In the center of a continent, the Arulla Range of mountains rises above Domorushtuu's plains and dark coast. Deep purple and green granite mix with ancient sandstone of brilliant crimson in its folds and peaks. Despite the tropical lands below, snows cover the heights at all times. While not the tallest peaks of Anadrakamas, many are still impressive. Some call the mountains the Spine of the Darkness, others name it the Thunder Lizard's Crest. To only a select few, in the long valley between the polar aligned ridges, the name for they are the Amber Forest Obos, great pillars of rocks raised by the gods to the sky, where none but the gods dare tread.
Mongke Bataarmyn stood amid the great pine forest of the eastern valley rim. Ulaan Khus lay below him, the vast monastery of the Order of Liberation. The gatsuur here were thick, despite ages of ash from nearby volcanoes burying the land and choking the trees. Each time, they returned, rising from the gray ash of destruction and death to give new life. And while they lived, the sap fell from them, hardening under the blanket of hot destruction into mostly clear beads and nuggets of amber. That precious remains of trees that died many cycles of life, death and rebirth before brought him here. The power of that circle gave those stones mystical powers his order used. And sometimes, like this trip, he found something more.
A recent rock fall from the cliff above the treeline had reached the wooded area, shattering trunks, tearing away other plants of the undergrowth, and disturbing the topsoil. Such events were not rare, but always watched for. When the earth was plowed by the boulders sharp edges, souls trapped in the amber could come back to the surface, and thus be freed.
The nugget in his hand was one of those souls. Several, actually. Within Nature's golden glass lay five souls, or parts of them, locked in a battle rarely seen by men. Five ancient creatures, unlike any that lived here now, imprisoned by the resin when it fell, and sealed by heat and pressure for ages.
Mongke knew this was something unusual, only a few times before had he found amber with more than one creature imprisoned within. But never so many. Even the tales of the Lam spoke of only three at most. They young man gently freed the fist sized nugget from the grasp of earth and stones around it. As instructed by his master, and performed so many times before, he prayed over the nugget, never letting his hands touch the prison, lest a portion of his soul taint or be stolen into it.
The soft zeer leather was much the same color in places, but darker browns on the animal hide let the stone stand out spectacularly. Cradling the nugget, while wrapping the leather around it, the man moved to the long haired sarlag he used to carry the burdens down the hill to town and the monastery. Already, this trip's treasures filled the packs to near capacity. After many minutes, at last some space caught his eye, allowing him a place to stash the precious gem.
A glance at the sun told Mongke he must leave this debris field to make the safety of the monastery by night's fall. Though still only the hour of the monkey, after the sun passed zenith, it took him two of the great hours to arrive here. The woods held more dangers than beasts by night, and after the ground shook, creating this landslide, stirred those dangers up more. Night was not a time to walk anywhere near the Spine of Darkness. Ghosts, ghouls and shades often walked after such events in the night.
The path down took its toll on both him and the long haired ox. Twice when leading the beast rope belaying became a necessity, as the mountains lifting up by the gods tore the surface, creating new cliffs and low walls with sharp slopes, still unstable near their edges. In one place, the earth split open for nearly a tenth of an ortoo, with steam coming from the crevice. Luckily he met it at an end, preventing the need to make a detour of more than a few fingers of Jzhan across the sky.
The sun was setting as he arrived at the gates of Ulan Khus. The red birches of the city waved in a chilled mountain breeze, making the hadak over the gate flap softly from time to time. The gate was not closed, but the guards were out, each armed with the saber and lance as their moir stood nervously on the road's edge.
"What news bring you down the zam?" The left hand guard asked softly.
In the way of his folk, Mongke stopped to speak. Only the dead and wildmen failed to respect others by moving when talking, unless asked to do so. "Broken grades, fallen bridges and the mountains exhale a foul breath, tsagdaa. But the falling stones have given us more souls to free. Many sor have I gathered today"
The grim man to the right winced. "More work for the albat to do. Already they are overwhelmed with failings. Let the gusda know which bridges you found broken inside. Hurry, the khoto and other beasts will walk the fields soon." The drawn saber he held pointed to the door. "Enter man of the city. You are known to us. Amergan sain."
"Mendu sain for your urt and clan as well tsagaa." Several prods were needed to make the tired sarlag move, which elicited a bit of mirth for the normally sober guards.
"Your beast seems more hanyag than sarlag there, nain."
"A long day, with many rough passages for him. He fears I will forget to feed him, I believe." That comment got a few chuckles from both, even as the beast of burden moved at last.
Behind him, the two guards shut the gates from outside. Mongke shuddered at the thought of their long night vigil, for the tsagaan would be tried in their valor and arms as night made the fields part of Tsaghuradu, the land of confusion. They were this night's folk left behind, the ubasha kalmak, for the gates would not open before daybreak. All without had to rely on those two warriors to save them if they camped outside the walls. Nor would they be allowed reentry if any died under their watch. For them, it was save all or fall on your saber at first light.
Inside, the gusda met him, taking the tally of damages from the earth's shaking, while the oborgon, an elder of the sumon on watch this night, wrote it down for relay to the orlok in charge of the roads and fields. The zam were empty of any save himself, for no moon showed its face during the hour of nohoy the dog this night. To be about in such an hour was considered ill luck, unless one moved under the Zayagan, the luck of the road, as Mongke had, making town before the gates sealed. Near the center of the town the towers of the soborok within the monastery rose above houses and the traveler at last. Again he was challenged at the gates, this time by fellow monks of the dugun.
There was no rituals for entry here, either you were ubashi or not, after the hours of darkness. Only those known well could pass the gate, but his brethren knew him well. Inside, he turned over the sarlag and its burden to one of the shav', the servants of the temple, taking only the great sor with him as he entered in search of the gurtu, the head of the order here.
At last, in the dining hall, long since vacated after the evening meal, he found his master.
"Amergan sain, gurtu."
"Mendu sain, my young hunter. I see you made it in before the gates closed." The master motioned to a plate of cheese, while pouring two cups of airag, the fermented goats milk that all drank in the evening.
Setting his treasure down gently, still in the savikh which now showed markings upon it to indicate the power it contained, Mongke allowed himself to break the day's fast with a few bites before speaking.
Eyes on the contained sor, his elder sat silent, sipping his airag slowly. He knew Mongke was diligent and deliberate, but to bring him some ikhesor, great talisman, and say nothing was rare. Though born to an irgen family, he had been pledged to the temple at a young age, studied hard, and was now a pride for his peasant parents. And to his teacher.
Curiosity niggled at the elderly priest's mind though. What object in the mountains could hold such power to trigger the wards on a savikh? A star rock or foreign magical focus came to mind first. Politeness and patience to hear the whole of the boy's tale. This was obviously some item of great power, which would need careful handling, and perhaps a rite of purification for the young man if he proved to have been tainted by it.
When Mongke at last spoke, it was softly. "Zayagan. The shaking broke the forest up mightily. Many slides stirring the earth. I found many sor, but this one was so large, I took extra care, using only the brush made from the tail hairs from my takh. I never touched it, lifting it in the savikh. The runes did not appear then. When I opened the packs for the shav', they were glowing."
Leaning into the wall behind his bench, he broke all traditions of the dugun. "You may use my name, Mongke. If this is what I think it is, you will rise soon above just a simple monk."
Bowing his head in respect and gratitude at the compliment, Mongke smiled as he spoke next. "Thank you, Tibaradapu. You honor my clan."
Bald head gleamed in the light as it nodded acknowledgement. "And you honor this dugun. Tell me of this ikhesor you bring us. But do not hesitate to take substance. I feel you will travel soon to deal with what you have found."
Time passed as the young man took a piece of bread brought by one of the brothers in the kitchen for him. His mentor spent the time observing the young man, checking his behavior, manners and face for some hint of taint or blessing. Tibarapadu's face, that of one not from the clans, more broad in chin and cheek, and with a hawkish nose and green eyes wrinkled in concern. There was no change in the young monk he could detect.
When the words at last came, they were soft and reverent. Close enough to a prayer to leave the gurtu worried. "In the midst of a copse ravaged by great boulders, one shaped like one of the anjis the field workers use to turn the soil had left such a furrow. For some reason it called to me, I cannot say why. Was it the light of Nars on the still wet earth? Or some feeling in the way the leaves move about in the breezes, moving towards or away the place that drew me. I cannot say, which disturbs me now as much as I see it does you."
Looking into Mongke's face, Tabarapadu detected no deceit, but the best liars he ever met believed their own lies. Once, many years before, when he was the boy's age, such a thing led to a great loss for himself, in a distant desert to the north.
"I once had such an event myself." The admission pained him, but the priest hoped to see if he could bait out evil, before unleashing it unchecked within the dugun.
Relief flooded the boys face. "Then you understand. Only a corner of the amber stuck above the ground, just a tiny piece, but look at that size. I thought it would hold nothing, so imagine my surprise when I noted a trapped soul inside."
Tibarapadu leaned forward at the mention of souls. The releasing of the bits of souls the amber trapped was his specialty in the order. "Perhaps it contains some bit of a past life you lived? You heard the echos in the chambers of your heart?" Often those finding the bits he freed were the ones missing the part for so long. That made sense to him, gave him hope, if the soul bit was pure, that the find was not evil.
"No, I felt a kinship, but not what you did for me with the ant life I once lived, when I found that some jajin ago. This was more than that, yet less attuned to my heart. It was a liver ache I felt." The liver purified blood, recognizing the blood as not love or self, but kinship of another kind. Often unknown, lost relative or one so bound they could not return to life until this portion was freed.
"A relative. You have many, but none ever seemed incomplete to me." The priest smiled, from the happy memories of visiting the clan off to the north end of the Arulla Range.
That was when the look on Mongke's face clouded. "Utathya."
One word that shattered things for both. Smoke, in the boy's native tongue, the one Tibarapadu had adopted after his crisis of faith. All it pointed to for the gurtu was a link to the fires beneath the ground that led to the Hells. Not a good thing. But Mongke seemed to disagree.
"There was a fire still in the soil?" Priestly concern made him ask, for the sake of the boy's soul.
"I have a brother, he was called Utathya in our youth. Nothing could keep him out of anywhere. Like smoke from the fires invades everything, so with him, especially his sticky fingers." Shame filled Mongke's face at that admission. For the Moinakha, theft was a grievous failing of honor and fidelity.
"And this brother has passed on to his next life by his actions?"
Lips pursed as the brow of the young hunter of sor concentrated. "No. He just left one day after costing the family face when he stole something from the aksakal."
Stealing from the tribal elder, dear lord, even if it had been a prank, it explained much. Perhaps even....
"You were of the same birth, were you not?"
Mongke turned away from his mentor, shoulders shaking in grief and shame of the crime. Something despite that clan being under his scepter, he heard nothing of.
"Mongke. There is no shame. Perhaps this bit you found will free the part of his soul that turned him to theft by its abscence." Laying of hands was not the way of these people, but still his own ways often intruded, as he found his hand upon the shoulder. A touch that provoked anger and twisting away.
"He shamed us all, and left. What was worse, he returned it, mocking the aksakal for not being able to protect even his daughter's omd from him." To Tiburapadu, such pranks were part of his upbringing, but among the Moinakha, this was a true shame, to have one's most intimate garment taken, displayed before the whole of a clan. He fought to contain the laughter within, knowing his face showed something the boy would understand only with age and broader horizons.
"I think I would have liked this Utathya. Perhaps not the way I do you, but I would have liked him." The elder smiled at his student's stunned look. "I did much the same thing at that age. Look how I turned out in the end, heading up a monastery of a faith I never heard of at that age." Leaning back to the wall, looking towards the rafters that now held lamp smoke and vapors of the baking done overnight to feed the monastery and poor of the town, Tiburapadu smiled. "Yes, He would have been a fun man to have as a tab in my youth."
The use of an outland word by his teacher was so rare, one often forgot Tiburapadu was not of the brothers of the horse. Shock at the word being used broke the spell, as did confusion at its meaning. "What is a tab?"
"You would say akha-due. The brother you mingle blood with to adopt, despite no ties of family or even race." To see the dawning of recognition over the shared concept, expressed in words so different, and yet mean the same was worth ever bit of the worry he had for the boy.
"You had akha-due?"
Smiles flee fast at bad memories, Tiburapadu's brow furrowed in his own bad reaction. "Once, a man who did not measure up to the sharing of blood. He chose badly during a season of shadows."
To mention the time of the great eclipse with ringed monster of Buguivch Garig moving more into the day sky each passing day was said to make ill-luck come. The young monk made the tail swish gesture to ward off that bad fortune. "Surely not. Bad luck that occurs in the shadow, bad actions, bad companions, the tales all tell they come back with some future crossing."
"Indeed, Mongke. And I fear what you bring here now. Is this some such thing, coming out only now, as the season of shadows is nearly upon us again?" He sighed. "I have seen more seasons of this darkness than many men could. I am glad the dark comes not in every Jaran, Even now, we sit in the midst of a cycle of the moons, but the shadow comes."
They sat silent, the noises of the kitchen staff soft in the background as the bread makers and others began the night shift. In the courtyard without, the great bronze gong called out ten times, marking the passing of the hour of the dog to that of gahay, the great tusked rooters from the woods, with bristle hair and small beady eyes.
At last the gurtu made his decision. "If you have filled the void this day left within you, let us take a look at what you found in a safer place. The Notogburkhan will be empty in this hour. Bring this ikhesor there. We shall divine what we can of its boding." Standing slowly, swaying slightly from a bad knee threatening to give, he continued. "I shall ask for some of the akha to join us there, to make a duguylan there to bind things from hyazgaar if this proves to be khara bulag sor you have found."
Mongke rose, bowing politely as his mentor left him. His eyes rested upon the strange sor fate handed to him for redeeming. Making a duguylan, the protective circle of soul seals to bind any spirits within that might try escaping was common. To ask for aid in making it, out of fear it being a "black spring of power" disturbed the young monk more. He worried at what was to come in the hours ahead. At what the days or even sar to come held for him, his brothers, or the world.
Picking up the ikhesor gently, he walked at a slow pace, seeking the dwelling of the gods, the inner sanctum of the monastery.
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