Atil's recovery was, as most things, slow and unsure. Some days he was well enough to make a slow circuit and think on his lessening band. It seemed, day by day, less and less took him as their bey. Once, there was an odd hundred clustered around him, now, there were barely half that, and the worse of it was this: all of the greats, the brave, the insane, and the skillful had entirely deserted him. Those that remained were the ones who sought to trade on his name, the awkward just-alrights, and the poets. Other days, he could barely reach the doorpost of his tent. His father, the honored Beksharbey, peppered his treatment of his son with such tedious lectures that Atil was given to avoiding his medicine, to his detriment.
He had ordered Ayiz to serve as his proxy, but the Serpi camp fell in love with the dashing hero who brought three carts of iron, blood, and silver, not the invalid who could only manage to ride on a walking horse. At the very least, Jigei Tolma and Beksharbey were getting along just fine. His two fathers had fallen into the habit of running commentary on Atil's musical performances. Beksharbey was entirely approving of Atil's more experimental tracks, that mixed equal parts Moth three-string and guqin motifs to the classical notes of the Serpi. Jigei Tolma was not, and Atil was treated one day to the sight of the great Veli Beksharbey throwing Jigei Tolma to the ground, in what the camp appraised as the most holy wrestling match since many a year.
To his impatient son, Beksharbey consoled rest. To his restricting father, Atil insisted on exercise. They compromised, riding around the camp's outskirts in slow, lazy circles. His father, the tyrant, the bully, refused the finest cuts of meat, dripping with fat to his son. Instead, Atil languished on a diet of nutritious but hardly filling marmot greens and bone soup. They took their meals out under the open sky. This was an article of faith amongst every Serpi-- if you discount the biting insects, the chilling winds, and all the other sorts of misfortunes the world can sling at you, the open sky is a better balm than any medicine.
"The trees are quite beautiful," Beksharbey commented one day. The Serpi camp had traveled into the wild, mountainous south. Actually, Atil knew that they were in fact, more or less in the middle of the Moth and Flower, in a patch of river carved limestone karst. The wild south, to the Moth and Flower, were a hellishly malarial patch of jungle and swamp, not this fine, temperate forest.
"It is." Atil clicked his tongue. They had a pot of bone stew, and for Atil, a good medicinal salad that was still bitter as all hell. "I never left Eternal Peace. Looking back, I really should have. I think I could have talked the officials into letting me tour the countryside…"
He broke off into several coughs. Bile rose in his throat, mixed with the iron tang of blood.
"It is rather disappointing, I imagine," Beksharbey continued, "for all your traveling, you've seen, I mark, Eternal Peace, Lakh Range, Heaven-Gate Pass, and a bit of the Moth and Flower countryside."
"I'm young," Atil replied, lying down on the ground. "I have all the time in the world."
"Hm. What's all this about a lettered language? Jigei Tolma told me. The soldiers all think you're some sort of witch, just waiting to launch a curse like a fire-spewer."
"I am a Sudynn, father. We could all be witches if we chose so."
Beksharbey nodded. "But, you still haven't explained why."
"Oh, well, it's rather silly. You see, father, I thought that if I could make the entire Serpi nation read my words, then I would have some sort of power over them. The Moths and Flowers think differently, they take words as their kings. Well, I mean to see if I can do something similar. We can put our history in writing, instead of mutable memory. We could face the moths and say, we are no barbarians, we have all the trappings of civilization. I think that would be nice."
"You're throwing reasons at me," Beksharbey pointed out. "I think you might believe in all of them, up to a bit, but I think there's one you really believe in, and it's the most shameful of them. If you are so interested in kingship, you've got a rough start."
"Everything springs up from seeds, dad. I think I can manage it. I shall have to see where the Xige Angha Khan assigns me. I hope it's near Polang. I could do with being close to the sea."
"Unlikely," Beksharbey scoffed, lying on the ground. "A threat like you? You'd be confined to Lakh, or somewhere so close to the khan's land you'll never really get out of his grip."
"Wonderful. So what should I do?"
"You're asking me? I thought I made my thoughts on this whole universal sovereign business clear to you. I think you should just accept it and make the best of it."
"I could run," Atil thought out loud. "The steppe is vast. I could settle down with my followers at a place of my choosing. I think the Xige Angha Khan wouldn't care all that much. Also, I should note that the more you disagree with me the clearer I can think. You've fallen into being my advisor. I shall send around the customary silver ounces around directly."
Their lunch ended on that light note. They parted, Beksharbey to his business, or entertainment, of conning starry eyed youngsters, while Atil went with Ayiz and Jigei Tolma to practice on archery.
He went to sleep and was entirely content on having a good long rest while turning over the matter of his future in his head.
Fate instead, decided to set the Serpi camp on fire.
That night, Atil felt a terrible heat emanating from the walls of his tent. Rubbing his eyes, he slipped on his boots and belted on an outer robe and twitched the door cover open.
Scenes out of hell:
Horizon to horizon, a hellish orange glow. Smoke obscures the stars and turns the entire world into a cooking pot. The animals that are cooked are men. They scream, high and keening. Horses dash all around, some on fire, some not. There is a strong, overpowering stench of sulfer. This is a blessing, it overpowers the smell of scorched flesh. There are sounds of thunder crashing into the earth. Burning debris are flung up into the sky, coming down like comets, intermixed with burning arrows, spewing poison gas. A Serpi stumbles across Atil. Blood comes out of his eyes. "Sudynn," he cries, "save me!"
Atil acts without thinking. Atil cuts his throat with his belted saber.
"Ayiz!" He shouts, "Ayiz!" None forthcoming. "A horse!" he tries, "a horse! Just give me a horse!" There was still nothing. Does he have to do everything himself? He's a sick man, you know.
Hobbling and stumbling, Atil moved through the burning camp, towards the horse stables. All he could do was hope there was one left, and thank all the heavens, there were. No saddle. Fine, he could do this bareback. The smoke coated his lungs, filling him with this indescribably awful and repulsive feeling of being stuffed like a chicken full of aconite. He pushed himself on the horse and only then realized that he didn't have reins either.
Fine! To fate!
He put his heels to his horse. He needed something, he needed a flag, but a lance, lying against a post would do. He raised it high and with every inch of his might shouted, "rally! Rally to me, you useless slugabeds! The hell you running around like chickens for? Fall in, on me! Raaally!"
And the most amazing thing was, it worked. He shouted himself raw, and the more he shouted, the more his voice, trained for years on the merits of clarity and volume, found purchase like a spell on the minds of the panicked Serpi. In ten meters he gathered his first follower, in fifty, there was a ten, in a hundred, there were a hundred of them, growing strong.
Now he had an army. Now, what could he do with it? Actually, first, this. He turned to one of them, riding besides him, and asked, "what's going on?"
"You don't know?"
"I was sleeping. Anyway, it's better than running around like idiots. What's going on?"
The man had a poleaxed look on his face. He sputtered for a moment, but that was probably the smoke. "It was a surprise attack. By the Moths. Now tell me, what's the plan?"
Here's Atil's plan:
[]- "We strike out! Into the night!" Flee, enacting a breakthrough from whatever Moth and Flower troops are blocking you. You're certain that they're not expecting this.
[]- "Let's kill the moths!" As above, but this time, instead of fleeing, make the Moth and Flower troops flee. This is moderately more risky, but certainly more daring.
[]- "Where's the Xige Angha Khan?" Okay, you're going to find that old man. Make you look good, get everyone fired up about defending the supreme khan.
