"When
the glaciers speak and the ice returns to the Black Mountain, the
daughter of destiny shall be born. She will bear the mark of the wolf
and bring unity… or ruin."
Mounted on his horse, which carefully descended a narrow path
blurred by remnants of snow and ice, Askat, chief of the Banuk,
entered the throat of the valley. There, the willows, alders, and
rhododendrons formed living walls that dimmed the passing light. The
air smelled of damp earth and newly awakened roots. Meltwater ran
between the stones, mirroring a blue sky that seemed to watch them
from above.
Winter had been a time of hunting and storing. Spring was the
season in which survival transformed into wealth… or confrontation.
Askat had changed the fate of the Banuk. From simple fur
suppliers for the Tuguluk, he had turned them into intermediaries of
fine fabrics brought by Chinese smugglers who crossed the invisible
borders of the golden mountains. But that progress had a price:
broken loyalties, secret pacts, spies from other clans.
And now he wanted more.
The afternoon was dying in its last lights, and the mountain
seemed to hold its breath. Askat dismounted. His horse remained by
his side like a silent guardian. Then, the cracking of a branch
announced the arrival of another rider. When they met by the river,
Taimur dismounted without saying a word.
The silence between the two leaders was not courtesy, but
distrust.
—I see you're still interested in our deal, said Askat.
—I am, Taimur replied. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have
come.
—You know I’m risking much meeting with you.
—It’s dangerous for me as well.
Taimur had a sharp, fleeting gaze that never allowed anyone
to hold it for too long. It was his way of guarding his thoughts. His
clan, the Tuguluk, had ruled the trade of the southern route for
generations. His authority came from an ancient lineage: riders
buried with their horses, protected by tattoos of wolves and eagles.
The Banuk had been subjects. But that was changing.
—The Chinese traders are still loyal to our
agreements, said Taimur. They won’t break ancestral
treaties for a chief who dreams too high.
Askat clenched his fists.
—Times are changing. The Tuguluk no longer decide alone.
Taimur smiled, but his voice was as cold as the snow on the peaks.
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—A market isn’t conquered with ambition. It’s conquered
with fear.
The words struck Askat like a dagger. Fear. Control. Subdue or be
subdued. As it had always been under the laws of the steppe.
—Then, said Askat, let us speak like chiefs.
Without threats.
Taimur took a step forward.
—Very well. There’s something you must know. A new
merchant has appeared on the eastern border. He belongs to no clan.
He obeys no laws. And he is buying the loyalty of your men.
Askat felt his chest freeze.
—An outsider?
—Not just any outsider, Taimur replied, fixing his gaze
on him. They call him the Man of the White Caravan.
And he brings a message for you.
The wind blew through the trees. The water roared over the rocks.
The valley’s birds fell silent.
—And what message is that? Askat asked.
Taimur answered in a whisper:
—He is looking for you.
The silence between them broke when Taimur lifted his gaze toward
the dark walls of the valley. There, on the great stones marking the
entrance to the gorge, lay the nearly faded remains of ancient
warriors: galloping horses, men with spears, figures wrapped in
flames. They were not simple carvings.
Askat felt the same shiver he had heard the elders describe
countless times.
—They say they’re the spirits that never returned,
murmured Taimur. Those who crossed these mountains seeking
fortune and were claimed by them.
The symbols seemed to shift with the dying light. The lines
representing horses began to stretch as if they were galloping again.
The stone men appeared to turn their heads. The air carried a dry
murmur, like an ancient breath.
Askat then remembered his grandfather’s stories, a Banuk who
claimed to have seen, in the middle of a snowfall, a ghost rider
descending through the valley. A messenger from the other side. A
guardian. A warning.
No one who became lost in the high golden mountains ever returned
the same.
—The Tuguluk believe, Taimur continued,
his tone almost reverent, that the Guardians dwell in these
mountains—spirits who guard the balance between the living and the
dead. And that only those with ancient blood can speak to them.
Askat turned toward him. Though he didn’t show it, he knew that
story. His clan had been born from an ancestral pact with the spirits
of the ice, and it was not uncommon for the old Banuk shamans to
offer sacrifices when the thaw began.
Stone was not just stone. It was a boundary.
A boundary that separated the world of men from the other side,
where time did not flow and where, once the threshold was crossed,
returning was not always possible.
Taimur ran his hand over the rough carved wall, and the echo of
his voice deepened:
—Here begins the territory where not even the dead find
rest.
Askat gripped the hilt of his dagger. The pact with the Chinese
smugglers, the tensions between clans, the fur trade: everything
seemed small in comparison. In comparison to the valley.
It was said that the ancestors spoke through it: in dreams, in
storms, in blood.
—These times were already written, said Taimur, long
before you and I were born.
Askat did not reply. He mounted his horse again and left.
Everything that needed to be said had already been said.
Askat knew that Taimur had crossed an invisible boundary.
He no longer walked with his people.
Taimur thought like the
shamans of the past:
secret alliances were for wolves who had
forgotten their pack.
Both knew the prophecy“When the wolf leaves the
circle, night will follow. And wherever he walks, the clan will
divide.”
