Of Codes and Khans

The Marukul

It is said by the oldest texts, knowledge is power. I relay this account so others may learn the deception of power, which is knowledge and recognising this failing, take heed in their future dealings.  I name myself in this account Egail Gorod called Wyrdshaper of the Marukul Tribe. I am sworn to this telling, and I have become it, and I cannot cut myself out.

This tale concerns a text. Its origins are unimportant, its inheritance for me passed down from the previous Wyrdshaper. For whatever reason I could see into the souls of others. They manifested as colours, as visions imposed over their faces until it seemed as if the visions were real, and the people were blurred, like smoke, like dreams.

Toghi was Khan then, for the past thirteen summers. He was old, worn as the plains we trampled. But he was the strongest, and we lived by the rule of the strong. It was Jujak I did not like.

Jujak was night black and iron hard. He radiated energy, not light. He smouldered like oily smoke with the fires of ambition. I saw control and viciousness. I saw a threat. I saw him crowned as the Khan. Toghi only saw Jujak as a loyal warrior of the fief.

“I have read Jujak’s soul. He plans to take the crown from you. He wishes to become Khan.” I told Toghi once, in discussion.

I was sworn to Toghi as the Khan. I would not lie to him.

“I do not need a seer,” Toghi said, as slowly as he smiled, “to tell me that. Jujak is the rising star to my setting sun. He will take Khanship when I am gone.”

Oh he would take Khanship, I was certain. Whether Toghi would be gone when Jujak tried to become Khan, that I was not so sure of.

I knew Jujak’s wyrd was black and twisted. It was like the ice oceans in the winters, dark and still beneath the transparency but would suck you under and flood you down, thread into you with fingers of chill if it could.

But onto the story. We were once ambushed by the Jetsii tribe. This is where the story continues. It begins, as always, with death.   

Arrows flew, like a swarm of diving crows. Men roared, we could hear the whining accent of the Jetsii Tribe above my shield. I saw them stride in, hollering and metal rang on metal. Shields punched against shield, sword struck sword. Over above all, you could smell the animal scent of fear. You don’t control it. It just happens, over the blurred vision that shakes with each sucking breath, each screamed battle cry.   

Laugh as you kill. The supreme virtue of a warrior is to show no fear. Laugh in death’s face to show her your thread is iron hard and difficult in the cutting.

Jujak, whipcord-thin and in his prime, danced against the huscarls of the Jetsii. You may think you know warfare now, but much as I hated Jujak I was in awe of him. He elevated bladework to the dance. The warrior is the most glorious occupation upon the soul of man, and Jujak was a warrior to make the poets sigh at the pinnacle of martial ascendancy. He was ahead, and I was determined to watch him. I charged, blade swinging, howling. A huge Jetsii blocked my path, swinging a two-handed tulwar and obscured by a demonic fright-mask. I saw the shift of his muscle, I telegraphed his swing. On instinct I dodged right, felt the aftershock of his missed blade and lashed out. I felt armour then the satisfying sinking of blade into flesh. The man screamed, and I spun, blade ending his misery. This happened in a moment, and my blood was up. I could smell the coppery tinge of gore, the scent of terror which at this moment was not terror but elation. More, I could see their souls grasping their dying frames, fading like smoke.

Laugh as you kill. Laugh as you kill. I choked a laugh to the surface, following the momentum of our warriors as we dove into the Jetsii as wolves into the flock. I felt the burn in my muscles, the burn of a cut on my cheek, the burn of fury and vengeance. We scattered them. A massacre sounds different from a fight. It is somehow louder. Fear is stronger than anger. A soul unthreaded from a body while in flight makes the most mournful sound.

I saw Jujak and Toghi. Toghi was wounded. His side was red. Jujak was untouched. Jujak could not claim the Khanship. A simple challenge duel, and it would be his. The rule of the strong permitted it. But even then Jujak did not say a word. He held himself rigid, guarding his lord. He saw me looking then. He said not a word.

Jujak sought me out in my tent afterwards. He slid in, with my permission. His hair tightly bound and oiled, his dark eyes blank and guarded. I confess my hands almost strayed to my blade. I thought I was going to die.

“You think you know me, Egail. I know you can read my soul,” He said. Jujak was always blunt and to the point.

I affirmed this.

“Knowledge is power, Egail.” He smiled at my shock. “What? Did you think me some loathsome barbarian ignorant of anything beyond the tribe? Recall the first tenant as laid down by Lord Marukul the First. ‘Only a poet may be a true warrior.’

In the Marukul we do not differentiate between poet and warrior. They are one. To learn the verses and play the sword is their calling, although the tradition had fallen out of favour in recent history, and is all but forgotten now.  

“I thought you a usurper.”

“I thought about it,” Jujak shrugged. “The crime of regicide tempted me. And I suspect I will have Khanship one day. But I live as a warrior. And fundamental to the warrior is the code. In these dark times, with despondency in the hearts of the people the code is required to govern us. It is required to keep us human. Compassed within it are the all the warrior virtues of honour and courage. Laugh as you kill. But also the virtues of the poet. Self-control. Mercy. Thoughtfulness.   

“That magic book of yours. You claim you know the hearts of men. To read my soul. Perhaps you know remnants. You see ambition, and cruelty, true. You see bloody-mindedness and bloody deeds. You see iron. Perhaps in a time of blood we must be bloody. To not relent in the pursuit of a victorious ideal.

“Furthermore what you may know you may glean from your texts. But there is a value in truly experiencing something. How many of the warriors have you spoken to? Even if you know their stories do you know what they are as men? Perhaps your book shows you them as men, but it recaptures life. It does not reciprocate. You form no real connection. You only see, and perhaps you feel. But you must use this in life for this to be useful. To know and to act are the same. Knowledge and its application to life are married and useless if they are not.”

And thusly usurper spoke and taught me, named Egail Gorod, Wyrdshaper, that character and action are different. That character may be misread. That Jujak, named Khan of the Marukul Tribe waited for his inheritance and did not act dishonourably. I am sworn to this telling by his order, and I have become it, and I cannot cut myself out. 

Knowledge is power. In texts, not even magical ones, one may find explanations for the great and the trivial. But knowledge and reality need not be the same. And knowledge does not force character. It encourages it. I have seen into people’s souls. That knowledge is no certainty of the future, though it is a good prediction.

More, the Khan holds us to his same magnificent standards. We live to a code, because we are human. We cherish the discipline that binds us to civilised conduct, even in the uncivilised business of warfare.

Jujak, Former Fiefguard is Khan. Knowledge is power. Know his name, so when we come for your weakling nations, you will know by his will and his sword that your cities will fall.