Tavan Bogd

The wave of the earthquake made the tents tremble and, before it was over, many of the pots placed on the fires were shaken, hanging on the chains, to the point of overturning the flames below their smoke content.

Tavan Bogd frowned, seeing his people's breakfast goes lost in part, and he didn't take any comfort at the thought that this was the worst damage the camp had suffered.

For that day his people would have to count on one reduced meal, as no other food would be prepared until evening, when the camp would be mounted again for the night. What now it had remained in the pots would then be shared among all, leaving many stomachs dissatisfied. Starting from his, sighed Tavan Bogd, and already he seemed to hear his tummy grumble.

Tavan Bogd made a gesture of exorcism in the air and uttered ritual words to quiet the spirits of the subsoil. The horses, small and vigorous, continued to agitate and moaned nervously for a while, locked in the fence of piles, after the interminable shake finished and the echo of landslides lost in the remote gorges of the mountains.

Earthquakes were not new to Tavan Bogd. He had suffered many of them in his long existence on the highlands, although he had to recognize that this was one of the most terrible he had ever lived. The earth's tremors, however, did not worry too much him neither nor his people: they were nomads, they had no houses of dry mud and wood, or stone buildings that could collapse on them, as instead the sedentary peoples of the south.

Tavan Bogd observed the women recovering the recoverable of the food scattered on the ground, being helped by the children and scolding at the same time the most discoles, who swallowed what they could recover. Tavan Bogd raised his voice

profound and authoritarian in a harsh rebuke, addressed to the little rascals, whom immediately became quiet and obedient. The women gave him smiles and looks of gratitude.

Tavan Bogd was the leader, the good Father of the clan. Beloved and respected by everyone, he led his people since many springs and never had anyone discussed his decision. Not even when he had welcomed into the family the light-haired foreign girl with wide gray eyes, that now, young woman, officiated the sacred rites to propitiate good fortune and cure the ills of men and animals.

She had the gift of communicating with the spirits. It was thanks to this that she was been saved, alone and lost, on the frozen plateau, on the north, where they had found her, abandoned by her own people, perhaps frightened by that

her special being, which Tavan Bogd and his clan discovered soon in their turn.

The old shaman Ake Kule immediately recognized one of her lineage in the child, and endorsed Tavan Bogd's decision to adopt her in the family without delay. He had indeed taken her with him, and learned in their language and in the ancient tradition. Thus, when it was time for Ake Kule to reunite with her ancestors, the light-eyed girl had succeeded her, inheriting the symbols of power.

Ake Kule had given her the name of Ay Jana, and the girl had accepted it, soon forgetting what her previous name had been.

Ay Jana was a good daughter, Tavan Bogd said to himself, turning to look at the young woman in her red and white ritual dress, with the high headgear decorated with gold, sprinkle the newly erected mound with smoke of sacred spices.

A good daughter, but above all a powerful shaman.

She had always acted well, every choice had been right and had brought prosperity to her people. This time, however, Tavan Bogd feared that Ay Jana had made a serious mistake.

After the ritual, Ay Jana raised her arms to the sky and abandoned the last remnants of ashes in the wind, thus completing the final gesture of the sacred ritual, which the earthquake had just interrupted shortly before. The shaman then turned and, without looking back, headed for the nearby camp.

With long, quiet strides, she reached the wagon on which her tent was, and climbed up disappearing beneath the skins stretched out on the wooden circular structure.

The men who had worked on the mound quickly dispersed. They returned to the camp, where they began to tinker around the tents, which the women had already taken to empty, loading the little that contained a bit 'on small covered wagons with rough wheels of solid wood, a bit on some of the horses.

Only three men remained near the tomb. They did not belong to the clan.

They were taller than the people of Tavan Bogd, whose robes they wore, and stood gloomy, with their heads bowed. One was on his knees, prostrate on the ground, the other two supported each other.

Tavan Bogd first observed them then the mound of fresh land. Soon the tender spring grass would have covered it with a soft green carpet, where small blue and white flowers would bloom here and there.

The bodies of the men that the mound guarded would have nourished the new life with their flesh and their bones, while the spirits of the dead would have reached their ancestors. Or at least this Tavan Bogd, who was a good man, wished the poor unknown dead, buried in the cold desert of that land foreign to them.

Parsian warriors: this was the three men still alive and what they were the four men that his people had buried, along with their weapons and horses, as the tradition of the highlands clans imposed.

What had brought those warriors so far from their country? Tavan Bogd wondered, for the umpteenth time since, led by Ay Jana, he and the hunters had found them, wounded among many others already dead, on the edge at the extreme edges of the mountain.

Talking with them was impossible, since no one in the camp knew their language, and they ignored his clan's dialect. They certainly were not there to invade Turk, in such small numbers. Rather, they seemed to have been dragged along during a battle, such as those lands had not seen since the days when gods and demons shared the world with men.

Those newly buried warriors were certainly not gods, Tavan Bogd said to himself, shaking his head as he moved away from the mound, but, without doubt, demons were those who had massacred them without mercy.

Ghouls, to be exact. Tavan Bogd had heard of it, but had never seen them before. Beings half men, half beasts, their corpses were everywhere, among the dead warriors.

The warriors of Parsia were well defended. Worthy of their terrible fame, they had brought to hell many, if not all, their enemies.

Rescuing them was a mistake, Tavan Bogd repeated, dejected. There was something obscure that persecuted those men. Something that had pushed the ghouls to attack them, when they never attacked armed men, but only ravaged caravans and helpless villages, when hunger made them crawl out of their dens, in the desert mountains.

Yet Ay Jana had led him to them, thus obliging him, by virtue of tradition, to lend them help and welcome as guests.

She would never do anything that could harm her people. Tavan Bogd was certain about this, but at the same time could not reconcile his belief with the fear that foreigners would bring misfortune on their heads. As if that were not enough, the violent earthquake of just before had all the air of a great ugly presage.

As he approached Ay Jana's cart, Tavan Bogd watched the tall, mighty black steed that was bound to it. An animal very different from the small tawny pony, enclosed in the paddock. Even without the harness, it was easy to recognize in it a war steed of the royal cavalry of Parsia. One similar to those that Tavan Bogd himself had killed at dawn, according to the ritual of tradition, so that they would be buried in the mound with their deceased masters.

The four warriors, whom Ay Jana's efforts could not save, would make the journey through death riding their horses.

So tradition dictated, and so the clan had honored the fallen foreigners.

Tavan Bogd carefully approached the black steed. The animal, not at all friendly, already snorted and scrabbled the ground with its hoof, its ears dangerously stretched backwards and its eyes burning like molten gold.

It was a better sign, Tavan Bogd told himself, cautiously holding out a hand to caress its muscular neck, while with the other he held out the sweet morsel he had brought for it. Suspicious, the horse sniffed the food and studied it for a long time, before deciding to accept it.

Tavan Bogd laughed softly and raised his empty hand to touch the warm snout of the steed, but it shook his head and flinched back. The head clan turned back, to respect the animal. It was a very strong beast and was recovering quickly from the cruel wounds that had been inflicted on his hips and chest. Long gashes in the living flesh, as if the animal had been clawed by some beast.

Ay Jana had healed his wounds with wraps and magical drawings, carefully traced on the black and shiny horse's fur, and it seemed that both were working well, given the speed with which the animal had previously escaped death and now he was healing.

With a last look at the steed, now intent on studying with his bright, gold-colored eyes, the six ponies the clanmen were attacking at the poles, Tavan Bogd climbed into his adoptive daughter's wagon and entered his tent of skins and canvases wool.

Immediately he was enveloped by an intense and pleasant aroma of herbs and spices. Ay Jana, who had certainly heard him, continued her work without paying any attention to him.

In respectful silence, the clan chief sat on the carpet and watched the girl's wise fingers, soaked in a magical ocher mixture, draw spells on the body of the Parsia warrior, lying unconscious in front of her, on a mattress of soft leathers.

He did not like that young man, Tavan Bogd decided. He could not have said why, but he had the distinct impression that he would have been a source of trouble for his clan, whether he survived or not. He had not liked him since the first moment, when, believing he was dead, he had lifted him off the ground with his hands and discovered with surprise that he was still breathing.

Tavan Bogd looked at the medication of herbs and spells that covered the wound in the foreigner's chest. A strange wound, he noticed, different from what he had seen on the torn bodies of the other warriors: it was as if someone had tried to tear his heart out.

Then he thought of that shapeless thing he had seen near him. Like a pile of burnt rags, from which there were strange calcified bones, in which the young foreigner's sword was stuck. If that was the "thing"

that had tried to kill him, as Tavan Bogd imagined, well, it had paid dearly for its attempt.

Tavan Bogd drew a spell in the air with his fingers. He certainly did not like that young man and the more he looked at him, the more he regretted having saved.

He had several scars, the worst one it was the one on his right hip. A sword caused it. A very bad injure, thought Tavan Bogd and something said him that whoever was who caused to that young warrior such injure, should'nt manage to escape without any harm from the fight with him.

In spite of his age, he was an experienced warrior, a formidable leader, the chief clan, told himself. Once it had recovered, it would not have been easy to keep him at bay, in case it had been necessary. And Tavan Bogd was not sure he wanted that man to recover.

As lured by the voice of his thoughts, Ay Jana turned and smiled to reassure to him. Tavan Bogd, however, did not return her smile. Instead he got up and left the tent.

The chief clan came down from the cart shaking his head. He would have liked to say many things to his adopted daughter, but when she had looked at him with her eyes as transparent as water, he had understood that whatever he had said would have been useless.

Ay Jana would have saved that stranger so dangerous, he had read it on her face, and he should not have killed the beautiful black horse to let him follow his rider in the afterworld. But this was a meager consolation, because he had no doubt that those who had led the demons to slaughter the warriors of Parsia actually aimed at only one of them: the one still alive in the hands of his daughter. And he seriously feared that they would come to reclaim his heart.