The Bowshot King (A Nomad Quest)

When he left the Zhonghang manor, Atil's mind was buzzing with symbols. Tamgas morphed into calligraphic characters. His horse nearly stepped on eight separate pedestrians, so deep was his nose in a style guide loaned to him by Zhonghang Yue. He stumbled in a fugue state through the doors of his manor, the curious looks of the Serpi soldiery following him, in evident shock that one of their own is reading.

He walked right into the writing room and took out a brush. For a while, he looked at it. It was made with wolf hair and lacquered red bamboo. It spoke to years of training and dedication and was therefore useless. He flicked it away and went outside to the garden. He nodded companionably at one of the soldiers, who was busy skipping stones over the decorative lake. Atil plucked a dry reed-- it was summer now, and all the grass was yellow-- and returned to the desk. He dipped one end in ink and sketched out the tamga of the Sudynn-- a sun disk over a chevron.

Not bad. You could find reeds anywhere, The choice of implement was a statement in itself. We are a literate people, the reed pen said, we can produce poems and put them to paper without reference to you. Or at least it would say, Atil amended, cutting a sharper nib with an eating knife. He was just starting. Even the mightiest ordu started with a single warrior, a single horse, and a single bow.

With this pen, he drew more tamgas. A fish leaping over a river, that's for the Nuerci. Two spears, bound together in ropes, that's the Jiebulu. He hesitated before adding the tamga of Xige Angha Khan to the mix. The seal of the Duolos, a humble shepherd's crook.

Now, how to make this into a language? Where to even start? Words? No, the Moth and Flower already did that. One musten't follow the enemy in all things.

He thought and thought and eventually gave up. To clear the mind he picked up the fiddle and worked on his singing. He sawed through half of the ninth canto, whistling a nonsense tune that was in his mind half congealing into syllables and…

Syllables!

He scrambled upward in haste, flinging himself behind the desk in haste. THat's the thing, he thought. How many ways can you make a sound? Let's start with his name. Ah, that's one, til, is that 't,' 'il' or a single syllable? He's more in favor of the first interpretation, because there's a lot you can do with a 't' and an 'il,' but not much with a 'til.'

He was playing with combinations, covering reams of paper with half formed words when a soldier came in. "Prince, dinner's up. We've got grain porridge and lamb mince…"

"Good!" Atil put his reed pen down. He noticed that the soldier was staring at the paper with a look of badly disguised fear. "Er, is there something…?"

"Are you er… cursing someone?"

"Well, no."

"It looks like a curse," the soldier said glumly. "Did we anger you in some way?"

"No!" Atil hurriedly crumpled the paper. "Look, I'm trying to make a system of writing. You know, like the Moth and Flower."

Glumness transformed to skepticism. "But why?"

"Because…" I want to put my words in your mouth and make your fingers move the way I want sounded too much like something a witch or shaman would say. "It's a work of art, you know? No different than the patterns on rugs. Anyway, let's eaet. Do you still have that rice wine?"

"No, but Bortu brought some grape wines from the market today," the soldier told Atil. "Is it truely not a spell?"

"Why are you so fixated on that?"

"Well, because my cousin's sort of a prick, and it'd do me a world of good if I could send some spell to minorly inconvenience him in some ways…"

We now move time forward. We shall skip over Atil's life in the capital to the current and most inciting incident. Please understand, this is for the sake of time, and there is not much to say. He languished. He snuck out to enjoy a ride around the countryside. In all social functions, he had the seeming of a big cat. He might be spotted sneaking into banquets, charming and being charmed. The only place where one might reliably spot Atil was Zhonghang Yue's manor, where he would often stay in the library, reading for hours on end.

On this day, he was reading a book on religious rites. For all their pomp and ostantious overspending, Atil quite liked them. There was something transcendent, huddled in the crowd and watching the Thearch carry out the sacrifices to heaven and all the ghostly houses of his ancestors. The Ritual of the Thunder Banishment was the best. Carried out in the day of the longest night, in a ceremony where the drums pealed as loud as thunder and shook the earth under his feet.

Of course, if he ever wanted to do something like that on the steppes, first he'd have to slaughter cows in herds to get the skins for the drums. Then he'd have to wrap the entire affair up so the shamans couldn't smell rice all over it…

He was copying the entire text in his constructed language. This many years in, he had completed it. It could be used to write the harsh, brutal language of the military order, it could be used in florid works of calligraphy, and could, when stretched, serve to write simple prose. Yet Atil, after penning the last grammatical exception, looked at the corpus and hesitated to send it to anyone other than his confidantes-- Jigei Tolma's sneering and the soldier's cautious acceptance.

Atil was closing that book and rolling up his writing scroll when Zhonghang Yue kicked in the door. His hair was flying out in strands from his pinned bun. "Did you hear?"

"Hear what?" Atil started to pack up his scrolls. "Grain prices?" There was a drought in the south, so the capital was paying double for rice. On the other hand, northern millet was still cheap, but the price for a bushel was climbing.

"Your fake father!" Zhonghang Yue shouted. "Yes, I know, the whole court knows, it's the most obvious lie-- he's raiding the northern provinces with an entire army! The Thearch is thinking of sending Xige Angha Khan your head!"

It sunk in slowly. The enormity, the dreadful implications, raised goosebumps on his skin and caused his heart to palpitate. "Shit," Atil swore. He dropped his bundle of books, sitting back down to conserve what little strength remained in his legs. "What should I do?"

It was a rhetorical question, but Zhonghang Yue answered anyway. "Run, of course. Or fortify that manor of your's. Anyway, you can't stay in Eternal Peace for long. These things take time to have the chancellery come to a decision. Whatever you're planning, you should execute it double quick."

So What is the Plan?
[]- The Cultured Approach: If he has to die, then Atil wants to die like he lived: with a song and a lie on his lips. He is, after all, the son of Xige Angha Khan (on paper). After a night of brainstorming and quote mining, he's certain that he has a decent pitch for the August Thearch to release him-- he's a rival claimant, nobody likes the Xige Angha Khan, tribute will be coming your way soon, promise.
[]- The Martial Approach: Atil has, in his possession, a dozen Serpi soldiers. Though many of them are slightly gone to seed with good living, they are still a sight better than the parade ground soldiers guarding the capital. Armor up, select the fast horses, and slash out of the city and disappear into the countryside. A deed worthy of song, Atil reckons.

"Small barbarian, your father is raiding our borders. He sweeps our provinces with horsemen numbering in the thousands. Before them are villages and hamlets, after them are dead bodies. You are here as a guarantee for his faith in the pact. Explain, small barbarian, why we should not execute you right here and now."

"Sire, you must know by now that I am a fraud, I am not Xige Angha Khan's son. I am a sham, no more real than a palace maid wearing a princess' accouterments. He has three sons, each of them now a man grown and protected by their own private armies. He will think nothing of sending me to fly in the sky."

"This is evident. Yet, small barbarian, you must know that all great undertakings are best inaugurated with blood. I can think of nothing that will bring favor to our expedition than your own blood."

"Sire, it's obvious to see. In the annals, men sacrifice bulls to gain favor, so it's obvious that a sovereign like yourself must be able to sacrifice men. Yet, sire, allow me to note that in ages past, the righteous have always disdained animal sacrifice. Heaven disposes according to the morals of the rulers, and are not brought off by blood. In ancient times, Ximen…"

"You draw an analogy, small barbarian. Your tongue is as glib as the day I met you. Continue."

"Sire, I propose that you release me so that I may travel amongst the Serpi, enjoining the right and rejecting the wrong. Xige Angha Khan's crown rests uneasy on his brow. Of the great tribes of the steppe, the Jiebulu have always hated the Duolo for their own misfortunes. The nine desert families have always hated Xige Angha Khan's taxes. Sire, if you enoff me with a badge of office, these people will, through me, rise up and pay proper homage to your might once more."

Here another man throws his voice into the conversation. "The prince seeks to preserve his own skin. He is a singer. He is singing to live another day. Nothing more, nothing less. Thearch, this changes nothing. We ought to disregard him entirely and focus on arranging the depots for the army."

"Sir, since my grandfather's time, the forces of the plow and the forces of the bow have clashed nine times. Three times you won, each presaging internal unrest from the cost. Fortresses destroyed, necessitating vast amounts of corvee labour. And since corvee labourers can't grow grain, there were local famines, harming the people."

"How shameless! You raise the livelihoods of our people for what? So you can return to that cold hell, to perhaps one day raise a raiding party yourself!"

"And yet, sir, none of this is a denial."

The August Thearch raises a hand. "Enough."

No one said a word. The August Thearch considered his fingernails. "Small barbarian, be direct and precise. How many soldiers, how many treasures, should I spare for your mission? How much should I allow you to steal from the great state?"

"Sire, for soldiers, I wouldn't want any. All I ask are for enough porters and camels to carry a thousand bolts of brocade and a thousand silver taels."

"What a small amount! Well, your tongue is silver enough to make up the difference. Such a small mission… Nothing is wasted. If I kill you, Xige Angha won't care, and my armies won't either. Yet, small barbarian, because of the love I show to you and your people, you must take a squadron of fast cavalry with you! Grand Commandant, make the arrangements."

---

"Rushing waters and clouds, the crane dips his beak in the golden rivers. Flying a distance of ten thousand leagues, the faraway son returns home!"

"For a barbarian, you're hopelessly conventional," the captain of the Moth and Flower cavalry, a middle aged man named Hongchen Liyan told Atil. "I'd thought you'd mix it up with one of you Serpi people's long and boring ballads."

"I can't help it," Atil shrugged. They were riding on the northern road, all the way to the small kingdom of Moegan. There, the plan was the hop the border wall into the lands of the Serpi, dodging Xige Angha Khan's outriders. Well, Atil thought as he breathed in the countryside air, that was the Moth and Flower plan. He had a different one. "I only just learned the medium, after all."

Behind them snaked a convoy of three hundred or so souls. One hundred Moth and Flower cavalry, bearing their long lances but hardly a bow in sight, as well as two hundred odd servants, cooks, and cart drivers. A thousand taels of silver were extremely heavy, especially since you had to prepare for crooked border agents, so you added more. This convoy was as large as a horse herd, dim memories from Atil's childhood.

No issue, he told himself. I'm a lonely wanderer no more. Soon I'll return to the home of the Serpi people and myself… Ha, hark at him, separating himself from the Serpi people even in thought. "Can you speak Serpi?" Atil asked Hongchen Liyan. "You've mentioned the ballads."

"A little bit," the plowman said modestly. "I picked up a little in the army, and there was a passing fad for Serpi clothing, Serpi songs, ten years back."

Atil nodded. Then Hongchen Liyan rode back, and one of the Serpi soldiers took his place at Atil's side. Ayiz had a head full of fiery red hair when they entered Eternal Peace, and now his hair was dimming and greying. "Sir," he greeted the young prince. "Is the plan still in place?"

The young prince looked back. Hongchen Liyan had disappeared into the cloud of dust kicked up by the convoy. "Whyever not?"

"Well, you're a little bit friendly with that man, aren't you?"

"I'm friendly with everyone. No, the plan's still on. But hark, he speaks Serpi, just a little. So we have to be circumspect. How's your reading?"

"Of your script? Passing well."

"Excellent. Perfectly grand."

Atil breathed in deep. He felt guided. Heaven was with him. Fate had shone the way, and the inner god was pointing him forward. All he needed was the daring and the vim to execute the plan. But first, they had to be friends. "Ayiz, the next time we're at the market, go buy some wine. The strong stuff, and some water as well. Once we're out of Moegan, we're having a feast."

"Sir."

Moegan was a small and not at all very interesting country. Whatever unique characteristics the native inhabitants had in clothing, speech, architecture and governance was long ago replaced with a slavish adoration of the Moth and Flower, such that the object of the adoration was faintly embarrassed by their vigor. It was thus that Hongchen Liyan and the rest of the Moths and Flowers heroically managed to cross the entire country in under a mere week, where contact with officials was reduced to a minimum.

Their party partied across the land. Each night, wine was freely passed out and all would gather around a great fire, where spontaneous composing of poetry was the norm. All the noble officers thought it was a fine laugh, and the common salt were always game for anything involving the words 'free' and 'wine'. Military discipline only held for a week before it became slipshod. The jailers soon became wine friends with their mark.

Two weeks later, they were at the very edge of Moegan and the great steppe. It was night. The falling sun stained one edge of the sky in purple and orange. Bonfires burned. The Moths and the Flowers were, to a man, drunk.

The Serpi were sober.

The Serpi were armored and mounted.

"Sir, I request that you remain in the second rank," Ayiz said from behind Atil. The horn was a strange weight in his hand.

"Out of the question," Atil responded pleasantly. "They're all drunk. If I die here, then that means my luck has all run out and therefore no good for anything."

"Sir."

Ayiz retreated. Atil considered the camp. One hundred drunk cavalrymen, deprived of their mounts. He made a map in his mind. There were the enemies' tents, containing the wicker baskets carrying their panoply. There was the horse herd. Carve a path between them, and always stay close to your unit.

"Gentlemen," Atil said, "you are the most faithful of soldiers. Thank you for raising me."

There was a rattle of metal as the soldiers bowed on horseback.

He raised the horn and sounded the hunt. Now the Serpi soldiers followed his horse, first from a gentle canter to a trot to a full gallop, whooping and braying like dogs on the hunt. They charged into the camp just as the Moths and Flowers were waking up, wondering at the din. A unit of fifteen plus horsemen, arranged in a tight wedge was a strong argument to scatter to the four winds, and scatter they did, like starlings in flight.

Atil felt one man go under his hooves. He was certain that he stomped the man's lungs to nothing more than mulch. Another flung himself out of the way of his couched lance, only to be skewered by the lance of another.

Right here, right now, Atil felt immortal. Elevated into heaven. Atop his mount, encased in armor, he was words apart from mortal man, who it seemed existed only to be trampled, to be pierced, to be cut and ridden down. It was an intoxicating feeling, headier than any wine. Blood splattered into his eyes, dripped from seams in his helmet. They veered around the Moths and Flowers, who in their panic assumed the instincts of a herding animal. Cattle, rather than men. It was so easy to trample clean lanes of men through this mist. They were fading into the steppe, broken and worthless.

"Sir!" A tap against his shoulder. "Look that way!" Atil did what he was bade. He saw Hongchen Liyan and a corps of men, some with parts of their armor on, some without pants. Some were the servants, some were the soldiers, and all of them held long lances like pikes.

"Oathbreaker!" Hongchen Liyan brayed. "An entire race of traitors! You… you…. I won't be satisfied until I drink your blood and eat your flesh! Your mother is a dog!"

"That's rather called for," Atil judged. "Bows out, gentlemen. Let's riddle the bastard, collect the horses, and find Xige Angha Khan."

"Called for?" Jigei Tolma had to ask. He was breathing hard, but the old man had spirit and his health was still good.

"Well, we did just betray him in the grand style." Atil slung the lance over his shoulder and drew his bow from the quiver case. Fifteen men, each able to loose an arrow every ten seconds, riding in circles around a static formation. This did not end well. They looked like hedgehogs by the time they were done and the crows circling overhead. Eat well, he wished the birds, why ever not should we share the joy?

What was Atil thinking, as he did this terrible deed?
[]- Self Justification. It's a terrible thing he did. But he had to do it, you see, otherwise a Serpi soldier would have snuck into his tent and slit his throat.
[]- Glee and excitement! Why, he just pulled off the trick of the lifetime! It's the stuff of song! He's certain they'll be singing about it for years, and if they don't, he will.
[]- Nothing at all! It's a song, a story, a legend. It is not real, no more than reality is real. In any case, what's far more important is that he'll finally be home now.