay attention, learn quickly, and maybe you'll survive to see another battle."
The discussion about the Turkish military structure not only satisfied Wolfram's curiosity but also deepened his respect for the disciplined and strategic minds of the warriors he was now riding with.
Wolfram, recalling something he had read in old Christian records, said, "I once read in a parchment that the nomadic armies were vast, outnumbering the armies of the West by a large margin."
Kara couldn't help but burst into laughter. "Outnumbered, huh? That's what they say when they can't handle the speed of our archers or the maneuver of our horses. Makes a man shit himself just thinking about it!"
Chagatai, ever the one to provide a more formal explanation, nodded thoughtfully. "It's not about numbers, Beyim," he said. "It's about tactics. Our armies send waves of men who shoot arrows from a distance, then fall back to regroup. We bathe our enemies in arrows, never giving them a chance to close in. That's why they think our numbers are overwhelming. But let me tell you, our armies aren't bigger than 100,000. And we never stay in one place, moving as a single mass. We split, fight different battles, and defeat larger forces with smaller, more agile units. Those men didn't lose because they were outnumbered—they lost because they were outclassed."
Kara, never one to miss a chance to tease, grinned widely and added, "Burnnnn! Haha!"
Wolfram chuckled at Kara's boisterous response, while Chagatai just shook his head, a small smile on his face. The camaraderie between the three men was palpable, each bringing their unique perspective to the conversation, with Kara's humor and Chagatai's wisdom balancing out the seriousness of the discussion.
The group rode on, their horses' hooves beating a steady rhythm against the ground. Batun had been quiet throughout most of the conversation, though he couldn't help but smile at some of the banter. Kara, noticing his silence, decided to break it in his usual blunt manner.
"So, Batun," Kara said, grinning wickedly, "do you like men or something? You've been awfully quiet back there."
Batun's face turned a deep shade of red. "No, of course not! Who said that? I'm not a sinner like that!" he stammered, clearly flustered.
Kara chuckled, enjoying the young man's embarrassment. "Oh, don't say that, little man. It's no longer a crime to have such thoughts, thanks to our mother Ashina."
Chagatai chimed in with a smirk, "You can curse at them all you want, but you can't shoo them away or put them on trial for such things anymore, at least not in the big cities."
Kara, never one to let up, leaned closer to Batun. "So, if you don't like men, what kind of women do you fancy, then?"
Batun shifted uncomfortably in his saddle, clearly out of his depth. "I… I don't know what I'm supposed to say exactly," he muttered, wishing the ground would swallow him up.
Kara burst out laughing. "I'm sure you like Christian women, huh? Maybe our lord commander Wolfram Cengiz here can find us some good-looking Christian maidens."
Wolfram, seizing the opportunity for a retort, said with a grin, "I'm sorry, but I'm pretty sure most Christian women think of you as the Deggial, especially the royal ones. You've got a bad reputation back in the Christian communities, my friend."
Kara's jovial expression darkened. "What are you talking about? I was only following orders!" he snapped, the humor momentarily drained from his voice.
An awkward silence fell over the group, the tension palpable as they all processed the exchange. Wolfram and the others exchanged glances, uncertain of how to break the sudden tension.
But Kara, ever the resilient one, shrugged off the discomfort and continued as if nothing had happened. "It's best to marry and make many children at an early age, Batun. Don't look at this guy," he said, jerking a thumb at Wolfram. "He's a bit soft on the inside, you know."
Wolfram, not one to let a jab go unanswered, smirked and replied, "At least I'm not mistaken for a bear and shot before."
Kara's face flushed with irritation. "I told you many times how that happened, you fool rat! I'm not telling you anything ever again."
The group burst into laughter, the tension of the previous moment evaporating into the cool air. Even Batun managed a laugh, his earlier embarrassment forgotten as they continued on their journey.
As the group continued their ride, they spotted a few horse riders in the distance. Kara's eyes narrowed with recognition. "Finally, we've found the onluk," he muttered, referring to the ten-man unit of riders.
Chagatai, ever the sharpshooter, nocked a whistle arrow—its large head designed to emit a high-pitched sound when released. He drew back his bow and let it fly. The arrow whistled through the air, a sharp, haunting sound that echoed across the landscape, signaling the distant riders to their presence.
As they approached, the riders quickly closed the distance. Kara greeted them with a commanding tone, "Gün kutlu olsun, adaşlar"—a blessing for the day.
He then produced the sigil of Kılıj, holding it high for the riders to see. "Gather your men and send word to the others. Meet us in Edrinabolu as soon as possible. Send out the word now."
The men nodded, acknowledging the urgency. "Sure, beyim. Any news from the capital?" one of them dared to ask.
Before Chagatai could answer, Kara cut him off. "There's no time to talk. Just do as I say, at once!"
Chagatai then spoke up, "I should head west and gather some regiments there. You should ride toward Edrinabolu."
Kara agreed and turned to Batun, giving him a direct order. "You head south and gather riders there. Ride non-stop. On the way if you need to change your horse tell them you're delivering an important message to the Kagan and show them the sigil. If anyone refuses to give you a horse or food, you have the right to take their life."
Chagatai, sensing the tension, tried to ease it. "I don't think that will be necessary, Batun. Just tell them Chagatai sent you. They're loyal to me."
With their orders given, the group split up, leaving Wolfram and Kara alone once more.
As they rode in silence, Kara's thoughts seemed to weigh heavily on him. Finally, he broke the silence, his voice tinged with frustration. "I don't understand why Kılıj did such a thing. Doesn't he trust us?"
Wolfram, surprised by the sudden shift in Kara's demeanor, asked, "Why do you say that?"
Kara grunted, his mind clearly preoccupied. "Sending his son with us… if things go wrong, he has a reason to press charges on us. He could claim that I kidnapped his son, blackmailing him to disobey Kutay. Or maybe… maybe he just wants his son to get some experience. I don't know. My mind is clouded—I need to rest. Let's camp soon."
Wolfram nodded, sensing the weight of Kara's thoughts. The day had been long, and the path ahead was uncertain. As they prepared to set up camp, Wolfram couldn't shake the feeling that the tension between them
Near Edrinabolu
The next morning, Kara and Wolfram rode into a small city near Edrinabolu and found a modest tavern. It was the kind of place where travelers could blend in with the locals, where news and gossip were exchanged as freely as the ale.
Kara and Wolfram took a seat in a dim corner of the tavern. As they settled in, Kara leaned in close, his voice low and cautious. "We don't know if the word has spread yet."
Wolfram, still a bit groggy from the early start, looked at him, confused. "What news?"
Kara's eyes flicked around the room, scanning for anyone who might be listening. "If they learn about Timurtas's demise, they might become disobedient. So we have to be cautious. Don't forget, we're using these papers," he said, tapping the folded papers with the sigil of Türk-il, "to exchange for food and supplies. Without the Khaganate's backing, this is worthless. And we don't have enough gold with us to pay for everything we need."
Wolfram nodded, understanding the gravity of the situation. The papers with the Khaganate's seal were their only means of securing the resources they needed without causing suspicion. But if the news of Timurtas's death reached the wrong ears, those papers would be nothing more than scraps of parchment.
The two of them sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their mission pressing down on them. They had to be careful—every move they made from here on out could mean the difference between success and disaster.
Kara took a long drink from his cup and then met Wolfram's gaze. "Remember, keep your eyes and ears open. We can't afford any mistakes."
Wolfram nodded again, the seriousness of their task settling heavily on his shoulders. They were far from the safety of the capital, and the road ahead was fraught with uncertainty. But they had a job to do, and they would see it through, no matter the cost.
As Kara and Wolfram sat in the dimly lit corner of the tavern, the door creaked open, and a group of men entered. Their presence immediately shifted the atmosphere in the room. These were no ordinary travelers; they were warriors, dressed finely with an air of authority, their faces stern and recognizable. The room fell silent as the men scanned the tavern, their eyes sharp, missing nothing.
One of them stepped forward, his voice loud and commanding. "Our Divine Kagan Timurtas has passed away. We carry the voice of his rightful heir, Kutay. You shall not panic or try anything foolish, for nothing has changed for you. Kutay Khan is already seated and crowned as we speak."
Kara and Wolfram exchanged a quick glance. The proclamation was bold, too bold. Wolfram leaned in closer to Kara, his voice barely a whisper. "They're lying," he said, his eyes narrowing as he assessed the situation.
Kara, ever the seasoned warrior, kept his expression neutral, though his eyes flickered with understanding. He whispered back, "They're maintaining order."
The tension in the room was palpable as the men continued their announcement, trying to solidify Kutay's claim before the truth could unravel. Wolfram and Kara knew that the real power struggle was only just beginning, and these men were trying to control the narrative before it spiraled out of their grasp.
The air in the tavern grew tense as the finely dressed warriors made their way towards Kara and Wolfram. Kara, nearly two meters tall and built like a fortress, continued to chew his pastırma, seemingly unbothered by their approach. Wolfram, a bit shorter but still imposing with his long blonde hair tied back and a beard that spoke of his Norse heritage, subtly shifted his stance, ready for anything. His eyes remained vigilant as he watched the four men close in.
One of the warriors, clearly the leader, removed his helmet, revealing a familiar face. A smirk played on his lips as he spoke, "Well, well, well, if it isn't Kara, the giant Altai bear."
Kara didn't immediately respond. Instead, he took his time, finishing his bite of pastırma, then casually reached for his Ayran. The warriors stood there, waiting, as Kara drank leisurely, savoring every drop. When he was done, he set the cup down with a deliberate thud, then let out a loud burp, echoing through the silent tavern. Finally, he looked up, his gaze locking onto the leader's.
"And you, my friend," Kara said with a lazy grin, "look just like an old friend who didn't care much for such decorated weapons and armor."
As the words hung in the air, Wolfram's mind raced, and then it clicked. He recognized the face before them. It was one of the men they had encountered during their herding practice, the same group that had given them a sense of where Kutay might be. The realization settled in—these men were closer to Kutay than they had let on. The distance they had covered in such a short time was a clue that Kutay couldn't be far.
The tension between the two groups was palpable, as if a single wrong move could ignite a firestorm. But Kara, ever the master of the situation, remained calm and collected, his words carefully chosen to keep the balance, all while silently gathering the information they needed.
The leader of the group, Rustem, sat down confidently at the table, his demeanor smug as he displayed his newly adorned gear. "These," he said, motioning to his ornate armor and weapons, "are mere gifts from Kutay, our Khagan. This," he added with a sly grin, "is nothing compared to what he must have gifted you."
Kara, unfazed by Rustem's bravado, raised an eyebrow. "Kaan? Last I heard, he was near the borders of Leh. How in the god's name did he fly all the way to Türk-il and become Khagan? Tell me, Rustem, how does that happen?"
Rustem, momentarily taken aback by Kara's odd questioning, quickly recovered. "Well, there's no doubt he will be crowned. What does it matter to you when it happens? He was his majesty's favorite and has been trained for this moment with patience for fifty years."
Kara leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he studied Rustem. "Do you know why he was sent so far away? He challenged Timurtas himself and was punished for it. And now, after that, he's suddenly here, crowned as Khagan, while Timurtas is killed during the festival? Don't you think it's a bit odd?"
Rustem shifted slightly in his seat but maintained his composure. "Well, of course, it's a bit strange. I even heard rumors that Kutay managed to wound Timurtas. Can you imagine? Fighting the old wolf and living to tell the tale. Kutay must be chosen by Tengri. And besides," he added, his tone more serious, "there is no other option. He's the only one left."
Kara let out a low chuckle, his eyes cold as he regarded Rustem. "So that's what you believe? That Kutay, the man who challenged the old wolf and lost, is chosen by Tengri? And that all this... is simply the natural order of things?"
Rustem nodded, though with less confidence than before. "Yes, there is no other choice. He's the rightful heir, and we must support him."
Kara's expression darkened, and for a moment, there was a silence that felt as heavy as a storm about to break. Wolfram watched the exchange, sensing the tension between the two men, each word a potential spark to the powder keg of the situation.
Kara leaned forward, his eyes narrowing as he spoke with a voice that was both challenging and laced with disdain. "There are 400 living members of the House of Kayı. Surely, others' claims must be heard."
Rustem, unfazed, smirked and leaned back in his chair. "Oh, if we're doing things the old way, then let's stick to it, shall we? I know you would love that, Kara. But Kutay—he has the spirit of Attila." Rustem's reference was pointed, drawing on the great conflict between Timur the First and Attila, two Hunnic warriors whose civil war nearly tore the realm apart centuries ago. "But tell me, Kara, why are you lingering in this remote town with your steward? Surely, you should be riding to Türk-il. After all, you carry all the deep knowledge of the underworld and politics. You should be beside our Khagan."
There was a pause as Rustem's eyes gleamed with suspicion. "Or are you questioning your loyalty to the crown? As you know, there won't be any civil war again like centuries ago. We won't let that happen. Everything is under control."
Kara's jaw tightened, his anger barely contained. "Is that why you cut your hair like that? To look like a Hunnic rider, with that beard and hair? If there's no ongoing threat to the realm, why do you dress as if you're ready for battle?"
Rustem's confidence wavered, and he stammered, "Surely no, no, surely Kara 'the bear' isn't dismissive of the warmonger Hun?"
Kara's eyes blazed with a fierce intensity as he leaned in close to Rustem, his voice dropping to a menacing growl. "Don't take me for some simple-minded brute, Rustem. I know your game, and if you think riding on Attila's ghost will keep you safe, you're dumber than I thought. This realm's a tinderbox, and if you keep poking around, you might just find out how fast everything can go up in flames—starting with you."
After this heated exchange, Rustem stood up, trying to diffuse the tension. "There's no need for this, Kara. We're allies, after all. I'll take my pardon and leave."
Kara, sensing Rustem was slipping away and not wanting to let him off so easily, smirked and leaned back in his chair. "Big bear could use some change, Nöker," he said, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Since you're blessed by Tengri's favorite, how about sharing a few coins before you depart?"
The question hung in the air, half-joking, half-threatening, a reminder that even allies had their own ways of balancing the scales.
As Rustem stopped in his tracks, hesitating for a brief moment, he turned back toward Kara and Wolfram. "Yes, of course," he muttered, approaching them with a forced smile. Kara, sensing the tension thickening in the air, leaned closer to Wolfram and whispered, "He's going to rat on us. We can't let him leave." Wolfram felt a rush of adrenaline flood his system, his heart pounding in his chest. *Do I need to pee, or is this just the excitement?* he wondered, trying to steady his breathing.Rustem reached into his pouch, his fingers fumbling for some coins to offer, but before he could retrieve them, Kara's hand shot out, gripping Rustem's wrist with iron force. He yanked Rustem close, their faces inches apart. "Surely you don't mean to treat me like a beggar," Kara growled, his voice low and menacing as he pulled the entire pouch from
Rustem's grasp. Rustem's face flushed with humiliation as he stepped back, stammering, "I didn't believe the rumors at first… but it turns out they're right about you."Kara's eyes darkened, curiosity and anger mingling in his gaze. "You are indeed Deccal," Rustem spat, his voice trembling with disdain.Wolfram's eyes darted to Kara, eager to gauge his reaction. Kara, calm and calculating, let the pouch slip from his fingers, the coins clattering to the floor in a discordant symphony. Rising to his full height, Kara loomed over Rustem, who instinctively reached for his dagger, his hands trembling slightly. The tension in the room was palpable, every breath held in suspense.One of the other guards opened the door, shouting, "Lan gelin, gelin!" summoning help. The tavern's patrons, sensing the imminent danger, quickly moved toward the other exit, eager to avoid the brewing storm.Kara stood just inches away from Rustem, his presence imposing and unyielding. Rustem's grip tightened on his dagger, the blade trembling in his hand. More riders burst into the tavern, their faces twisted in confusion as they tried to make sense of the escalating confrontation. 2 riders tried to de-escalate situation tried to walk towards them and then Wolfram, sensing the tension reaching its peak, instinctively drew his sword. The other men, following suit, unsheathed their weapons, shouting, "hey hey, what's happening, Kara?" The standoff teetered on the edge of violence, the room charged with the anticipation of bloodshed.Kara, with a commanding voice, ordered Wolfram, "Put your sword down." Then, with a swift, calculated motion, he tore open Rustem's tunic, revealing a cross necklace gleaming against his chest. The sight was a shock to Kara, who realized that these nomads had forsaken their heritage and converted to Christianity. Disgust flashed across Kara's face as he spat, "I deal no business with infidels."
He turned away, reaching for his bag as if to leave, his movements deliberate and measured.But then, with a sudden, lethal grace, Kara grabbed his decorated Dane axe. In one fluid motion, he swung it with the precision of a seasoned warrior, the blade slicing through the throats of two men, their bodies collapsing to the floor in a lifeless heap. Without missing a beat, Kara pivoted and brought the axe down onto the skull of a third man, the blade embedding deep into the bone with a sickening crunch. Rustem, eyes wide with horror and disbelief, screamed, "You traitor! You will die!" and charged at Kara, his voice a mix of fury and desperation.Kara, calm and composed, pulled his bare knuckles, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "Let me send you to the heavens, boy!" he taunted, his voice dripping with menace.Before Rustem could reach to Kara, an arrow whistled through the air, burying itself into his leg, Rustem fell to his knees, Gengiz kept shooting more arrows , his strength ebbingawayas Rustem cried out, "Enough, enough!" Wolfram, hands shaking, had loosed another arrow, his face pale as he realized what he had done. Kara, seeing the severity of the situation, yanked his axe from the third man's skull and, with grim finality, ended Rustem's suffering with a final, brutal blow.Kara looked up at the sky, his expression somber as he whispered, "Tengri Türkü korusun," his voice heavy with sorrow. Wolfram, still reeling from the violence, felt the weight of his actions bearing down on him. His bow slipped from his fingers, his fighting spirit drained. The men who had once shared their food and stories with him now lay dead at his feet, their blood staining the wooden floor.Kara, his face set in a grim mask, grabbed Wolfram by the arm, pulling him toward the door. "We're leaving now. Contain yourself," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. After the chaos, when the dust settled and the bodies lay cooling on the floor, Kara had paused at the door, his heavy footfalls echoing in the now-silent tavern. Scooping up the money pouch and whatever else he could carry, He turned to the tavern keeper, who was still crouched behind the counter, eyes wide with shock. Kara approached the old man, towering over him. For a moment, the tavern keeper feared he might be the next to fall under the axe's blade. But instead, Kara reached into his bloody pouch and tossed a few coins onto the counter. "Clean this mess up," he ordered, his voice low and gruff.
The tavern keeper nodded frantically, snatching up the coins with trembling hands. "Of course, sir," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'll take care of it."
Kara leaned in closer, his gaze piercing. "And you didn't see which way we went, understand or deccal will pay a visit to your town with more deccals with him understand?",
The old man swallowed hard, nodding again. "I understand," he muttered, his eyes glued to the floor.
With a final, menacing look, Kara turned and left the tavern, pulling the dazed Wolfram along with him.
Kara dragged Wolfram with him, their footsteps echoing through the silent, blood-soaked tavern. "We're so fucked now, Cengiz," Kara muttered under his breath.
"We drew the first blood, but we had no choice. They were going to rat us out.
"Wolfram, his mind scattered and unfocused, barely registered Kara's words. He felt as though he was trapped in a dream, the world around him slipping away.
Frustrated by Wolfram's dazed state, Kara slapped him hard across the face, the sharp sting jolting Wolfram back to reality. "Shouldn't we deal with the bodies?" Wolfram asked, his voice weak and uncertain."There's no time," Kara snapped. Just as they were about to mount their horses, a commoner who heard the commotion, his face a mask of shock and horror as he screamed, "What happened here?" Kara, thinking quickly, picked up the banner of the fallen horsemen and carried it as if it were his own. "There was a skirmish," he lied smoothly. "We'll find those responsible," he added, mounting his horse with practiced ease.As they rode off, Wolfram couldn't shake the feeling of dread that gnawed at his insides. "Do you think this will work?" he asked, his voice tinged with doubt.Kara, his expression dark and resigned, replied, "Worst case, they'll say Deccal passed through here." He was saddened by the bloodshed but knew they had no other choice. They had crossed a line, and there was no turning back. The night was thick with tension as they sped away, leaving behind a trail of death and deception.
As they rode through the darkened forest toward the meeting point, the tension from the earlier encounter still lingered in the air. Wolfram, his mind racing with thoughts of what had just transpired, couldn't help but glance at Kara, who seemed unbothered by the bloodshed they had left behind. Yet, despite Kara's stoic demeanor, there was an undercurrent of sadness in his voice when he finally spoke.
"They sold their faith for a handful of coins," Kara muttered, more to himself than to Wolfram. "Sellsword Turkish tribes... they disgust me. They've forgotten what it means to be worthy of Tengri's blessing, trading their honor for gold. It's not the killing that weighs on me, Cengiz—it's the betrayal of our very essence, our divine purpose."
Wolfram, still shaken by the events in the tavern, listened intently. He had always known Kara to be a man of fierce conviction, but hearing this side of him—the disappointment, the disdain for those who had turned away from their heritage—was new.
"They're unworthy of the divine," Kara continued, his voice tinged with bitterness. "They've lost their way, corrupted by the lure of easy wealth. It's men like them who weaken our people, who make us vulnerable. They dishonor our ancestors, the warriors who bled and died for something greater than themselves."
Wolfram nodded, understanding the weight of Kara's words. The bloodshed back at the tavern had been brutal, but it wasn't just about survival—it was about preserving something sacred, something that had been tarnished by those who had lost their way.
As they rode on, the silence between them was heavy with unspoken thoughts. Wolfram could feel the intensity of Kara's convictions, the deep-rooted belief that their purpose was not just to fight, but to uphold a legacy that had been passed down through generations. It wasn't just about being warriors; it was about being custodians of a divine mission, one that was threatened by those who had forsaken their true path.
Kara's words lingered in Wolfram's mind as they neared their destination. The world around them was changing, and they would have to navigate these treacherous waters with more than just strength—they would need conviction, faith, and an unwavering sense of purpose.
Civil War Part 2
As they rode on, Kara's voice cut through the night, heavy with the weight of realization. "These men… they were Kıpçaks," he said, a mixture of disappointment and anger in his tone. "I've heard whispers that some minor groups sold their swords to the Romans, but I never imagined the numbers had grown this large."
Wolfram glanced at Kara, noting the deep furrow in his brow, a rare sign of concern on the face of the usually unshakable warrior. Kara continued, his voice low and serious, "This is the old way—fighting amongst ourselves, great warriors consuming each other instead of uniting as a firm fist. It's the path of destruction, the way of those who have forgotten our true purpose."
He spat on the ground, a gesture of contempt. "If these men were bought by Kutay, it means he's gathering more than just swords. He's collecting the loyalty of those who care only for gold, not for honor or tradition. This is dangerous, Cengiz. It means that on his way to Türk-il, Kutay has likely bought many others as well. We must be extra cautious now."
Wolfram felt a chill run down his spine. The thought of Kutay, a man who had already shown his willingness to betray and manipulate, gathering such forces was unsettling. Kara's words painted a picture of a realm on the brink, where old rivalries and the greed of men could lead to a civil war that would tear their world apart.
"We can't trust anyone," Kara added, his voice hardening with resolve. "Not even those who share our blood. From now on, every move must be calculated, every step taken with care. Kutay isn't just seeking power—he's willing to burn everything down to get it."
Wolfram nodded, the gravity of their situation sinking in. They were no longer just on a mission; they were in the middle of a dangerous game, one where the stakes were nothing less than the future of their people. As they rode toward their uncertain fate, the weight of Kara's words hung in the air, a reminder of the treacherous path that lay ahead.
The tavern keeper, an older man with years of service behind the counter, had seen more than his share of brawls. But nothing had prepared him for the bloodbath that Kara had unleashed. His hands trembled as he scrubbed at the dark stains on the floor, the smell of iron thick in the air. He kept his head down, trying to erase the evidence of the violence as the Kıpçak riders burst into the tavern. The Kıpçak riders, who had arrived too late to witness the carnage, now stood in the aftermath, their eyes scanning the blood-stained floor and overturned tables. One of them, a broad-shouldered warrior with a scar running down his cheek, approached the trembling tavern keeper who had been hiding behind the counter during the fight.
The tavern keeper, still shaken, glanced nervously at the riders, his eyes wide with fear and disbelief. "It all happened so fast," he stammered, his voice quivering as he relived the moment. "One moment, they were just talking—nothing out of the ordinary—and the next…"
The scarred rider leaned in, his expression dark. "Tell us what you saw," he demanded, his voice low and commanding. "Every detail."
Swallowing hard, the tavern keeper nodded. "It was those two," he began, pointing to the direction where Kara and Wolfram had sat. "Kara… and the other one, the blonde warrior. They were minding their own business when Rustem and his men walked in. I thought it would be just another conversation, you know? But there was something off, something tense in the air."
He wiped the sweat from his brow with a shaky hand, the memory of the confrontation vivid in his mind. "Rustem recognized Kara right away, called him 'Altai Bear' or something like that. But Kara… he just sat there, eating his pastırma like nothing was happening. It was like he didn't care—like he was just waiting for something."
The riders exchanged glances, their curiosity piqued. "And then what?" another rider urged, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword.
The tavern keeper licked his lips, his eyes darting around the room as if he expected Kara to reappear at any moment. "Rustem tried to give Kara some coins, but… but Kara wouldn't have it. He grabbed Rustem's hand, pulled him close, and took the whole pouch. The look on Rustem's face… I thought for sure he was going to draw his blade right then."
He paused, his voice growing more strained as he continued. "Then Rustem called him… Deccal. That's when it all went wrong. Kara stood up, and I swear, the room felt like it was going to explode. Rustem tried to defend himself, but Kara—he was too fast. He tore Rustem's tunic, and that's when I saw it—the cross around his neck. That's when Kara lost it. He said he wouldn't deal with infidels, turned to leave… but then he… he just snapped."
The tavern keeper's voice cracked as he recounted the violence. "Kara grabbed his axe, and in an instant, he killed two of Rustem's men. The blood… it was everywhere. Rustem tried to fight back, but he didn't stand a chance. That other one Norse man he shot him with arrows, and Rustem… he begged for mercy, but there was none to be had. Kara finished him off, right there, with one last swing of his axe."
The Kıpçak riders stood in stunned silence, the weight of the tavern keeper's words sinking in. The scarred rider narrowed his eyes, his voice a dangerous whisper. "And then?"
"They left," the tavern keeper said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Kara took the pouch, grabbed the blonde one, and they rode off. But… but it wasn't just the fight. It was the way Kara looked after… like he knew what was coming, like he was ready for whatever would happen next."
The scarred rider clenched his jaw, the tension in the room thick enough to cut with a knife. "And what about you?" he asked, his tone menacing. "Did you see where they went?"
The tavern keeper shook his head, his fear palpable. "No… I didn't dare look. I was just trying to stay out of sight." he lied, his voice quivering slightly. His eyes flickered to the door, where only moments ago he saw where Kara went towards. The riders didn't notice the subtle shift in his tone, the way his gaze avoided theirs. The tavern keeper kept scrubbing at the bloodstains, his heart pounding in his chest. He prayed they wouldn't ask too many questions—prayed they wouldn't see through his deception. As far as he was concerned, Kara's legacy was enough to silence him.
The rider nodded slowly, turning to his companions. "Spread the word. We need to find them before they cause more trouble."
As the Kıpçak riders left the tavern, the keeper sank back behind the counter, his heart still pounding in his chest. The memory of the fight replayed in his mind, a brutal reminder of the chaos that had erupted in his once-peaceful tavern.
The Kıpçak Riders' Encounter with the Mysterious Man
After leaving the tavern, the Kıpçak riders gathered outside, their faces twisted in frustration. The answers they had extracted from the tavern keeper were unsatisfactory at best, and the tension among them was palpable. As they discussed their next move, a figure emerged from the shadows—a man with a distinctly European appearance, his face stern and authoritative.
"What did you find?" the man asked, his voice carrying a calm but commanding tone.
The Kıpçak leader, taken aback by the man's sudden appearance, quickly composed himself and reported, "Kara was here, accompanied by a Norseman. They fled the scene before we arrived. The tavern keeper's answers were vague, but with more pressure, we might extract something useful."
The man's eyes narrowed at the mention of the Norseman. "Describe him," he ordered, his voice laced with urgency.
The Kıpçak leader relayed the details they had gathered from the tavern keeper—a tall, muscular man with long blonde hair and a beard, dressed in a manner reminiscent of the Norsemen. As the description unfolded, the man's expression changed, his eyes lighting up with recognition.
"I know where they're headed," he said, more to himself than to the riders. His mind was already working, piecing together the clues. "I need your fastest messenger," he added abruptly, turning to the Kıpçak leader.
Without hesitation, one of the younger riders stepped forward, bowing slightly as he awaited his orders. The mysterious man quickly pulled out a parchment and began scribbling a message in a script that was unfamiliar to most. His hand moved with practiced ease, each stroke of the pen deliberate and precise.
Once finished, he folded the parchment and sealed it with a drop of wax. Handing it to the young rider, he locked eyes with him and said, "Deliver this without delay. No stops, no detours. The recipient will know what to do."
The rider nodded, tucking the message securely into his tunic before mounting his horse. With a sharp kick to the sides, the horse took off at a gallop, the sound of hooves quickly fading into the distance.
The mysterious man watched the messenger disappear over the horizon before his steward approached him, a concerned look on his face. "Is it wise to trust them with delivering such a crucial message?" the steward asked, his voice low with apprehension.
The man's gaze remained fixed on the horizon as he replied, "The message is written in old Germanic. Only a select few could decipher it, even if it were intercepted. Besides, we are allies now—we must learn to trust each other, or we risk losing everything."
Satisfied with his reasoning, the steward nodded but remained silent, his doubts unspoken.
Turning back to the Kıpçak riders, the mysterious man issued his final command. "We're heading back to the base," he said with authority. The riders, sensing the urgency in his tone, mounted their horses without question. The man led them back towards their stronghold, his mind racing with thoughts of the Norseman and what his presence could mean for their plans.
As they rode off, the Kıpçak riders couldn't shake the feeling that they were caught in a game much larger and more dangerous than they had initially realized. The mysterious man's involvement only deepened the intrigue, and they knew that whatever lay ahead, it would not be easily resolved.
The Secret Council of the Kaiser
In the shadowed halls of the Holy Roman Empire, the Kaiser's secret council convened. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation as lords from Rus, Kiev, and other influential houses gathered around a grand table, their faces illuminated by the flickering light of torches. These were men of power, each with their own ambitions, but all united under the Kaiser's iron will.
A messenger, exhausted from his long journey, entered the chamber with a parchment sealed in wax. The Kaiser, seated at the head of the table, gestured for the message to be brought to him. Breaking the seal with a swift motion, he unrolled the parchment, his eyes scanning the words with a growing sense of satisfaction.
He looked up, a sly smile playing on his lips, and addressed his council. "Gentlemen," he began, his voice carrying the weight of months of careful plotting, "the time has come to set our plans into motion. Kutay, the one who would dare call himself Khagan, has been dealt a hand he cannot control. The Turks, in their arrogance, are poised to destroy each other. We must seize this moment."
The lords exchanged glances, understanding the gravity of the situation. The Kaiser had been preparing for this moment, forging alliances and sowing discord within the Türk-il. The message had confirmed what he had hoped: the Türk-il was teetering on the brink of civil war, and the time to strike was now.
"The message I've received," the Kaiser continued, "confirms that Kara, the giant, and his men are on the move. Among them is my grandson, Wolfram. That fool," he spat the words with disdain, "has no place in this world of wolves. But he is still of my blood, and he must be captured alive at all costs. He may be useful yet."
The lords nodded in agreement, their minds already calculating the best way to achieve the Kaiser's orders.
"You shall take action now," the Kaiser commanded, his voice like steel. "Push forward, and take what is rightfully ours. The Turks will be too busy tearing each other apart to stop you. On your way, you will meet Kara and his men. Among them, find Wolfram and bring him to me. You have my full support in this endeavor, and I expect nothing less than total victory."
The room buzzed with the murmur of agreement, and the lords began to discuss their strategies, each eager to carve out their share of the spoils.
"This is our last chance," the Kaiser added, his voice carrying a finality that silenced the room. "The time for hesitation is over. The empire will expand, and we will crush those who stand in our way."
As the council members left the chamber, the Kaiser remained seated, his fingers drumming thoughtfully on the table. He had set the pieces in motion, and now all that remained was to watch the game unfold. The Turks, with their internal strife, were ripe for conquest. And if his plans succeeded, not only would the empire grow, but he would also secure his legacy by eliminating any threats to his bloodline.
In the silence that followed, the Kaiser allowed himself a rare moment of reflection. He had been a ruler for many years, but this—this would be his crowning achievement. The subjugation of the Türk-il and the capture of Wolfram would solidify his power and ensure that his name was remembered for generations.