Chapter 11: Blood Oaths in the Mountains
The firelight cast jagged shadows across the clearing, where Qing's small party sat among the mountain tribe. The air was sharp with the scent of pine and woodsmoke, mingled with the musky odor of furs and sweat. Every warrior carried scars—on their arms, their faces, their very eyes. These were not farmers with makeshift spears. They were predators born of stone and frost.
The tribe's leader, the broad-shouldered woman who had greeted Khan, sat across from him with her chin raised proudly. Her name was revealed as Ragna of the Ashfangs, and the bone clasps in her braids were trophies from enemies past. When she spoke, her voice rumbled low, commanding attention without need for force.
"You say you hunt the Wei," Ragna began, swirling a carved horn filled with fermented drink. "But hunting words mean nothing. We Ashfangs have bled too long under the shadow of their banners. If we are to run beside you, man of Qing, we will see proof."
Khan's gaze did not waver. "What proof do you demand?"
Ragna's lips curled into a wolfish grin. "Blood. Their blood, spilled not by chance, but by design. Tomorrow, a Wei caravan passes through the lower passes. It is guarded, but lightly. Gold, grain, and slaves taken from river villages. You will strike with us. If you falter, if you flinch, we will know you are no hunters—only prey."
Han Long bristled, his hand twitching toward his blade. "You speak as though Khan must earn your trust. It is the Wei who should fear him, not you."
Ragna's eyes flicked to Han Long, unamused. "Then let him prove it."
Khan raised a hand, steadying his companion. "So be it. Tomorrow, we hunt together."
At dawn, the Ashfangs moved with a predator's precision. They were shadows among the trees, their steps silent despite their numbers. Qing's warriors—though few—followed with determination, watching closely, learning from the tribe's ruthless discipline.
The caravan came into view by midday: six wagons creaking under heavy loads, guarded by a dozen Wei soldiers. The prisoners walked in chains behind, heads bowed, their clothes ragged.
Ragna's eyes glittered. "We strike when they enter the ravine. No escape there."
Khan nodded, his heart steady. His eyes fell on the prisoners, and a quiet fury burned within him. They were not faceless strangers. They were farmers, children, people like those in Qing. Every link in their chains was a reminder of what awaited his own people should they falter.
When the caravan entered the ravine, the trap was sprung.
Boulders, pried loose earlier by Ashfang hands, tumbled down the slopes, smashing wagons and scattering horses. Before the echoes had faded, the warriors of Qing and the Ashfangs charged as one.
Khan was at the front, spear in hand. His first thrust split the chest of a Wei soldier before the man even raised his shield. He pivoted, deflecting a sword strike, then slammed his elbow into the attacker's jaw, sending him sprawling.
Around him, the Ashfangs fought like wolves unleashed. Their war cries shook the air, their axes tearing through wood and bone alike.
Han Long roared beside Khan, his injured arm bound but not useless. He swung his blade in a brutal arc, cleaving through a guard's collarbone. Zhang Wei, though less skilled with steel, wielded a spear with surprising precision, striking from behind the front lines where he could keep steady footing.
Mei Lan moved among the chaos, pulling prisoners back, cutting their chains with a scavenged sword. She carried no weapon, yet her courage was sharper than steel.
Khan's focus narrowed as the battle surged. He met the eyes of the Wei captain, a scarred veteran who snarled orders to his men. Their blades clashed in a storm of sparks, the captain's strength formidable, but Khan's movements carried something deeper. Each strike was guided by that silent force within him—the same power that had stirred when the primordial world first spoke.
With a final surge, Khan drove his spear through the captain's chest. The man gasped, eyes wide with disbelief, before crumpling to the bloodied ground.
The battle was over as swiftly as it began. The Wei lay slain, their wagons aflame, their prisoners freed. The ravine echoed with the Ashfangs' triumphant howls.
That night, a feast was held beneath the mountain stars. Fires blazed high, casting wild shadows as the Ashfangs pounded drums and sang their war songs. The rescued villagers huddled close to the Qing warriors, offering thanks through tear-streaked faces.
Ragna raised a horn of drink and strode into the circle, her gaze fixed on Khan. "You spoke of hunting. Today, you hunted true. You bled the Wei and freed their captives. You are no prey, man of Qing. You are wolf."
The Ashfangs roared in approval, their voices echoing through the peaks.
Khan inclined his head. "I do not seek to be wolf or prey. I seek a future where our people do not live in chains."
Ragna grinned. "Then let us break those chains together." She extended her hand, scarred and strong.
Khan grasped it firmly. The clasp was more than gesture—it was oath.
From that night, the Ashfangs and Qing were no longer strangers bound by necessity. They were allies, forged in blood.
But even as the fires burned high and the warriors celebrated, Khan felt the weight of what was coming. The Wei would not ignore this strike. They would send more than a caravan next time. They would send vengeance.
And when they did, Qing—and all who stood beside it—must be ready.