He awoke buried amidst a fur blanket, a sheen of sweat glistening across his chest. It made him itchy across his shoulders and some spots on his back. The bed beneath him—if you could call it that—felt rough and hard, making his back ache raw.
He rubbed his groggy eyes. How far did we travel? he thought. They had given him something to drink at one point when they stopped riding, and he blacked out after.
Now he was here.
A dim room—no, it was some kind of tent. Round, with felt walls that flapped with each gust of wind outside. A wooden frame held it together, with narrow planks in a net-like pattern holding up the walls, and in the middle, eight thicker beams standing tall, holding the structure up. A narrow stream of light spilled in through the flaps around the other side of the tent, and through the middle, where a small hole marked the top of the tent. Below was a small hearth, surrounded by a few pots and pans, its smoke drifting in grey swirls lazily out of the hole. The logs crackled quietly in the flames. The fire warded off the chill, at least. And the smoky scent of the burning wood almost had a sweet aroma to it, freshening the air in the tent.
Toward the back in a small, shaded area sat a crudely carved wooden totem of sorts, standing about three feet tall. Symbols and patterns woven around the base, and at the top was some sort of pointed, reptilian head. It was painted white with dots of blue, green, and red.
Julian propped himself up on an elbow. Beside him were three wooden bowls. A small one containing a white liquid he presumed to be milk, though it was a bit bubbly. The other was boiled meat, he figured lamb based on the bones and how it smelled. And the next contained something he couldn’t quite figure out what it was. Small, whitish chunks in a squarish shape.
What suspicion he had was swept away at the urging of his rumbling stomach, so he started with the lamb. He ate generously, but the meat was rather bland. Chewy and fatty with an earthy aftertaste. Could use some salt, and mint. Julian could teach the chef here how to BBQ properly, but he’d save that for another time.
He reached for the drink next, since his throat was parched. It smelt sour and odd. If it was milk, it might be expired, but lacking other options he took a sip anyway. He nearly retched. The sour, tangy taste lingered on his tongue. Very potent. That milk was expired. Could he not have had water? He would have to go about finding some.
After his experience with the sour milk, he decided not to try those weird whitish chunks until he could find someone.
He got out of the blanket, and only now realised he was naked. Looking around, he saw his shirt and trousers folded up by his little bed. Next to the pile were his shoes and socks. His watch, ring, and coat, however, were missing. Those bastards stole them! Was his first thought, but he had many more things to figure out on top of that.
The first being: Where was Lucy? She was not in this empty tent.
As he put on his trousers and shirt, a small woman entered the tent holding a basket. Her pale, delicate face was rosy from the wind outside, giving her an elegant and youthful appearance. She had those familiar feline eyes with oval pupils and no whites in them, but hers were a vivid jade green, oddly reminding him of Lucy’s lush green eyes. Were all the people here like this? Are they even human? The woman’s ink-black hair was tied into two braids that flowed down her back.
She wore an old looking faded green woolen robe which was belted at the waist. The robe was secured diagonally by buttons across her chest, and some decorative embroidery of reds, blues, and greens lined the edges of her robe. Over her shoulders was a thick brown fur cloak. Her trousers looked to be made of felt, the same material which covered the floor, and her worn boots were leather.
They looked at each other blankly for a moment, and then the woman knelt over and set her basket down on the other side of the tent. “Shazai?” she said, pointing to the food by his bed.
He looked at it, then back at her, fearing he may have offended her for not eating it all and not drinking that rancid milk. “The milk is off,” Julian said, pointing to the bowl of milk. “Off. You hear? Do you have water?”
She tilted her head in confusion, her narrow serpentine pupils dilating then shrinking again. It kind of freaked him out.
“Water,” he said slowly, using his hands to make the motion of drinking from a cup.
She seemed to glare at him, as though she were either disgusted or distraught with his presence. “Taruk ka?” The woman nodded, pointing to the bowl of milk, making a similar signing expression with her hands to indicate to drink from the bowl.
He looked at it again, understanding that he was indeed meant to drink this beverage. Julian shook his head at her. “No, no. This is bad. Bad.” He waved his hand over his stomach, trying to show her it might make him sick. Likely it was fermented milk, which was also alcoholic, but his stomach was much too soft for that.
She just frowned, taking the bowl, sipping from it and swallowing without a care in the world, then handing it back to him.
Julian grimaced. “Water?” he tried again, but only furrows formed over her brow. This is hopeless, he thought. Maybe he would come across water some other way. He could just find a river, he supposed. That or, if he got thirsty enough, his body would force him to drink the rancid milk either way. At least he could get drunk. God, I’ll need that.
“Taruk ka,” the woman replied.
“Where is my friend?” he said, though not sure why he kept asking. She wouldn't understand him. He simply didn’t know what else to do or say. “My friend? Is she out there?” he pointed outside of the tent.
The woman bowed her head and went to the far side of the tent, picking up a thick woolen fur lined coat. She handed it to him, bowing her head down.
Raising a brow, Julian took it. “Thank you.” This he would not refuse, based on how cold it was when he first got to this weird world. He threw the thick coat over himself. It carried an odd, lingering smell of sweat or some other body odour. It quickly dawned on him how much he was going to miss the conveniences of his old world, like washing machines and detergent.
Either way, the coat kept him warm as he stepped out of the tent and the brisk wind glazed over him. Outside, similar wide, round tents dotted the little hillside. In fact, he knew exactly what these were. Not tents exactly, but Yurts or Gers (they were the same thing). His earlier guess was correct: they were nomads. He knew that well enough from his self taught history lessons. The signs were all there: the composite bows, the gers, the horsemen. And with that, he knew these people were dangerous. This tribe, and if there were others in this vast area, probably lived a hard life in a lawless land, the law being the end of the sword and whatever chieftain’s word.
There weren't many gers, about eleven at first glance. A small community. Down the hill was a gentle flowing stream cutting through the hillside like a slithering snake, for which he was grateful that he could get some water.
Further beyond, the land held a breathtaking beauty that even despite his curious predicament, he had to take a second to appreciate. A vast, rolling landscape stretched before him, covered in a lush blanket of golden brown grass that swayed to and fro with the breeze. Nature untouched in its purest form, something almost impossible to find in the dense urban landscape he had called home not long ago. And in the distance, vast, snow capped jagged mountains lining the horizon like the teeth of a great god.
Toward a grassy plain that looked a short walk away from the camp, horses grazed in the fields, watched by a few people. And beyond that, pens full of goats or sheep, though Julian couldn’t quite tell from here.
“Arahkin,” the woman called. Julian hardly noticed her standing a little ahead of him, beckoning him to follow her with a flicker of her wrist. That word, he knew, at least. It’s what the spirit woman had called him. Do they know what I am? Or is that what they have named me? He couldn’t quite tell, but it was a start.
The other members of this little tribe walked about, going about their business, staring at him curiously as he went by. The men seemed to be short, even shorter than him, though they were thickset and broad. Far stronger than Julian, with his lean skinny frame. Those who didn’t wear their thick fur hats had bald heads, with hair growing around the sides that flowed down into thin braids. Some had thick beards, others had thin moustaches that drooped past their chins, and others were clean shaved like Julian.
The women looked similar to the woman guiding him, their hair black, brown, and a few had blonde hair. All woven into braids or buns. Their robes were similar too, with faded colours like brown, blue or green. They carried baskets of milk or water, as well as chopped wooden logs. Some of the men butchered parts of animals or carried bundles of hides on their shoulders.
They muttered things amongst each other as Julian walked past, following his guide, but he tried not to pay them any mind or make eye contact lest he provoked them somehow.
A few hounds wandered around the village, too. Some lay by the gers taking a rest. Massive, wolfish beasts with thick coats of fur they were. A few barked at him as he walked past, and their owners had to yank them back. They looked like mastiffs of some sort.
The woman led him to a tent that looked grander than the rest in this humble little settlement. Still white like all the rest, but it was decorated with ribbons of silk in a vast rainbow of colours, animal hides, and some skulls—skulls belonging to animals that looked alien to him. The strangest one being a vaguely ape shaped skull with four eye sockets.
I’m being taken to their chief. He figured easily enough. He picked at his nails, anxious as to what lay beyond those flaps, or what their chief looked like. They may have already met, and he may have already watched Julian kill one of his men. That’s what made the hairs on the back of his neck stand now. What if they want revenge? What if they punish him? I still have my bow. He flexed his tattooed hand, ready to summon Sarigen at a moment’s notice.
The woman held her hand up to stop him as they approached the entrance of the tent. It was flanked by two guards who eyed Julian carefully. Their steel pointed helmets were lined with fur around the rim, and metal breastplates covered their chests. They each held a scimitar and had composite bows across their backs.
She peered into the tent, said something, and then bid him to come inside. Julian walked nervously past the guards, feeling their glares burning into his back.
Inside the chieftain’s ger, a larger fire burned in the center, kicking up a thick haze of smoke which shot through the hole in the roof. A totem, similar to the one in Julian’s ger, though far larger and made of some kind of metal, with the same reptilian head, sat in the east side of the ger. This ger was busier than the rest, with a few adolescent boys sitting on some fur mats sharpening some knives or arrow heads.
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They watched Julian carefully with those eerie serpentine eyes. Most of those inside this ger were women, though, and Julian figured either most of them were slaves or wives of the chief. The chieftain himself sat at the far end of the ger towards the back atop a wooden high chair wrapped in animal hides. Two elk skulls with large, spiky antlers adorned it.
The chief was a brawly man, with a thick skull and arms like tree trunks. He had a full set of black hair, peppered with grey, woven into five braids that fell around his head. His long pointy black beard fell just past his collarbone. His blood red silk robe shimmered with the light of the hearth like a shining ruby, decorated with golden threads.
That looks about as expensive as something I’d wear, if not more, he pondered. What angered Julian even more than the chieftain’s fine robes was the golden Rolex glinting on his wrist, and the Eye of Horus signet ring tightly sitting across his chubby finger. He stole my things! And no shit, his vintage coat was hung on the side of the primitive throne, too. He clenched his fists out of anger but simmered down just as fast. He wasn’t fool enough to try to lash out here, in front of the chief’s little court.
He still didn’t know where Lucy was, either. He’d half feared he’d find her here bundled with that harem of women in the shadowy corner. Though her absence was just as worrying.
Beside the chief, sitting lower next to his little throne, was a man who looked to be adorned in some kind of ceremonial dress. He looked far different than anyone else here. A mask wrought from the fragments of a weathered human skull covered his face, leaving his jaw exposed. The skin under the mask was painted black. On the edges of his mask, beaded cords and small animal bones hung, rattling every time he moved his head. A head dress wrought of pheasant feathers sat on his head, making him appear far larger than he was. His tattered, earth-toned robe was embroidered with strange tribal symbols of white and blue threads. And, most impressive of all, was the black raven feather cloak hanging from his shoulders. It made him look like a shade moving through the light.
The chieftain leaned toward the feathered man, said something quietly, and the man got up. Perhaps he was some sort of shaman or druid, a priest of sorts. Either way, he looked like a spiritual figure. Julian just hoped he wasn’t about to be sacrificed or condemned to some other horrible fate.
“Arahkin…” The man approached him, his raven feather cloak trailing behind. He bowed his head, then held out his hand. “Askar kalan.”
Furrows formed above Julians brow. He looked around anxiously, everyone watching him in silence. The strange man kept his hand held out, then peered up at Julian when a moment of awkward silence passed. He jerked his hand. “Askar kalan.”
Does he want me to take his hand? Julian tentatively raised his tattooed hand, opening the palm, where the strange magical eye embedded into his palm looked around, seeming to examine its surroundings.
“Ohhh,” the feathered man cooed, his eyes widening under the shadow of the eye sockets of his skull mask. He placed his coarse, leathery fingers across Julian’s palm, right on the tattoo and began muttering some words with a horse, gravely voice.
Then, as though a tidal wave had hit him, Julian felt a surge of energy rush through his veins, pulsating from the man across him. The man before him muttered some words, and then a voice in his head spoke, “Can you hear my voice, Arahkin?”
His heart jolted, and he wanted to yank his hand back, yet found himself frozen by fear. “How are you doing that?” Julian said aloud. The small crowd around him leaned closer, listening keenly and whispering amongst themselves. The chieftain watched him with the eyes of a hawk, his chin resting on his fist.
The man smiled, looking up at him, and muttered more words in the foreign tongue. Then, in his head, Julian heard, “I speak to you through the Arahka spirit that has linked itself to your soul. The Arahka are of Bagutan—our realm under the heavens. It knows my words, and it knows yours now that it is a part of you. It is a conduit through which we may speak.”
Julian frowned, now getting a little worried. What sort of power was this? This world got stranger the longer he lingered in it. “How do you know to call me Arahkin? One woman called me that when I first got here, but she wasn’t human.”
He muttered in his own tongue again. “You bear the mark on your hand. The eye of the Arahka. Our people have long awaited for an Arahkin to rise against the dreaded Vakrul dragon lords, but we know not why a strange outsider was chosen for this duty. This is a question that greatly interests Orkhun Targan.”
“Who is Orkhun Targan?” Julian said, but as he spoke the last words, the chieftain’s eyes widened, and he leaned forward with great interest, then said something to the feathered man.
“The one who leads us,” the man said. “The mighty one that sits the throne behind me. Only the strongest of us may become Targan. I am his shaman, who interprets the signs of the Arahka. My name is Batzir. What is your name, Arahkin?”
“I am Julian Beaumont.”
The shaman nodded, then said to the ‘targan’ behind him, “Arahkin zuldat khar, Julian Beaumont.”
Orkhun Targan nodded, stroking his black pointy beard, then said something to his shaman, and loudly shouted, “Ortunak!” seemingly to everyone around him.
He must have told them to piss off, because as he boomed the words, everyone in the ger stood up and left one by one, bowing to the targan before leaving.
Already, Julian’s nerves calmed because he realised he was not a prisoner in a sense that he originally thought. They won’t execute me, so long as I behave, but what do they want? But he still had to tread carefully. Based on their knowledge of the Arahkin, he was likely a guest of sorts.
The targan approached him and repeated in a very thick accent, “Jooliyan Beyo-mont…” He pointed to himself and smiled. “Orkhun Targan.” His serpentine eyes were a cold ice blue colour, the oval pupils narrow.
Julian gave him a curt nod in response, trying to show some kind of respect, even though seeing his watch and ring on this man’s finger enraged him. The targan beckoned him to follow, so Julian did, with the shaman Batzir following closely behind. He led Julian to the metallic totem around the side of the ger and began talking quickly.
The shaman touched Julian’s tattoo once more, and began speaking in his mind. “My ancestors have lived off this land for thousands of years, forever wandering the great plains, defending themselves from rival tribes and the Vakrul. They forged this totem to Zaghatai, the great dragon, the mightiest hunter of the sky, and harbinger of fire and death.”
So, the totem is a dragon… Julian thought, wondering if this religious icon is a made up fairytale shrouded in mythology, or if there really were dragons in this realm… this Bagutan place. It spoke to the strangeness of his experiences thus far that he really did not know anymore. If there were dragons, though, that would be both awesome and terrifying. No doubt some king around here has tamed the beasts already. This shaman has already allured to ‘dragon lords.’ The Vakrul… A shudder ran down his spine.
“What of your ancestors, Arahkin?” the targan said. “Where do you come from?”
Feeling emboldened, and perhaps still angry that the targan stole his things, Julian ignored the question. “You dragged me all the way here to ask where I’m from? Or is it that you want to plunder more of my things?” He nodded towards the watch on the targan’s wrist.
The shaman gasped, then reluctantly repeated the words in his tongue.
Orkhun Targan just laughed, then looked upon the watch as the shining gold drank in the fire of the hearth. He spoke, and the shaman repeated. “You surrendered your possessions when we defeated you in battle. It was only that you bore the mark of the Arahkin that you were not slain. But as an outsider, such customs must seem strange to you. Still, even among foes, after battle is said and done we offer guestright. And it is considered very rude to ignore a targan who has offered you his guestright.” He looked back upon the dragon totem, holding his hands behind his back.
Julian cleared his throat. “I come from a land called England. My ancestors rode with a man named William the Conqueror who claimed the English throne and was made its king. My family was given land and made counts in England, where we have remained ever since.”
“He sounds like a great man,” the targan nodded. “We will speak more in due course. In the meantime, I suggest you try to learn our words so that we may speak without my shaman holding your hand, hm?”
“Where is the girl who came with me?” Julian snapped, not eager for this meeting to end just yet. Who knew what they’d make him do, or when he could speak to this targan again. “I have not seen her since I woke.”
Orkhun Targan raised a brow. “Tulgutai captured her, so he may make her his wife. That is what we do with Sarugani women, though with an outsider, who knows. He may simply keep her as a slave.”
Oh, fuck, Julian thought, having to quickly think of a way to get her out of this mess, ideally without bloodshed. But if it came to that… Could I take them all with my Sarigen? Maybe if I was quick… but they are quick too. He couldn’t leave her to be made a wife of these strange nomads.
“No,” he snapped, making sure to glaze his words with authority, though it took an awful lot of courage to do that. He felt somewhat in limbo now. “Her name is Lucy, and she is—she is my wife.”
When the shaman translated the words for the Targan, he seemed somewhat stumped, raising a thick black brow. “Defeated men lose their wives, this is known.”
His blood ran cold. Oh, God, don’t make me have to do this… But the thought of some horseman forcing himself on Lucy was far more sickening than Julian’s potential death. “You said I was the Arahkin, you said I was chosen to fight these Vakrul, whatever the hell they are. Yet you would take my wife? I’ll use my bow and kill him, if you would make an enemy of me.” Where those words came from he had no idea, but he knew his pounding heart drowned out all other thoughts. He had to be ready to summon that bow on a moment’s notice.
The targan frowned at him after the shaman translated the words, then the two spoke amongst each other for a little while before the shaman reached for Julian’s hand again. “Orkhun Targan says that there is no need for violence. We did not know the girl was your wife, as she wore no jewels to mark her as such. Normally… the girl would be taken regardless, but as the Arahka have sent you to us, we can make this exception on the grounds we do not know each other's customs. Tulgutai can find somewhere else to stick his prick. He has three wives already.
“Your wife will be brought to Khorjin’s ger, where she will be waiting for you. Consider this a token of good faith from the targan.”
“Who is Khorjin?” Julian asked now before they could dismiss him.
“The woman who fed you when you woke. You must also take her as your wife.”
Julian’s mouth gaped open. Could this day get any weirder? The most serious thing he’d had with a woman was a one year fling with a girl called Charlotte he met in college, the rest he could hardly remember the names of. “What? Why?”
“You killed Karagan, her husband,” the shaman spoke the targan’s words in his mind. “If you are to be part of our tribe, then honour bids you to take her as your wife and raise her children in his stead. They will perish without a man to hunt for them, and her children are not of an age to do that themselves.”
Julian let out a sigh. It was becoming a bit much to process, and he found himself panting. “Children? H-Her husband… I killed him?” The man who tried to drag Lucy away…
His anguish seemed to confuse the pair of them, and the targan put a hand on his shoulder. “Why are you sad? It was a good death, and you took his soul. He lives on within you.” The targan patted his chest. “Khorjin would be honoured to marry you and bear your children.”
“Bear my children!” Julian stepped back, shaking his head. “This… this is a lot to take in. I can barely take care of myself!”
The targan laughed once again. “Then learn fast, Arahkin. Do not mistake the beauty of our land for softness. The Sarugan Steppe is a cruel mistress—those who wander her alone soon perish. Now off with you, I have work to do.”
