The Secret History of the Bargas

filcat · Mar 23, 2021

Book I - Volume II - The Horse, The Kingdom, and The Future Heir

Buryatia, 925 common era.

The story takes place in the steppes of East Siberia. The Khan of Buryatia was dealing with the Khanate of Kirghiz.

First generation passed; their vassals revolted, but failed. Second generation; their vassals rebelled again, to no fruitful outcome. The Kirghiz Khanate was strong, the rebels were disparate.

The Horse
The Khan of Buryatia sighed, and swore fealty to the khanate. The Kirghiz Khagan seemed happy; tried to give him a vassal; proposed him a position at the council. The Khan rejected all, and minded his own business.

...which was, fabricating a claim on a neighbouring chiefdom, and caring for his horse. He never wanted to be a hostler, nor he wanted to be a warmongering khan. But his tutors, and his father urged him so; thus became he Qoshila, the Relentless of Buryatia.

He was not clumsy at the battlefield; he was not strange to strategy; far from it, just to spite his tutors, and his father, he became a formidable fighter, and a gallant rider. He did not like the smell of horses, though. Boreas, was his horse' name, though did not make any sense, as he would rather give him a mongolian name, as shuurga, or bökhik. Alas, this was not his life, this was not his world, he was a lonely soul, under his father's and tengris control, he thought.

Qoshila had four sons, just as his father did. But he despised his father, as his father was a self-proclaimed khan, embroiled in his own luck, foolishly ambitious to think that he could bring down the Kirghiz. Qoshila's father's sons, Qoshila's brothers, were healthy, and able warriors; and his father disinherited all but Qoshila. None of them were happy; all were bonded against his father. When he died, they carried on the leadership of the tribe.

Qoshila had four sons, but he was not lucky; far from it. His second born died being an infant; his third born died after a bad treatment. Miraculously, his first born survived; his daughters thrived; his last born was too young. He would have left the ordo to any of his daughters without thinking a second; but this was Buryatia, north of Mongolia; the traditions were adamant.

Qoshila sighed, as his father's foolish dream of conquering the Kirghiz was poisoning all in the realm; and he knew that was not possible. So swore fealty he to the Khagan of the Kirghiz; and the vassals were unhappy. To his luck, Qoshila's brothers were true to their bond; they did not abandon him, nor did he them.

Qoshila managed to persuade the other vassals; so Buryatia, now itself a vassal to the Kirghiz, remained intact and determined. That was his dream, and the reason of his disdain for his father: He wanted to be a traveller, a mediator, perhaps an envoy, to bring the steppes together by his silver tongue. No, said his father, he had to fight.

Qoshila sighed, and married his first born to a lowborn. They had children, two happy sons. Qoshila knew, that they should do whatever they aspire, and a child should be able to follow its own desire.

When the vassals were getting frustrated, as Qoshila did not fight for a long time, Qoshila sighed. He was not running away, he was not shying from war even for a day. He was, waiting, considering, planning. He was the Relentless of Buryatia, so sighed he when the vassals were angry. Sighed, and cared for his horse.

The Kingdom
...thus started Qoshila his war, against the vassals of the Kirghiz, riding his horse, with a sigh in his mind. Gathered all the riders, invaded the remaining Baikal tribe. Panicked Khagan of the Kirghiz; sent him a word, granting him a new vassal. Qoshila accepted the offer this time, to much surprise of all in the realm. It was the chiefdom of Ulaan-Ud, that was the Qoshila's claim, already fabricated years ago, when every other fool was urging him to go to war.

Qoshila accepted the offer, and called all in the realm, to join him against the usurper: The Kirghiz Khagan, was nothing but a usurper, a pretender imperator, that the steppes did not deserve.

Years passed, the rebel faction gathered forces, disbanded in regret, started again, was abandoned again. The Kirghiz Khagan was a usurper, but not a moron: He would give bribes, would send gifts, would grant lands to the rebels that wanted independence. All would accept, but Qoshila, the Relentless of Buryatia. He knew that the Kirghiz Khagan was clever, but Qoshila was determined: The Khagan, out of pure mysterious circumstances, died with leaving the Khanate to his heir.

...and this was the hammer, that fell on the final nail, starting another battle: The Mongol tribes rebelled, all were surprised. The Relentless of Buryatia, Qoshila of the clan Barga sighed, mounted his horse, and roared: This is the moment we were waiting, this is the day you were calling, fools: Ride the horses to Kirghiz realm: Down with his line: Bring the head of the swine!

...thus rebelled the independence faction, along with the Mongol tribes. The Kirghiz Khagan was clever, but not without mistakes: He did move his capital yurt to Ötüken, close to Buryatia, before dying under suspicious circumstances. This was his final mistake; and Qoshila was waiting his demise. Pathetic vassals of Buryatia, angry with Qoshila Khan of not fighting for a long time before, suddenly saw his plan, trembled and panicked, sent him words of loyalty. Qoshila sighed.

...thus captured Qoshila the capital yurt of the Kirghiz, denouncing his rule, proclaiming his independence. The Kirghiz could not even reach back, and lost all his wars. Now was not one, but two khaganates: The Kirghiz and the Mongolia. Qoshila, Khan of Buryatia, sighed and conquered Ötüken from the new khaganate of the Mongol tribes. This was a proclamation war against those: The Kirghiz and The Mongol Khaganate might be strong, but his was the Khanate of Buryatia, they were the rulers of Ötüken, the true khans of the steppes of Mongolian lands.

The Future Heir
Qoshila Khan's first born son, Toghun was the heir to be Buryatia's new khan. His children, the two grandsons of the Relentless Khan, were two happy toddlers, as if the warming rays of the morning sun. Dayan, the first born, and Oyiradai, the genius.

Toghun knew his father's troubles, and his anger towards his grandfather. He saw his father's tears when no one else could, during the disinheriting ceremony of his youngest brother: The tradition of the realm, the succession of the kingdom, demanded single heir with lands to be accordingly given. Toghun knew that his father would live his fury silently, and his wrath towards the tradition was not enough to break it permanently. Thus loved Toghun his sons even more, thus cherished Toghun his sons' decisions even more.

Dayan was a gentle soul, and he was immediately branded as a coward, a fearful man in his childhood. Oyiradai, seeing how the other children would pick on his older brother, was always there to defend him, with his wits, with his fists. Dayan might be known as a craven, but Oyiradai knew, that his older brother was still a stubborn, ardent person, and perhaps even more relentless than his grandfather, Qoshila Khan.

Regardless of the happiness, the realm would carry the tradition. The elders spoke, thus judged Dayan to be unfitting for the mount. Dayan was disinherited, pulled out of the succession. Qoshila sighed silently, but his first born Toghun knew that his father was furious. They were still fighting against the Kirghiz, and for his father the elders were just a nuisance. Toghun kept his first born Dayan with him, riding together in the steppes, fighting the Kirghiz. Qoshila Khan is busy, but everyone should beware of his hidden fury, said Toghun.

...therefore it was an ice-cold moment, when the news arrived after the Ötüken war. Oyiradai, nowhere to be found, travelled to Kingdom of Angara, a vassal of the Kirghiz. Toghun panicked, ran to his father, hoping against the most dreadful possibility, that he would do something against his son.

Toghun was surprised when he met his father, however: Qoshila, tears in his eyes, red-faced out of anger, but laughing. Laughing, as his grandson did what he could not. Oyiradai became a shaman for the King Rinchin of Angara, married a local tribesman's hunchbacked daughter, probably going to live there forever. Qoshila was laughing, as his grandson took Qoshila's own revenge on the elders of the realm, on Qoshila's own father, on the world.

...unfortunately, the realm was not laughing, and not happy even a bit. The elders of the clan Barga gathered, and devised an Erlik-wise plan to blatantly murder Oyiradai, the genius. This was the plan, this was the tradition; for the steppes, for the Buryats.

...then saw Toghun, an impeccable brightness in the eyes of his father. This light was rage, that he never, nor his mother, nor any of his siblings, ever saw before. Qoshila Khan sighed, in rage.

Within months, all the conspiring elders disappeared mysteriously, and the rest were persuaded by the Khan. Envoys were sent to Kingdom of Angara, to bring the young Oyiradai safe back home; King Rinchin said no: He was now a shaman. Toghun looked at this father, and he understood the true meaning of his own fear, and his father's love for him. The realm would tear apart Oyiradai for abandoning them. Qoshila Khan, to prevent any harm to his grandchild from the elders, from the tribes, or anyone in the realm, would rather burn down the rest of the world.

So did Qoshila Khan, burn down the world. King Rinchin was attacked by a mere mob; Oyiradai's betrothed, now his bride, was slain in the dark. Qoshila Khan found a new bride for his grandson; secretly met and persuaded him with his silver tongue to come back, but to no avail; and when all failed, demanded his grandson back to his realm. The new King of Angara refused all the demands. So gathered Qoshila Khan all his tribesmen, and rode to Yenisei, or what was left from the former powerful Kingdom of Angara. Their overlord, the Kirghiz Khanate was not as strong as before, but they still fielded a mighty force. Qoshila Khan struck them as if a lightning from Ülgen, the creator of the earth.

The Kirghiz riders retreated in shame; Kingdom of Angara was burned into the ashes; Oyiradai, the future heir, was brought back to Buryatia. Dayan was given the lands of Yenisei; thus ended the war for the future heir of Buryatia, so began the year of 935 in East Siberia.

Qoshila Khan, known as the Relentless; after the War for Buryat's Future Heir.

...and Toghun looked at his father, one last time before Qoshila Khan passed away.

It was remorse, it was pride, it was happiness, it was gladness in Qoshila's eyes. Qoshila Khan looked back at Toghun, then at his grandson, Oyiradai.

Toghun, the Heir of Buryatia, will be known as the Merciful.

It was understanding, it was pity, it was gloom; but it was also the same, and even more, fury against the realm, what Qoshila Khan saw in Oyiradai's eyes.

Oyiradai, the Future Heir of Buryatia, known as the Genius. Though only an intelligent person at best; he is far more gifted than anyone in the Barga Tribe

Qoshila Khan sighed, and passed away. His horse Boreas died the next day. They were buried together by the tradition.

Player's notes: Apologies for this absurdly long narrative, but grandchildren are still wandering around. It is especially painful to watch a future heir (heir's heir) going to another realm, becoming a priest, marrying to whomever found, therefore cannot be called back.
Befriending the target, eliminating the liege, eliminating the spouse, none would work at such a situation, naturally. There remains only the old-fashion method: conquer the realm that the target person is stuck in order to bring back home.
Except that in this case the distance was ~1000km in real world measurement. The narrative is kept long in an analogy to this.

Do not forget to force the potential candidates, the future candidates, or even the future future ones, into knighthood (or appoint as physician, councillor, whatever), to keep them at court.
Sigh.

Player's Edit 25.03.2021: Corrected the duchy name, corrected the date; minor corrections on some localisations. Added character images after realising that the post was transferred to aar subforum under mysterious circumstances. This was only a long narrative in order to share a common pain with the fellow players in the forums.
Player's Edit 14.06.2021: Reduced the font of the appendix; since decided to publish the complete story.

Publishers'-Edit 12.01.2022: Corrected publication mistakes. Corrected the threadmark. Replaced a verb to avoid confusion. Reuploaded the images with jpeg format as the forum rules. Corrected title convention.
Publishers'-Edit 12.11.2022: Corrected publication mistakes.

HistoryDude · Mar 26, 2021

Qoshila is a complicated character.

And Qoshila sighed at that, too.

filcat · Jun 11, 2021

Book I - Volume III - The Merciful and The Mirror

Wake up. Wake up, old man.

No, you already awoke. You are just waiting.

Waiting for what, the dawn?
The white ray of the shining, by the sun was brought;
the blue mist of the morning, by the sun was drowned.
Get up. Get up, old man.

No, it is not yet. The light has reached your eyes, but you are not ready.

The day does not wait.
The day does not ask for the unwilling to ready.
The day does not listen to the whims of the petty.
Rise. Rise, old man.

No; it may not wait, but you are not feeling the vigour of yourself,
of your past.
The power of your younger days.
The might of your early ages.

It is not the time for yearning.
It is not the time for remembering.

Why not? Why should you not remind self
the sweet of the days happened,
the beauty of the years passed?
Why should you not live the past once again in your mind?

You know why you should not, old man.
You know who your father was.
The rage of the silent, the fury of The Relentless.

Qoshila, your father. You wanted this; now you want to remember it.

As you wish,
but the days of Qoshila,
the reign of The Relentless ended long ago.
You are Toghun, do remember that.
You are The Merciful, do remember that.
Now, get up old man. Get up, and seize the days of your reign.
Get up, and embrace the legacy of your realm.
Get up, you are ready.

You agree that the time has come. You get up finally, you are ready.
But… but you feel weak, you feel rushed, you feel the days have slipped away.
You feel you have achieved nothing,
and yet the sun has chased the moon far too many.
You feel… old.

True, that the days seem duller.
True, that the life tastes bitter.
It is not true, however, that you have achieved nothing;
on the contrary, you accomplished many.
Many more to come, old man.

How?
You do know that what you have done is almost nothing,
compared to what your father achieved.
How can you think that you are as powerful as your father,
as cunning as your father,
as relentless as your father?

You are punishing yourself without any right, old man.
Don your armour, the armour that you cast from the iron.
Eat up your food, the food that you provided for all your tribesmen.
Look at your mirror, the mirror that you brought from far away.

Ah yes, the armour, your prize.
Ah yes, the food, your gift.
Ah yes, the mirror, your miracle.

Yes, the mirror.
Who could say that you have achieved nothing, old man?
No one!
Your father was The Relentless,
and your father did not even have love in the heart for any.
You have.
Your father was not only feared, but was the darken horror for the many.
You are definitely not;
you have mercy,
you have love in your heart for the many.

Yes, the mirror.
You are the first Barga, who looks at self
through the mirror of the crafters,
through the minds of the sages.
You do not bring the wrath on your people;
you rule the lands for your realm.
Look again at the mirror, old man.
You do have yourself in you.

Yes, the mirror… and you do have love for your children in you, old man.

Ah yes, your children.
You do have love for them.
Your children, Dayan and Oyiradai;
lead them, Tengri.

Yes, your sons; and many more you have.
Your first beloved wife, who bore your sons,
had left the realm of the living,
but you found a new beloved companion, Dronmalön,
from the mountains of the south.
Your new lover gave you your daughter;
your new lover bears another.
You achieved many, old man.

Ah yes, you loved your first wife.
Ah yes, you love your new wife.
Ah yes, your new born daughter,
and your child that has not been born yet;
guide them, Tengri.

Yes; now you are ready to achieve more, old man.
You will finish what you have started.
You will fight against the Kirghiz, and what is left of them.
Your son Dayan has been defending
the lands of Yenisei for so long, alone;
and you should reach there
before everything else.

Ah yes, the war.
The war against the Kirghiz.
You will defeat the Kirghiz, and may be,
you will proclaim the title,
you will get the power that no one has ever seen before.
You don your armour,
you eat up your food.
The father, the children, the lover, the war on Kirghiz…
and then you look at the mirror.

You… you are old.
Your hair is of ash,
your look is of broken ice,
your stand is of lizard.
Your years, no, your days are not many.
How… how could this be?
You were supposed to grab the power,
achieve the might of your ancestors, of your father!
You look at the mirror,
and you see an old past of a man, not a force of Ülgen!

Then you see your son in the mirror.
Oyiradai.
Your son was at the entrance of your yurt all this time.
It was… your son talking to you.

Yes, father.

Your father hated your grandfather, you know that.
Qoshila, The Relentless,
the cold, the raging in lightnings,
the silent of few words.
Did your father love you?
You think so, you want to think so.
Did you love your father?
You know you did,
even if you were living in horror of your father.
But your son?
Does your son-

Go ahead, ask the question, father.

You are shivering while looking at your son through the mirror.
You turn, and now you see your son,
without the magic of the mirror, through the light curtain of the day.
Your son looks at you, and you do not know how to feel, what it means.
Your father also looked at you like this once, you remember.

Your son told you, now is not the time to remember.
Was this the reason not to remember?

You are shivering while trying to find your way to your chair.
You know who found your young lover Dronmalön, and brought to you.
Was it your son?
Was this your son’s plan?
Is your lover also the companion in plans of your son?
Is your lover… actually your son’s lover?

You are shivering while slowly sitting on the chair.
Your heart is beating.
No, it is trying to crack your chest.
You are really old, you accept that.
Your war; how will you fight your war now?
Your war… was not it, that your son Oyiradai brought the news,
that your first born Dayan was under attack of raiders?
Your son… your son urged you to go to war,
and all you wanted to provide more yurts for your tribesmen,
bring riches of the faraway lands.
All the elders disapproved, but your son supported you?
How could this happen?
Was this your son’s plan, to leave you unaware of yourself?

You are shivering while you are remembering your father.
It was your father,
and you,
and your tribesmen,
that murdered Oyiradai’s first wife,
to get your son back, to bring your son back.
Is this the revenge, is your son here to murder you-

No, father. There is no need for that.

You are shivering while realising that your son can read you as if an open sky,
and you do not even say a word loud.
You are not shivering, but trembling.
What is true, you do not know.
What you have lived so far, you do not know.
No need?

You are trembling while holding your chest.
No need?
You are an old man, as your son said.
You do not even know if this is the last moment of you.
No need?
Please, you look at your son,
your eyes are asking for mercy,
asking for the truth.
No need?
This is the last of you,
the last force left in you.
You gather your remaining courage in your veins, to ask the question.

Do you… Have you ever loved me, my son?

The light in your son’s eyes is silent, raging, burning generously as the sun.
The look of your son is ice, cruel, staring wrathfully as the wolf.
You do know that when your son starts to speak,
you will learn what is true of you, of your reign, of your life.

You do know that
it is the twelfth day of the seventh month of the nine-hundred-and-forty-eighth year
according to the nestorians to the south.

You do know that,
after your son tells you everything,
justifying your fears,
you, Toghun Khan of Barga clan, The Merciful of Buryatia,
you will die
of pain in your heart,
of knowing the loss of your son’s love for you.

It was lost long ago.

You now understand why there is no need.

I will answer, father, and this will destroy you.

Note on the link this will destroy you: This Will Destroy You - War Prayer - from the album Another Language - 2014

Publishers'-Edit 24.06.2023: Corrected publication mistakes. Corrected titles. Corrected the threadmark. Reuploaded the images in jpeg format.

Revan86 · Jun 13, 2021

Whew!

Excellent setup and an interesting choice for playthrough, the Buryats. And some really fascinating psychological interplay between father and son in your second instalment. I appreciate the quasi-poetic internal monologue / dialogue there.

Just out of curiosity, have you ever read Martha Avery's The Tea Road? I'd recommend it - even though its organisation is a little scattershot, I found it an incredibly informative read, particularly as regarded the medieval to early-modern trade in tea and horses northward through Ulan-Ude and Irkutsk on Lake Baikal, which is one area where your AAR is set.

filcat · Jun 13, 2021

Revan86 said:
Excellent setup and an interesting choice for playthrough, the Buryats. And some really fascinating psychological interplay between father and son in your second instalment. I appreciate the quasi-poetic internal monologue / dialogue there.

Sincerely thankful for the kind words!
It started as an honest caution (do not forget to check the dynasty at the court!), but the run has finished recently; now it is time to document it, for greater fun.

Revan86 said:
Just out of curiosity, have you ever read Martha Avery's The Tea Road?

Interestingly, yes. That is a remarkable recommendation; it has great notes on contemporary culture and geography together with good references to the history of the region.

For the case of classical to post-classical history of nomadic cultures of north-to-east asia, there are also more sources from Han (later Tang-Jin-Han-Song dynasties) and Rhomanoi chronicles. Needless to say there are the mongolian, yuan, and later ming, AND RUSSIAN, sources for the mongol empire. Actually there is a plethora of sources due to the size of nomadic empires-khaganates. In the case of mongol empire, extending from han to goryeo-korea to tibet chronicles; persian -khwarezm, ilkhan, timurid-, indian -timurid and later babür- and to some extent in seljuk rum and therefore ottoman (but particularly crimean due to golden horde - juchi uls) sources. Not sure about Dai Viet sources, as vietnamese is difficult

Revan86 said:
Ulan-Ude and Irkutsk on Lake Baikal, which is one area where your AAR is set.

an interesting choice for playthrough, the Buryats

Yeah, Lake Baikal may not be that much known, as Martha Avery points out, for the western point of view; for the nomadic cultures in the history the lake and the region -Baikal to Yenisei- is very famous to the point of almost sacred.

For the reason of choice of Buryats and Barga clan; it will be elaborated in the next chapters.

Edit: Reduced the font size of the first part of the reply, as it is realised that it can be perceived rude, but kept it in case for the interest of curious ones. Also added in capital letters the important missing source type for the subject.

filcat · Jun 14, 2021

(The Long Overdue) Prologue - The Actual and The Fictional

The Actual

The Secret History of the Mongols is considered as one of the most important literary works and chronicles for the post-classical period of the Eurasia, as well as the oldest record on the history of Mongol Empire as from 13. century. Later chronicles written in Yuan period covers greater spectrum and larger focus subjects, but the Secret History of the Mongols provides crucial information specifically on the Borjigins, Temujin and his ascension to become Genghis Khan, and it ends with Ögedei Khan.

Other chronicles of great importance were also written on the history of mongol empire as Altan Tobchi (Golden Summary) by Guush Luvsandanzan in 17. century [1]; Altan Devter (Golden Book -turkish Altın Defter) of unknown author and lost, but known only by Rashid al-Din Hamadani in 14. century [2]; Erdeniin Tobchi (Summary of Treasure of Khan) by Sagan Setsen in 17. century [3] (the name was transliterated into german as Ssanang Ssetsen; borrowed into english as Ssanang Setzen, then transliterated into english as Saghang Sechen).

The significance of the Secret History of the Mongols comes from the fact that it is the oldest source available written in old mongolian language. Its importance is equivalent of Orkhon Inscriptions for the old turkic languages. It was well-known during Ming dynasty and was the primary source for its officials to learn mongolian in that period [4]. Its contemporary copies are available only as transcriptions to Hanzi from that period.

As it covers the Borjigins, the Secret History of the Mongols starts with the mythological origin character of Alan Gua (Alan Qoa, as rendered by Onon [5]) being the matriarch-ancestor.

Alan Gua is a prominent figure in the mythology shared by nomadic people of the turkic and the mongolic cultures living in the steppes, the mountains, and the forests of Asia. She was the daughter of Qorilartai-mergen of the Khori-Tümed Mongols, born at Ariq-usun to her mother Barqujin-qo’a daughter of Barqudai-mergen of the Köl Bargujin [5].

Alan Gua married Dobun-mergen, who was descended from a grey-blue wolf (Börte Çine) and a fallow doe (Goa Maral). From this marriage she had 2 sons: Belgünütei and Begünütei (Bügünetei [5]). After the death of Dobun-mergen, a moonlight visited the yurt of Alan Gua, who gave birth to 3 more sons: Bukha Khatagi (Buqu-qatagi [5]), Bukhatu Salji (Buqatu-salji [5]), and the youngest son Bodonchar Munkhag (Bodonchar-mungqaq [5]) who became the ancestor of Temujin.

According to his work Jami Al-Tawarikh (Compendium of History-Chronicles), Rashid al-Din Hamadani indicated that Alan Gua probably lived 400 years before Temujin [2].

For the name Alan Gua or Alunkuva or Alan Goa (Алунгуа) or Alan Qo’a [5], al shares meaning for light (and red) in many languages of the region, with the actual meaning for Alun (Алун) as sacred. Gua-Goa (Гоо) has possible meanings of beauty and intelligence; but usually assumed as shining.

Notice that the story of descending from a wolf and a doe is shared by many turkic and mongolic cultures of nomadic Asia.

Goa Maral (Гоомарал) has possible translations as Fair Doe or Doe of Light, whereas its contemporary translation is fallow doe in english. In 19. century historiography, it was translated as a white hind to english [6]. Rendered by Onon as Qo’ai-maral [5], its meaning is given as beautiful doe. The specification of fallow doe indicates a modern rendition rather than an actual description, and it suggests an overlap of mythological elements shared by many cultures [*].

Börte Çine-Börte Çono (Бөртэ Чоно) shares a weak resemblance with the name Borjigin. Rendered by Onon as Börte Chino [5], its meaning is given as greyish white wolf. Börçigin transliteration of Borjigin is also linked to Börü Tegin in old turkic. On the other hand, Borjigin possibly comes from Borjigidai-mergen, the grandfather of Dobun-mergen, descendants of Börte Çine and Goa Maral. Early historians such as Rashid Al-Din Hamadani [2] and Abu Al-Ghazi [7] associated the name Börçigin with the turkic translation of man with blue eyes, through blue-grey wolf Börte Çine-Börte Çono and Börü Tegin. Hamadani further linked the name Çine-Çono with a clan from the ancient tales of Ergenekon – Ergüne-kün in mythology, whereas there is a separate distinct mongolic tribe of Çono-Chonos.

The name Çine-Çono suggests an etymological similarity to Ashina clan of Köktürks; while both sharing a cult of leader with a wolf totem, this is a heavily disputed connection. The clan name Ashina is considered as an exonym for Köktürks through saka languages, which is regarded more plausible as an etymological explanation [8]. It is a common pattern of anthropomorphism, as the totem (wolf and doe) and its related legends are diffused with tribal leaders as ancestral cult, and it is shared in the collective memories of large groups of populations, despite in different languages -but sharing many similarities and direct borrowings due to the cultural osmosis.

According to The Secret History of the Mongols, Alan Gua came from the region where Khori-Tümed tribes lived, from Barga clan in the mountainous range around and to the east of Lake Baikal. Buryat folk legends of the Khori-Buryats has the calling “The origin of ours is from the swan-bird, the sacred tree of ours is the birch, the elder sister of ours is Alan-Gua”. Contemporary Bargas have a dialect similar to Buryats, while historically they did not use the name Buryat for themselves [9].

The region they lived was called Bargujin-Tüküm, Bargujin Hollow (modern Barguzin). It is assumed that the name was borrowed from Barga or Bargutor or Barag. They were prominently mentioned in The Secret History of the Mongols due to the proximity and family ties to Kiyad Mongols that the Borjigins belong to.

The lands that Barga clan lived is called Dauria, where they neighbour the people Daguur of Dauria, of Khitan – proto-mongolic origin, and the Yakuts (Sakhas – Sakhalar) of Yakutia, of Kurykan-Tiele – proto-turkic origin.

[1]

[2]

[3]

[4]

[7]

[1] Altan Tobchi (Golden Summary), Guush Luvsandanzan in 17. century
[2] Jami Al-Tawarikh (Compendium of History), Rashid al-Din Hamadani 1247-1318 (Miniature: Hulagu Khan with his nestorian wife Dokuz Khatun)
[3] (Translation into german by Isaak Jakob Schmidt 1779-1847 of) Erdeniin Tobchi (Summary of Treasure of Khan) by Sagan Setsen 1604-1641?
[4] Excerpt from The Secret History of the Mongols, written with Hanzi, Ming dynasty period
[5] The Secret History of the Mongols: The Life and Times of Chinggis Khan, Urgunge Onon 2001
[6] "Burteshino is made by Setzen to marry Goa Maral, the lustrous white hind," Northern Frontagers of China Part I. The Origines of the Mongols, H.H. Hohworth, The Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 1875, Vol. VIII, Part II, p.231
[7] (Latin translation of russian translation for) Shajara-i Tarakima (Geneaology of Turkmens, or History of Mongols and Tartars) by Abu al-Ghazi Bahadur Khan of Khiva 1603-1663
[8] Studies on the Peoples and Cultures of Eurasian Steppes, Peter B. Golden, 2011
[9] Encyclopedia of Mongolia and Mongol Empire, Christopher P. Atwood, 2004

[*] About Goa Maral as fallow doe: The native deer species known in Eurafrasian geography are mainly the red deer (Cervus elaphus), Siberian roe deer (Capreolus pygargus), Siberian musk deer (Moschus moschiferus), reindeer (Rangifer tarandus sibiricus), and elk (Alces alces). Fallow deer (Dama dama) is native only to west asia and particularly to Anatolia. Fallow deer translates to modern turkish as alageyik (Dama dama) but that has multiple meanings also as red deer (Cervus elaphus), since the word al is synonymous to kızıl as red in turkish, and the word ala is interchangeably used for both red and composite colour. Fallow deer translates to modern mongolian as unagan buga - унаган буга, whereas maral – марал is used for red deer.

Map from Encyclopedia of Mongolia and Mongol Empire, Christopher P. Atwood, 2004

The Fictional

The Secret History of Bargas

As opposed to the histories of Mongols, Turks, and numerous cultures of east-to-north Asia, which have large volumes of documentation from various sources of historiography, some obscure documentations were found with heavily disputed sources, focusing on a specific clan of Buryat Mongols, the Bargas, from the 9th century to the 15th century in the common era. They were compiled in a single tome as The Secret History of Bargas, though the compiler-editor is unknown. The tome is published online on this forum.

The nature of the tome suggests that it was written by various chroniclers, gathered from various journals, documented by various historians’ collections, and compiled from common lore of various cultures. Their exact origins are unknown, and it is certain that they are purely fictional. The studies to identify the origin dates were inconclusive, indicating that it is an elaborate work of pure fantasy and therefore it has no credibility. The volumes of the tome were, however, written with clear dates, albeit all of them are baseless.

It is mandatory to stress it out again that these documents are completely fictional, even though they share some parallels with the actual subjects of historiography. Its contents are absolutely contradicting with the history.

The language of the tome suggests that these fictional source-documents were written in various languages initially, and were later translated into contemporary english. Frequent errors in its grammar are observed, as well as low-quality to incomprehensible expressions in its writing, indicating that english is not the native language of the compiler of the tome.

Attempts to identify the compiler of the tome have failed so far. The signature was given in only a handful of parts, under the name The Author.

The fictional nature of the tome makes it difficult to estimate the actual size of its content. Observations so far indicated that it has 14 main volumes, with each relating to one of the fictional rulers of the Barga. For the sake of this publication, the volumes are grouped in 5 main books as:

Book I: Bargas of the Buryat Khanate
Book II: Era of the Great Khagans
Book III: Rise of the Borchigin
Book IV: Khaganate of All-Sky
Book V: Late Medieval Khaganate

Publishers' note: Following paragraphs may subject to change, and updated accordingly as the publication continues.

Book I has been published in 5 volumes as The Horse, The Kingdom, and The Future Heir; The Merciful and The Mirror; The Stranger (in 3 parts); The Name of The Khan in the Silence of the Valley; and The Promise of The Shaman (in 9 parts), covering the reigns of Qoshila Khan, Toghun Khan, Galsan Khan, and Oyiradai Khan respectively, as they are written in the tome (23 March - 2 July 2021; refer to Index for quick access).

Volume I of Book I is based on largely fragmented short chronicles of various sources, from which a proper analysis of this fictional work was organised, but otherwise provided as footnotes in the aforementioned volume. A general post-analysis of the first book has been published as Epilogue for Book I (11 July 2021; refer to Index for quick access).

Starting with Book II, greater details are available for the reigns of remaining descendants of this fictional lineage. They will be published as they were found in the tome.

Last update by the publishers: 23.07.2021

Publishers'-Edit 13.02.2023: Corrected publication mistakes. Corrected the references. Updated the last paragraphs in the section The Fictional.

filcat · Jun 16, 2021

Book I - Volume I - The Stranger - I
(for references, see appendix at the end of part III)

Verse I [1]
Seen what they have done?
The Blue has frowned upon! The Brown has cracked down!
The universe was divided into Uçmag and Tamag [2],
In between the Two, the mankind was born.
Was this, of Bay-Ülgen, of Erlik [3],
That the ones beyond Kök Su Köl [4] praised?
Tengri of the eternal Blue, Umay of the everlasting Brown [5],
From Kayra Khan became the birch, of the three were born.
Three children Kayra Khan has, Mergen, Kizagan, and Bay-Ülgen [6],
Thus the life of man was sown.
The sound of earth, the light of sea, the taste of sky,
Angry was Erlik, wanted to create of his own.
Benevolent was Bay-Ülgen, protected us against Erlik’s crown.

Verse II [7]
Was this, of Abai Geser, that üligers [8] said?
The three mothers, protect us all,
Mother Ekhe Yuuren, raise the ten thousand tengris for all,
Grandmother Manzan Gurme, nourish the iyes and the ezens [9] for all,
Goddess Gere Sessen, bring the light for all.
But the father Esege Malaan Tengri, divided into ninety-nine, the lands of all.
Gave the fifty-five to the strong Khan Khormusta Tengri,
Gave the fourty-four to the great Atai Ulaan Tengri.
Khan Khormusta Tengri, for us Khan Khjurmas,
his three sons, his three daughters, his thirty-three baatars,
Three sons Zasa Mergen, Bukhe Beligte, Habata Gerel,
Three daughters Erjen, Duran, Sebel [10].
They prepare for battle and they fight for us,
Khan Khormusta Tengri, protect us! Defeat Atai Ulaan Tengri for us!
Defeated Atai Ulaan, cut into pieces, thrown onto the earth,
Poison and plague; monsters, hunger, sorrow, and quake!
Bukhe Beligte, be the saviour, return as Abai Geser!
Fight for us, save us from suffering!

Verse III [11]
The turmoil of the past, the carnage of the old,
The songs of the ancient, the tales of the elders,
Remained in the eons of long ago.
Kün Ana and Ay Ata chased each other, lived for another, loved all together [12],
Then came the day of now, to the lands of Baigal nuur.
The Khongodor were living into the red [11a] of Angara River,
In the taigas of Tulun, into the black of Kök Su Köl, on the banks of Akha.
The Sono were neighbouring them into the black [11b],
In the forests of Bura, into the red of Baigal nuur [13], but Sakhas called it Bay Köl.
The Yrkhu were dwelling between the rivers Angara and Yrkhu,
On the hills of Ilga, into the white [11c] of Baigal nuur, harbouring its riches.
Further into the black, the Abazaj were roaming,
On the hills and in the forests of Eülkhe, but Sakhas called it Ölüöne.
At the end of the black, settled the Hengelder,
In the mountains of Chuya, bordered by the river of Eülkhe.
In the black of the blue [11d], peaked the mountains of Kotera,
Was the home of the Galzuud.
And there were the mountains to their red,
In the blue of Baigal nuur, the lands called Dauria.
It was the home of the Barga, led by the Stranger.

Verse IV - The Stranger [14]
Galsan of the Barga, seen only forty-one summers in the taiga,
Forty winters on the mountains of Bargajan, the forty-first was the day,
His name was chosen for the lands of Dauria.
Out of Buryats none has heard him, from the Baigal none has known him.
To the red of his lands, ruled the Yenisei Kirghiz Khanate,
The ravening Uzur Khagan, and his four sons, and his subjects by the hundreds.
Husun of the Mergid was into the red of Dauria, ruling the river banks of Üde,
Menggei of the Mergid was into white of Dauria, ruling the hills of Selenge.
Into the white of them, the realm of Karabalgasun was known.
Its ruler’s age was just for the day, named as Bodonchar Munkhag, known as Borjigin.
His mother’s beauty was just for the envy, named as Alan Gua, known as Borjigin.
His brothers’ nature was just for the fear, named as Bukhatu Salji and Bukha Khatagi,
His younger brothers’ blood was just for the fame, named Belgünütei and Begünütei.
His reign was just for the greed, open for conquest, surrounded by the mighty.

[Even though it is not exactly verified, I suggest that Galsan’s reign started in 867 in the common era. It is reasonable to assume 1 January to sort a clear timeline. – The Author.]
Post-Note: This is the first occurrence of a commentary made by The Author, the supposed original editor of the tome.

Verse V
Galsan of the Barga, a felt maker’s son, unknown by the fame, never-heard by the name,
Yet promised to his tribesmen, to bring down the Kirghiz Khagan.
Irgen were shocked, as he was only a darqan [15], without many baatars [16], had no allies.
Irgen were worried for their darqan, about whom no tales were sung by anyone,
Irgen were confused, as Galsan of the Barga was only a son of a haran [17].
Married to a timid dove named Soyolma, father to two daughters Geleg and Badma,
But his name was chosen for the lands of Dauria.
As his companions, he took Byorte the naïve wolf and Dulma the hungry falcon,
As this was his right for being the darqan of Dauria.
For his daughter Geleg, he sent words to Bodonchar Munkhag of the Borjigin, saying,
Let Geleg take Bukha Khatagi as her man, and let this be our friendship’s beginning!
Bodonchar Munkhag accepted happily, and his brother was gifted the lands of Khentii.
For his daughter Badma, he sent words to Menggei of the Mergid, saying,
Let Khal take Badma as his woman, and let this be our friendship’s beginning!
Menggei accepted happily, and asked for promise to help against the Khagan’s tyranny.

Verse VI
Galsan of the Barga, soothing in figure as the sky, but storming when it came to decide.
In the past summer was the start of the Mongol and Ostyak [18] tribes’ rebellion,
Against the khaganate of the ominous reputation, it was time for Uzur Khagan’s expulsion.
And Galsan of the Barga, the lightnings swirling in his mind, broke his own oath.
Galsan of the Barga, Tengri’s ardent follower, out of persuasion vowed never to surrender,
As the tranquillity of winter on Baigal, but as the honourless of fox in taiga,
secured the red border, and instead marched into the black to conquer.
It was only the second winter, as his name was known thereafter.
Fled from Kotera, Osor of the Galzuud, the darqan of Bargujin Tukum,
When his tribesmen failed to defend the lands, crying for help from Num-Torum.
Returned Galsan of the Barga, victorious of battle, joyous of conquest,
Not feeling tired, not having any regret, even if it was shameful an oath to forget.
It was only the fifth winter, as he marched into the white, for Baigaluuls to conquer.
Rode from the white, Aldar of the Hengelder, as the darqan of Chuya to defend,
Fierce were his tribesmen, bloody was the battle, but not enough to prevent.
Returned Galsan of the Barga, jubilant of day, jolly of fray.
His bliss was so intense, for the birth of his first born son, he did not even celebrate.

Verse VII
So was born Qoshila, with iyes abandoned his body, left in oblivion by his father.
It was the second winter, for Qoshila to enjoy the sky, protected by his Byorte mother.
Bonded with his Ariq brother, for Qoshila to survive the winter.
Galsan of the Barga, disciple of Tengri,
returned from the sacred sea, but lost his iyes on the road he had gotten.
From now on known by his divination, but by Evren [19] from the wisdom he was forsaken.

[The verse VII ends abruptly; I was unable to salvage verses VIII and IX. I assumed Galsan of the Barga conquered lands from the Galzuud and the Hengelder as a dedication, pleading Ülgen to ask Tengri for help with his recovery. He also sacrificed his wolves, which is an unheard practice. Instead, I assume the conquered lands were entrusted to his noyans [20] as a gift and to show humility when pleading to Ülgen. This was a false act, as he was far from having any kind of honour. He was so shamefully swimming in his grandiose false-dreams, that it had been dictated as if a sacrifice of sacred animals instead of sharing his lands. This shameful attitude continues in Verse X, but the tone changes in the final verse. I assume this is when Qoshila’s influence became more significant in the kurultai, and the verse was actually dictated by him. I assume Verse X is the actual ending for the Galsan’s tale. – The Author]

Publishers' Note: The notes added by The Author indicates taking a position against Galsan, defining his acts as shameful, and siding with the sons. On the other hand, the other volumes of the tome do not include any veneration from The Author towards Qoshila, nor the tales of Galsan is ever mentioned in the other volumes again.

Publishers'-Edit 12.01.2022: Corrected publication mistakes. Rearranged the images. Reuploaded the images in jpeg format, and discarded 11 images.

filcat · Jun 16, 2021

Book I - Volume I - The Stranger - II
(for references, see appendix at the end of part III)

Verse X
So sacrificed his wolves Galsan of the Barga, Vitim and Yera, in the name of Ülgen,
Happy was Tengri, the winters were serene, the preys in hunts were plenty.
Touching the glimmer of the moon, feeling the day from the dawn once again.
Blessed with children, after gaining his iyes,
named his new born sons as Mergen and Tolui, and as Sanzima his new born daughter.
Rich and glad, healthy and peaceful,
ended his thirteenth winter, began his fourteenth summer.
From now on known as Galsan Khan, ruling the lands of Buryats under the sun.

Verse XI
From the lands beyond Kök Su Köl, came Akgül the wise doe, a wife for the first born son,
Qoshila was silent, never to talk his father, keeping his siblings together.
Galsan Khan of Buryat, for his son Ariq, sent words to Menggei of the Mergid, saying,
Let Ariq take Orqina as his woman, and let our friendship consolidate!
Menggei accepted wearily, but again expected his help against the Khagan to eradicate.
But of his deeds everyone knew, the swings in his mind flew.
Four winters passed, promises he did not keep.
Against Zhrygal Khagan, son of Uzur of Yenisei Kirghiz, the tribes rebelled for freedom.
Seventeenth winter came for the first son, it was the time of the silent,
for Qoshila to fletch his arrows, to lead the baatars, to ride his horse.
But mostly to protect his three brothers and three sisters.

The Death of the Dove [21]
The Dove came from Baigal, the blue tenggis [22], the throne of Su Ana.
The four lives the Dove gave cried
The three lives the Dove cherished sorrowed
The Dove flew away to Ucmag, the blue eternal, the throne of Tengri.
The Tree should give life for the Great Loss
The Sky should rain plenty for the Great Fall

The Lands of the Stranger
He was The Stranger of Buryatia, he was blessed by Tengri, he was Galsan of the Barga.
He was the darqan of Dauria, he was urged by Ülgen, he became the Khan.
He fathered his children of the Barga, he ruled the lands of the Khanate of Buryatia.
Vitim was bestowed upon Dorzho, Yera was bestowed upon Sambuu,
Chuya was bestowed upon Ejei, Gatsuurgazar was bestowed upon Khotsa.
Twenty-three summers passed, he took Byorte The Wolf as Khatun, by Umay she was blessed.
I was Adai, the Shaman of Tengri, servant of Umay and Kayra, follower of Kün Ana and Ay Ata.

The Oath of the Children [23]

You know it, you know it is true, were the screams of Ariq at the end. Ariq’s scream was heavy, until it started to crack. Mergen and Tolui were uneasy, as Ariq’s claim caught them unready.

Qoshila was handling his horse, and was not looking at his brothers. When turned back, he looked in the eyes of his brother Ariq, son of Soyolma The Dove. Ariq’s eyes were burning to the end, reddened in agony, glooming in despair. Mergen and Tolui were not even of their age, their eyes not in the certain, and yet shared the anger of their brother. Qoshila sighed.

It had been months since the death of The Dove. It had been weeks since Ariq was riding, looking as possessed by Erlik. It has been days since Ariq was unable to stop pleading to him, trying to persuade him. Qoshila remained silent. It has been a morn and a noon since they gathered, and Ariq started to talk at the eve. At first as calm as the gentle wind, then as thundering as Huhedei [23-1]; fiery screams followed, then begging for them to believe in heart-breaking cries. While his brother was erupting in hatred, while Mergen and Tolui were ever changing their minds for whom to believe, for what to believe. Qoshila continued to handle his horse, and he did not even like the horse. His brother’s cry was just, but he already accepted; his brother’s plea was right, but was not enough for what truly happened. The treachery was not limited to what Ariq thought he knew. Qoshila stood silent, for all the months, for all the weeks, for all the days, since the morning. The time was now, the time for The Oath.

I know it, were the words of the gentle sound. The tears were raining from the sky, the eyes of Ariq were of waterfall. His shoulders were shaking under the relieve of Qoshila’s support, the words that meant eternal for the seal, the words that accepted the furious real. The seal of the brothers, the oath of the anda [24], the bond of the Barga.

I know it, that cursed carrion bug, and that damned swamp insect, together they did it, they took the life of Mother Soyolma, were the words of the rational sound. Qoshila and Tolui, sons of Byorte The Wolf; Mergen, son of Dulma The Falcon; came close to Ariq, son of Soyolma The Dove. Held their shoulders, hugged them, and all brought their heads close to each other, when Qoshila lowered his voice to whisper.

…and he also knew it, and he did nothing, were the words of the silent sound. Mergen was the first to jump back. Tolui could not help his scream. Ariq was still shaken, and now he was astonished, unable to decide how to think, what to say. Qoshila continued without hesitation; Send words to Oirats; Sanzima shall take Abai-Khatan as her man. Ride back to Baigaluuls, Tolui; Tell that waste of a man, our father, that Mergen is conspiring against his noyans, Khotsa and Ejei.

Mergen was young but not shy to fight; he was young but not low to accept any lie. Narrowed his eyes, and prepared for his move out of pure reaction. Qoshila grabbed his arm, pulled his leg, pushed his young brother back onto the ground. Tolui was not stronger, but no one could stop the eager. Ran towards them, and readied to jump on his older brother. Qoshila was easily able to handle him, on his knees brought him; while holding Tolui, drew his sword with the other hand, pointing at Ariq. More able than his younger brothers, but still not a match for Qoshila; but Ariq was wise to stop himself before hurling into the quarrel. He waited for the words of his brother.

Do not be idiots. They are noyans, and it is unthinkable to act openly against them. We would be denounced by the Elders of the tribe, they could rise against us, and we would be left without our vengeance, they could defeat us. Father would not do anything, as he did nothing to protect Mother Soyolma, were the words of the decisive sound.

Released Tolui, helped Mergen to get up from ground; Qoshila looked at Ariq with his piercing eyes. Hardly able to gulp, but not giving any sight of fear, Ariq saw the light in Qoshila’s eyes; the light of the rage, the flash of the tempest.

It was the moment for Qoshila, the silent of the Barga, the relentless of Buryatia. It was the time for Qoshila to remind them, as words poured as if a requiem. He was the one that abandoned you, were the first words to damn their father Galsan. He broke his own oath to his people, were the words to condemn.

He left alone our sister Geleg in the white, and he decided not to help them; he called all against the Kirghiz, and yet he marched against the Yrkhu, the Hengelder, the Galzuud in the end. He said he would ride for his allies, but he did not help the Mergid and the Borjigin in the end. He sent our sister Badma to Selenga, and he decided to leave them. He knew Khotsa and Ejei, he knew they hated Mother Soyolma, he knew their evil treachery. He did nothing in the end. He considers to break the tradition already, as the Elders tell him, as he wants to create his own, as he wants to leave the lands as he deems, removing you from the legacy. The Elders are many, and their day has not come, yet. Ride your horse Tolui, inform the father; it is not lying but speaking true; he will be angered, and he will disinherit you; but he cannot do anything more, and he shall feel in the safe when he gets what he dreamed. But the day has come for Khotsa and Ejei, and the day has come for our father.

Bewildered was Ariq, but steady. Dismayed were Mergen and Tolui, but solemn. The Oath of the Children was vowed in the eve of the day. Tolui saddled his horse, and rode for Bargajan yurts; beating was his heart, but confident.

Publishers'-Edit 12.01.2022: Corrected publication mistakes. Corrected titles. Added the missing reference [23-1]. Reuploaded the images in jpeg format.

filcat · Jun 16, 2021

Book I - Volume I - The Stranger - III
(for references, see appendix at the end section)

The End of The Stranger
Tolui was thrown out of the legacy, Mergen was sent to Ryty.
Ejei, noyan of Chuya, could not live under the shame.
Remorseful, brooding, lost his will, his remains were nowhere to name.
The leader of the baatars was now Qoshila, the silent of the fury.
Qoshila asked Khotsa on the day of shining, to face him for his menacing.
Khotsa, noyan of Gatsuurgazar, could not stand against him.
Wounded, bleeding, lost his arm, his eyes closed in the day’s dim.
The leader of the shadows was now Ariq, the brash of the frenzy.
Galsan Khan claimed his right for Angara, Tolui was sent to Okangara.
I was Adai, the Shaman of Tengri, servant of Umay and Kayra, follower of Kün Ana and Ay Ata.

I was summoned to the ordo [25] of the Barga, after the battle of Angara.
In the dawn of the day, Ay Ata was about to sleep, Kün Ana was yet to born.
I was alone, Mergen called me upon, his face was torn.
I followed Mergen, I saw Geleg, Badma, I saw Ariq, Tolui, Sanzima.
On the bank of the river, where Ukulan [26] was watching over us,
I saw Galsan, now on his knees, his eyes were of agony, he was held by Qoshila.
I was aghast, I was unable.
I was told the blame on Galsan, the mischiefs of the Khan,
I was told the treachery of Galsan, the oblivion of the Khan.
I was aghast, I was disgusted.
I knew his shame, but I learnt now the guilt of the Khan.
I cried for Ukulan, I begged the iyes to help the children, I agreed the guilt of the Khan.
Galsan was looking for mercy, his ears heard my blessing, his face turned angry.
Galsan cursed on me, he cursed on his children, he cursed on Tengri.
I was Adai, the Shaman of Tengri, servant of Umay and Kayra, follower of Kün Ana and Ay Ata.

I turned my back, I slowly faded away, I was hearing the cries of Galsan, coming through water.
I left the river bank, I slowly walked away, I was to tell all, Galsan died of old.

Qoshila drowned the old Khan, he was modest in his rage, he was screaming in his silence,

You were The Stranger, and a stranger to your family, father.

Appendix - including post-analysis
[1] All verses in the tome are unknown in common lore, and they were certainly translated by The Author, even though the names and the themes were borrowed from the known turkic, mongolic, and buryat mythologies.
[2] Uçmag and Tamag: Uçmag, the eternal heaven where Tengri rules; Tamag, the underworld where Erlik reigns.
[3] Bay-Ülgen and Erlik: Ülgen, god of benevolence; Erlik, god of the dead.
[4] Kök Su köl: This is probably a rendition of The Author for Khösvgöl – Kök Su Köl in turkic languages, meaning lake of the sky-blue.
[5] Tengri and Umay: Kök Tengri, sky-blue god of everything; Umay, goddess of fertility, protector of mothers and birth.
[6] Kayra: Kayra Khan, creator god of universe, son of Umay and Kök Tengri; his sons Mergen, god of knowledge; Kizagan, god of war; and Bay-Ülgen. The Birch Tree is holding universe between the sky and the earth; humans and all-living were born out of The Birch Tree.
[7] This verse is also unknown in common lore, and they were certainly translated by The Author, even though the names and the themes were borrowed from the known epic of Geser (King Gesar, Hesar, Joro, also see Fromo Kesaro) in mythology, of buryat version as opposed to Tibet or Ladakh traditions.
[8] üliger: Tales in mongolic lore and mythology.
[9] iye and ezen: Spirits in turkic-mongolic mythology.
[10] From the buryat version of epic of Geser: Before everything else, three goddesses (Ekhe Yuuren, Manzan Gurme, Gere Sessen) looked after the universe; then the supreme god Esege Malaan Tengri creates, and shared it with his sons. Atai Ulaan envied, and Khan Khormusta fought against him. Atai Ulaan was defeated by Khan Khormusta, and cut into pieces, thrown on earth; out of his remains, monsters emerged. To fight the evil beings, Bukhe Beligte, son of Khan Khormusta, was sent to earth, incarnated as Abai Geser. Probably Galsan of the Barga identified himself with the epic hero Geser, or inspired to be known as him; later in the document it is revealed that he fails as his character is opposite of a hero.
[11] The tribes given in this verse were found only in limited references of contemporary sources. Due to their anglicised forms, it is difficult to confirm if any of them were the actual tribes. Similar names found as the Ekhirid tribes – Galzuud (Galzut), Sono (Shono?), Abazaj (Abzay?), Hengelder (Khengelder), and the Khongodor tribes. Yrkhu (also Irkit, Irgit in later parts of the tome) tribes are known as the native of modern Irkutsk.
[11a-b-c-d] Turkic-mongolic ancient colour coding for the cardinal directions, also used by Chinese dynasties. Red is South; Black is North; White is West; Blue is East.
[12] Kün Ana: Sun mother, goddess of sun; Ay Ata: Moon father, god of moon.
[13] Baigal nuur: Lake Baikal; Bay Köl – rich lake in Sakha-turkic language.
[14] The tribes and family names given in this verse draw similarities to commonly known post-classical ethnography: Mergid – Merkits, Yenisei Kirghiz, and Borjigin. On the other hand, according to the Secret History of the Mongols, Belgünütei and Begünütei are known as the elder brothers to Bukhaju Salji, Bukha Khatagi, Bodonchar Munkhag, sons of Alan Gua, as opposed to what is written in this verse; another proof that the tome of The Author is completely fictional.
[15] darqan: also tarkhan, darqhan. Honorific title in turkic and mongolic cultures; it is probably used in the text as equivalent to a duke of a duchy.
[16] baatar: also baghatur, bahadur, ba’atur, bahadir. Honorific title in turkic and mongolic cultures; a hero or a champion; similar to a knight, although in mongolic culture there is also the keshik rank. Later also used as name and title for rulers.
[17] irgen and haran: irgen – a subject, and haran – a commoner, in the social structure of mongolian classes.
[18] Ostyak: The Ostyak refers to a modern naming for the native people of east of Urals; it is unclear how this was used by The Author, suggesting that even The Author signature could have been used by multiple authors to edit this fictitious tome.
[19] Evren: dragon, signifying the entire universe in turkic-mongolic mythology.
[20] noyan: a commander of a ten-thousand strong force (tümen) in mongol empire. It is probably used in the text as equivalent to a count of a county.
[21] This fragment about the death of Soyolma is probably a folk song, but it is unknown, and it is certainly fictitious, belongs only to the lore of this tome, and not to the actual lore.
[22] tenggis: Usually used for Lake Baikal in turkic-mongolic mythology; root of the words deniz – sea in turkish; and assumed root for genghis – signifying the blue, all-eternal, all-universal, but this is etymologically disputed. Su Ana: water goddess, or more commonly Su Iyesi, the water spirit.
[23] This fragment, The Oath of The Children, even though was written more akin to Volume II of the Book I, was instead found as a part in this Volume I of the tome. It is also possible that The Author later added this part into Volume I, instead of using it in Volume II.
[23-1] Huhedei Mergen: Thunder god - god of thunder in the epic of Geser, of buryat mythology, ekhirit version. For more information, see Buryat Hesariad: Tengrist mythology and the epic interpretation, B.S. Dugarov, Vestnik of Saint Petersburg University. Philosophy and Conflict Studies, 2019, vol. 35, issue 4, pp. 580–592.
[24] anda: mongolian for blood-brother or sister; mongolian and turkish do not have gender distinction for nouns.
[25] ordo: also orda, large tent. Also hordu, ordu, horda, roughly (and later actually) an army.
[26] Ukulan: god of water, river, ocean.

Publishers'-Edit 13.02.2023: Corrected publication mistakes. Corrected titles. Corrected references [22; 26; 23-1]. Corrected the order of sentences in the last part; added missing words. Reuploaded the images in jpeg format.

Revan86 · Jun 19, 2021

Dang, @filcat. This is breathtaking. I am stunned both by the intricate planning and presentation of this Secret History, and also by the actual verse that you've crafted. Not only is the Mongolian vocabulary well-chosen and exhaustively-annotated, but the poetry itself is living and powerful. I'm reminded strongly of Alpamysh and The Tale of The Nisan Shamaness, that's how close the verse feels to a dastanic epic or a traditional narration from a Siberian people.

filcat · Jun 21, 2021

Revan86 said:
This is breathtaking. - I'm reminded strongly of Alpamysh and The Tale of The Nisan Shamaness, -

Sincerely thankful for the kind words!
Knew the Alpamysh epic, but The Tale of The Nisan Shamaness escaped the eyes, sincerely grateful for the source. Now have to dig in that, as it looks very interesting.

filcat · Jun 21, 2021

Book I - Volume IV - The Name of the Khan in the Silence of the Valley

The Hunter and The Herder

Can you shape the voices of words? Can you speak the sounds of signs?
Those were the first words I spoke to the prisoner.

Toluy gave they my name, Bajandaj called my mother our fame. For people was I known as The Hunter, I was taught by my mother, to shape the voices immortal, to speak the signs on the pedestal. An Elder shaman was my mother, she always wanted a legacy for me, but against her wishes did I choose the life of journey. I enjoyed the pursuit of hunts, I fought on the mountains, but to honour her remains I kept the words of the others.

I never wrote on my behalf, before everything else was I divided in half, between the realm of arrow and blade, and the realm of words and music, but they always fade. Oyiradai Khan ordered me specifically, the tales of the realm I should write magically. The magic he demanded was of the rhymes, and I was blessed by Tengri, taught by my shaman mother, blessed by Umay, able in the art of shaping words, but I hated them at all times.

As I wrote for him the words of the people, the sounds of the realm, the voices of the unknown, the songs of the nature, the khan heard all, enjoyed the names of all, fascinated to learn for more. He ordered me to show him the art of the words, thus under my guidance all the rhymes did I know, the khan was taught. After learning the magic, he cleared all the ezens devouring his mind, his unexpected bursts of anger ceased, and he was reborn to continue his tale of the tragic. But the khan ordered me again, as he enjoyed my words of the tales sung, to find a name for him to obtain. Yes, I said, joyous in honour, I shall give you a name to be known by all, Oyiradai Khan of the Bargas- but he stopped me promptly, before I could give the name for his ingenuity. He tasked me with his name to be found after I heard all the voices, all the tales, from the past ages, from the coming days in the stories.

But the task proved to be more arduous than I thought, for I was not of young any more. Winters and summers was I living in the old, the remaining days were less than hoping as a baghatur of the bold. Even if I could hear all the words of the elders, of the shamans, of the people across the steppes, I would not see enough suns and moons to give the khan a name out of all names.

After winning the battle against the uprising, the khan ordered me to take care of the prisoner. The shackled captive was known Burundai by the birth, he was called Sartuul in his yurt. His tribesmen said never when we came, from the mountains descended we them to tame. He was of the steppes from Tunka, in the red of Baikal, in the white of Selenga. He herded the horses of the valleys, from the steppes where the summers were of the breeze, the winters were of the abysmal. He and his tribesmen revolted against the khan, for that they were defeated in the battle we won.

Not knowing the meaning of the look in his eyes by then, for the khan entrusted me with the life of the prisoner, I was an old baghatur but with the great quest for naming a khan, my khan. There I thought, a legacy I should have, so the name of the khan could be given properly, had I exhausted my last breath before the quest was done truly. With no family and no children, my only chance was this prisoner, thus I asked whether he could write, whether he could read.

“No, I cannot,” said Burundai the herder, the revolter, and now the prisoner. “I cannot shape the voices of words, nor do I know the sounds of signs.”

I was ashamed of myself at that moment, for I was asking a beaten man, a defeated warrior, a fallen leader, for such beyond his patience and capabilities. He did not know if he was to live or be executed at that moment, and my words for him were nothing but a torment. And I shall teach, you will learn, as my mother’s wish. In return, you can teach, I will learn, to fight on the horse in the steppes. I am formidable to fight in the mountains, and I am a good rider of horses, but cannot ride and fight in the steppes as you. Those were the words to him I offered.

Burundai the Herder of Sartuuls was frowning, his eyes were questioning, his nature was ever-changing. He said my words were of lie, my promise was of false, he ushered in the fury of his mind. “I know you and your khan, settled in Ötüken, sending the Keraits away, capturing the Mongols, my people, bringing to your lands. You already vanquished us in the steppes. Why speak of lies, what are your true words?” he screamed in the courage of his mind.

You are strong, and a good rider. You are also sharp in the eye, though not the greatest. I will teach you to write, you will teach me to ride and fight. You shall herd my horses, you shall live until your time rises. This is my promise, and I speak of the truth. Those were the words to him I promised. I did not know if he thought my words were of Erlik-wise, or he trusted my nature was of Ülgen-wise. Despite the unknown, he accepted my offer for it was choice of the wise.

My dreams might come true, by blesses of Tengri I thought, for I might not live long enough to hear all the tales, to give the name of the khan, but at least I would have a legacy to continue. That was what I thought, on the day we first spoke.

Tales of the Old

Once you write, the voices in your mind stop haunting you.
Those were the first words when my mother taught me the art of shaping them, upon scrolls bestowing them, into the sky releasing them.

Toluy the Hunter was my name to be known, and I was the namesake of a grand-uncle of my khan of great renown. Oyiradai of the Bargas was khan, tasked I was to name him grand, for him a name I should find. Toghun of the Bargas was Khan’s father, for him The Merciful Barga was given, for his grace was of grand. Qoshila of the Bargas was Khan’s grandfather, for him The Relentless Barga all said in their demand. The great-grandfather of the Khan was lost by his name of birth, but for him The Stranger Barga every shaman titled in their mind.

From the tales older than the Bargas I heard, there were the Kirghiz of Yenisei, before them were the Ediz and the Yaglakar, before them was the Ashina, before them was the Yugulu, and before them were the reigns of the forgotten stories. Of Yugulu khagans heard no one after Ashina khagans came. Ashina khagans fled into the white, then came Yaglakar khagans. Ediz khagans assumed the Yaglakar name when succeeding them, then they went away to the red.

When the ages came close to my birth, there was only one khagan, of Yenisei Kirghiz name. My mother told me the tales of her grandmother, tales of the collapse of the khaganate. The people told me the tales of their great-mothers, of the tribes of mongol, uriankhai, and kirghiz, counted by the three, thirty, and three hundreds, lived in the steppes, in the forests, in the hills, in the mountains.

From the tales of Buryats I heard, my khan’s ancestors claimed the lands of Baikal in the age of The Stranger Barga, but they did not join the first age of uprisings during his rise. None was sung on him by any, he was the only Tengri-follower among the many, thus was the reason I understood for the name in his demise.

In the age of Qoshila the Relentless, the Bargas accepted the rule of Yenisei Kirghiz khagans, but they descended from the mountains for he was unearthly furious. They defeated the Mergits of Uda, they claimed the lands for Buryatia, they ravaged the Buryat khanate of Angara, and they ushered in the second age of great uprisings for all Mongolia. So collapsed the khaganate of the Kirghiz, as the conquest of Karabalgasun by the Bargas, thus was the reason I understood for the name in his fierceness. The people would by the many tell the glories of him, and they would fearfully recall the silent rage in him.

So began the age before I became The Hunter, of the tales I once heard from my mother. It was the age of the Two Khaganates, one beyond the white of the Altais, and one in the steppes of Mongol darqans. In the age of Toghun the Merciful, the Bargas were still ruling from Baigal nuur. The first khaganate of Yenisei Kirghiz lost their reign in the white, after the Hokhots eventually rebelled, from the lands they ruled Baraba wide. It was the age of great battles in the steppes. The khaganate in Mongolia would further shatter, as the Uriankhai khanate of Angara would throw their masters over. The tales of this age on Toghun Khan by the few were told, but I heard from the baghaturs on his reluctance to fight, always would he look in his old. He would let his darqans take their prize, he would cherish his feasts of peace. Only by his son was he urged into the wars of the steppes, thus was the reason I understood for the name in his grace.

Other tales on Toghun Khan, or on the rest, were of vile hearsays, never to remember this day. No such tales of the old would help me in my quest, for me it was to name my khan the greatest test. At least that was what I thought.

Tales of the Khan

The khan may not show the vindictive sight of the monsters, but that is only a shadow-cast no one can tell. Since before his reign, he always made anyone and everyone pay the price, in ways that even Erlik-followers would envy to spell.
Those were the words, of my mother looked at me for the last time, with fear in her eyes for the journey as I left my tribe. Not happy she was, a baghatur I was, for the khan of Bargas.

Thirty-five winters and summers passed since the day I left my tribe for a life in journey, serving as a baghatur for my khan. It has been four winters and summers since I was honoured with the task, naming the khan it was. It has been three winters and summers since we won the battle of Tunka, and Burundai the Herder has been since then under my guidance. He learnt to read, to write, as I taught him. We heard many tales, songs, stories together, as we travelled, I learnt to fight while I ride, as he instructed.

I already knew the tales told for the khan, as I heard through the winters and summers I served. I fought for him in many battles, I led his baghaturs in many wars. The khan was not strong as many others, he was not good with swords as blademasters, he was not living in rage, nor in old age, as his ancestors. He was, however, known for his great mind, a great thinker he was, since the days of his grandfather. He would invite the most famous scholars to his ordo, he would befriend the toughest fighters of our days, he would support and debate the best sages of the realm. I was the one who taught him to keep the words of his mind, the art of shaping them, to remember days of the old through sounding them. I was the one who taught him to find the prey, the art of hunting them. He was the greatest khan in the steppes, as under his reign, we defeated the Mongol khaganate, we conquered the Uriankhai khanate. Under his guidance, we settled the ordo to Ötüken, the Buryats moved from the mountains, adopting the Mongol traditions in the ever-wide steppes. Oyiradai of the Bargas was of such fame, thus Khan of Buryatia, of Angara, and of Mongolia he became. I could not give khan the name of Genius, for he detested that fame, by reasons never known. At least that was what I thought.

Khan had many women, but one favourite, and in the lands to the red she was murdered, where the followers of Buddha lived. Given Dronmalön for her name, khan’s lover was known as The Warrior of Red. The tales from the mountains of red said, she was of plague, a ruler in the shadows of the lands of Ariksar in the realm of Tibet. It was the khan who found her when they were young, and brought her as a prize for his father. Dronmalön would bear the children of Toghun the Merciful, and after his death, she would bear the children of Oyiradai Khan. I did not see any Erlik side in this tale, as the words were uttered by the travellers of the day. Their love might seem confusing, but I was a baghatur, it was not my place to say anything. I could not give khan the name of Beloved, for he was more than a lover. At least that was what I thought.

Khan had many children, eleven by numbers, and I saw his eyes, when words reached us of his son’s murder. The words we heard, the tribesmen of Karauda revolted against the darqans of khan, and they massacred everyone after the war they won. We were far beyond the Altais, we were raiding the lands of Ala Tau, of the Yenisei realm. Oyiradai Khan’s son, Bukha of the Bargas for his name he was given. Then only a youngling, in the ordo of the darqan of Karauda as a ward he was living, were to be killed after the uprising. Of the unruly tribesmen we never heard again. I saw khan’s eyes as he heard the words, they would not show any sorrow, but fixed at the sky. He was looking for Tengri, asking for the mercy of the All-Sky, The Eternal Blue. I could not give khan the name Disciple of Tengri, for he was not of follower zeal. At least that was what I thought.

Khan had many siblings, three by numbers, and his younger sister died by sickness. His only living sister had to leave him for the lands of his murdered lover. I did not hear any more stories on her, as another tale of the realm was more ominous. It was heard, for khan’s only brother was murdered in the lies of shadows. The khan was looking with fixed eyes of seers, instead of showing any anger, as the tales would say for his grandfather. This was noticed by all the irgens, the baghaturs, the Bargas of the realm, and it became a dire tale when the noyan behind the murder was revealed. Oyiradai Khan did not openly punish the noyan as the justice of the realm, showing a gesture of forgiveness. Not many days passed, all in the realm were demanding the justice, but those tales were heard less than before, as khan would force the murderous noyan to give up his lands. The tales were never spoken of again, when the noyan was later found with lifeless eyes in his deathbed. I heard the tales, I lived by the tales, but they did not bother me in those days. I could not give khan the name of Alone, for he was surrounded by all. I could not give khan the name of Just, for his justice was of subtle, not seen by others. At least that was what I thought.

The Name

We are summoned before the khan. Saddle your horses, and ride for Selenga. Bring the prisoner.
These were the words I heard on that day. I was summoned by my khan, so would I serve and so would I ride. I did not like the tone of the baghatur, when the last words were spoken. Burundai the Herder was not a prisoner, but my responsibility, and he was also my legacy. That was what I thought at that moment.

We prepared for campaign, we gathered our yurts, we assembled with all baghaturs in the steppes of Karabalgasun, and we rode for Selenga, without any words, without any rest. It was the ending days of the summer, that was the third after I first spoke to The Herder. The days of the steppes were under a light of warmth, but into the black as we rode it was of rain with clouds of dark.

Burundai was never seen glad since the battle against him we won three summers and winters in the past. He would lose his taste, he would inflict pain onto himself for his death to haste, he would get sick under foul ezens, and every time I was there to save. I did save him from all troubles I saw, I protected him as he was my responsibility, for he was my legacy. I would have asked, if he was enjoying the art of the words, but questioning would be too cruel for a defeated man, a fallen man lost his tribesmen, an exile far from his home. He was still a captive in his mind, in everyone’s mind, and I was the only one thinking he was not.

We arrived in the valley, as we were called for the realm. That was what I thought. Oyiradai Khan was waiting in his armour, armed with his bow. I was not of the brightest, I realised the reason of the summon, the moment only in its darkest. Others apprehended Burundai the Herder, as I was still looking with the eyes of a fool. I was nothing but a fool, a guardian of a prisoner, a glorified warden.

What is the meaning of this? I would have asked, but I could not speak such to a khan, not to my Khan. He was Oyiradai of the Bargas, Khan of Buryatia, of Angara, and of Mongolia. I was only Toluy the Hunter, a baghatur, and a fool. I was looking him in the eyes, with questions in my mind, and I could only say My Khan?

Then I saw the same look in his eyes, the look I saw for many times. He always made anyone and everyone pay the price, I should have obeyed my mother. I understood everything through khan's eyes. Burundai was just another revolter, not of the tribesmen that killed khan’s son, but he was the closest one as a traitor he could punish, he could inflict pain on, he could take his revenge from.

For all those three winters and summers, I was nothing but a fool, I was a guardian of a man to be executed. Through all those seasons, Burundai learnt the art of the words, herded the horses, taught me to ride and fight. Who knows, he might have dreamt in those summers, to live for another winter, with words he learnt to write his own legacy, and to live for another summer, with signs he learnt to read other legacies, of other realms, of other people, perhaps even of the pedestal. He must have desired his freedom, nonetheless. He lived all those years with any and every dream he might have ever had, dreams only to be crushed on that day, in a torment Erlik-followers could only envy.

Oyiradai Khan ordered other baghaturs with only a look in their eyes, as this was already plenty. I had nothing but to obey, no chance but to fade away, no choice but to clear the way. I looked Burundai the Herder in the eyes for the last time before the arrow left the bow. His last words were to me only, he did not frown, but his eyes were both of relief and of agony.

As his last breath left him, The Herder was no more. Other baghaturs slowly walked back to their horses, with my khan on the front, looking at me as he mounted. I did not follow them, but waited, looking at my Khan. He approved me with only his eyes, and they left the valley for the faraway lands of Tibet, to ravage and raid, in the mountains lived the murderers of The Warrior of Red, for he and Dronmalön were immortal lovers, for he would always vindicate his justice, ever beastlier than monsters. Only then I knew that, for I was nothing but a fool, a guardian of a prisoner of vengeance for khan’s justice.

I stayed in the valley to prepare for the ritual, to give Burundai a burial he deserved. In the end, his ashes reached the All-Sky, The Eternal Blue. After the days of the ritual, I rode for the lands of Tunka to gather supplies for winter. As I returned, I secluded myself for days in the valley of Selenga, and I wrote for days the tale of the name, beginning with the words I said to Burundai, only that I do not know if it ever be read. In the end, I realised for I was a fool, and all names known so far were of the less for khan, but I knew the name in him.

I shall name you, Oyiradai Khan of the Bargas, Khan of Buryatia, of Angara, and of Mongolia, to eternity let it be known, you shall bear the name from now on,

of dreams, of realms, of hopes, of promises, of coming days, of past ages, of words, of sounds, of arts, of crafts, of earth, of sea, of sky, of minds; you are The Destroyer of all.

I can shape the voices of words. I can speak the sounds of signs. Those were the last of Burundai the Herder, as his words died in whisper. Not any more and never he was my legacy, not any more and never he was my responsibility, but only to be executed to fulfil the justice, for he was a prisoner of The Destroyer.

The summer has ended, the days are darkening, the clouds are of wild horses. They are roaming above the hills, running in the eternal sky, and silent have they been since that day. The last words I heard, now lost they are, still resounding in the silence of the valley.

Note on the link in the silence of the valley: Hammock - Like a Valley With No Echo - from the album Oblivion Hymns - 2013

Publishers'-Edit: 13.02.2023: Corrected publication mistakes; the rest are left deliberately as written in the tome. Corrected titles.
Post-publication change on the verb "hear the sounds of signs", replaced with "speak". It is unclear why The Author specifically chose "hear" to be used at this point, but will provide an explanation later in publisher notes.

filcat · Jun 29, 2021

Book I - Volume V - The Promise of The Shaman - I

“It was the fifth summer of your days, Mandukhai. You were an innocent youngling among the many in the steppes. You were a happy daughter among the many in the lands. You were a merry infant among the many in the eyes. Of the peoples, of the tribes, of the Father in the skies, Tengri in the name. Tengri blessed your name, and I took care of you, but all I did so far may be in vain.

“It was the fifth summer of your days, young one. You were not even following the steps of the shamans, you were not even sounding the signs, and you were not even shaping the sounds. I was Taibuka, the Shaman of Buryatia, serving the Khan of the Barga. Oyiradai Khan was his name, and all shall follow his rule in the Buryat realm.

“It was the fifth summer of your days, young one. I was told by Samar, daughter of the Vitims, on the day she was to pass, to leave the lands of the living, to live in the eternal sky. I was told by Samar, the story of her Shaman Saran, of her adviser, of her friend, in the fifth summer of your days. It was the unfinished story she told, and she was of the blackclad one. She heard many stories of her past days, and she was the keeper of the tales under the sun-rays. She advised the rulers of her lands, and she was under the rule of the Great Shaman Adai of her age.

“The Great Shaman Adai was the keeper of many tales, no one could count. He was the teller of the mountains, of the forests, of the steppes. He was the shaper of sounds, the speaker of signs. And under the All-Sky, he was the follower of all the tengris, under Tengri they shall reign. It was this reason, for he was the most trusted in his age, the Age of The Relentless, many winters and many summers before. It was this reason, he was blessed and cursed, with the words of shadows, in his age.

“The unfinished story he told, the burden he carried, the failed quest he left, he told of it to Shaman Saran, was the mystery behind The Death, but of an unheard one. It was the Age of The Relentless, Qoshila Khan was his name, and all had followed his rule in the buryat realm. It was the unknown behind the death, The Death of The Wolf.

“The ancestor of the Bargas, The Stranger was his name, what is now left as his fame. His children were known by the names, Qoshila Khan and Tolui Noyan, sons of The Wolf; Mergen Noyan, son of The Falcon; Ariq Darqan, son of The Dove. The Death of The Dove was the song of their past tragedy, and the words were sung for the sounds reached us from the many. But another death shook the realm in their age, it was the day of the unfortunate, as the death was, is, and shall be, always indiscriminate.

“The untold tale was of another death,
and it was an act of Erlik-wraith.

The Death of The Wolf, never to be told, the tragedy to behold, to this day an unfinished story of the old. The Death of The Wolf was heard with a thunder in the Age of The Relentless, and Qoshila Khan of Buryatia, the silent of the fury, was in his never-yielding look of the angry. The Wolf was his mother, and the pain from her death was uncanny.

"Tolui Noyan was his brother, and he was screaming in agony. Mergen Noyan was his brother, and he was vowing revenge for the tragedy. Ariq Darqan was his brother, and he was to assign many, to uncover the mystery, to find the truth behind this villainy.

“Qoshila Khan sent words to others, to assemble the riders, for avenging this crime, to raid his enemies. Mergen Noyan joined him, to support his brother, to find the traitors. Tolui Noyan gathered his banners, to conquer the lands of his neighbours, to discover the lies of his rivals. Ariq Darqan ordered his followers, to lurk behind the veils, to hear whispers woven in darkness.

“Ariq Darqan told the Great Shaman, to ask Tengri for forgiveness, to guide his followers, to show the way through his mission for finding the murderers. Tengri must have been silent for them, Ülgen must have been unaware of them, Umay must have been in mourning for them, for all the iyes were taken from them. Qoshila Khan returned in his silent fury, Mergen Noyan followed in the remorse of failing inquiry, Tolui Noyan cried in the youthful of loneliness, and Ariq Darqan sank in the shades of painful helplessness.

“Thus was the song left unheard, thus was of the tale left unspoken, thus was the story left unfinished. The Great Shaman Adai kept the words of the hidden for the Shaman Saran. She preserved the regrets of the past for her friend Samar. Samar of the Vitimids was in short of her breath, and she told me of The Wolf, of the unjustly death.

“Now shorter I breathe in the day’s bright, my view is ailing in my eyes’ sight. I had to follow the steps of the old, to release the words to be told, for it shall be your decision, to fulfil the promise, else deliver them to the coming days, for they require the bravery of the bold.

“These are the words of my last, Mandukhai, and my days as the Taibuka Shaman, for the realm of Buryats, in the lands of the living, are now ending. From now on you will be known as the Shaman of Buryatia, and it will be your decision, delivering the story ages over, else finding the truth, for the mystery to uncover.”

Twenty-Ninth Winter in the Age of Oyiradai Khan

Taibuka Shaman closed his eyes forever in the twentieth summer of our age, the Age of Oyiradai Khan it is. I shaped his last words on my scrolls, on the stones, on the pillars. I buried him according to the tradition, and his ashes reached Uçmag, and his body was given to Tamag. I had been his follower from the first days of my life. I am one of the many, a child of the steppes, never to know a mother and a father. Taibuka Shaman was of

the old, and he was one of the many, a child of the mountains, never to know a mother and a father. Tengri is our all-father, The Eternal Blue, Umay is our all-mother, The Sacred Yellow. We are descendants of The Birch, but I saw Taibuka as my father, only to be my own, and I hope I was a daughter to him, only to be his own.

Taibuka Shaman was of the brownclad one, and I am as him for he taught me to be a shaman. We consider only the Tengri be All-Sky, and we follow only tengris to be our guides. We consider the stories of the people on tengris to be of lies, the tales of ill-knowing, and we consider the words to be carried only with the signs. The sounds of the words will fade away, but the signs on the stones, on the scrolls, on the pedestals, on the pillars, they will live until the final day. I heard his unfinished story, the tale of the unknown, and I promised him, as his ashes reached The Eternal Blue, for I will uncover the mystery behind the Death, of the song never to be heard, of the Death of The Wolf.

My promise is of the true, but I am never to tell if I find the mystery behind the death. Even if I can, I am Mandukhai, the Shaman of Oyiradai Khan, and it is the twenty-ninth winter of our age, the Age of Oyiradai Khan, Khan of Buryatia, of Angara, and of Mongolia.

Oyiradai Khan is far more powerful than his father Toghun Khan ever was, and his mercy is nothing but a lie of his father ever known. He is far more cunning than his grandfather Qoshila Khan ever was, and his anger is unlimited compared to his grandfather ever had. He is able to hide behind his lying forgiveness, and his wrath is obvious to me behind the lightnings cast from his eyes. I fear, no one around him, no one in his realm, no one under The

Eternal Blue notices his everlasting fury, his craving for power, his meticulous visions, his undying dedication to his cause, to rule the steppes, challenged by none. Even if they may have seen it through the age of his rule, it is too late, it is too severe, it is for eternity.

…and this is obvious to me, for I learnt as I grew, he would take Dronmalön the Warrior of The Red as his woman. Oyiradai Khan had many women, had

many wives, had many lovers, but the bond between him and Dronmalön was of tales to be told for eternity, of fear that all shall tremble, of unknown nature no one could see. They fed each other’s hunger for the reign over people, over steppes, over the realm,

asking everyone to kneel before their raging rule. I do know this, but I am unable to show it to anyone else, as the realm kneels before him, just as I do. Their love for each other was of the legends, but only of the Erlik-wise. It lasted until she was murdered in her lands, in the past summer.

Oyiradai Khan shows the face of justice, but he punishes those in ways one can only see in eternal nightmares of fear. His brother Dayan Noyan was killed in greedy shadows, and

the murderer was punished without remorse, but in a torture of unseen precedent. It took seven winters and summers for the murderer to live, but in the fear for his fate, deprived of his honour, not knowing the judgement. The murderer would do everything as Oyiradai Khan ordered, hoping to be forgiven, hoping to be forgotten, while living in tremor. He was found dead in the end, after seven long winters and summers. Only then, in the sudden dismay of the loss, the murderer’s son thought he and his family’s lands were finally safe. He was wrong, as five summers passed, and he was forced to give up all their lands. Banished in shame, exiled in hopelessness, murderer’s son was also found dead. For everyone his justice, his forgiveness, his judgement are seen of generous, but I know Oyiradai Khan is nothing but an Erlik-beast. I know it, but I cannot speak of it.

My promise is of the true, but I am never to tell if I can accomplish my mission, as I am Mandukhai, the Shaman of Oyiradai Khan, and the unknown shall remain as it be for him forever. If I can find the truth, I may have to live under the burden of the fear, knowing the mystery behind the death of The Wolf, the great-grandmother of Oyiradai Khan.

It is the twenty-ninth winter of our age, the Age of Oyiradai Khan, and I will embark on my journey in the following winter, to search for the truth, to complete the unfinished story, the Death of The Wolf, unknown for seventy-six winters and summers.

Publishers'-Edit 13.02.2023: Corrected major publication mistakes. Corrected image locations. Corrected major date errors.

filcat · Jun 29, 2021

Book I - Volume V - The Promise of The Shaman - II

Thirtieth Winter in the Age of Oyiradai Khan

I have to ask for the tales of the Bargas, if any are left in the memories of their descendants, for which I am blessed, as they are numerous in the realm. I cannot ask the children of Oyiradai Khan, as they are of the young, and they are of the sacred line, the descendants of The Wolf, for which they may just whisper any and every word to their father. I am blessed, as they are not the only ones that rule the realm of the Bargas. There are also the descendants of The Dove and The Falcon.

I travelled to the white of the Baikal in the thirtieth winter of our age, to the lands of the descendants of Ariq Darqan and of Mergen Noyan, blood of The Dove and of The Falcon. Their ancestors were brothers by blood and by oath, but their children became bitter enemies, fighting for the white of Baikal. None of them provided any help, none were friendly to my requests. All I asked was the tales of the old, but they answered me in cold. The glory of the past, the honour of the old, all are lying under the ground, now covered in wild grass of the steppes, all are flying in the sky, now dancing with the roaring clouds. I visited the burial lands of Ariq Darqan and of Mergen Noyan, I trusted in Tengri to show me the way, and the silence of the nature answered, through many of Tengri’s sons and daughters. The winds were running as the horses, and they were heading towards the white, the realm of Angara.

The descendants of the Qoshila Khan are lacking in iyes, but the descendants of his siblings are in utter tragedy judging by their fate. The lines of Tolui Noyan and of Mergen Noyan are spread through all of Angara. Since the beginning of his age, Oyiradai Khan had gathered all his riders, from the steppes and the mountains, and countless times he had descended upon the Uriankhai forests. None remained alive from the Kemchik clan, and all Uriankhai tribes fled to the white and to the red. The lands were granted to the descendants of Tolui Noyan and of Mergen Noyan, and they succumbed into their own fight between each other. I travelled to the lands of the Manduulun Darqan, grandson of Tolui Noyan. He was my greatest hope, as he is the grandson of the Tolui Noyan, as he is the descendant of The Wolf. He is only a distant kin to Oyiradai Khan, the grandson of Qoshila Khan.

Manduulun’s father was known as The Wraith by his fame, and his mind was filled with ezens during his age. The ancestor of his line, Tolui Noyan could not prevent the wars between his sons and daughters, not even had he been alive. Manduulun is the grandchild of such a line, but with spirits of serenity in contrast to his father. Still, this did not stop him to have raving hunger for the lands of others, just as his sisters and brothers. He went to war repeatedly, without any thoughts, without any delay, without any remorse, against the grandchild of Mergen Noyan, that is Arya Darqan. Such tales roaming my mind, I led my retinue to the lands of Manduulun Darqan. I was wrong, and my hope was crushed.

Manduulun Darqan rejected my requests, in all his brash nature, and he told me to leave his ordo. He was high on his temper when I came before him, and he dismissed my retinue, showing the lands of the Övörkhangai: I do not have time for such requests, I have wars to ride for glorious conquests! Begone to the red of Karakorum, the land of the fools, the bastards of Arugtai, and do not come back!

In his mind, this is the gravest insult. His eyes were seeing blood as he roared, almost losing his mind to oblivion. In my nature, this is the answer for my journey’s route. Manduulun Darqan was not willing to help, but unbeknownst to him, his angered words I have to see, as the help of Kizagan, as an aid from Tengri.

Thirty-First Summer in the Age of Oyiradai Khan

Arugtai Noyan was the uncle of Oyiradai Khan, and he was the only brother of Toghun Khan. He was granted the lands of the Keraits, for which he had to rule by himself, as his brother’s reign was long forgotten in the past. Arugtai Noyan would fight in the wars of his nephew Oyiradai Khan, he would send all the tribute he could gather for him, he would kneel every time he was summoned to the kurultai before him, and in return Oyiradai Khan would do nothing, but to expect more of him. Arugtai Noyan saw his death after the wounds of many battles did bleed, and even in his deathbed he would not show any greed. His sons were left alone against the Keraits of Övörkhangai, and there was no escape from the mountains of battles: It was either war, else retreat to Gobi and die.

I knew Arugtai Noyan, and I know his sons, as good in their nature, and regardless of the tragedies his family lived through, they kept their calm to endure. I have to be bold to proceed, as his sons may still carry the Barga creed.

I travelled through steppes of Ötüken in the thirty-first summer of our age, and I led my retinue to the Altais. Instead of Karakorum, I decided to ride through the mountains, into the white of Tarvagatai summers. Arugtai’s son Tseden Noyan greeted me at the Uliastai pass, and he accompanied my retinue all the way to his ordo, to Khasagt Khairkhan.

“By Tengri and Salkin Ene, I welcome you to my lands, Mandukhai Shaman of Buryatia.”

Tseden Noyan is the first Barga I have met to welcome me with a smile, before even knowing reasons of my arrival. Unlike his kin living nearby Baikal, he asked if my appetite was still legendary, as we met once and only when the Grand Feast was held. It was a relief to see a friendly face, albeit not certain of his true intentions if he had.

“I have to travel to all the directions, for the realm of the khan is vast. Such journeys require the strength of the youth, and for this one has to eat plenty. I did not notice my eating habit was of legends to remember.”

“Forgive me Shaman, the spirits of my words were not to offend, but to share my food and water, my fire and airag, for they are plenty in my lands.” His answer ended in smile.

The night of the feast was filled with fire, airag, food, cheer, and happiness, crowded with the tribesmen, of Bargas and of others. The shamans and the uzans gathered, the singing of the khöömis started. Their sound travelled from our ears to the lands beyond the horizon, reaching the sky to answer the call of the earth, and we were at the hands of tengris, with Tengri The Eternal Blue giving the life to our bodies, once again bestowing the kut.

When the dance of the fires was gentled down by the wind, the airag was drunk to the end, the food made everyone healthier than before, the cheers succumbed into satisfied whispers, and the happiness was now of the graceful relief. It was the time for my questions, the reason of my welcomed arrival.

“I am here to hear the words of the old, as they were given to you by the old.”

“I may know your name, Mandukhai Shaman, but I have to admit the lack of music in my words, for I cannot give you my answers in any beauty. Also you have not asked any questions I can answer yet,” and his words were followed with the gracious smile of a happy man, if one could overlook the sadness in his eyes.

“I have to admit in return, for I am also not capable of shaping the words as the uzans, and certainly I am not as skilled as my Elder, Taibuka Shaman.”

“Yes, I remember him. He was the wise of brownclad, and I share your pain of his loss.”

“Then you should understand the nature of my quest. Taibuka Shaman told me in his last words, the story of the unfinished, the tale of the forgotten by the many. The Death of The Wolf.”

He cleared his throat, he stood up, and he ordered his tribesmen to accompany me to my yurt. In his words, I was tired of the journey, I was to be provided by everything I needed, and he said to me as he departed: “I will answer you by the morning, in the light of Kün Ana.”

The night goes in the silent breeze as I am waiting for the morning, but my mind is in the storms of the regret. This was the closest step to uncover the mystery I could reach so far, and now the futility of my quest is becoming ever obvious in my mind.

I am hunting down the yors damning the past, and the guilty ones of the crime must have been already in the dust. The death is the great shadow, that casts doubt on the truth, and I am not certain if I can find it, for it had occurred before seventy-seven winters, seventy-seven summers, untold by all forever.

The Morning in Khasagt Khairkhan

The light of the sun covered my sight, and broken inside by my failing promise, I could barely walk out of my yurt. Tseden Noyan greeted me once again, behind him waiting four of his baghaturs.

“These warriors are my companions in the battles, my brothers by our oath, for the blood we spilled together. They will join you in your quest, they will hunt with you for the truth, they will die for you by your request.

“It is true I am of the sacred line, as I am Tseden Noyan, son of Arugtai the brother of Toghun Khan, grandson of Qoshila Khan, the descendant of The Stranger Khan. I knew my uncle Toghun Khan, but beyond him my knowledge remains blind. The tales of my grand-uncles did not fall in my share of inheritance, and I was never to question, for my father was too modest to ask, to know, to tell. Even in his deathbed. So am I. Even when Oyiradai Khan took my own mother as his wife after the death of my father.

“You were there, Mandukhai Shaman, as the shamans of the realm were summoning the spirits for their oath, three summers past. Their marriage is not to give a child, but to show everyone his might. He can take any for every need of his mind. He wanted to crush Kirghiz, so did he; he coveted to rule Selenga, so did he; he desired to destroy Mongol khagan, so did he. After his wife passed away, he asked my mother to take; so did he. And when he decides to punish, do not be deluded: He did, and he will punish, for the justice known only to him.

"I am, however, here to warn you, to ask you, to remind you, if you know the actual spirit of him, to whom you are loyal, Mandukhai Shaman.”

As he stopped, I was already drowning in the mistake I made, and I realised it so late. My mistake of underestimating Oyiradai Khan, underestimating the pain he has been causing throughout his realm, to all the people, even to the ones of his blood. I was mistaken to think only by myself, for I was not alone in my disdain for and fear of the khan. Tseden Noyan is not only a modest irgen in the realm, but an experienced ruler of his own ordo despite his young age, knowing whom to be careful with, whom to be terrified of.

“I am Mandukhai Shaman, loyal diviner to Oyiradai of the Bargas, Khan of Buryatia, of Angara, and of Mongolia.” I paused in great hesitation, only to fail against my blind courage of the moment: “...but my quest is not of his. It is of my own promise to my Elder.”

“Then you know what this means, Shaman. If you can find the truth behind the Death of The Wolf, a tragedy of tens of years in the past, you should not tell but to keep it forgotten forever as it is now.” He was sharing my mind on the nature of Oyiradai Khan, bolstering my courage to question for more.

“I know very well the meaning behind his look, for Oyiradai Khan is not to be acted against. He is capable of great pain, and great skill he has for hiding it behind the shadow-veiling.”

That moment was the longest of my life, as this was the first time I opened to someone outside of my nature. He is a noyan, and not just any other but of the sacred line. He is still of the Barga clan, even if he has all the reasons to hate Oyiradai Khan.

But he smiled.

“I know the shadows in his mind, too. You do not need to tell this to me. I may be living in fear of him, but I am not to be a craven and let my ancestors be lost in oblivion, even if it was in the past beyond my age. I cannot give you any answers, for I do not know the truth behind the Death of The Wolf. I wish I knew. I am her blood. The Wolf is our guiding spirit, more than The Stranger himself, whoever he might had been. That was well beyond my age. But you should ride now, lead your retinue through the desert. Once you pass the Gobi, head towards the mountains, into the red further. Find the lands of Maowün in Gyalrong, and seek shelter in the ordo of Ngamo Byorte.” As he ended his words, I was confused. He was smiling, but in all the seriousness of the wolves, and his supposed help did not give me the trust I required.

“But she is the daughter of Oyiradai Khan. That is the last place I can find the truth. The knowledge of the past must be beyond her youthful age. Had she known anything, she would not tell me the truth, beside other consequences my questions might create.”

“She may have the answers to your questions, Mandukhai Shaman, though they may not satisfy you. For your fear all I can say this: It is true you should have your fear. I also live in that fear, and I am of the Bargas. But the daughter of our khan may still aid you, as she did not just inherit those lands through her mother Dronmalön. She happily inherited those lands, to be as far as possible, away from her father.”

Those were the words of him, and I listened to him. When he said happily, Tseden Noyan's smile grew as his instinct, and it was of genuine happiness from him for a kin, to the daughter of a cousin. He was happy for her salvation. That moment I realised, Tseden Noyan is of good nature, blessed by Ülgen.

As we were embarking on our journey to the red, he was still waving his hands, spilling water after the gait of our horses, saying his farewell: May your way be as open as the sacred blue, as pure as the Baikal. I will dedicate my adak to Tengri to guide you in your days. I will dedicate my adak to Burkut to fly over you through your journey. I will dedicate my adak to Ülgen to fight on your side. May Abai Geser be the baatar of your spirits. Farewell Mandukhai Shaman, farewell the seeker of the unknown tales!

I hope he never loses his smile until the end of his days.

Publishers'-Edit 12.01.2022: Corrected publication mistakes. Corrected image locations. Corrected major date errors.

filcat · Jun 30, 2021

Book I - Volume V - The Promise of The Shaman - III

Thirty-Second Summer in the Age of Oyiradai Khan

The lands of Thubet lie beyond the Gobi, on the mountains of the red. Our journey was through the Altais, and then it was through the lands of Gobi-Altai. Before riding by the safest route, we heard the words of great wars in the lands of Khotan. This was not something I could afford for my retinue, as their loyalty was to me, but not to my promise. I could not risk their lives for any unforeseen dangers from skirmishers, the curse that follows all wars. Even crossing the Gobi was a lesser risk, for us to survive. Thus I led my retinue to the edges of the great desert.

We followed the lead of the local hunters through the desert in the thirty-second summer of our age. Without the hunters roaming the desert since their birth, we would have lost our way, and even our lives. I saw the great desolation of days without the rain, then I saw the miracles between the dunes of dreams. I even saw the ghosts of the

desert, the ever-elusive bears of the deep, and I saw the worms of Erlik, creeping into the nights. The hunters did say, it would be fatal to cross Gobi during the winter, as the real killer is not the warm weather that dries one’s blood, but the cold winds that freeze one to death at night.

When we reached the lands of Guiyi, we thwarted attacks from few marauders. When we reached Tsongönpo, we were greeted by the people speaking their Bödpa tongue. When we travelled through the mountains, we reached the lands of Gyalrong, from where Dronmalön The Warrior of The Red came. In the end, we arrived in Maowün, the lands of Ngamo Byorte, daughter of Oyiradai Khan and Dronmalön.

The eleven children of Oyiradai Khan, of first was Altana born to Tura, of five were Tsymzidma, Kubilai, Tuyana, Bukha, Saran born to Conchaka, of five were Byorte, Temyulen, Ariq, Sambuu, Aldar born to Dronmalön. All are able sons and daughters, but their lives have not been with enough iyes. Bukha was killed by murderous tribesmen in a rebellion. Kubilai, Sambuu, Aldar were all disinherited, for this is the vision of the Elders, since the age of The Stranger. Byorte would leave the ordo for the lands of her mother, after Dronmalön was killed by murderous raiders.

Ngamo Byorte greeted us but with a cold welcome. Even as we entered her ordo made of stones, she was not showing any kind of warmth, either she lacked, otherwise she did not want to. I met the two beautiful children she bore, as innocent as fairies, unaware of their ancestors, and far away from them. She told me abruptly, they are the followers of Buddha-tengri, they do not need the iyes I can summon from the All-Sky.

I did not have any intention even before she spoke as such. I do know, without the iyes summoned from Tengri, or the silent whispers of Buddha-tengri of the Bödpas, or even the prayers of Yesu-tengri of the Öngüts, children are still unaware innocents, trying to survive this life of ours.

This is the last peaceful moment I can have to stay silent on this night. I was given my belongings fortunately, so that I can shape the words on the scrolls now, but until when I do not know. Ngamo Byorte greeted us, invited us to her ordo, but we are under her strict watch as if we are prisoners. The morning will show the meaning of her behaviour, if she speaks to me in her honesty.

The First Morning of The Long Summer

“Why have you come to my lands? What does he want from me?”

I heard the voice of the anger, carried over generations of Bargas. Some could hide it behind their silence, for I heard from the tales on Qoshila Khan the Relentless. Some would tame it by shadows in their minds, for I know from Oyiradai Khan. Ngamo Byorte is not same as them, as no child can be same as its father or mother, but she is obviously opposite of her ancestors, not hiding her true words. I understood this in her voice. She was filled with the anger of wolves, growling in the mist, when she uttered those words.

She revealed her mind directly, so she deserved all my honesty. That was my mistake. I was blind in my courage, and I was blinded by my trust in Ülgen.

“I am Mandukhai Shaman, loyal diviner to Oyiradai of the Bargas, Khan of Buryatia, of Angara, and of Mongolia; but I am not here on his order. My quest is not of his, but of my own promise to my Elder, Taibuka Shaman. The nature of my mission is by my Elder’s words, as he told me in his last breath. I am seeking answers for the story of the unfinished, the tale of the forgotten by the many. The Death of The Wolf.”

I realised in distress that I lost all my iyes at that moment. Her words followed mines, and they were of uncontrollable screams, under unashamed cries.

“Who do you think you are? What do you want to achieve? To search for the forgotten tales, lost long ago when I was not even born? Do you have any idea what he is capable of when he learns whatever truth that is? Are you a fool, have you ever known him, my father Oyiradai of the Bargas?

“You are here to doom my life, and I will not allow this. You are here to doom my children, and I will punish you for this! Do you understand me? I am still a Barga, even if I escaped the lands of my family, even if I escaped the unbelievable fury of my father, even if I do not want to know how they live or die! I am still a Barga, I am the Ngamo of Maowün, and I will punish you severely for bringing such doom-words with you to my household!”

Her furious words were of lightnings, and I was not able to save myself from those flashes of pain. What was I thinking, what was I trying to achieve, were the actual questions I had in my mind at that moment. I could only take refuge in summoning the strength of Tengri, even if I was at the moment of questioning myself, my trust, my iyes.

“Ngamo Byorte, I demand your justice, show me your mercy, share your generosity. I am nothing but a servant of… Tengri. I do not wish any harm, and I certainly do not wish any for your children.”

“Do not speak of my children, do not even think about them witch! You are loyal to my father, you are his shaman! What do you know about him so far to serve my father? You say this foolish quest of yours is only of your own promise, do you think he will not learn of this? He sees everywhere, he watches everyone, he hears everything! Only to give pain, to cause misery, to cast vile curses!”

As she spilled all her ezens by her screams, in damning words, with raging sounds, through reddened eyes, she started to calm herself, realising her own voice. After moments of short breaths, felt as eternal struggles of life itself, she was able to finally restrain her behaviour. Looking outside through the opening of her household, her eyes were fixed towards the horizon, in the direction of the mighty mountains. Her eyes lost the terrible gaze, ezens left her mind, she gained the iyes back. Tengri may have abandoned this place, but the spirits of the mountains, of the rivers, of the snows are still there, iyes and ezens.

“What was your mother like? What was your father like?”

These words of hers were the hurtful of the most Erlik-wise I have ever heard. I was not ready to answer, for I am a child of steppes, with my father Tengri All-Sky, with my mother Umay All-Yellow, just as everyone else, a descendant of The Birch, a child of the lights from Kün Ana and Ay Ata. But I never had the mother and the father I was born of, I never saw them.

“I only knew Taibuka Shaman as my Elder. He was… the closest one to a father to me.”

That awakened her from the dreams over the horizon, turning her face, looking at me with calmed but still reddened eyes.

“I pity you.” Her words were the sharpest teeth of the tiger, as ever painful as they could be. “…and I envy you,” the words as terrible cuts through my mind, raw and confusing, poured from her mouth.

“Taibuka was the ugliest fool I have ever seen, and he was still able to… protect me more than my own mother. More than my own father. I was also… a child of his teachings. He would sooth me after my cries, he would tend to my wounds after the practices, and he would join my plays, the plays of any child can have. Children should have those plays with their mother and father, not with a shaman.

“…but he could not save me, he could not do anything against his masters. No one could save but I. I had to leave my family, cross the desert, live in the far.” She cleared the tears from her eyes, but her words did not stop. I could not speak, I could not answer, I was helpless against her words.

“Do you know the tales of this land? One of them was on Mahila Chöejor of Gyalrong. They say she was the cousin of my mother. Do you know what happened to her? No one does but we know. She disappeared. This was because she was in line to inherit some lands. I learnt about her demise from my mother. I learnt how to do such things from my father. At least they tried to teach me. Every time I resisted, I…” she paused, swallowing her words. She continued afterwards, without hesitation.

“They loved each other, Oyiradai and Dronmalön. That word incurs a sweet compassion in anyone’s mind, love. Their love was not of that kind. It was a consuming hunger, feeding their needs, supporting their own nightmarish visions. I know, because she told me how to plan, as she did it against her cousin. I know, because he told me how to find the right moment, and more, as he did it with her lover.

“I know it, because they taught me their way. How to rule the subjects, minions, in their own words. I must… beg your forgiveness for my harshness, for I learnt all the tongues I know from them, all the words from them, all the attitude from them. It is a stain on me, I am still unable to cleanse.

“I was drowning in their madness. Their madness, everyone assumed love, was devouring each other, every one, every land, every realm. When the madness possesses one, you know what to do, you are a shaman. Theirs was not of such kind. They thrived in their madness. Together they were masters of casting shadows for hiding their madness. They lived as such until the last breath of my mother. He is continuing to live as such, but alone. He must be feeling the pain of his loss, but do not confuse it with what you know of pain. It must be of the losing his companion in their raging malevolence.

“I can tell you all the tales that one should not know of this land. Mahila Kungcho of Lingtsang declared war on Gyalrong for the lands of Ariksar, my mother’s lands, years ago. My mother did not kneel, and together they sent all the murderers to Lingtsang. People still tell those stories in fear. No one knows how Mahila Kungcho died after the war. Justice, some said. It might have been as such for the callous, but no one knows what happened to her children either. Her children! People say her children were not of their age yet!

“There are tribes nearby, living in the lands of Qamdo. Nakchu clans raid the lands of their neighbours, when they find an opportunity. They raided my mother’s lands once. That is why you have been hearing the words from these lands, if they reach Ötüken at all. No one knows how many members of the Nakchu clan disappeared after that raid, beside the ones that were murdered in the shining of the day. I am speaking of the people, that did not even know who my mother was; of the people that never saw where her lands are, and they still perished by the rage of my father and of my mother.

“…and now, you have arrived. To question me, me! Out of all the Bargas, one of the few that escaped the rule of my father Oyiradai Khan, coming here to question me! Do you know why I fled to this land, but not to any other place? Because my mother Dronmalön was murdered, and I inherited her lands. I hoped, this would make him to think, there would be no more need of his attention on me! No more of his fixation on these lands! I hoped that he would forget these lands, and forget the reasons of their atrocious efforts, and cease causing any more pain on the people here.

“I know, these are foolish hopes, but so far my hopes did not fail. But you arrived. Out of nowhere. You, the shaman of my father. Asking me questions about the grandmother of my grandfather. I wish I could say I am not a daughter of Oyiradai Khan, nor a granddaughter of Toghun Khan, nor great-granddaughter of Qoshila Khan, and nor a descendant of The Wolf. I wish…

“I do not have any answers for you, for they never spoke anything of it. The age of my great-uncles were left in the forgotten past. Had I known any of it, I would tell you nothing. Nothing. I am certain, though, it was not my father, nor my mother. Do you know the reason of this certainty, the pain by having such certainty?” She was readying her words, to inflict more damage than they would sound, when spoken by any other.

“You do not have any mother nor father, beside the tengris. I do have a father. I did have a mother. You cannot know the pain of the certainty I have, the certainty that they did not have anything to do with the Death of The Wolf. Not because I have love for them, no. No! It is certain because they were not yet born at that age! Had they been, I could have thought then, that they might have done it, for whatever vicious reason, the poisoning of The Wolf.

“Why do you think I escaped? Why do you think Conchaka fled to the lands of Kipchaks, leaving all her children behind? I have been begging my siblings to leave that man and his lands behind, just as his woman Conchaka begged for her children to leave Oyiradai. He did not allow any of them to leave. Now I hear the words reaching my lands, as my brother Ariq is growing up, inheriting the more fearful sides of my father and of my mother. There is no escape from them, and some of my own siblings are already as Oyiradai, as Dronmalön, and far grimmer than them.”

When she finally sank in her silence, I could not reply any of her words. Only days later, this night I have regained my strength to shape the words on scrolls. These are the last ones I write before I forget them, for I cannot carry on any more, and I have to rest more. We are still under her watch, but I think she is unable to decide on what she will do with us. This will be a long summer for me and my retinue.

But I realised I have been smiling while I am writing.

Even after her thunderous words on that morning, that bled my mind, hitting with words of rage as swords, reminding me my lacking of a father and a mother, and proving my fears on her father and her mother.

She is still unaware of what she revealed to me while in raging purge of her mind. I am still smiling, even though I am uncertain of when we can leave this place, but now I know where to ride for my quest, now I know what to ask for my quest.

Publishers'-Edit 23.12.2022: Corrected publication mistakes. Corrected image locations.

filcat · Jun 30, 2021

Book I - Volume V - The Promise of The Shaman - IV

The Long Days of the Thirty-Second Summer

Days followed nights, Kün Ana chased Ay Ata many times, and I already accepted our benign imprisonment in Maowün under the watch of Ngamo Byorte. Though it was shrouded in her indecision, reeling between tantrums of her resentment for my arrival, and peaceful gatherings of her generosity for my presence. Ngamo Byorte would not speak again of the subject, but she proved to be a woman of great honour, as she hosted my retinue in peace, in beauty, in grace. Despite the unseen nature of our imprisonment, we were treated as guests of high regard.

Days followed nights, Kün Ana chased Ay Ata many times, and I realised the true spirits of her words from the day of our confrontation. Ngamo Byorte is mourning child now in my eyes, as she is a child of The Birch just I am and everyone is. She loved her mother Dronmalön, a mother who only lives in her dreams that never be. She loves her father Oyiradai Khan, a father who only exists in her longing that never be. She misses her father and her mother, her sisters and her brothers, her family and her yurt of birth. Now my mind is clear on her convictions and her troubles, her lack of iyes and her struggle with ezens.

I joined the plays of the Ngamo Byorte’s children, and they are the fun of life, the joy of days, the happiness of lands. The toddlers have love in them, and that is shown by their mother’s teachings through any and every moment of their days, for I saw as far as I stayed there. Ngamo Byorte was showing the signs of bearing another child, and the spirits restored the tranquil ever more of her mind.

The people of her lands would not prefer to eat any meat, for their tengris tell them so. This became a problem for my retinue. I tried to save the situation, requesting a permission for the hunts my men could have. Ngamo Byorte entertained my request in her calm but firm spirits, but added great cautions in her words, for it is not acceptable for the many traditions of their tengris.

Days followed nights, Kün Ana chased Ay Ata many times, and I was almost at the edge, about to lose my own conviction, forgoing my promise. The promise for my Elder Taibuka Shaman, the search for the truth, the mystery of the Death of The Wolf, it is slipping away from my mind.

The Doom upon the Lands of The Red

The night of our hastened departure came unforeseen, with the words of Ngamo Byorte in despair, with delirious look in her eyes, struggling to keep her peace, but failing in graceful misery.

“You should depart. You should leave! Now! Do not wait for the morning! My men will provide you the supplies you need. Along the journey avoid the roads! Take the passes through the northern mountains, and do not stay long at any place before you leave these lands!”

“My dear host, graceful Ngamo, benevolent Byorte, we will depart as you wish. But… what is happening, what is the reason of your discomfort?” My questions were of the naïve minds, unaware of the fear that others suffer. I was still learning. I am still learning.

“He is coming! He is riding to the lands of Thubet! He is leading two tümens, and he is riding for the lands of Qamdo! He will arrive in here, he will visit my household, I am certain of it!”

I was never terrified as much as that moment in my life, as she was speaking her words with shaking hands, with a forced calmness on her face, with futile attempts to salvage her sensitive nature. The words reached as she said, and Oyiradai Khan was riding to the lands of Thubet.

“I do not know anything about this Ngamo Byorte, I must apologise, I did not cause any of this, I did not intend for any of such-”

“You do not understand, how can you? You are nothing but a shaman, loyal servant, whisperer of the skies. I am a Barga, a child of the sacred line, I am a daughter of Oyiradai Khan and Dronmalön The Warrior of The Red! Not even my siblings, only I can understand this!

“Nakchu clans! When they raided my mother’s lands! Only once, and no one even remembers when! But that was enough for them! That was the beginning of the doom for all in these lands! And they raided again, then she was slain by the raiders! Murdered! What was I thinking, hoping Oyiradai to forget what happened here, what happened to his lover Dronmalön? No! I am a fool to have such empty hopes! A fool!

“Father is coming for his corrupt justice, he is riding to these lands, to wipe out any and every one, no matter involved in it and unaware of it! Father is riding to rage in his foul justice for the murder of Mother!”

I understood at that moment, she was fearing for her life, for her children’s life, for everyone’s life, and for my life. I am Mandukhai Shaman, loyal servant to her father, even though it is only as accepted so. She could not risk the consequences of holding me as her guest, either in imprisonment or in great honour. She could not predict what her father would think, for no one can.

I left three animals made out of wood for her children. A dove, a falcon, and a wolf. I handed the wooden animals to her, for her children to play, and she burst into tears as she accepted my gifts to her children. She gave a brief farewell, and we rode into the black.

She misses her father and her mother, even though they never existed as they are in her hopes, in her dreams, in her mind. Those tears were telling more than her words. I am certain of her now, as I miss my father and my mother too, and I never even saw them.

I hope she will find the smile in her coming days. I hope she and her children live in the peace of the sun rays, in the glamour of the moon face. I hope she can survive the days of her remaining life, despite the father she has.

As we passed the villages, the towns, the temples made of stones, settled on the ground forever, reaching the mountains of the black; as we passed, the sun was about to shine. The people were running, riding, leaving their stone-yurts behind. The distant screams we heard, and in the villages everyone was in their frantic rush, shouting words in their tongue, but the same sounds they were. I asked the local guides we found, what they were shouting of. The Destroyer has come! Run for your lives! The Destroyer is bringing his twenty-thousand riders! Flee for your lives! The Destroyer is bringing the forever-night! Leave these lands at once!

The Destroyer. Now I know what the people in their fear were shouting in the villages we passed through. Now I know what everyone has named him.

I am Mandukhai, the Shaman of Buryatia, of Angara, and of Mongolia, and so begins the thirty-second winter of our age, the Age of Oyiradai Khan the Destroyer.

Publishers'-Edit 12.01.2022: Corrected publication mistakes. Corrected the title font size.

filcat · Jun 30, 2021

Book I - Volume V - The Promise of The Shaman - V

Thirty-Second Winter in the Age of Oyiradai Khan

We had to cross Gobi, the great peace of silence, the great land of winds, the great desert of earth, during the winter.

We could find only two of local hunters brave enough to lead us through the unforgiving dunes, under the icing sky. The winds were merciless as they said, and we lost many of our horses during the first days. I lost ten of my retinues in the cold of that journey. I cannot forgive myself, I cannot scream enough to bring peace to myself, I cannot find any iyes in this journey of pain for myself.

When we finally arrived in the Gobi-Altai land, we were about to perish by the numbers to the end, but I was already collapsing under the agony in my mind. I asked the four baghaturs to leave my retinue for their home, as my journey became not only foolish, but perilous. Their answer was sharp, but brief. You do have your promise Mandukhai Shaman. Whether you keep it or not, it is your judgement. We do have our promise for Tseden Noyan, thus for you. It is our judgement to keep our promise. We will ride to the end of your journey together.

Days followed nights, we were riding through the lands red of the Altais, we were ambushed by marauders under the fading day light. Many from my remaining retinue were slain, falling on the ground under the arrows covering the sky, and my sword was not enough to aid them in the fight. The four baghaturs fought valiantly by their skills, but the end was nigh, and the day was falling into the night. We were about to lose every life, then came ten riders from the blue to strike.

Ten more followed them, and hundred more rode along with them, and I have seen hundreds more behind them. One rider was looking at us from the hills far into the blue, as the marauders were defeated in the flash of the breath. The field was filled with wounded and dead, I was in my remorse forever as I felt. I tended to the wounds of the few, closed the eyes of the many, then I was greeted by the rider from the blue, descending from the hills under the night’s hue.

“Mandukhai Shaman, I see you are far from our ordo in Ötüken.”

I saw Ariq son of Oyiradai Khan the Destroyer and Dronmalön the Warrior of The Red, removing his helmet, in his ironclad donned, with his sword and daggers, with his bow and arrows armed. We buried the fallen, I summoned all the iyes I could afford, crying to Tengri The Eternal Blue. The ashes reached the sky, we did not have more time for the ritual ride, my voice was shaking as I muttered the names of Ülgen and Kayrakhan, Koyas and Burkut, Okulkan and Kizagan.

The night was followed by the day. We retreated to the mountains in the black, to spend the coming night. The yurts were settled, the fires were prepared, the food was brought, the airag was poured, the wine from Khotan lands was provided, and once again the wounded were treated.

It was the moment of questions, but this time I had to answer, for Ariq of the Bargas son of Oyirdai Khan spoke first.

“You must have been travelling so long days, for I do not recall your presence in the ordo, nor your summoning for my father's Great Raid. We left the ordo months in the past, riding to the Qamdo lands. Oyiradai Khan assembled all his riders, two tümens of raiders. I have not seen you in the steppes when we left.”

“Yes, Ariq son of Oyiradai Khan and of Dronmalön. I have been travelling to all edges of the realm. I am the loyal shaman of your father, and of all the people in the realm. I have only recently heard of the Great Raid.”

“I do not think we consider Thubet as our realm, tracking your retinue’s trail. Although two of kin reign over the lands of my mother, blessed by Umay.” His smile was more of a grin as he spoke, and I was not certain to see the true meanings of his words. It was, however, a friendly look in his eyes.

I know Ariq son of Oyiradai Khan and of Dronmalön since the day he was born, the day I was still a young one, following the steps of my Elder Taibuka Shaman. I remember the younger days of Ariq, as he would share all the plays, all the joy, all the laughs with his siblings, but he had no time for waiting when he demanded any of his needs. He grew up as I did in the winters and summers followed in the steppes, and he became a man of great mind as his father, and he became a man of great strength as his mother. He is, however, capable of looking with benevolent eyes, as I see him. Whether he is actually as such in his mind, the coming days will tell.

But I know him, for he is still a Barga, and he is a son of Oyiradai Khan and Dronmalön. He is a khanküü, and he is the chosen for the coming age of the khanate. He must be master of concealing his mind behind the shadow-veil, and seemingly far better at it than his mother and father. This I do know now, as he spoke of Thubet, correctly guessing where I travelled to and arrived from, unknown to his father’s rule, yet he was showing no signs of dismay.

“I would strongly urge you to return back, to our ordo in Karabalgasun, Mandukhai Shaman, if you hear my advice. These lands you ride through are not safe for errands.”

“I do have one more place that I need to be, Ariq khankhüü. I need to ride to the lands of Kipchaks, for I need to clear my mind from ezens, and there a shaman of great knowledge lives. Your other siblings’ mother, your Kublai brother’s mother, your father’s woman, Conchaka Shaman. I travel to keep all the tales, to learn all the names, to heal all the wounds.”

He narrowed his eyes after hearing my words. I still could not tell as this was his true figure, else a trickery from his nature. But his words followed his sharp eyes, telling the sincere thoughts of his mind:

“I understand your dedication, Mandukhai Shaman. The tales have to live in the minds, the names have to pass on to the new ones, the wounds have to heal for peace. Even I am in dire need, of the tales, of the old be told, the wounds of the past be cold, for I will one day rule the realm. The names pass on, just as I am the namesake of my great-uncle. Qoshila Khan was my great-grandfather, Akgül the Owl was my great-grandmother. Byorte the Wolf was my ancestor-mother, as my sister took her name after. Alas, escaped the memories for the name of The Stranger, even ours of his blood, so remains he our nameless ancestor-father. Tales may be forgotten, wounds may bleed, only the names remain. When the names are lost, then…

“Children should know the stories, the tales, the names, they should learn them from their mothers and fathers. If they do not, then the children will lose their…” His eyes were fixed in the swinging fires as he spoke. He was to tell greater tales, but he was keeping his words to himself: “If mothers and fathers do not tell, then shamans have to teach the children well. I understand your dedication.”

He tore his eyes’ hook on the fire, he restored his mind to the grim of the real, before his dreams became darker.

“I must warn you, Mandukhai Shaman: I lead two thousand riders, but that is only a detachment from my father’s tümens. I decided to make a brief rest in the lands of Gobi-Altai, and that is the only reason why I am here. As such, I was able to help at the dire moment of your life. There may be further dangers in the journey of yours, and I will not be of any help for you in such case, for I have to join in my father’s quest. You may run out of your iyes in the coming days. All I can do for you is to hope a safe journey and urge you to return to Ötüken.”

“I am grateful for your help, and your wise words for the journey I have, Ariq khankhüü. I will still ride until I arrive in the Kipchak lands,” I had no choice but to follow his words, whatever he had hidden behind those, I could not know. I still do not know. But I had to continue my quest, for the promise I made to my Elder, just as he had for his father.

“I presume you would not accept my offer then, to order my men to aid you in your journey, Mandukhai Shaman. But I will provide you the maps for those lands, so you can make your way safely to Conchaka Shaman nonetheless.”

He looked at me with his eyes of unprecedented lightnings, but they were not of rage, but to amaze. He was… friendly, I could say. I am still not certain. I am still wondering if he was looking at me to understand the mind I have through my eyes, or if he was to befriend a shaman, considering one day I will be the shaman for his rule. Ariq khankhüü will one day become the khan, and as the shaman of his realm, I will have to proclaim him Khan of Buryatia, of Angara, and of Mongolia.

They took the wounded ones of my retinue, promising their safe return to Karabalgasun.

I trusted their words, as it is their duty to serve the people of their shaman. We parted the following day, as they rode into the blue, to the lands of Thubet, as we rode into the white, to the lands of Kipchaks, the realm of Karkaraly.

Edit: Corrected the font size of the title.

filcat · Jul 1, 2021

Book I - Volume V - The Promise of The Shaman - VI

The Ending Days of the Thirty-Second Winter

I led my retinue safely through the lands red of the Altais. There were many tribes, some of them were friendly, others were required one to be wary. A safe route I managed to divine, with the help of the maps I was gifted. The sublime signs of all travellers, carrying all the tales of the past, shaped by modest lines, bestowing its lore upon us, saving the journey from the realm of Kirghiz steppes.

Riding deep into the Kirghiz realm would pose a real threat to the journey, for Buryats, Mongols and Kirghiz were fighting each other, since the age of The Stranger. Kirghiz were defeated, lost their rule in the steppes and their realm collapsed. They fled into the white, beyond the peaks of mighty Altais. In our age, their neighbours to their red are the Kipchaks, ruling the realm of Karkaraly with the bow and arrow, sword and axe. In that realm roams the tribe, to where Conchaka fled, many winters in the past. No one would see it as an escape for freedom, for she became the shaman of the land she settled.

No one could but I. After my confrontation with Ngamo Byorte, light was brought on this mind I had.

I rode to the lands of Kipchaks in the thirty-second winter of our age, leading my retinue to the lands of Conchaka Shaman, but her men immediately surrounded us with their spears, and seized our belongings. We were under arrest on her orders, and I was taken to her winter yurt in shackles. She looked at me once, then ordered her men to bring me to her yurt in their summer village. Their lands are closer to the great forests of the black, and the summer village is in the sea of snow-bound leaves, surrounded by the giant trees. The wooden yurts of the summer are considered a safer place to keep the prisoners, I thought. But it was not the season, and everywhere was white of the snow.

I was kept at the village under the snowing clouds of the winter. Days followed nights, they released me from my shackles, but I was still a prisoner of Conchaka Shaman. This day I was provided with a yurt, and my belongings were given back. As I shape the words now, I do not know if men of my retinue are still alive.

The winter is ending, the snow is melting, and the nature is awakening. People are returning from their winter yurts back to the summer village. I do hope I will confront Conchaka Shaman in the coming day.

The Day of the Lost Hope

“Your men are safe. But here you and your men will stay, for your journey will never see another day. I know why you arrived in my lands, Mandukhai Shaman.”

I was out of my sound, as I was trying my skills to shadow my mind, for once I should have tried until that day, I thought. The skills I lacked, the spells I wished, the trust I surrendered, the hope I lost.

“I am wandering the realms for the peoples of Oyiradai Khan, as you would know, Conchaka Shaman. I am here to see your village prosper, and I am here to summon my iyes I can, blessed by Tengri.”

“No. I do not need them, and my people do not need your divinations, were you speaking true. You are not here to lie, not to me. You do seek a truth that is buried under the snow of many winters in the past, scattered by the wind of many summers in the past.”

At least I tried. Before I could reply, she was able to continue by cutting my breath with her words.

“You are seeking the tale of the Death of The Wolf. You will not get any answers here, shaman of the naïve.”

After the strike of her lightning-words, what remained was the sound she spoke for her mind. I would not get. The beating of my heart was clouding my mind, resounding inside.

“You do know the tale, then, Conchaka Shaman. You do know the poisoning of The Wolf.”

That was the moment of her pause, for once. I was not capable of casting the shadows on my intentions, but at least I was able to conjure the hidden meanings behind her words.

“I… I will not talk about it.”

Her pause, however, confirmed my already little knowledge. The Wolf had been poisoned. But that was my only victory, and for it I was unprepared. I did not know what was coming, and with victory I was drunk beyond reckoning. She was hesitating. I had to provoke her. I was desperate.

“How did you hear of my quest, Conchaka Shaman? Answer me!”

“I do have my ears in the realm I left behind; I am not deaf to them as you are. Many from the Bargas are close friends to me. They received words of your travels, and they sent me their regretful words on you honouring other descendants with your presence, but not them.”

I missed my opportunity, for she regained her decisive voice. I was at the mercy of her words after that moment, and she would not show it to end her torment.

“The descendants of Ariq Darqan and Mergen Noyan, Geleg Günj, Badma Günj, and Sanzima Günj, Tolui Noyan and Qoshila Khan; they are numerous. Few Bargas you met might have acted dishonourable, but my dear friends would not, and your disrespect is intolerable!

“Regardless of this, it is not for your ears to hear. You do not have the right, and you certainly cannot keep the words of those tales, old tales of the forgotten. You are a loyal servant to Oyiradai Khan, and you have no clear mind on what you are doing.”

“I do know it, Conchaka Shaman. I have made mistakes by whom I spoke to, but my intention is not what you think. I-”

“You are not in the position of explaining anything! You search for the truth, and then by hearing of it, what do you seek? Keep those words for your purposes? What purposes can you have? No, you are a loyal servant to Oyiradai Khan as it seems, and you think he will hear you. What do you want to achieve with delivering that mystery to him?” Her words were cold as the snow, her look was solid as the ice, and yet she was perfect at taming her anger, rising inside her mind. I could only try to explain myself. Oh how I wish I knew that spell at that moment, the art of the words in the battle of minds to suppress the opponent.

“I am not here on his order! My quest is only of my own promise to my Elder, Taibuka Shaman. Oyiradai Khan does not know anything, and he is far away. The nature of my mission is by my Elder’s words, for he told me in his last breath, and it certainly has nothing to do with khan. I am seeking the truth of the forgotten story. The Death of The Wolf. The murder of the ancestor-mother. If I learn about it, being a tale of agony, then it will be forgotten again after I give my last breath, that was my promise.”

“You are certainly the shaman of the blind-minded, of the ill-knowing, of the foul-visioned. You have no right to think your inquiry as innocent as it seems. You are searching for the tale of the Death of The Wolf, but only for your promise, you say. Here is my answer to you: You will never learn about it. Never!

“I will make sure you will never leave this place. Do you think you can hide such stories in your mind? No, Oyiradai Khan will see it through your eyes, your hidden thoughts, your deepest images, and he will see that you know it, and he will use this against you.”

That was the moment I began to fear for myself, and my mind started to collapse into the oblivion of losing confidence. I was stuttering after her words falling upon me as hails of doom.

“You… you are trying to… protect me?”

“You are nothing but a naïve child, Mandukhai. You may be trying to fulfil your Elder’s wishes as you say. But that wish is impossible. You can never keep such secrets in the dark,” then she paused, the pause I wish that never ended, but it did end.

“…besides, he already knows it.”

I was lost after those words. Her words, as far as I remember now, were waving from the gentle winds of soothing to the lightning storms of raging then to the icing gales of reprimanding.

“What do you think I do here? I fled from him, I escaped his rule, I rode away from his lands. Oyiradai Khan and his shrewd woman Dronmalön. Blesses of Ülgen she died in her own misery, slain in her foolish battles. Curses of Erlik, he is still alive, and he will never stop in his hidden fury. Far more than anyone can dread, far more than what is told in the legends for his grandfather Qoshila. That Oyiradai Khan, he already knows the truth you are looking for!

“He has been already executing his justice for that truth unknown to many. You do not know, no one can ever know. He knows about the murderer of his great-grandmother, and he uses this as an excuse for his own disgusting judgement, justice of khan they call. He will continue to bring that justice of his, even to the descendants of descendants, punishing them forever, and he will never abandon his mind.

“Do not look such bewildered, foolish Mandukhai! That man is the father of my children. He took my children and raised them as his mind, by his words, in his visions. I am in fear not only for my children, but for all the children, of all the mothers. Even for Dronmalön’s children from him; I begged for the mercy of All-Sky, I called upon all the iyes from The Eternal Blue. But I was unable, unskilled, unheard. The children grew up as his images for the coming days. He corrupted their minds with his own words.

“I begged my own blood to not obey their father Oyiradai, but Kublai already became the noyan of the ancestral lands in his realm. My words faded in the winds, and his words were engraved on their minds. All of them. Take Ariq khanküü, the impulsive son of Oyiradai, poor child he is, and he thinks he shall rule everyone from the blue horizon to the white horizon as his atrocious father and his horrendous mother taught him. Everyone in Oyiradai’s mind is only a matter of his needs, his visions, his images. He does not care of your being, and he does care only when it satisfies his mind, his thirst for revenge, his hunger for rule.

“My beloved Bukha, only a little boy he was, when he was murdered by the crazed tribesmen. I accuse Oyiradai for that revolt, not the tribesmen. It seems you have not heard of what he did to restore his order. He could not find the murderers, for they were lost in the mists of the earth, for their own good. But Oyiradai still found another man, another traitor to his realm. He kept him for three winters and three summers, under the close watch of his baghaturs. That man, I heard, was already in the despair of imprisonment in the end. Anyone in shackles of the mind for such long time but without apparent punishment, will hope to live, they will lust for more summers, they will desire more winters. Oyiradai executed him only after that prisoner had shown a glimpse of hope again for his coming days. Without any remorse, for a crime not belonging to that prisoner, he executed him.

“And now, what does he do? You must have received the words. He has started a great raid on an entire realm! With two tümens of riders! Only to satisfy his need for vengeance, while calling it justice! Justice for his lover Dronmalön, that disgusting monster!

“You are not travelling to anywhere, Mandukhai Shaman, not any more. This is for your own good, this is for the good of everyone known to him. Welcome to my lands, and welcome to the end of your quest.”

These were the words we spoke on that day, as far as I remember. I do not know for how long I will be her prisoner. I am still shaking, it is harder to shape the words, and I will stop now.

Publishers'-Edit 23.12.2022: Corrected publication mistakes. Corrected the title font size.

filcat · Jul 1, 2021

Book I - Volume V - The Promise of The Shaman - VII

Thirty-Third Summer in the Age of Oyiradai Khan

I tended to the wounds of my retinue during the winter of my captivity. I requested their release, but Conchaka was strict in her decision. When the thirty-third summer of our age began, the forests and the steppes were scorched under the rays of the sun. I tried to regain my iyes, my words, my trust, and I do not know when we will be free again, for we are prisoners of Conchaka Shaman.

I could have easily escaped, as the four baghaturs were looking at me in my eyes, telling me they were waiting for my order, so they would begin their move. I did not want any bloodshed, but this was not the reason. I was, in my mind, in my confidence, in my trust… my mind was destroyed.

Oyiradai Khan’s reign is ever-vast, and it spreads from the lands to the minds of all. It affects any and every one without him directly seeing them, without him being near them, and even without them knowing of him.

The loss of hope for my promise is sorrowful, but my mind still could not forego the nature of his justice. He had executed one for his son, he had murdered tens for his lover, he had tortured many for his brother, he… I am tired of remembering such villainy, as he is a beast of Erlik-tengri.

All I could was to try asking with what was left from my words, as much as I have gathered in the long days of the summer.

“If you know the truth behind it, at least tell me the reason of it, Conchaka, for I can end my search, for I can fulfil my quest, for I can keep my promise.”

“Reason? You are not even aware of your own reasons, Mandukhai of the miserable. What reasons do you wish to learn? What do you hope to achieve even if it was known?”

My reason… I realise as I shape my words now, I never thought about my reason when I made my promise.

“I made my promise to my Elder Taibuka Shaman, that is my quest, my words are of the truth. I know when I hear the tale, I have to live with it, and it should never be told. Even though Oyiradai Khan knows about it, I will learn how to keep my mind from him behind the shadow-veil.”

“Mandukhai of the unreasonable promises. You are the shaman of impossible wishes. You are the unskilled of hopeless dreams. Ariq Darqan, Mergen Noyan, and Tolui Noyan; Geleg Gonji, Badma Gonji, and Sanzima Gonji; all looked for the reasons together with Qoshila Khan, all failed to hear a reason, a name, a tale from anyone. Only the one that did the crime, lived until the age of their prime. Tales were forgotten, reasons became meaningless, people lived through ages, and yet few heard some of it, yet many feared of it, yet all told about it, but the reason was lost, thus nothing has changed.

“I can only assume. The reason could not be righteous, for the act itself was heinous. The reason will never be known, when the tales are lost. Now I see it, for your reason to search for it is truly naïve, for you embarked on your journey only as you miss your elder. You search for the mystery behind the Death of The Wolf, but only to forget. For you there is no need to learn anything about it.

“I tell you, hoping you to understand. Mandukhai, hear my words: Not even knowing the reason would change anything, for that requires a gracious mind, a strong trust, a benevolent hope to think. Not even Oyiradai Khan knows the reason, perhaps fortunate for us. But it became his own reason once he learnt of the tale, and he will never abandon his foul justice for it. He will continue to execute his justice, his justice will cause children lose their mothers and fathers, the loss will make all forget the tales to be told to descendants. You will never find it, and you should prepare yourself, ask your mind, search your tales, to see your own reasons for seeking it. You will see your captivity is not for cruelty, to you it is my sincere but firm mercy.”

I do not know if I can keep my promise, and I am not certain I can ever learn the truth. The end of the summer is near, the coming winter I will still be a captive I fear. She is powerful in the words, be it shadows in the mind, else tales of the old, and I do not have any awareness as her words told, reason and purpose of my own oath I lack the most.

The Beginning of the Coming Age

We were still captives of Conchaka, and the sound of the words reached us, the voices of the stories surrounded us, they flew as if carried by Tulpar. Khan of Buryatia is dead! All hear the words, Oyiradai Khan is dead!

On his return from the lands of the red, his reign of thirty-three summers came to its end, Oyiradai Khan of Buryatia, of Angara, and of Mongolia, by his known name the Destroyer was dead. The words by the end of the summer we received, on the Altai Mountains his ashes to The Eternal Blue were released.

The following day Conchaka met us, and she provided supplies for us. I requested word before her.

“I will summon iyes to help you mourning for the loss of your lover.”

“Stop, do not do that. I loved that man, but I loved him as I have love for a mirage in the desert. That love does exist, but the sight it belongs to, is only an image of lies. A shadow of thoughts. A treachery of mind.

“You do not need to stay here any more, Mandukhai. I release you and your retinue from captivity, for now you are safe. I cannot predict the coming days. You must be expected in the kurultai of Buryatia, for that I am certain. You have to ride now, and be present before the new khan, Ariq son of Oyiradai Khan.

“You do not need to search for that truth any more, for whatever purpose you have, otherwise never had. Forget everything you heard about the Barga ancestors, Geleg Gonji, Badma Gonji, Ariq Darqan, Mergen Noyan, Tolui Noyan, Sanzima Gonji, and even Qoshila Khan. They will be forgotten by all in anyway. Fortunately there is no more the gazing eyes of The Destroyer now. Unfortunately for you and all, there is his son Ariq Khan now. The coming days will show us his true nature, and people shall name him for his grandeur.

“But I warn you: I escaped from Oyiradai Khan, for I was disgusted by his fury hidden in his mind. Now there is Ariq Khan, and I am terrified of him. Terrified.”

She stressed the last words as if trying to utter her true spirits behind the obvious. It was the moment of my last chance to ask, for anything she might share with me.

“I request the truth from you, Conchaka Shaman. It is only to fulfil my promise. At least tell me the name of the family, the murderer behind the poisoning, so I can keep my promise to my Elder. I can protect the descendants of the family, as much as in my power.”

“I never told you I know the name. Only Oyiradai Khan knew that name, and by his twisted grace I was told the tale. I was only a matter for him to use, in his visions, in his mind, in his justice. I was unable, unskilled, unheard. I will be in remorse of those I had to do until my end days. He is no more, blesses of Ülgen, so the tales are never to be known any more.

“You will hear nothing from me. Your needs are meaningless. The descendants of the murderer cannot be helped as they have been already killing each other for Oyiradai Khan, before the day he learnt the truth to this day after his death, and they will continue, whether the tales are told else forgotten. Your reach does not exist, it is nothing compared to the Bargas.

“We will never see each other again. Not in these peaceful terms. Your realm needs you, your new khan needs you, and you have to decide what you will do according to what you have heard so far, if you have learnt any. Maybe one day you will learn your true reason. Until that day, beware of the Bargas. I do not think you can change any of them for the good, let alone help them, certainly not with your mind of this unawareness in the oblivion. Even though few may be on the side of Ülgen, the rest of them, however, they are lost to Erlik forever.”

I realised I am not the only one to lose the hope, the trust, the mind, and all the iyes one can find. Under the winds of silence, we left her lands, without any farewell.

I took the lead of my retinue and we rode to the lands of Yenisei, through the Kirghiz realm, without much trouble. I am not living in fear of anyone any more, not after I survived the age of The Destroyer. I have to be brave for the coming days of Ariq Khan, for the impending age on the horizon.

But I do know by her words, I failed in my quest, for I lack my own reasons. Never have I thought about my reasons, and never have I noticed my mistake, for I had convinced myself, to learn the tale only to forget.

Now I know I have failed my promise to my Elder, Taibuka Shaman. My mind is drowning in sorrow.

On the Return Journey

We reached the lands of Yenisei, the realm loyal to khans of the Bargas, since the reign of Dayan Noyan, brother of Oyiradai Khan. We were greeted well, they welcomed us in their yurts, and they sent their words of loyalty to the new Khan, for I am still the apparent shaman.

The tribes would be unruly ever since the beginning of life. They had always the hunger as their khans, whoever they had been. It is the time of kurultai again, and the numerous noyans and darqans, their irgens and harans, all are waiting for their words to be heard, requesting needs for their tribes, expecting promises of the old. A new khan has to face all, sort the problems of all, rule fairly for all, otherwise there would be war. The traditions of the steppes, of the forests, of the mountains have always been sharp, certain, imminent. They will be, always, until the end of the days.

I heard the words of the people in Yenisei, and I had to send the words of their loyalty and wishes to the new Khan, along with mine. Mandukhai Shaman I am, and I order riders to reach Ötüken, to bring my words to my disciples, to be at the presence of Ariq Khan of the Bargas, of Buryatia, of Angara, and of Mongolia. I order riders to bring words from Yenisei, for they are loyal to Ariq Khan, as they have been to his father Oyiradai Khan the Destroyer.

I have to prepare myself for the coming age. I was giving every order through my instincts, whereas in my mind I am still in the middle of storms. I am still shaken after the words of Conchaka as I shape these words now. I will rest, and the following day we will ride to Angara.

Publishers'-Edit 20.08.2022: Corrected publication mistakes. Corrected the title font size.

Revan86 · Jul 1, 2021

Excellent writing here, @filcat. I particularly appreciate how you are approaching the reign of Oyiradai from the standpoint of his shaman and of his familial enemy. As to the writing style and voice, I feel justified in describing it as 'epic', and that's not something I say lightly.

And as always, it's nice to see the little touches. 'Buddha-tengri of the Bödpas' and 'Yesu-tengri of the Öngüt', for example. The Öngüt were a Turkic-Mongol tribe which adopted 'Nestorian' (more correctly East Syriac) Christianity, correct?

The Secret History of the Bargas

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