It was a good few hours before the Udirdag returned home for the night, trudging wearily
through familiar streets. When he finally made out his yurt in the pallid moonlight, he groped for
the door, pushed it open, and fumbled for the firewood on the floor.
His feeble attempts to light the fire drowned out the only evidence that the Mongols were
back. Fatal mistake. It was only when he’d stopped for a second that he’d heard it – scuffles in the
dead of night.
Batukhan had been feeding the cattle when his ears picked up something. A scream. He’d ran
through the houses until he found the source. A woman was kneeling in front of the corpse of a
deformed man. His head had been shattered an arrow shaft, and the dagger that protruded from
his temple had destroyed his face beyond recognition. But on closer inspection, Batukhan had
identified it as none other than the Udirdag himself.
The Mongols had obviously wanted them to find the journal. Turned the Udirdag into their
puppet and given the rest of the town false hope. And now he lay there, the only salvation for the
people, rotting in his own flesh.
Everyone knew they faced death if they didn’t give in themselves as slaves – both choices
were as awful as the other. So before someone could do something reckless and submit their entire
town to the Mongols, Batukhan planted a worn boot on the path, and begun to weave his way
between the crowd.
There was no need to grab their attention – they were already silent. There was no point
mourning the Udirdag: that would only provoke weakness. He needed to be honest with them, not
to give them false hope.
“You all know that we face two choices – death or slavery.” He began.
It was not the most helpful start, but it would have to do. The expected murmuring from the
crowd followed immediately.
Then someone said “So what d’you expect us to do?!”
“Yeah!”
“Who made you the Udirdag?!”
Batukhan tried to calm them, but it only got worse. The murmuring became more heated until
people were shouting out, throwing insults at him.
“Now that the Udirdag’s dead!”
“Tell us something we don’t know!”
“QUIET!” Batukhan roared over the cacophony. He looked at the people intensely. They were
all good people, but something had visibly changed inside them.
“There is another option.” He said
The crowd fell silent at that, but many were still staring daggers at him. So be it.
“Unless I am mistaken, the Odval Route into the hills is still safe enough to pass through.
And unless anyone has a better plan that is what I propose: we pack our things and make for the
tunnel. If we’re lucky, the Mongols won’t catch us.”
He surveyed the people for any signs of protest, but none spoke out.
“Very well then. We make for the route tomorrow.”
* * *
