disease or hunger. Or other predators.
But today he did not hunt leopard, or bear, or goat. He hunted men. Their tribe had first
received news of the Turkic raiders on the khan’s lands not two moons past, from the mouth of
a wandering herder who witnessed a raid. It was the way of the desert. When a once-great beast
grew weak, others would take advantage. The hunter had seen it before, with old and injured
snow leopards being driven away from fresh kills by packs of grey wolves. Well, the khan was not
weak. Not yet. And the hunter was here, on the raiders’ trail, with orders to deliver that message
to them. With arrows.
The men tugged the rough fabric of their shawls tight around their faces and unhorsed.
Quivers full of arrows, their black iron heads glimmering in the half-light, were gingerly bundled
together for the night. Blades were tucked away within easy reach of sleeping men. The desert’s
vast emptiness could be fatally deceiving, as most of them had learnt the hard way.
The Khan
The khan swirled his wine around the cup. He watched the red-brown residue rise and fall as the
current picked particles up and threw them down again.
How like the ways of the world, he mused. When the currents of fortune picked up, men
would rise and fall. The lighter ones, the skilled or the powerful, would rise higher and faster. The
heavier ones would sink to the bottom. And yet nothing was certain. The fickle current surged as
it receded, without warning or rhythm. Each speck would have its individual worries, its fears.
It would try to take control of the currents around it. But in the end, all would succumb to the
gaping maw of the khan’s mouth. It was the law of the land.
One of his guardsmen poked his head inside the tent through a flap. He caught the khan’s
imperious gaze and quickly lowered his eyes. “It is time, my lord.”
The khan inclined his head fractionally, dismissing the man. Time to address more practical
issues. The Turkic raiders had come to his lands when he was at his weakest, with most of his
warriors killed or wounded after a vicious dispute with a neighboring tribe. Perhaps it was just
in their nature, to be able to predict with the eerie accuracy of vultures where death was headed.
The problem was being dealt with, perhaps even as he drank wine and collected his thoughts. And
yet... He suspected that one of his men had let slip the condition of the tribe. He was not certain of
this. But close. It would have to be enough, enough to end the man’s life. He drained his wine and
headed outside.
The Wineseller
The wineseller cringed. His fingers twitched and he began frenetically picking at the seams of a
nearby tent. The khan had stridden out of his tent without a single word. His best wine, and not a
single word. If he had displeased him..... The thought did not bear entertaining. He watched as the
khan walked off into the center of the sprawling camp, weaving his way between the clustered
tents and running children. His hands ceased their nervous picking. Perhaps it was something
else. Something important - but unrelated to him.
Relieved, he turned to his remaining stocks of wine. The khan had almost depleted them by
half the previous night, enjoying it with his guards. They would need replenishing before he could
do business again. But first, where were those accursed traders with his supplies? He had been to
the leader’s wife two days ago to ask for news. Nothing.
A hoarse shout jolted the wineseller out of his reverie. He turned to see the tribesmen
