Savage Divinity

The day began no different from any other since arriving at the Bridge. Waking with the rising sun, Dastan sought Insight and Enlightenment from the Forms, a habit he’d picked up during their journey north. Every day, without fail, no matter how tired or busy they were, the boss and his cadre of elite Khishigs rarely missed an opportunity to perform this oft neglected traditional exercise, even at the expense of sleep. With such dedication, it was no wonder the mountain tribesmen produced warriors of such high calibre like Gerel or Tursinai.

Hard work wasn’t the sole reason for the Bekhai’s prowess. Long ago, the Empire came to a consensus and deemed it a waste of time to go through every movement of every Form. Though all Martial practitioners studied the Forms, few practised them in their entirety. It made sense; The eight Forms consisted of five-hundred and thirty one movements, with each movement containing countless variations resulting in literally infinite number of possibilities. Only a child would think to master it all at once, their eyes larger than their stomachs. The common consensus was to focus on one Form at a time, or even take it a step further and focus on a handful of movements. Better to have a high comprehension in one Form than a low comprehension of eight Forms, right?

The Bekhai seemed to think differently, and having seen their prowess on the battlefield, who was Dastan to say otherwise? Perhaps this was the not-so-secret secret to the Bekhai strength, the answer staring the Empire in the face right from the start. The Forms were passed down by the Mother, so how could they dare neglect Her teachings? He’d forgotten how strenuous Demonstrating the Forms could be, muscles aching and lungs burning within minutes when he first started, but over the past few weeks, his body had regained a fraction of the strength lost after being cleansed of the Father’s Taint. Though there was a long ways away from reaching the same levels of explosive strength or prodigious stamina, bit by bit, Dastan felt himself returning to his former glory, perhaps even on track to surpass it.

Though it was yet another ‘unconventional’ training method, he was certain this was the correct path. How could the Mother’s Chosen Son lead him astray?

Cutting his training short, Dastan washed up and joined his family for breakfast around the campfire. Greeting him with a bowl of rice porridge and a plate of steamed buns, Mother clicked her tongue and said, “You work too hard my darling son. Look at you, so thin and pale, you’ve lost so much weight these past weeks. Eat, eat.”

“Leave him be, wife.” Father chided her softly, handing Dastan a large bowl of braised beef while he himself ate plain porridge and buns. “Our son works hard to repay our benefactor yet you ask him to shirk his duties?” Though the words sounded harsh, Father’s actions dulled the impact, looking out for his son however he could. Grateful to still have them in his life, Dastan smiled and accepted the gesture, sneaking pieces of beef to his three younger siblings to augment their lacklustre meals. None of them were warriors like him, instead following in their father’s footsteps to become merchants and bookkeepers, their poor martial talents sparing them from the traitorous XiaoGong’s attentions and subsequently, a life of slavery.

Though camp life was a far cry from their previous life of luxury, no one from Sanshu dared to voice their complaints. The boss himself lived in a tent, so who were they to ask for more? He treated them well, making sure there were no more than two people to a tent and plenty of blankets for all, and even gifting each family with spices and meat for their meals, an extravagance few peasants or slaves could hope to taste. In fact, the boss treated his slaves no differently from his people, and for this, Dastan would be eternally grateful.

Finishing his meal with haste, Dastan gulped down a cup of tea and said, “No need to cook meals for me, we begin training today. Don’t know when I’ll be back.”

Nodding, Father stood up and opened his arms, pulling Dastan into an embrace. Taken aback by the outright expression of affection, he tensed up and missed his opportunity to return the gesture before Father stepped away and said, “We’ll be gone by the time you return. We’ve arranged everything with Mister Rustram. Turns out our benefactor dabbles in trade, selling cosmetics and herbal concoctions to Shen Huo. Mister Rustram’s father’s company handles everything and is currently expanding, so we’re leaving with a convoy headed to the city in an hour's time.” Hesitating, Father stared at his feet, abashed and ashamed. “I’m sorry, son. Our family is in this situation because of decisions I, Danikov Zhandos have made. You’re now a slave because I tucked my head into my shell and hid from the truth, ignoring my suspicions instead of investigating them. Perhaps if I’d been a braver man, a more decisive man, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

“Father...”

“I speak and you listen, this is the way of the world. You might be a warrior but I’ll still take a switch to your behind if the mood strikes me.” His smile spoiled the gruff act, Father looking more tired and vulnerable than ever. “Our benefactor is a good man, a great man even, but he is a warrior first and foremost. I cannot stand by his side nor do I have clever ideas and contraptions to offer like my brother. Trade and numbers are all I know and even then I am lacking in many ways, so I must work hard to make up for my failings.”

Straightening up with pride, Father regained some vitality. “We are denigrated and disparaged because our ancestors were conquered in millennia past, but our Zhandos family has prided ourselves on our heritage instead of ignoring it as so many others do. Thus, to uphold the honour of our name, our family’s debt falls largely upon your shoulders. You’ve already sacrificed so much for us and it shames me to ask more of you, but I must. Train hard and serve our benefactor well, for only then do we have a hope of repaying him in this life.” Gesturing for Dastan to leave, his father turned away and added, “I’ve not done much worthy of praise, but I’ve raised my children well. Take care and visit when you can, my son.”

“Yes father.” With a heavy heart, Dastan said farewell to his family, wondering when he’d ever see them again. Ever since becoming a Martial Practitioner, he’d long since readied himself to part from his family. It was only natural as they tread down different paths. Without meditation and training, his younger brothers and sister would be lucky to live a life of eighty years, succumbing to the rigours of time while his body remained hale and healthy well into his hundredth year, only declining close to the end.

Assuming he survived that long.

Still, after almost losing his family  in Sanshu, Dastan was reluctant to part with them, but he had no choice in the matter. Father had made his decision and Dastan would respect it. Now that he was a slave, it would fall on his brothers to carry on the family name. Regardless, it was safer for them in Shen Huo, doing what they knew best in more familiar circumstances. At least Uncle Diyako would still be here at the Bridge, and though Dastan held a slave’s status, he served a divine purpose at the side of the Mother’s Chosen Son. In time, the world would come to know of Falling Rain and his holy duty, his name resounding through history for millennia to come.

Back straight and shoulders squared, Dastan gathered his soldiers and marched to the western district, joining with the rest of his comrades. A sorry sight these bandits and ruffians, all haphazardly scattered about the base of the mountain path, drinking and dicing without a care in the world. Truth be told, Dastan wasn’t sure why the boss tolerated their presence, though his father said it had something to do with Hangman Jorani. An unassuming, inconspicuous scoundrel, the one-time leader of the Mother’s Militia was tied to the boss by more than mere happenstance. Though definitive proof couldn’t be found, if one looked closely enough, one could piece together the truth.

The Mother’s Militia was retaliation for the attempted assassination of Falling Rain, Jorani merely a cats-paw for the Bekhai, acting openly where they could not. Looking deeper into the situation, one might also discover that Falling Rain and Jorani were backed by an even greater power: Major Yuzhen. A devious woman, Dastan’s father had nothing but praises for her, citing her ‘compound interest’ as inspired work. Not even a month into his new duties as a Lieutenant Marshal, Chao Yong, the only surviving Chief Councilman of Sanshu, had already been arrested and executed on charges of corruption. After seizing his assets, presumably to root out corruption, everyone realized the full extent of her cunning. With the overwhelming majority of Sanshu’s production and manufacturing facilities firmly in her hands, other candidates could only dream of taking away her position as the next Marshal of the North.

An eagle father will not beget a sparrow daughter and history repeats itself. Shing Du Yi’s heir would follow in his footsteps, ascending to office while beholden to none. As both the first female and first half-beast Marshal of the North, she would have her work cut out for her, but Sanshu's wealth would enable her to do things other Marshals could only dream of.

The boss didn’t keep them waiting for long, arriving with an escort of Khishigs, a wildcat, and a convoy of roosequins, their hand-carts laden with various supplies. Without slowing his steps, the boss shouted, “I train soldiers, not slackers. Plenty of others to choose from and manual labour to be done, so those who fall behind will be left behind.” Leading the way on foot, the boss jogged up the slope at an easy pace and Dastan followed closely behind. One of the boss’s best traits was how he led by example. If he expected his retinue to run up a mountain, then he’d be first in line to do so.

In their short time together, Dastan noticed a multitude of minor details like this. Eating what they ate, living how they lived, wearing what they wore, the boss didn’t lord himself above them, far from it. If he found something lacking in their lives, he strove to fix or improve it. Small things here and there, but put together, it made for a world of difference. The boss didn’t demand their respect, he earned it and did so as naturally as breathing. Add to this his multitude of skills, like herbalism, healing, animal training, mathematics, physics, and so much more, he truly was a dragon among men.

Perhaps even one with a secret heritage. Dastan spent many a night tossing and turning in bed, wondering how Falling Rain could possibly know the secret origins of silk. Could he be a bastard son of the Imperial family? While Dastan had never heard of an Imperial personage with amber eyes, stranger things had happened before.

Soon, the arduous mountain trek left little room for idle thoughts as Dastan’s calves and lungs burned with effort. Twenty minutes in, his tunic was soaked in sweat, the constant upward climb taking its toll on him. Forty minutes in and his dry lips cracked from lack of moisture, sorely regretting having forgotten to pack a water skin. These things were usually done for him, still not in the habit of being a slave. Finally, after an hour of steady jogging, the boss called for a break after the wildcat threw a fit and refused to run any longer.

As the boss poured water for the wildcat and cooed in sympathy, Dastan’s almost cried out in envy. “Is Dastan Zhandos's life,” he thought to say, “of less value than that of a pet?”

“Er, bossman.” Jorani’s voice sounded out over the heavy panting of hundreds of soldiers. “Ye wouldn’t happen to have water fer us, would ye?”

For once, Dastan was grateful for his shameless comrades.

“First rule of soldiering,” The boss hollered with a grin, “Always carry your own water, rations, and weapons. Can’t always trust the higher ups to remember your sorry lives, you gotta look after yourself.” Gesturing up the mountain as he lifted the wildcat onto a wagon, he continued. “I’d hoped you were all smart enough to know this much, but I was magnanimous enough to leave a watering station halfway up, just in case. You want to drink, then keep running. Don't worry, it's 90% determination, just put one foot in front of the other.”

Halfway up? How much longer did he expect them to run for?

Four hours ostensibly, as it took another hour of jogging to reach the ‘watering station’, a crate of empty water skins sat next to a flowing stream. Too thirsty to care about dignity, Dastan stumbled to the bank and fell to his knees, drinking straight from the stream. Gulping mouthfuls of the cool, delicious mountain water, he gasped in satisfaction only to find himself drinking next to a lapping roosequin.

How humiliating.

Trying not to cry, Dastan filled a water skin and tied it to his belt, resting for as long as possible before falling in line with the departing roosequins. Clever little creatures, they weren’t harnessed or tied into their carts, holding them in their clawed hands like furry rickshaw drivers. Dastan still preferred a horse though, the advantage of height and pure mass was too good to pass up. Hell, he’d accept a ride from a steel-quilled porcupine so long as it meant an end to the torturous running but he persevered, knowing this was a part of the boss’s training. Besides, how could he, a soldier and former Warrant Officer, falter before the gangsters and outcasts of Sanshu? Though Dastan Zhandos had fallen far, there was a limit to what he could stomach.

The boss never ordered them to continue running, though he taunted them incessantly. “Is that all the warriors of Sanshu have to offer?” He asked, his hateful sneer filled with disdain. “My nephew runs faster than the lot of you, how pitiful.” Barely even panting, he’d run back and forth along the line, laughing at the stragglers until anger overcame reason. “You want to be soldiers? Prove you’re worth the investment. Know why you’re running? Because quins are worth more than you are. Given a choice, I'd make you carry them up this mountain, not the other way around.”

Despite all his barbs and derision, the boss let no one fall behind, dragging collapsed trainees until they stood back up, bloody and bruised. Almost five hours after they began, they finally reached their destination at the mountain-top training camp. Ignoring his ardent desire to collapse into the dirt and weep, Dastan cooled down with a slow walk around the camp and surveyed the area. The flat plateau boasted various half-built structures and devices, the work of the missing sub-bosses Ravil and Bulat. Far from impressive, there was a single wall in the middle of the field, a series of logs standing upright and half-buried, dirt ramps and tunnels with a scattering of rocks of various sizes, and a multitude of other odd structures he couldn’t begin to fathom. Draining his water skin, he finally felt like a person again after a hot meal and a half-hour of rest, watching as the boss supervised the unloading of the carts.

“Okay,” the boss said, clapping once for attention. “Your performance today was utter shit. A disgrace and waste of my time. Five hours is too long, the day is short. Tomorrow, anyone who takes longer than four hours will be joining the labour force. At the end of the month, three hours. In two months, the time limits drops to two hours.”

Resisting the urge to groan, Dastan asked, “We aren’t staying here for the night?” Running up and down the mountain every day was inhumane, even without further training, but the boss seemed eager to move on.

“Nope. Train high, live low, we’ll be making this journey every day.” Taking a deep breath, the boss asked, “You smell that? Fresh mountain air. Invigorating, isn’t it? It’s thinner up here, makes it better for training. Come now, time's wasting and we have lots to do.”

Desperate to buy more time to rest, Dastan asked, “How so?”

Furrowing his brow, the boss thought about it, seeming not to know the answer himself. “Er... it’s like this. When you inhale, your lungs take in what your body needs and exhales what it doesn’t. The thin mountain air means there’s less of what you need in every breath, forcing your body to work in sub-optimal conditions. If you can draw out your full potential in this poor environment, then once you return to the flat-lands, you’ll be like a tiger given wings. Got it?”

Before Dastan could ask another question, Gerel appeared from the shadows and uttered, “Enough wasting time. Move on.” The bald, amber-eyed warrior glowered without frowning, his neutral expression still somehow conveying displeasure and disapproval.

Unperturbed, the boss nodded. “Now, this training camp is for all you new recruits, but I’ll be splitting you into two groups. Ulfsaar and Dastan, you’re group one and you’ll be with Gerel today.” Dastan cursed his poor luck as the boss continued. “Jorani and Chey, you’re with me. Jorani, Tursinai tells me you’re eager to learn Healing and I’m happy to hear it. I pray you retain your enthusiasm after today.” Pulling out a small, metal tool, he spun it around his finger with a smile. After wracking his brain, Dastan recognized the item as a dentist’s tool, used to extract rotten or dead teeth. Why was the boss carrying that around?

Putting it out of mind, Dastan followed Gerel to another plateau where several Bekhai elites stood waiting. Without any preamble, the dour warrior gestured at the practice weapons. “You lot lucked out today. Arm yourselves and line up,” he said, cracking a humourless smile. “No point talking until we’ve seen what you’re made of.”

Though he’d rather train with the boss, Dastan grudgingly admitted that Gerel was a skilled warrior. Though he’d been defeated by Yo Ling in an instant, at least he survived the encounter, which was more than most could say. The bald warrior defeated his opponents with ease and his critique was on point. With a dull battle-axe in hand, Dastan acclimated to its weight with a series of drills while eagerly awaiting his turn, studying the other instructors as they picked their opponents at random. How many were on the same level as Tursinai and Tenjin? How many crouching tigers and hidden dragons were concealed among these mountains? He was eager to test his mettle against these elites, hoping to-

An inhuman shriek echoed through the mountains and Dastan turned towards the source, ready to dash out to defend the boss, but Gerel barked, “Stand your ground. It’s fine, that’s just Rain teaching his people.” Chuckling, the bald warrior shook his head while effortlessly holding off Ulfsaar’s furious attack, his utter disregard infuriating the one time bandit chieftain. “I told you all didn’t I? You’re the lucky ones, so thank Jorani for volunteering to be first. A few aches and bruises is all you’ll suffer, while the others... Well, you’ll find out soon enough.”

Swallowing his fear and trying to control his trembling body as the chorus of shrieks continued, Dastan prayed to the Mother for all the strength and courage she could spare.

It only seemed fair. He’d need all he could muster and more to survive Her Chosen Son’s training.

Chapter Meme