Chagan knelt devoutly inside the tent, his gray-white hair falling onto the ground as he pleaded,
“Respected Great Rusuhebasu, the Youxiong tribe is the most cunning bear in the desert. The grain you require—we, the Huluk tribe, are willing to double our supply.”
Amur, the Great Rusuhebasu, stared at the letter in his hand. Hasen resembled him somewhat, but Amur was more rugged, more powerful. He set the letter down and slowly scraped at his unshaven stubble with his thumb ring, looking like a man who might collapse drunk by the roadside at any moment.
“There is a saying in Great Zhou,” Amur said in a deep voice, “that one should act within one’s means. I appreciate your sincerity, my friend, but your herds have already been sent to the battlefield. If this continues, many in the Huluk tribe will starve this winter.”
Chagan remained kneeling, his posture humble.
“I am willing to exchange all my cattle and sheep,” he said, “if it means Doran may live a long and peaceful life.”
Amur lifted his head slightly. The ring on his thumb slid along his throat as he laughed softly.
“Chagan, you’ve heard the rumors.”
“My son killed Suhebasu,” Chagan said, raising his body. Desert sand stained his aged face yellow and black. “If Dalan Tai seeks blood for blood, I will offer my head. The Huluk tribe will accept punishment for our disgrace. But he cannot take my daughter.”
Doran was Chagan’s only daughter, the jewel of the Huluk tribe. They had no strong warhorses, no soaring eagles—but they had the blessing of the Redti Sky God. They lived deep in the desert, near the fertile oasis of Redti Lake, said to be nourished by divine milk. Doran had eyes like that lake at dawn. She was the tribe’s most treasured pearl, the freest girl in the desert.
“When Doran married Hasen,” Amur said as he rose, broad shoulders catching the slanted sunlight, “she was no longer just the jewel of Redti Lake. She became the jewel of all six desert tribes.”
He walked slowly toward the tent flap.
“If Hasen cannot even protect his own wife,” Amur said calmly, “then he is not worthy of her. Nor of the Huluk tribe’s loyalty. Chagan, my friend—stand up. Hold your blade. Watch that boy closely. If he dares slight your daughter, you may kill him.”
Chagan bowed until his forehead touched the ground.
“I follow the Great Rusuhebasu,” he said, “and believe the eagle Hasen will not betray Doran. His father was the most valiant warrior of the desert.”
Amur paused at the tent entrance, fingers still brushing his throat. Outside, the sky was yellowed with dusk. The ring on his thumb rolled over an old scar—one left by Xiao Fangxu in the eastern Hongyan Mountains over a decade ago.
“The Youxiong tribe is blinded by the winds of Suotian Pass,” Amur said over his shoulder. “Dalan Tai clings to their old glory. Without the tiger Suhebasu, they cannot stop my Hasen.”
Bayin received Hasen’s reply and read it quickly before drinking a bowl of milk tea. He sat cross-legged outside Youxiong territory, the wilderness stretching endlessly around him, a book spread on his knees. He asked to see Dalan Tai again.
Youxiong warriors waved him away.
“Get lost.”
Bayin drew a line in the dirt before him.
“I am within Qingshu territory. I have not offended you.”
“You’re blocking where we’re urinating,” the warrior replied.
“Would you defile the gaze of the heavens like livestock?” Bayin said, eyes still on his book. “If Dalan Tai meets me once more, I could give you this entire wasteland as a latrine.”
Bayin was known as a “wise man”—a walking vessel of desert knowledge. As long as he chose, no one dared relieve themselves in front of him. Those like Achi and Hu Helu who disrespected him were already dead, which only deepened his mystique.
This was his fifth day waiting. At last, Dalan Tai agreed to see him again.
Bayin gathered his book. “Respected—”
“Beili’s iron cavalry has reached the borderlands,” Dalan Tai interrupted, standing barefoot in the sand. “Time is running out for Hasen. Has he killed his wife yet?”
Bayin tried to present the letter. Dalan Tai raised a hand.
“I can’t read,” he said. “Read it.”
Bayin began, “The eagle hopes I will tell you—”
Before he could finish, the sound of hooves cut through the air.
Dalan Tai stepped forward.
A chestnut horse burst into the camp, kicking up dust as it charged straight into the Youxiong territory before stopping before him.
“I heard,” Doran said, holding her whip, dust still clinging to her face after days of riding, “that you want my head.”
She looked directly at Dalan Tai.
“If you intend to use Suhebasu’s death to threaten my husband, you should have asked me first.”
Dalan Tai admired her calmly.
“So you came riding into my territory,” he said, “to trade your own head for your husband’s victory?”
Bayin rushed forward, shielding her horse.
“This is not the eagle’s intention—”
“My brother killed your lord,” Doran said, wiping dust from her face. “Gergenhas was the best brother in the world—but not a hero. If you want revenge, take my head. This is between Youxiong and Huluk, not between you and Hasen.”
She threw her dagger onto the ground.
“I am willing to die to atone for Gergenhas’ mistake. Dalan Tai, if you are a true man, take this blade and kill me. The Huluk tribe will settle this debt.”
Dalan Tai picked up the small dagger. It was delicate, beautiful—set with cat’s eye stones, much like Doran herself: sharp yet innocent.
“You are brave,” he said. “If Gergenhas had your courage, our tribes might have been brothers long ago.”
“There is no ‘if,’” Doran replied. “Take my head if you wish, then go follow the eagle with your blade. This is the Youxiong tribe’s chance.”
Dalan Tai closed his palm over the dagger as though holding a blooming flower.
“Foolish girl,” he said softly. “This debt cannot be so easily settled.”
Bayin seized the moment.
“The eagle promises,” he said quickly, “that regardless of whether Youxiong sends troops to the borderlands, he will return your ancestral lands and provide grain. If Dalan Tai insists on taking his wife, then Hasen will wager his life and fight Youxiong to the end.”
Dalan Tai narrowed his eyes slightly. He had heard similar words before.
Just two days earlier, Hai Rigu had also stood in this tent, saying:
“The Lord of Zhongbo extends his arm to Youxiong. We are willing to help reclaim your homeland, and until then, Duanzhou will supply you with grain.”
All of them knew what Youxiong wanted.
They wanted their homeland back. They preferred to remain where they belonged—guarding the snowy peaks for Suhebasu.
Dalan Tai closed his hand.
Calmly, lightly, he said:
“Youxiong will accept what it deserves. We are willing to fight for you.”
He had given Hai Rigu the same answer.