Forlorn Hope - Chapter 1
The Burning of Dzanghar
When the Gör Khāni came Tebin was gutting fish upon the shore while his father, Tegar, secured their boat in the cove with the other fishermen of Dzanghar. Tebin’s knife slipped through the soft skin of the herring and he splayed the fish, scooped out the innards and dropped them in a bucket of chum for catching cod, swordfish, and larger fare on the morrow. This was what Old Galvin called the ‘dull winter’ were the summer nomads returned to their yurts and wrapped up like city-dwellers. Yet Tebin sat on the shore gutting fish after a day of sailing, casting nets, and hauling tack. Seemed to him to be as hard as the summer wander through the forests and plains of the Silician peninsula. He tossed the gutted herring in a basket for his mother and sister to cook later.
The sand of the shore danced and the thunder of foot and hoof echoed across the bay. He looked up to see a dark mass on the horizon flying the golden equine banners of Gör Khān.
‘Tebin, RUN!’ Tegar bellowed from the cove. The other fishermen were sprinting for the village, for their horses, sweeping up children, and scattering to the four corners. Tebin froze. His father shouted and shouted as he sprinted toward him. ‘Warn your mother! Get on the horses! Make for Silicia!’ The words came at him in a drawl as the world staggered to a halt.
Tebin cast his eyes over the sloping hills. A line of cavalry armed with curved swords and recurve bows hurtled for the town, clad in bronze plate and wolf head helms. Behind them marched a hundred or more infantry draped in lamellar and armed with long shafted moon blades. The knife fell from his fingers.
‘RUN!’ His father yelled again as he kicked up a blizzard of sand and shale. Tegar grasped Tebin by the collar, ‘You cannot freeze like that again! Your life, and the lives of others, will depend on it.’ Tegar dragged Tebin along at pace.
The world rushed back in. Screams came from the village, arrows whistled through the air. Tebin ran alongside his father and felt his legs would come out from under him. They ran home, the raiders a stream of black across the steppe. The arrows fell with a sickening pitter-patter that reminded him of rain, only the rain never ended with blood and screams. Arrows shredded the felt rooves of the yurts, the unlucky killed inside. Tebin and Tegar sprinted to their yurt near the centre of the village, where the homes where made of stone walls rather than wood that could be dismantled. Juli carried Chuli in one arm while struggling to fasten her saddle with the other. The horse bristled and bucked. Arrows rained down and one struck it in the hind leg. The animal whacked Juli with its head and bolted. Tegar sprinted to her.
‘Tebin get your father’s horse,’ Juli accepted Tegar’s aid to stand.
Tebin ran to untie his father’s black horse, its eyes glassy and calm. It shook its mane as a greeting and nuzzled Tebin as he untied it from the hook in the wall of their yurt. The saddle was inside. He ran.
‘There’s no time,’ Tegar barked, his own recurve bow in hand and a longbow over his shoulder, a straight edged sword on his hip. ‘Get on,’ Tegar helped Tebin mount the horse. His mother was beside him with a bow and half a quiver of arrows.
‘What about you?’
‘She cannot take the weight of us all,’ Tegar said. Chuli sobbed in his arms as he passed her up to Tebin. Tebin set his sister in front of him but she was not old enough to sit the horse properly so he held her tight.
Juli mounted last. The war cries of the infantry drowned out the wails of the village. She kissed her husband one last time and kicked the mare into a gallop, holding on to her mane to direct her. The men of the village unable or unwilling to flee had organised themselves into a unit with yurts to either flank, one man deep and with little armour. Tebin held his sister close to him and strained to see behind. The mane galloped. Arrows whistled through the air and Tebin crashed to the ground. Sky became earth and earth became sky. A warmth washed down his arm and from his nose. His head spun as he pushed himself to standing. The horse lay on its side, wheezing, three arrows piercing its flank, his mother under it. Chuli tugged at Juli’s arm, tears drowning all of her ill-formed words.
Thundering hooves surrounded the men of the village. A mere fifteen mounted warriors and fifty footmen had laid waste to Dzanghar. Homes burned and men, women, and children lay dead in the grass. Tebin swallowed hard and rushed to his mother, she was limp. There was no time to feel or think, he grabbed Chuli and ran.
‘But mama, mama,’ Chuli fought Tebin, trying to pull him back.
‘She’s dead, Chuli, and we will be too if we don’t run,’ he dragged her along as the death rattle of his village washed over the plain. Few had escaped, those that had were on horseback too far away to help. Tebin ran through the waist high grass until his lungs burned. Chuli had gone silent, her eyes distant and her skin pale. Tebin peered through the tall green blades. Dzanghar burned, smoke rose to the heavens and obscured the sight of the gods to the evil committed by the Gör Khāni. The cavalry were approaching at a canter, the infantry swinging their moon blades like scythes through the grass.
Tebin grasped Chuli’s hand and hurried low through the grass. The land became lumped with burial mounds sprouting purple tiger irises. Amongst them was a catacomb of ancient lords set deep within the earth. Tebin knew it for the uncommon white flowers growing from its stone entrance, long since smashed in and looted. A chill wind blew from the looming darkness of the catacomb. Chuli sucked her thumb and quivered in the grass. ‘Mama tells ghost stories of this place.’
‘They’re just stories.’
Chuli shook her head.
‘We have to,’ Tebin said. ‘It’s the only way to survive.’ His sister’s eyes welled and looked set to burst. ‘Swallow your tears for now and stay silent, I’ll make you a flower crown if you do.’ The swooshing of steel rang through the grass.
Her chubby cheeks bunched and she nodded shakily. Tebin led her inside. The hair on his arms stood on end and he thought he heard someone laughing. It’s only the wind, he told himself. But what wind comes from inside a cave? He nestled Chuli in a crevice and sat beside her so he could still see the outside world, not daring to go deeper into the primordial crypt. Chuli shivered beside him sucking on her thumb, her eyes buried in the crook of his arm. Tebin watched the square of light unblinkingly.
The barking tongue of the Gör Khāni came on the wind, Tebin caught a few words suggesting they’d found no one. Moments later a figure appeared in the light at the entrance, a dark silhouette that growled.
‘In here?’ He barked in his own tongue. A garbled response came and the soldier grunted, moving on.
Tebin let out a slow and quivering breath, knowing they’d have to wait until nightfall to escape.
Tebin son of Tegar woke in a cold sweat, Chuli shivering in his arms with her hands clutching his clothes. All around was dark and silent. He fumbled forward knowing he had fallen asleep facing the entrance to the brooding crypt. They emerged under the sea of stars, carrion birds squawking over head, the horizon lit by the smouldering embers of their village. Great gouts of charcoal smeared the idyllic sky. The grass of the plain was a foot shorter in patches from the Gör Khāni moon blades but in the dim light of Sel Tebin could not make out any blood. He gripped Chuli’s hand as hard as she held his and said, ‘Papa said to make for Silicia.’ Chuli stared up at the stars in a daze. Tebin began walking west knowing the Silician peninsula from the summer wanders but he’d never been to Silicia for papa had warned that stone cities harboured dishonest folk like thieves, gamblers, and money-lenders, yet he knew the high stone walls would keep the raiders at bay. At least for a little while.
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Great start, looking forward to finding out more. And I love the picture at the start too :)
What a way to start a story. It could go in many different ways, from vengeance to survival to a hero's arc. I can't wait to see what comes next.