The Harbinger: a Romance of the Old World

Author’s Note:

To those who desire utmost realism and scholarship in their alternate history, this story may not be to your liking. It will not be so much an exploration of the consequences of a point of divergence as it will be an exploration of an alternate world. One which, by the time our story begins, has diverged so thoroughly from our timeline that it is, in effect, a fantasy setting; albeit one without any supernatural elements.

For that is essentially what this will be: a fantasy story, but one with some grounding in reality. I will be the first to admit that I’ll be playing a little fast and loose with history, but if you do find errors, please inform me of them. I’m not against having a realistic setting; it’s just that my priority with this timeline will be creating an interesting world and telling an interesting story. After all, I am writing this to be read, and if the reading is not engaging, what is the point?

Furthermore, this is a side project for me, as I am currently committed to Jesus Walks, which can be found in the post-1900 section. I want to do this as a bit of a palate cleanser while I write mostly politics and war in a familiar, modern world in that TL. Updates may be infrequent.

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CHAPTER 1: In which our story begins.

Tibet, 1580:

Freezing blizzard winds scoured the faces of the Dutch merchants as the convoy struggled along the rough cobblestone road. The driving snow threatened to consume the roads, causing the men to lose their footing and fall. The faces of the mighty aurochs were crusted with ice, but still the hardy animals continued to haul their precious cargo along the mountain road. Their breath came out their noses in copious quantities, easily visible in the frozen air, making the beasts look like furry dragons.

“Why does it have to be so ungodly cold?” yelled one of the traders as he trudged through the snow.

“How long do you intend to moan about that, Willem?” asked Johann, the captain of the trade caravan.

“Until we get through these godverdomme mountains!” Willem replied.

“Think of the bright side, Willem: perhaps you’ll die here in these mountains, then you’ll go to hell, where it will be considerably warmer.”​

Arthur Pegler was the lone Brit among the group of traders. An Oxford academic, he was schooled in the languages of the Orient, and had been hired as a translator for the expedition. He knew better than to gripe, even if the cold wind cut him bitterly. He simply held his arms close to his body and trod through the snow, keeping his thoughts to himself.

“Why didn’t we just take the verdomme canal?*” Willem asked, “Sail ‘round India! Like everybody else! We would already be on our way home!”

“Because if the Venetians caught us, they’d hang us from Alexander’s Bridge! And they would certainly catch us!” Johann replied, exasperated.

“People smuggle goods through the canal all the time!” Willem protested.

“Those people have the money to bribe the Venetians!” said Johann.

“So?” Willem replied.

“If we had enough money to bribe our way through freight inspection, we wouldn’t be on a get-rich-quick adventure to haul five tons of opium to Peiqing!”​

Arthur tried with all his might to ignore the argument, and simply focus on surviving. He looked around the road in an attempt to keep his mind occupied. The jagged rocks on both sides of the path had a dangerous, alien beauty; and occasional fir trees gave a splash of green to the otherwise white and grey landscape.

The stretch of road lie at the bottom of a deep crevasse, and other paths followed along the sides above them; though no travelers could be seen on the upper roads. Through the din of the storm, Arthur thought he heard something, just at the edge of hearing.

“Damnit, now I’m thinking of India,” Willem said, “and how much I’d rather be there, than in this frozen! White! HELL!”

“Shut your mouth, Willem!” Johann yelled, “I’ve had enough of your gripes for today.”

“I would kill to be in India right now. The music, the food, the women!”

“Willem,” Arthur said firmly, “shut up.”​

The whole caravan fell silent, shocked to hear the Brit speak. Now Arthur could hear it more clearly: shod hooves on stone. Horsemen were approaching. Many of them.

“Do any of you hear that?” Arthur asked.

“I hear it too.” Johann replied.​

The sound grew louder, and Arthur could just barely see movement on the ridges above.

“I don’t hear anything!” Willem said, a moment before an arrow pierced his side.​

A flurry of arrows fell upon the convoy, striking down many of the merchants. The survivors ran to the caravans, trying to use them as cover. Arthur heard a word shouted in a strange language he did not understand. Then, the arrows ceased. He heard another word shouted.

The arrows flew again, now dipped in pitch and set aflame. The rickety covered wagons easily caught fire, even in the blizzard wind. Spooked aurochs ran for their lives, crushing one of the merchants beneath the wagon’s great wheel. Arthur, thinking quickly, dashed for a nearby outcropping of rock. Cowering behind it, he watched as the million florin shipment went up in flames, smoke rising high.

Arthur could now see that there were horsemen in the crevasse itself, coming from both sides. With curved swords, they cut down the few survivors trying to flee. Arthur heard more barking in the strange language, but this was longer, more like a sentence than a single word. The horsemen began combing the wreckage. Arthur held tight to the rocks, trying desperately not to be seen. But what then? Suppose they don’t find me, he thought, then I’ll be stranded in the mountains with no food, water, shelter, or transportation. If they find me, they’ll kill me, but my death will at least be swift.

Gathering all his courage, Arthur leapt from the rocks, waving his arms so nobody could miss him. He heard more words, and the horsemen began to approach him, though slowly. Arthur held his breath and waited to die.

The horseman held his sword to Arthur’s neck, and said a few words in the strange language. When it became clear to the horseman that Arthur did not understand him, he called for another man, this one wearing ornate armour. The man rode up to Arthur.

“You,” he said in Chinese, “Do you understand me?”

Arthur gulped and said “Yes.”​

The man reached into a satchel, and pulled out a long brown feather.

“What is that?” Arthur asked.

“This is a feather from the Khan’s falcon. You will take it to your king. You will also take him a message. Do you understand?”

“…Yes.” Arthur replied.

“You will deliver this message exactly as I dictate it to you. You will change nothing, you will omit nothing, and you will add nothing to it. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”​

Another of the horsemen took out a long rod with a strange bit of metal on the end, and held it to the fire.

“Repeat after me.” The man in the armour said. “The Black Horde rides west.”

“The Black Horde rides west,” Arthur replied.

“The scourge of God is upon you.”

“The scourge of God is upon you,” he replied.

“Sabukhtai Khan offers you two choices.”

“…Sabukhtai Khan offers you two choices.”

“Surrender or die.”​

Arthur paused. The man held his sword to Arthur’s neck.

“Surrender… or die.” Arthur replied.

“Very good, for a red-haired barbarian.” The man said condescendingly. “You will deliver that message exactly as you said it now, or we will track you down, and we will kill you.”

“How exactly do you plan to find me, after I leave here today?” Arthur asked, feeling somewhat defiant as he felt more assured of his safety.​

The man in the armour beckoned the man holding the strange rod, and commanded another man in the strange language, which Arthur surmised was likely a dialect of Mongolian. The second man grabbed Arthur’s right arm and removed his glove, exposing his naked hand to the bitter air. The man with the rod walked up to Arthur, and he could see that the rod was a branding iron, red hot from the flames.

“Like this.” The man in the armour replied, and the man with the rod pressed the glowing end into Arthur’s palm. Arthur screamed in pain as the metal burnt the soft skin, leaving behind a strange marking.​

The man in the armour called to another man, who brought forward a horse, laden with supply bags.

“Now,” the man in the armour said, “take this horse, and go!”

“…I... I just go?” Arthur asked.

“Yes!” the man replied, “Go!”​

Arthur ran to the horse and jumped onto its saddle. He kicked it fiercely, and it took off like a cannon shot.

“Yes, run!” the man yelled, “run for your life!”​

Arthur couldn’t hear the man anymore, over the clopping of hooves and the driving snow. Cold, hungry, and now penniless, he set off for the only civilization within reach: India.

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* This is our POD, essentially. The true POD is earlier, but it creates the circumstances which allow the Venetian navy to construct the Suez Canal in the 1200’s. These circumstances will be explained in future updates.
 
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