The steppe morning struck his eyes - its light thin, already sharp. The cold cut through his lungs. Tukal stopped at the yurt. The steppe was silent; only the wind brushed the grass.
His breathing was steady, his heartbeat matching his stride - like the rhythm of hooves not yet raising dust. The air was damp, smelling of horses and smoke. Warriors tightened their straps, saddled mounts. Women near the tents hid their faces behind scarves. Tukal's horse waited; one ear flicked, but it didn't rear - it recognized its master.
Before him stretched a path between the rows - a road to the circle. Felt, smoke, the low hum of the camp. To his left, grooms fed their horses; to the right, messengers whispered; wrinkled faces peered from behind tent flaps - like from beneath water.
He listened to the rhythm of his breath blending with the wind - the steppe was breathing in unison.
Only when he stepped onto the wide track where the paths of the clans met did people begin to part. Not before him - by themselves, like feather grass under a hoof. Dust settled on his boots, then fell away again.
Tukal walked evenly, and it seemed that it wasn't the crowd giving him way, but the day itself.
Behind him walked Targul - his steps heavy, muted, deliberate. His pace held rhythm - not of submission, but of caution. He didn't look around, only his shoulder moved beside Tukal's, steady, guarded.
His father had allowed it.
- If you're sure this wind won't break us - go
He went. Now he walked beside Tukal - not behind him, but beside.
Behind them followed the heirs of the clans. Silent, with faces wiped clean - neither faith nor fear, only expectation. Some stared at Tukal's back, others at the ground, as if searching there for an answer.
Some saw in him a power to pledge themselves to; others - a storm that would sweep everyone away. For now, they were silent. Everything would be decided ahead, at the circle, where the wind was already waiting.
The wind came toward them, and with each step the plain opened wider: tents, bows, spears, smoke rising from the fires. The Horde breathed as a single body - heavy, measured, holding itself back before the first strike.
To the left rose the camp of the eldest heir, Kara-Tash - dense, massive, like a forest felled by a storm. Around two and a half thousand sabers. A thousand and a half were his own - from the main house and the line of his uncle, Khan Kay-Buran. The rest came from families that believed in order, not the wind.
The Tengriuts had joined him - a great ancient clan whose sign was the white wolf on a blue banner. Their elder, Subash-Kutlug, gray as fire ash, sat upon the carpets - the seat of wisdom, not the sword. Beside him stood his son, Khan Ergen-Tengriut, tall and broad-shouldered, his voice carrying not command, but certainty.
He had brought five hundred sabers - silent, steady, as firm as his word. Their shields made no sound; their spears did not tremble. When Ergen raised his hand, movement itself seemed to pause, as though the steppe held its breath.
Between Kara-Tash's tents, steam rose in thin threads; shields stood in double ranks, bows lowered like a wall. The elders sat motionless, merging with the carpets. That camp embodied order. The elder's tamga gleamed as if carved into stone, and the young didn't dare raise their eyes.
Along the edge stood the lesser clans - each with a few dozen sabers, but under his mark. At their fires there was no arguing, only waiting - to see where Kara-Tash's gaze would turn.
To the right, near the river hills, stood the camp of the third heir - Tuman. Around fifteen hundred sabers. Half his own - through his mother's line and his uncle Khan Argyn-Buran; the rest from the great clan of the Uysuns, who came with their elder, Jangar-Bulat.
The old man spoke softly, but so that even shamans fell silent to listen. Gray, with eyes burned pale by the sun, he believed in signs - read fate in the flight of birds, the crack of fire, the way a horse drank water.
His son, the khan of the Uysuns, had given Tuman his daughter. It was not a war alliance, but a quiet one, like wind along the river: without blood, but with deep meaning. The Uysun did not tear - they bound.
Tuman's camp was the same: careful, even, like lines drawn in sand. Shields polished, bows spaced wide; between them flickered foreign colors - a sign of concession and peace. In their quivers, the arrows were tied with straps - the circle acknowledged, the word given.
At the riverside tents, fish smoked, nets dried; women laughed, and the air smelled of calm without fire. That shore held not power, but stillness. And many came there - to listen to the whisper of the water.
And on the open steppe side, facing the wind, stretched Tukal's camp - not gathered, but coiled, like a predator before a leap. Nearly three thousand sabers - the largest force in the Horde at that moment.
Tukal's strength came less from his kin than from the great clans. First among them was Baga-Buka, khan of the southern Black Sea lands: a thousand riders, steel and shout. A year ago, he had given Tukal his eldest daughter - not for blood, but for profit.
His people lived by raids - by silver, horses, and slaves. For them, Tukal was the wind that opened the southern roads - toward soft men and heavy purses. The old khans had guarded their borders; Tukal tore them open.
For men like Baga-Buka, that was not risk, but harvest. Their bond was not a marriage, but a campaign. He had given his daughter as pledge, as bridle - and brought a thousand sabers long hungry for blood.
Another alliance came not from the south, but from the hills of the Burkut clan. The elder Aybars-Kutaga, gray as morning frost, brought seven hundred sabers - not for plunder, but for principle.
Aybars was keeper of the old laws, a counselor whom even oath-breakers still heeded. He was the first of the elders to recognize Tukal's strength - but not wholly. His faith lay not in the man, but in the form that must not break.
The clan's current head was his son, Khan Bayan-Burkut. It was he who gave Tukal his daughter - Aybars's granddaughter. The elder gave his word to bless it, and that word became a seal - not of kinship, but of trust.
For steppe men, such a blessing stood above marriage. Aybars had sanctified the breath of the new khan in the old blood. He did not sell his daughter - he opened the gate:
- Keep the form, and strength will be yours. Break it - and we will close the road
Thus the Burkuts entered Tukal's circle - not from hunger, but from measure. Their sabers did not sing, but their silence weighed more than others' cries.
Beyond them began the mix - camp after camp, tents uneven, banners faded on old poles. Middle and lesser clans - some with three hundred sabers, some with fifty - stood closer to the smoke, the fires, the noise. Pots boiled, fat hissed, mares' milk soured in the wind. The smell of grease and ash tangled in the air.
Some of their bows were dull with age, others painted in bright colors from forgotten wars. Some came for loot, others for safety, some simply to not stand alone.
Voices argued at the hitching posts, boys carried wineskins, someone sang an old song about winter migration. It was not an army - it was a people. But when Tukal rose, they stilled - as one body.
Third to join him was his own line, the clan of Turgay-Buran - four hundred sabers, few but chosen. At their head rode Khan Sarym-Turgay, Tukal's uncle, silent as the steppe before thunder.
Sarym was the first of the elders to lay his belt at Tukal's feet - not in submission, but in recognition of the wind. He saw: the storm had begun, and it was better to be a ring than dust.
Tukal had no roots, but he had momentum. His tents did not stand - they leaned forward, like grass before the storm.
The bows hung low, the shadows of horse tails reached farther than others'. Lassos hung by the fires, saddles gleamed with fresh fat. The hitching lines were short patches - the horses changed faster than the reins cooled.
Here the air smelled of risk, meat, and plunder. The wind itself seemed to tremble, ready to run.
Between the great camps, closer to the circle, stood the middle ones - those who kept to the center.
Around two thousand men had come under the tamga, but hadn't chosen sides: younger branches of Kara-Buran's line, two khans - Sarga-Urim and Karak-Elbars - a few elders, and dozens of families waiting to see where the wind would turn. Their tents pressed closer together, as if seeking warmth.
Young warriors looked toward where the new Great Khan would appear - some eager, some uneasy. Many felt neither loyalty nor hate - only the wish not to vanish when the circle began to divide fate.
The elders sat by their hearths, staring into the fire, silent. They knew the price of noise. Until it was decided, they didn't move. For them, this was not battle but reckoning. Whoever stood would claim the steppe's bow.
Some tents still bore the mark of Kara-Buran's line, but without its former shine: the cloth faded, the hitching posts sunk into earth, the elders spoke quietly - like men who remembered power but weren't sure where it lived now.
Between all the camps lay "streets" - paths burned into the grass by steps: a wide road where Tukal walked, a side path curving in a half-circle, trails to the water where the herds formed long ribbons for watering - two lines for Kara-Tash, one and a half for Tuman, three for Tukal's wing.
Tukal walked past the clans.
Sometimes he met the heads of smaller lines - their tents on the outskirts. Some rose, some only looked after him. Tukal didn't answer. His gaze slid over them - brief, steady. His stride never faltered.
When he passed, chieftain Sargul gave a barely visible nod. Warriors stirred - one tightened a strap, another raised a spear. Movement spread without a word - like a herd feeling the shift of the wind.
Behind Sargul, others moved - the smaller clans, the dusty camps whose spears had long been dull. They lined up beside him - not behind Tukal, but beside him, each keeping his own sign, yet all facing the same way.
Dust rose behind him - light, dry. Horses snorted. Metal rang.
Tukal's camp began to move toward the circle - not with noise, but with breath, like the steppe itself when the wind begins to rise.
Beyond the haze of dust, the camp of the Great Khan Kara-Buran already loomed.
Before the hill, the circle was kept clear. Behind it spread Kara-Buran's dwelling - wide as a riverbank: carpets of the elders laid in rows, the fire shielded from the wind, with two narrow passages on the sides for messengers.
Four house banners stood unevenly: two planted in the ground beside the elders, a third held upright in a guard's hand, the fourth left at the tent - as if the stone for the balance had not yet been set.
The khan's camp dwarfed all others. The tents rose higher, the rows ran deeper. Near the carpets - horsecloths, cauldrons, chests of iron and cloth. Along the edge - the smith's brazier, leather loops drying on stakes; behind the elders, carts piled with arrows and spare saddles.
Nökers stood in two lines; a third could be read from hoof-prints and pole holes in the dirt - the men had gone to water the horses and would return in formation. Spears stood point-down at the entrances; the quivers were tied shut - peace of the circle declared.
Most of the space between fire and tents was cleared, the ground scorched bare of grass - a clean field where the duel would be fought. Around it waited thousands in a ring; this perfect - judgment circle - was holding its breath for the first to step in.
Before the tent, by the fire, the khans and elders were already seated.
The Great Khan Kara-Buran sat behind the fire, his back to the tent, his face to the steppe. Before him stretched the carpets of his forebears - like a road of lineage.
On his left and right sat the three elder houses of his blood, each beneath its own banner: to the left, Kay-Buran; to the right, Argyn-Buran; at the far end, Sarym-Turgay.
Their places were beyond question: this was the first circle - power in its oldest form. Hands rested on staffs, eyes on the sons.
Across the fire, in a half-moon, sat the great and allied khans - Baga-Buka, Ergen-Tengriut, the Uysun khan, Bayan-Burkut, Sarga-Urum, and Karak-Elbars.
This was the second circle - of treaty and weight. Here sat those whose armies would decide whether the Horde rose tomorrow or broke apart. Each beneath his own sign: wolf, feather, fang, net. None moved without reason.
The third circle was held by elders and shamans. They sat behind the khans, along the wind's line: shamans to the left, where the air entered the circle; elders to the right, where it left. Their place was not to decide, but to mark.
Closest to the fire, on the wind's axis, sat the Seer of the Horde - Temirkhan-Kulan. Beside him, two younger shamans. Their shadows wavered in the smoke, their faces hidden by flame.
The outermost ring stood - the servants. They did not sit. To the left, standard-bearers; to the right, grooms and guards; behind them, smiths, horse-masters, messengers. It was the "mute circle" - those who saw everything but had no right to speak. On their faces, one could read the verdict before it was spoken.
Above all - wind and steppe. The circle was pure, the breath even, the signs aligned. Everything waited for the beginning.
And then - something cracked.
From the far rows someone shouted - too distant to catch the words. Another closer repeated. The phrases rippled, colliding like startled birds rising from the grass.
- They say Tukal butchered his own!
- Lies - he defended himself!
- No blood before the circle!
- Who's stained stays from the fire!
- What if it was a trap?
- The law knows no traps!
Cries flew above the crowd, drowned in the neighing of horses, echoed back. The young already argued, grabbing shoulders; the elders stayed silent, but their faces darkened. Around the fires men stirred, shamans exchanged glances. Smoke settled low - and everyone saw it.
The crowd no longer murmured - it swayed, like a field under wind. From the center a voice rang out:
- Let him speak, if he's not afraid!
And at once others took it up.
Voices passed like wind between tents - short, sharp, restrained. The young pressed forward to hear; the old turned away, guarding their words for the circle. None of them knew it had already begun.
The people stood as a wall of fur and iron. Tukal stepped forward - and leather creaked, feet shifted. Someone felt him before they saw him, like heat at their back. One man stepped aside, then another.
The roar did not fade; it only deepened - like thunder under the ground. Tukal walked, and the path opened before him, not from fear but from his presence. Men lowered their eyes, parting as before a storm.
By the fire a young warrior stood too close. Tukal touched his shoulder - briefly, calmly. The man flinched, turned, saw - and stepped back.
Now the road to the circle opened - heavy, but sure. The voices fell, the hoofbeats ceased. He walked, and thousands of bodies felt his step without knowing why they froze.
Before the fire, the elders were already arguing.
Khan Kay-Buran rose; his voice was steady but weighty. The crowd hushed, only the wind stirring the horsehair standard.
- Blood of one's own. Beyond the circle, beyond the law. He who spills it before the fire cuts himself from the clan. It does not matter whose son he is. Even my brother's blood will not grant him the right to enter
The wind pushed the flame; shadows rippled over faces like living things. At the edge of the carpets someone cleared his throat. Elder Aybars-Kutaga answered hoarsely:
- And if order itself became a snare? Five dead, one alive - all within an hour of the circle? Too clean to be chance
Khan Kay shot him a brief look - wordless, but edged. Elder Jangar-Bulat replied with a thin smile:
- He who seeks excuse in cunning already defends the killer. Law is not a question - it's a line. Cross it, and you're gone
Khan Baga-Buka stood, without looking at Kay-Buran or Jangar-Bulat.
- Cunning isn't always deceit. Law is a shield - until someone uses it to cut. If the son of my great khan cannot enter because you fear five corpses, then the law is already dead
Kay-Buran turned toward him; his voice came out like steel.
- You forget whose blood is on his hands. They were his father's men. His own. Killed before the circle, before the gods. There is no excuse - only shame
A vein pulsed at his temple, yet his gaze stayed level. The fire's glare crossed his face, and all saw - he was not angry. He was judging.
The elders and khans fell silent. Some turned to the steppe, some lowered their heads. The air between them grew taut, like a drumskin before the strike.
Far off, a horse neighed - short, sharp, as a sign. Someone spat into the dust, another gripped his hilt. The shuffle of steps rippled through the ranks, as if the earth itself was breathing.
Then the wind changed. The people froze.
The murmur of the Horde folded inward. Tukal's footsteps were no longer heard - only the rustle of straps, the breath of horses.
He passed the last ranks - those guarding the circle. The nökers' spears gleamed, the shafts crossed in an X: the boundary.
Before him lay the burned earth - flat as a blade. Beyond it, the fire of the khan's circle, the seated khans, the first row of clans, the carpets, the signs. All before him, one step away - a step he could not take without the elders' will.
The guards said nothing. But all the Horde saw that Tukal had come.
He stood at the threshold where the earth itself changed breath - where one step more was already a crime.
A bead of sweat slid down his temple and vanished into the dust.
Beyond it - darkness or glory.
The wind died. Silence stood like stone.
The Khan of the Uysuns rose slowly, not looking at Tukal - as though looking at a shadow. His voice was calm, cold, forged like steel at the anvil.
- There he is. Tukal. You've come. Tell us - was it true? Did you kill the five from your father's guard?
The words dropped into the murmur like stones into water. The khan didn't wait for an answer - there was no question in his tone. It was an accusation spoken as a sentence.
Tukal stood at the boundary, motionless. The fire gleamed on his armor, light sliding along the metal like over ice. He didn't move.
Among the khans, someone shifted - as if to say enough - but silence held.
Then Elder Aybars-Kutaga lifted his eyes - not to Tukal, but to the Uysun Khan. His voice was quiet, but iron rang through it.
- Let him speak. You asked - then listen. The one who killed does not fear words. The one who won't listen has already feared the truth
Uysun's brow darkened. His hand fell to the hilt of his saber - he meant to answer, but didn't have time.
Khan Kay-Buran stepped forward and leaned on his whip; the straps and copper plates clinked. The sound rolled through the circle like thunder over a dry plain.
- Enough - Kay's voice wasn't loud, but firm. - The law has spoken. He who spilled blood before the circle stands outside the fire. He does not enter
His gaze moved from the khans to Tukal - slowly, without fury, like a judge who has already delivered the verdict and now only waits for it to be carried out.
- Words are not for the one who has already stained the day with blood. Let him hold his tongue, lest he defile the circle
A murmur passed through the people like wind through feather grass. Some nodded, some lowered their eyes. Even the fire seemed to shrink - Kay's shadow lay across the flame.
Aybars exhaled, but didn't argue. He only shook his head like a man who knows that in the steppe, truth always drowns first. Then Khan Sarga-Urim rose - tall, lean, with gray braids, from a line that had no enemies and no allies.
He stepped closer to the fire, looking from Kay to Tukal.
- Then the circle is false. We judge before we've heard. If we deny him speech, why have a circle at all? The fire doesn't ask whose blood is on the ground - it just burns. So must the law - shine, not choose
The quarrel broke loose - open now, voices rough, steps restless. Warriors by the fires traded glances, shamans exchanged looks; the air thickened, ready to catch flame.
But the Great Khan Kara-Buran raised his hand. The fingers were old, thin - but the movement was iron.
The rumble fell silent.
Everything - even the wind - stopped mid-breath.
He sat by the fire, back to his tent, face to the steppe. His gaze was heavy, as if through the smoke he saw not his sons but the whole line of his blood. Everyone stilled. The flame bent; shadows stretched long.
- Let him speak
His voice was hoarse, but it carried the old command even the gods once obeyed.
- A son is a son. The law is the law. Let them both stand by the fire - and then we'll see which burns brighter
The wind stirred. Behind the shamans, the drums chimed softly - as if something unseen had walked between them.
The fire cracked. Its flame leaned toward the wind.
Tukal didn't answer at once. He stood, listening - not to the words, but to the fire itself. Then he unbuckled his belt, laid his sword before him, just short of the fire's edge. The metal caught the light but didn't touch the flame.
He sank to one knee - not in submission, but to meet the fire at eye level.
- This morning, many came to my yurt - to wish luck, to share breath before the duel. When the others left, five remained. Not strangers - my own. First words. Then steel. They wanted not my strength, but my guilt
He looked from the khans to the elders, then to the fire.
- I don't deny the blood. I did what any of you would've done if five men had stayed behind with naked blades. I didn't shame the circle. I kept shame from reaching it
Aybars-Kutaga nodded faintly, almost to himself. Beside him, Baga-Buka frowned - not in judgment, but in understanding. A few khans exchanged glances; the same thought passed through all: too clean, too timely to be chance.
Even Kay-Buran lowered his eyes for a moment, acknowledging what all knew - there had been a plot. But he still rose and spoke slowly, as though sealing a verdict.
- Yes. A plot, perhaps. But blood of one's own remains blood
- No, - said Tukal evenly. - Blood of traitors remains memory. Those who struck at me today struck at the circle. I did not break it. I preserved it
He spoke without anger; the words fell like stones - not pleading, but judgment.
- If the circle rejects me, let it say so itself. Let the wind turn away, the fire die, and the earth refuse to hold my step
He fell silent. And the stillness rose around him, quiet but full of force.
The wind struck the fire of the Circle. The flame rose higher. No one said sign, but everyone thought it. Kay stayed silent. Kara-Buran didn't lift his gaze. The shamans did not beat their drums - meaning the circle had not rejected him.
Somewhere behind the ranks a horse neighed - sharp, alive, like a blow of wind.The fire breathed out sparks.
The circle had accepted.
But the guards did not part. Spears trembled but did not lift.
The wind pushed the flame eastward; sparks flew low, whispering through hair. Murmurs rippled in waves, as if the whole steppe spoke at once - muffled, wordless, everywhere. Thousands of eyes followed him.
Tukal took a step - and the crossed spears before him met like gates of execution. The scrape of metal rolled through the circle, followed by heavy breaths.
The guards knew only that blood had been spilled. In the steppe, that was enough - for hatred to become a right. They didn't look at him, but each of their breaths came fast, like a beast before the lunge.
Kara-Tash rose. The first son, heir of the name. His face was calm, almost carved, but his lips were pressed too tightly. He didn't look at his brother - he looked at the fire. He spoke as if to himself, yet loud enough for all to hear.
- Beautiful. You speak like a singer, not a son. But blood doesn't sing. It remembers
Then he lifted his eyes. He looked at Tukal for a long time - not as at a brother, but as at the one you've fought since childhood, until only one of you is left breathing.
- You killed those who swore to our father. You did it before the circle. Before the gods. You think words will burn away the trace? You think the wind will wash the memory clean? No He smiled coldly - without a hint of warmth. - In our line, we remember not excuses - but debts. And blood must be paid
He turned to the elders.
- Let the shamans decide if he's clean. But if the spirits recognize him, then let them keep him. Not me. Not the blood of Kara-Buran
He spoke not as a judge, but as a brother whose respect had died, leaving only duty. And everyone felt that cold.
For Kara-Tash, the intrigues, the poisons, the plots- were dust. Let the shamans chant and seek their signs. Let Tukal enter, let the spirits cleanse him. Then he would face him himself - before all. No hesitation. No word. Only steel.
His gaze flickered - and hardened again. The decision was made, though unspoken. Many felt it.
The Great Khan Kara-Buran nodded - brief, final, like sealing a scroll. The elders exchanged glances. None objected. The gray-haired had not yet rendered judgment on the bloodshed in Tukal's yurt, and so the rite of purification seemed to all the most fitting path - not a sentence, but a pause.
Now everything would be decided by the spirits.Or by the sword.
Before the fire, the air grew tight with expectation. The smoke rose in steady lines, smelling of dry grass and mare's fat. The shamans rose; their drums gave a thin metallic rattle. From behind the main blaze stepped Temirkhan-Kulan - the Seer of the Horde.
He was old and lean, carved as if from a root; dust in his hair, ash on his cheekbones. His eyes glowed like coals that still held heat. He bowed to no one - not the khans, not the circle. He simply lifted his hand, and the murmur sank flat, like grass beneath a hoof.
- The wind knows more than those who speak. The earth - more than those who stand. And fire doesn't listen. It takes
Kulan turned toward the shaman fire burning on the windward side of the circle and gestured Tukal closer.
He set a clay bowl at Tukal's feet. Inside lay a thin black hair floating on the water.
- The price of truth is small - but it's always your own
The drum struck once. Tukal stood still, hands on his belt. Kulan stepped closer, stopped before him, and looked up.
- He who comes to fire must come without skin. Otherwise, the fire understands nothing
He held out his hand - demanding, without bow or blessing. Tukal didn't move at once. Then he slowly lifted his hand from his belt and gave it as one gives a weapon - without fear, without question. Kulan gripped it and drew a knife across the pad of his thumb. Blood welled thick and dark. A drop fell on the edge of the shaman fire and hissed.
The drum struck a second time. The sound rolled through the circle, like wind sliding across the hide of the earth. The khans and elders said nothing.
Kay-Buran saw that his nephew, Kara-Tash, no longer needed to be restrained. He too gave a small nod - barely visible. Everything was decided. Now only the duel remained, and he was sure Tash would win.
Kulan lifted the dampened hair from the bowl and drew it across Tukal's palm. A black line stretched from thumb to little finger.
- Until iron wipes it away, you are in debt to the fire. And debts are roads - they always lead farther than you want
He scooped a handful of earth from the elders' carpet and threw it into the fire. The flame shuddered, darkened - then leapt higher, turned white for an instant, as though it had drawn too much breath. The banner above Kara-Buran's tent twisted against the wind and froze.
The young raised their eyes. The elders did not. Each understood something different.
- The spirits are silent, - said Kulan, as if he spoke not of spirits but of men. - When they're silent, they want a spectacle. But a spectacle isn't an answer - it's only a stairway to one
He fell quiet, looking at Tukal. He didn't tell him what to do. He only watched - long and hard.
The drum struck a third time. The circle stilled.
Tukal stood, and suddenly understood - not with his mind, but with his body - how the fire breathed. As if someone else within him already knew. He unfastened his saber, drew the blade from its sheath. The motion was calm, without challenge, as though some pact already existed between him and the flame.
He raised the blade above the fire. Heat struck his palm; the skin blistered in tiny bubbles. He held it until the steam rose in a thin thread, whispering like wind through the steppe's leather ties. The edge darkened to a narrow stripe, as if it had taken part of the black mark for itself.
Kulan stepped back. His voice turned dry:
- Fire doesn't cleanse - it compares. What was, and what is. If what is has become smoother, the excess is gone. If not - it still lives
He stooped, took a pinch of ash, and scattered it over the blade. The ash clung to the steel like fat to cold iron - then fell away.
- Clean, - said Temirkhan-Kulan. - But not saved
A murmur rippled around the circle - not thunder, but a shiver, as if the earth itself flinched beneath their feet.
Whispers ran like sparks from mouth to mouth: someone said "a sign", another "a sentence". The elders exchanged glances but kept their peace. The Uysun Khan leaned toward Kay-Buran, but Kay didn't answer - only tightened his hand on his belt.
The third heir, Tuman, stood to the side and didn't listen. To him, the old man's words were noise. He saw only his brothers and knew the spirits had spoken enough to stay out of the way of what was coming.
The crowd shifted; the air grew thick, heavy with breath before the storm. Someone muttered, - Clean, but not saved - that means they want blood
No one replied. The wind bent the flame, and for an instant it leaned toward Tukal.
- Salvation isn't a word by the fire, - Kulan went on, staring into the white heart of the blaze. - Salvation is when morning comes and no one has to count their own. And morning is far away
He turned to the khans - not to any one of them, but to all.
- He who asks for truth pays with skin. He who asks for peace pays with blood - and it's always easier to pay with another's. Today he paid his own. Tomorrow, we'll see who pays for him
Kulan set the bowl down again, as one sets a stone back in place.
- Cleansing isn't about his hands, - he said. - It's about your eyes. Whether they still see straight
He gestured for Tukal to lower the blade. Tukal did. The black line on his palm smudged; some of it streaked onto the hilt. The flame sank back to its ordinary tawny height. Smoke streamed upward in thin ribbons. From the outer ring, someone coughed and quickly pretended to fix his cloak.
- The spirits are satisfied - for an hour, - said Temirkhan-Kulan. - An hour is much for those who can fight, and little for those who prefer to wait. Let each decide which he is
He stepped back once more. His gaze moved across faces - not resting on any, as if marking not people, but the spaces between them.
- And remember, - he added softly, for the nearest to hear, - fire believes the one who stays when the flame dies
The elders exchanged glances. None protested. All knew Kulan spoke in riddles - never in straight lines. Some called him mad; others, the wisest soul in the Horde. No one knew for sure.
The Great Khan Kara-Buran did not raise his eyes; he rested his staff's end toward the fire, releasing the storm to its course.
The ritual was over, yet the circle still held its breath. Clean bought time. Not saved demanded a price. And that price was already searching for someone to pay it.
The wind shifted. The fire stretched in one direction, as if pointing a way.
Temirkhan-Kulan's gaze lingered on Tukal - not long, but as if seeing not the man, but the force standing behind him. The fire reflected in his eyes, and it was hard to tell whether they were still human - or already the fire's own.
The shamans stepped back to the edge; their shadows crept along the carpets and merged with the crowd. The guards formed a ring, crossing their spears point-down - the sign of peace.
From the outer circle, Kara-Tash stepped forward. He took his place on the side facing the khans, as befitted the eldest. The flame lay across his shoulders, and he seemed to stand within a halo of ash.
Then came Tuman, the youngest. He looked at neither father nor brothers. His face was calm, but his eyes carried restlessness - like a horse straining for the run, unsure where its hoof would fall. His steps were steady, as if the outcome was already written.
The guards lowered their spears. The passage opened briefly, like a breath.
Tukal stepped forward. For a heartbeat, the air thickened; the wind fell still. The spears lifted, parted, letting him through - and closed behind him without a sound, like a door shutting on its own. A murmur spread through the circle, like wind through grass.
The shamans struck their drums three times - counting the entrants. The mounted guards moved in tighter, forming a second ring. Behind them stood the weapon-bearers, each holding three things: sabers, lassos, spare horse-bridles.
From behind the carpets, the horses were led out. To Kara-Tash came Kay-Buran - his uncle and mentor. He took the reins himself and handed them to his nephew. In the steppe, that gesture meant more than any word: giving a horse was giving strength.
To Tuman they brought a bay stallion. The reins were held by Alan-Uysun, heir to the Uysun Khan - young, his face untouched by war. He carried himself with quiet confidence, but in that calm was care: not friend, not foe - a mark of alliance. The stallion pawed the ground, feeling the weight of eyes upon it.
To Tukal stepped Khan Baga-Buka - the southern one, with eyes full of dust and salt. He stopped, his heavy gaze tracing Tukal's face. Slowly, he raised his hand, holding the reins as if the invisible weight of that act could alter fate itself.
- Your horse, - he said. - He's been waiting, as the steppe waits for wind
- Then it's come, - Tukal answered, taking the reins. But Baga-Buka didn't move. In the next breath, his fingers clamped around Tukal's wrist - iron-hard. For a moment, silence hung sharp around them. There was no threat in their eyes - only a test.
- Show me you can stay in the saddle, - Baga-Buka said, releasing him.
Tukal didn't answer at once. His gaze stayed on Baga-Buka - steady, unexpectant. No defiance. No submission. Only balance.
- I don't fall
Baga-Buka snorted softly, dipped his head - a nod not of respect, but of acknowledged truth. Then he stepped aside, needing no more words.
The three brothers stood in a triangle - equal distance apart.
The weapons: saber and lasso - a leather strap with a loop for capture. No spears, no arrows. The trial was not about death, but about the hand and the saddle: whoever held the stirrup firmest would hold rule. Such was the custom - to spill no blood before judgment, to let word die only after iron.
Thus, the Horde had long chosen its Great Khan when heirs were many. Victory went not to the strongest blow, but to the one who could hold. Himself - and the Horde.
Kara-Tash gave a brief nod - a sign. Tuman set his hand on the reins. Tukal said nothing.
The drums struck again. The wind stirred the grass, and the circle awoke - not as an assembly, but as a beast ready to close its jaws.
***
Thank you for continuing to read and support me on this journey!
I'm currently working on improving the weaker chapters, trying to make them brighter and deeper. Yes, sometimes - as in this chapter - the imagery may seem a bit intense, but if you take your time and read closely, everything will fall into place.
If the steppe details feel excessive, feel free to skim through them - more focused events and key actions are coming soon, so there will be something for everyone.
I've reworked an older chapter, splitting it into three new ones - Chapters 19, 20, and 21. The steppe has been completely reimagined, made more historically grounded and cohesive, and that will become more evident in Volume II.
I hope you'll feel this progress and enjoy following the story's evolution! If you ever want to discuss the new chapters or share your ideas, I'm always open to dialogue.