Pasyai IV
Paśyai
Chief's Hall, Kaotkvima, Dead of Winter, 135 BC"WHY? WHY IS IT THAT NO ONE IN THIS FUCKING ARMY HAS WITNESSED THAT OUR ENEMIES HAVE GATHERED NEARLY A THOUSAND MEN AT OUR GATES?" shouted out Paśyai, slamming his fist on the arm-rest of his chair. The entire hall was silently watching their lord rage like a bear stung by a bee, snarling and stomping everywhere. Paśyai saw that some hung their head in shame like the old rider and his band of scouts who had told him this news. Others followed in suit like most of the Virgka clan. They simply defied this rage, ignoring it and some even smiling smug smiles to themselves. Their point had been proven, the foolish young son of a usurper had already brought the tribe to a ruin within a year. He had challenged forces greater than his own riders.
'They think this is a reason to oust me. I'll show them. I'll prove myself a great Murundao, I'll ride alongside the Hvakina by the time I'm dead, a sword of the Wild Hunt.'
Tears had began to well up in his eyes but he held them in as his blood began to boil. He was a man now, sixteen years of age, lord of the [1] Nahvonai Saka and the Kardaka. He would not act like a little boy who had his food stolen from him. 'Never.'
He straightened himself up, shaking his fist and loosening his posture. Weakness like this was becoming a problem for him ever since the night mares had started. For months they had come, just a few similar dreams of him being chased by nameless voices through vales and glades of the land. The air was thick and cold without respite, there was no one but him but these endless voices of hate and darkness.
He cleared his throat, sucking in all his fears along with the phlegm and spit. "I know what all the great warriors and the aijhysäta seated here think. They think that a son of an usurper has no right to rule let alone lead the tribe to war. I have led my people down nothing but dark plains according to the Wolves and the Vultures would prefer there be no war at all."
He paused for a second as even the wandering eyes fell on him. He had their curiosity before, now he would get their attention.
"So I say it here and now. My father was an usurper of the great warrior Härao."
As soon as this statement had been uttered the silence in the room went from being one of uneasy tension to being a silence so thick one could take an iron sword and cut right through it. The profoundness of this statement was immense, Paśyai noticed as he looked around the room. The expression on that of the Wolves was that of victory, the one on the band of rider's of shock, Pallana looked as if he could cry and all his śyaos were shocked.
"My lord, please don't denounce your father like so. He defeated Härao in fair ritual combat," explained Pallana as he spoke from the side of Paśyai. He then looked at the Wolves who sat on one side of the room looking at the slightly raised platform where Paśyai sat with Pallana and Śaoysta on either side. "These men only hated him because he was an orphan, like all Imyarao, who cast aside his destiny and fought. They also spite him because he refused to raid neighbouring tribes and the Yavanas.
Murundao, I beseech you. Calm down your wrath and march back to Huẉïśgrutka so we may live to fight another day. We may perhaps even be able to bolster our numbers with some more of other tribes joining us."
Paśyai's brow creased at this statement. He felt anger bubbling through him like a river of fire, as he clenched his fists. "Did he? And how did that work out for him? The Yavanas scorned him and cast our peoples out when he offered to fight alongside them. Our people were split in two by his indecisiveness. He made us suffer a long march south only to take us back into these mountains where our horses could not ride freely as they did on the open Steppe.
He refused to fight Yaojhi like a brave man. He was as weak and spineless as the Saka who followed that knave Hora to the dusty south. I shall not show such cowardice against the Paorśava, these-"
Paśyai did not get a chance to finish the sentence, a deft slap landing on his face. Śaoysta rubbed his hand and mumbled something, tucking it back in and folding his arms. Paśyai put his hand on his face and winced, having gone bright red there and leaving a searing pain like holding a bar of burning iron.
He looked at his śyao with shock. The pain he felt was nothing compared with the surprise.
"I was but a young boy when your father ordered the great wandering. The Hunt it was called. Because it was not just a normal wandering for new pastures, for this time around there were no pastures left to move to," he said looking into the empty distance. "The Yaojhi had burnt everything, the Maś Sakadai, Saka Raoka, Saka Kaśfao and many other tribes joined us Haomvarka on our voyage. Those who stayed were put to the sword."
He then looked at the young king and poke coldly, "Don't think you know about the steppe my lord. Your father sacrificed everything he had to make sure his people could actually eat and not starve. He offered refuge for people who were misguided by their chiefs.
Don't think you can state what bravery is. Your father defined it my lord."
The small heated hall sat in silence for a few moments, no one daring to make a move. Too many things had happened suddenly today. Cracks had began to show in the leadership of the tribe and army. And sudden realisation came to Paśyai that these cracks had always been here, he had just been too blind to realise this. 'Hatred runs too deep in my people, the Aijhöna [2] that surround me have never let me see how my people actually live. They have taught that the goat herders, craftsmen and loggers are weak. They have tricked me, fooled me into thinking only the hunters are strong. Maybe Pallana is right, I am but a chold who does not understand.'
He then thought about the words he had uttered before, tears welling up once again. 'Father? How could I insult beloved Papa? I'm sorry, Papa. I'm so sorry.'
Nothing was said as Paśyai got to his feet and took a deep breath. He then raised his arms and took his helmet from the side of his chair. He then placed his helmet on his head and unsheathed his word pointing hit up. The entire hall looked at him expectantly, trying to anticipate what he might do next.
"Saddle your horses. Fill your quivers and wipe your swords clean. WE RIDE FOR BATTLE!" he roared, his words echoing across the room and soon being followed by the frenzied and ecstatic howls of the Wolves as well as the wild cawing of the Vultures. He looked to Pallana who simply stared at the floor in despair, then moved his regal gaze to Śaoysta who simply continued to stand as he had before, loyal to the death. Then he looked to the band of riders who had come originally to tell the news. His eye fell on one of them, a man who was probably no more than five or six years older than himself. There was something about the man which was interesting, something which gave Paśyai a niggling feeling at the back of his head.
He snapped out of these simple thoughts and went back to the most pressing thoughts of them all. 'It'll be suicide. How can we face a large army like this in such a tight valley. They have surprised us and we are not ready and we are very weary. The horses won't be able to move properly in battle. But I can't go back now. Not now after everything I've said. Oh, Papa you ride with the wild hunt. Please ask Hvakina to ride alongside us, for otherwise I may ride alongside you sooner than you might have expected...'
[1] Nahvo or Nahvonai - North or Northern
[2] Aijhöna - Silver blood, the term used to define the nobility in Saka clans.
Höna - Blood
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Well this is it. A small update before the Battle of the Two Fingers, which shall decide the fate of Kashmir and perhaps the entire sub-continent.
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