Talgir of the Red Owl

 

In the middle of the sea-broad steppes there lived a young warrior named Talgir of the Red Owl tribe, known for his daring spirit and for his horse, Ashkar, a silver-coated stallion fast enough to outrun an arrow. Talgir’s people lived beneath a mountain called Skiragora, the Mountain of the Eagle. It was a sacred place, its peak often hidden by clouds, and it was said that the mighty bird of Vazendafur the Storm Father kept watch over it.

When Talgir was a boy, his mother had told him that the eagle of Skiragora had once been human—a warrior who had ascended to protect the tribes from any who threatened them. The eagle could see across the plains, into men’s hearts, and even into the future. But no one ever tried to climb Skiragora, for those who set foot on its slopes could arouse the eagle’s wrath. One spring, Talgir’s people suffered a series of disasters. Torrential rains caused floods on the lower plains, washing away their felt tents and drowning livestock. The winds that followed swept through the grasslands, as if Vazendafur had cursed them. 

 

Shaman spoke of ill omens, and some claimed that only the eagle of Skiragora could help them. But it was the youngest shaman, Yara, who told Talgir of her vision. 

“There is an eagle at the peak,” she told him by the fireside one night. “The eagle calls to a rider who is swift and unafraid, to go into the storm and great risk. Will you go to seek the eagle’s wisdom and ask his help?”

For a moment, Talgir hesitated. It was well known that to climb Skiragora was to invite danger, but taking Ashkar, his stallion, and a few days’ supply of food, he set out alone.

 

The journey to the mountain was very hard as winds whipped dark clouds like ill omens across the plains. The closer Talgir came, the more he felt the weight of Skiragora’s spirit, and yet he felt guided on his way. When they reached the foot of the mountain, Talgir tethered Ashkar to a stunted tree and began his climb. The slopes were steep, and the way was hard with jagged stones, but he made progress, driven on by the shaman’s vision. He climbed, muscles aching and heart pounding, until he was surrounded by mist near the peak. At last, he reached some level ground near the top. There, perched upon an outcrop, was an enormous eagle, its feathers as dark as the storm clouds overhead. Its eyes were unblinking, and in their depths, Talgir saw great wisdom.

 

“I seek the guidance of the Storm Father, of the spirit who guards this mountain.”

The eagle spread its vast wings in an ancient gesture and Talgir felt that he could  understand its meaning. The winds rose, but he stood firm, seeing the clouds part just enough to reveal the land below. He could see the felt tents of his people, the flooded plains, and far away, a route leading to safer lands through a narrow valley which was hidden from view by dense woods at ground level.

The eagle let out a sharp cry that echoed across the cliffs - a cry that told Talgir that if his people followed this path, they would be safe. The eagle then lent forward, close to Talgir, and blooded his brow with its beak, a mark that would stay with him till he died. 

Talgir knelt, bowing his head to the great bird before descending the mountain. When he returned to his people, they saw the mark on his brow, listened to his story and then packed their belongings, following the hidden path Talgir had seen from the mountain.

In the following days, the rains ceased, and new pastures and good hunting awaited the tribe on the other side of the hidden valley. The oldest of the shaman gave Talgir a new name, Skirajavok, Eagle Blood, and tales of his bravery were told over and again by campfires  and in the songs of the Red Owl tribe.

Whenever a brave heart approaches Skiragora with a pure and humble spirit, the eagle will appear again, to guide the Red Owl people through the storms, and when the winds whistle over the steppes, the people remember Talgir/Skirajavok, and Ashkar, his silver-coated stallion.

How The Tribes of the Sara Were United

Note - this story is typical of fictionalised episodes of Prefidian history that are found in school books.

 

Far from the mountains and deep forest, where the land stretched wide as the sea, there lived the tribes of the steppe, hunters and pastoralists who roamed across vast plains. Their lives were bound to the rhythms of nature—the grazing of their herds, the migrations of the beasts they hunted, and the storms that swept across the skies. Each tribe had its own chieftain, and the chieftains were guided by a shaman who communed with the spirits of the three realms, embodied as the earth, the wind, and the sky.

 

But above all the spirits and lesser gods, there was Vazendafur, the Storm Father—god of thunder, war, wind and the sky. His storms brought both life-giving rain and the fury of the thunder and lightning, and the tribes believed that he watched their battles, blessing the strong and testing the weak. They believed that what happened above was reflected below, and that the conflict of a storm in the sky was mirrored by a battle on earth, and that Vazendafur was lord of both.

 

Throughout history, the steppe had always been a land of rivalries and alliances. The tribes competed for grazing lands, hunting grounds, and other natural resources. Some tribes were old enemies, maintaining blood feuds and enmity stretching back for centuries. Others were allies bound by marriage, trade, or necessity. But no peace lasted forever - the Storm Father loved battle, and that to honour him, the tribes must prove their strength in battle.

Their was strong rivalry between the Sky Wolf Tribe and the Thunder Hoof Clan. These two tribes, among the largest and strongest of the steppe, had clashed for generations. The Sky Wolf, led by their chieftain Karak, were warriors known for speed and cunning in skimishes, while the Thunder Hoof, led by  Chief Varda, were renowned for their magnificent war horses and ruthless tactics. Both tribes laid claim to a fertile valley where herds thrived and game was plentiful, and they had fought bitterly over it.

 

The two tribes were on the brink of open war once again, when a storm began to gather as the air grew heavy, and the sky darkened. The shaman of both tribes, sensing the Storm Father’s presence, urged their chieftains to consult Him before the bloodshed began.

And so it was that Karak of the Sky Wolf and Varda of the Thunder Hoof agreed to meet at the Cypress Grove, which was neutral ground, each bringing several shaman and a small band of warriors. They gathered there near the shores of the Cormorant Lake, where the shaman said the spirits were closest.

 

The wind whistled over the steppe as the two chieftains stood face to face, their hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Beside them, the shaman— Mura of the Sky Wolf, and Aruk of the Thunder Hoof—began rhythmically beating their drums and chanting, calling upon the Storm Father to send them a sign.

“For too long, our tribes have shed each other’s blood,” Karak said, his voice steady. “The valley cannot belong to both of us. Let Him decide who is strongest.”

Varda, her eyes shining, nodded. “The Storm Father watches, and he will favour the tribe that fights without fear.”

But as the shamans chanted and the storm drew closer, something unexpected happened. The sky split with a massive crack of thunder, and from the heart of the storm came a bolt of lightning, which struck the ground between the two tribes.

 

The shaman fell silent, watching as the ground smouldered where the lightning had struck. And then, in the stillness that followed, a voice came from the wind itself—a deep, rolling voice like distant thunder.

“You call upon me, but you are like little children who do not understand,” the voice said. “I do not favour one tribe over another. Your strength is meaningless if it brings only death and grief. The land you fight over is not yours—it belongs to the earth, the sky, and to those who will come after you. Put aside your weapons.

I have spoken.”

The chieftains and shamans looked at one another in shocked silence. Vazendafur had never spoken so clearly before, and his words shook the core of their beliefs.

 

Mura, the shaman of the Sky Wolf, stepped forward first, her voice soft but firm. “The Storm Father does not want us, his children to fight for this land.”

Aruk, shaman of the Thunder Hoof, nodded slowly. “This conflict is not a test of strength, but of wisdom.”

Karak, half dazed from the lightning strike, looked at Varda and saw her now not as an enemy, but as a fellow leader, burdened by the same responsibility.

“We have fought for generations,” he said quietly. “And what have we gained? This land has been soaked with the blood of war, and now the Storm Father has told us that this killing displeases him.”

Varda, her hand still on her sword, looked up at the dark clouds overhead. The storm was still swirling above and the Storm Father’s presence was heavy in the air. She let out a long breath and then, with a steady hand, drew her sword—not to strike, but to offer it to the ground, a symbol of peace.

“We cannot defy the will of the Storm Father,” Varda said. “If we continue this war, we bring dishonour to our tribes and our ancestors. The valley must be shared.”

 

The shaman of both tribes stepped forward, placing their hands over the smoking ground where the lightning had struck. Together, they chanted again —not of battle, but of unity, calling upon the spirits of the two tribes. The storm began to clear, with thunder fading into the distance. The valley lands were to be divided fairly between the tribes.

 

That moment did not bring an end to all rivalries or end all disputes, but it brought lasting peace to the steppe. The Sky Wolf and Thunder Hoof tribes became allies, and their example spread to other tribes across the plains. No longer would the tribes see war amongst themselves as a way to honour the Storm Father.  Shaman taught the story of the lightning strike to future generations and Vazendafur, once known only as the god of thunder and war, was also remembered as the god who brought peace to the valley.

 

The tribes of the great steppe continued to maintain a delicate balance of independence and  alliances. Whilst each tribe maintained its own traditions, herds, and lands, disputes were settled by the chieftains and alliances negotiated through feasts and marriages. This way of life worked well enough until their fragmented existence left the tribes vulnerable to a greater danger than they had ever faced before .

Word first came to the easternmost tribes as families and clans fled across the plains with tales of a great force advancing through the mountain passes. This was not a raiding party but an army who called themselves the Legions of the Moraghi Emperor, and who sought to claim the steppe and enslave the tribes.

The eastern tribes, caught off guard, were overwhelmed, with villages burned, herds stolen, and captives taken - any survivors who fled westward carried stories of destruction and death. Yet the western tribes, distrustful of these rumours and too complacent to believe such a force could threaten them, initially dismissed the warnings. However, the Moraghi Legions did not stop and within weeks, they had crossed the great rivers, burning settlements and scattering the smaller clans. It was only when the invaders approached the sacred Lake of Storms, desecrating its lakeside shrines, that the steppe peoples began to understand how serious their situation was.

Forced to confront the threat, the chieftains of the tribes agreed to meet. They gathered within the great Cypress Grove, a sacred, neutral site where no blood could be spilled.

The gathering was tense - old rivalries flared as the chieftains debated who should lead the warriors, and whose lands should be defended first - and it seemed that the tribes might fall to infighting even as the legions drew closer.

It was then that a voice rose above the din. Valu-aruku Wolf Tempest of the Sky Wolf tribe, a courageous young warrior who had often shown cunning in leadership - stood upon the stone altar in a cape of wolf pelts and addressed the assembly.

“We are squabbling like vultures over a carcass,” he said, his voice ringing through the Grove. “But the Moraghi Emperor sees no tribes, no differences between us - he sees only prey. If we remain divided amongst ourselves we will die as we have never died before. Together, we can fight and win - singly we will be scattered like leaves before the storm and vanish from the steppe lands.”

 Valu-aruku’s words struck a chord, especially with the younger warriors, who had grown weary of the endless feuds, and after some further debate, the chieftains agreed that the tribes should come together to resist the invaders, and elected Valu-aruku as their war chief.

 

The tribes moved swiftly - scouts were called, herds driven to safety, and great supplies of arrowheads forged in every smithy. The shamanic elders called upon the Storm Father for his help, and eagles were sent to carry messages across the plains.

 Valu-aruku led the tribesmen with a mix of strategy and audacity, knowing that the Legion’s strength lay in its disciplined formations and heavy cavalry, but that the tribes had advantages of speed, mobility, and knowledge of the terrain.

The first great clash came at the Battle of the Black Gorge. Valu-aruku  lured the Horde into the narrow valley, where their cavalry became bogged down in deep mud. Steppe archers on the clifftops rained arrows, boulders and huge tree trunks down upon the trapped soldiers, while swift horsemen harried their panicking ranks. Though the Legions were not defeated, they suffered serious losses, including much of their baggage train, which forced them to retreat and regroup.

Over the following months, Valu-aruku  led a series of ambushes and skirmishes, often feigning retreats to draw the enemy cavalry into carefully prepared traps, and slowly wearing down the invaders. His guerilla tactics and leadership earned him respect from even the most sceptical chieftains, but the tribes knew they could not win through attrition alone.

The decisive moment came at the Storm Plains, where the Legions sought to draw the tribes into a pitched battle - Valu-aruku, whilst understanding the risks, accepted the challenge. On the night before the battle shaman chanted and beat the drums to invoke the Storm Father. The elders used their most powerful amulet, the Eye of the Storm, and soared like eagles above the enemy camp, blowing away their soldiers' tents and drenching them with rain. The Legions got no sleep that night and many of their horses, terrified by the thunder and lightning, broke loose and bolted.

On the morning of the battle, the tribes assembled under a single banner—a black eagle against a silver sky. Valu-aruku addressed the warriors, telling them that the Legions must be totally destroyed so that they would not return the following summer. Shaman rode among the warriors, chanting and invoking the spirits of the ancestors. The tribesmen chanted "Mivasti Sara! Mivasti Sara!", meaning "We are strong, we are strong!"

The Legions meanwhile, confident of their victory despite the event of the previous night, formed their ranks with ruthless efficiency under the barked commands of their officers.

The battle that followed was brutal, as the Legion’s heavily armed soldiers charged through the tribal lines, only to find themselves encircled by horsemen with skull-crushing maces and slashing sabres. Shaman called upon the elements, summoning winds and lightning that blinded the enemy and sent their arrows astray.

Valu-aruku himself led a daring charge against the Legion’s commander, slaying him in single combat and capturing their battle standard, which shattered the Legion’s morale, and caused them to flee in panic. Officers screamed orders which went unheeded and they were shot through with arrows where they stood.

Horsemen pursued the soldiers and cut them down in their thousands - they were hunted right to the edge of the tribal lands and almost none survived to go back to their homeland. The following day, the tribes stood victorious, the steppe free once more as the chanting of shaman and the victory songs of the warriors continued for hours. Many oxen and sheep were killed and roasted over huge fires and much wine was drunk. Funeral pyres were built and lit for the departed heroes of the tribes. The new chant of "Mivisti Sara! Mivisti Sara!", now a mantra of victory, was heard all through the day's celebrations, and ever afterwards. 

Two weeks after the battle, the chieftains met again under the branch canopy of the Cypress Grove. This time, there were no arguments. They proclaimed Valu-aruku as the first Ouaq or Great Khan of the united tribes, also giving their people a new name - the Sara, meaning “strong” in the old tongue. Valu-aruku stood before the warrior horde with a bundle of sticks.

“There is a stick here for each tribe and clan. Who can break this bundle?”

Several warriors tried, but none could do it. Val-aruku then cut the cords which bound the sticks together and called a boy of ten to break the sticks one by one.

“I hope everyone here can see that, like the sticks in this bundle, we are far, far stronger united than single. We are now one - one Sara Nation. There must be no more bickering between us - disputes must now be solved peacefully.”

Under Valu-aruku's leadership, the Sara Nation established a council of elders to mediate disputes, a system of shared grazing rights, and a legal code formed from the best laws of all the tribes. The sacred Cormorant Lake and the Cypress Grove on its banks became a gathering place for festivals and ceremonies as well as a central place of shamanic ritual.

The tribes retained their individual identities - but bound now by their shared  triumph over the Moraghi Empire, the Sara Nation became a force to be reckoned with forever after.

 

The following Spring, a vast quantity of the legion soldiers' skulls, picked clean by eagles and crows, was collected and heaped up in huge piles at the entrances to the mountain passes as a warning to anyone who thought to invade the lands of the Sara. Following the complete loss of his Legions, the Moraghi Emperor never did return to the steppe.

How the Sara and the people of Danfelgor first met

A fictionalised history story for school children

 

Long before the time of Valubani, before the forests were mapped and the highlands were explored, there stood a city called Danfelgor, the City of Silver Walls, named for the way its ramparts gleamed in the light of dawn. The people of Danfelgor were artisans, scholars, and traders. Their city sat at the crossroads of many routes, and to its markets came riches—woven silk, precious metals, and knowledge from faraway places. They lived in harmony with the city where they had lived for generations, believing that the world beyond their walls was untamed, wild, and of little consequence to them.

 

To the east of Danfelgor stretched the great steppe, an endless sea of grass, home to nomadic tribes who wandered with their herds and hunted the beasts of the plains. The people of the city had heard stories of these nomads—wild riders who lived in a spirit world and worshipped the sky and the storm, warriors who lived without walls or cities. But they had never seen them, for the steppe was vast, and the nomads had no wish to come so close to the city’s borders.

 

That changed one summer however, when the herds of the steppe moved farther west than ever before. A long hot drought had dried and burned the grasslands, and the nomads, driven by necessity, pushed closer to the rich lands around Danfelgor. Among these tribes was the Vadeskira, Sky Eagle Clan, led by a chieftain named Balinortavo, Stallion Hill, known for his sharp mind and swift horses. Though his people had always lived far from the reach of cities, the drought had forced them into new territory.

 

One day, as the Sky Eagle people camped near the river Danfel, they saw a sight unlike anything they had known - towering stone walls, shimmering in the morning sun, and beyond them, the smoke from many chimneys rising into the sky. The nomads stared in awe, for they had never seen a city before. Their lives were spent under the open sky, and the idea of people living behind such walls seemed strange and unnatural.

“We should turn back,” said Sarustasro, Cloud Mirror, the clan’s shaman. “The spirits do not wish us to be near such places. The city people are strange—they build their lives out of stone, and they have forgotten the ways of the wind and grass.”

But Balinortavo curious and pragmatic, disagreed. “We do not know these people. Perhaps they have food and water to trade or share. The drought presses us - we have little alternative.”

After some debate, it was decided that Balinortavo would ride to the city with a small group of warriors, to see if a peaceful approach could be made. They rode their horses toward the city, banners of eagle feathers flying in the wind, and as they approached the gates of Danfelgor, they were met with wary eyes from the city guards.

 

The people of Danfelgor had never seen such riders—clad in woolen felt, leather and furs, with bows slung across their backs and an accent that seemed harsh to city ears. The guards, unsure of the nomads’ intentions, sent word to the city’s governor, a council woman named Valira.

Valira, a woman of middle age and great learning, had heard of the nomads but had never expected to meet them. She ordered the gates to be opened and sent a delegation of her advisors to meet Balinortavo and his warriors outside the city walls. She herself went as well,  in the robes of her office, with a gold circlet on her brow.

When Balinortavo and Valira met, there was an initial silence. The city governor and the nomad chieftain studied each other, two leaders from worlds that had never touched before. Around them, the air was thick with tension, as neither side knew what to expect.

 

Finally, Balinortavo spoke, his voice strong but measured. “I am Balinortavo of the Vadeskira. We come not as conquerors, but as travellers, seeking peace and trade. The land has been cruel to us this season, and we have no desire for war.”

Valira’s advisors muttered among themselves, but she silenced them with a raised hand. “I am Valira, City Governor of Danfelgor and I welcome you to our lands. But understand—our people are wary of strangers, and we have heard stories of the steppe riders, stories of raids and violence. Why should we trust you?”

Balinortavo's eyes flashed, but he held his temper. “You know nothing of us,” he said calmly. “We live with the land and upon the land, but the drought has forced us west - we come seeking to trade, not to take. If we wished to raid your city, we would not have come with open hands.”

Valira studied him for a moment longer, then nodded. “You speak with honour, Chieftain Balinortavo. Let us speak further within the city.”

And so, for the first time, the massive gates of Danfelgor opened to the nomads of the steppe.

 

As Balinortavo and his warriors entered the city, they were struck by the strange beauty of it—streets paved with stone, buildings that reached high into the sky, and markets filled with goods they had never imagined. The people of the city, in turn, marvelled at the nomads—their braided hair, their strong horses, and the way they carried themselves as if the wind was their guide.

For the rest of the day, Balinortavo and Valira spoke, negotiating terms of peace and trade. The nomads offered sheep, goats, furs, hides, and their knowledge of the steppe in exchange for food and water, but also metal tools, and the city’s medicine. Though there were misunderstandings—moments when the differences between their ways seemed too great—they slowly began to learn from each other.

 

Late that night, as the negotiations wore on, Balinortavo spoke with Valira alone in her council chambers.

“You have built a wonderful city here,” Balinortavo said, looking out of the high windows. “But I do not understand how your people can live behind walls. Our home, the steppe is open andfree. How can you bear to be confined like this?”

Valira smiled, though there was some sadness in her eyes. “The city gives us security,” she replied. “It allows us to create, to build, to gather knowledge. But it's true that we have lost something as well—the freedom to live in harmony with the land rather than ruling over it.”

They sat in silence for a moment - each beginning to understand the other.

The city and the steppe did not merge into one that night, but a bond was formed that endures to this day.

 

The Tale of the Painted Map

 

Afternoon light filtered through the high windows of Estasea’s Scholars Hall, casting warm light over the stacks of scrolls, books, and other artefacts. Among all these things lay a map - a peculiar, hand-painted map which had surfaced after decades of obscurity. The map, created by a famous explorer of old, showed a region of the world none had seen, thought to lie between the lands of Danfelgor and the northern steppes. The Painted Map had been buried for years in the library of Lord Andel, a scholar who left behind him a hoard of documents, many of great interest to Estasea’s scholars. After his death, the map became part of a larger exhibition of papers from Lord Andel’s collection.

When the map was studied, it became clear that it depicted Bakutalu - somewhere beyond the mountains, a place of myth and mystery. Drawn in bold colours, the map’s rivers, valleys, and woodlands were marked in vivid detail. To the avaricious Valmin, a historian and  adventurer who was able to examine it, the map spoke mainly of wealth and fame. Valmin’s eyes grew wide with a mixture of scholarly interest and naked greed as he examined it and thought of the riches such a land would hold. 

 

Word of the map soon spread beyond Estasea, and reached Vostusiva, a mapmaker who had heard the legends of Bakutalu from her father, who had left her with memories of his travels across the steppes. He had described Bakutalu as a land where mountains rose “like thunderheads” and rivers shimmered in the evenings with “the light of hidden fires.” She’d grown up hearing of this lost land, so she set out for Estasea, hoping to study the map. But she wasn’t the only one who wanted to see it.

The day Vostusiva arrived, the Market Square was busy with traders, and among the crowds was a young woman of the Sky Wolf tribe named Nariva, a scout with great knowledge of the mountain passes and expertise in guiding herdsmen and hunters. Nariva knew of Bakutalu’s existence but her people considered it a sacred land, forbidden to outsiders. She was unhappy at the thought of foreigners entering this land, but she was curious to see the map for herself. She made a circuit around the market and then entered the exhibition at the Library Hall.

 

Vostusiva found her way to the library, finding herself amongst a group of spectators who had gathered for the exhibition. She approached the map, finding its details both beautiful and somehow familiar.

“You’re no explorer, are you?” came a voice from behind Vostusiva. She turned to see a young woman, dressed in the woollen felt and buckskin of the steppes, watching her with keen eyes.

“And you’re no scholar,” Vostusiva replied.

Nariva smiled, crossing her arms. “No. But I know when a place is best left alone.” Her expression was one of distrust. “Why are you so interested?”

“Because my father told me about Bakutalu, and he described it as a land unlike any other,” Vostusiva said. “I’ve come to know the mountains, but this intrigues me.”

Nariva’s face softened slightly as she nodded, but before either could say more, Valmin’s voice rang out.

“Ah, two more admirers!” he said, eyeing them both. “The Painted Map is magnificent, isn’t it? And it’s going to guide me on my next expedition. I’ll need a team of scouts, cartographers, and… well, guides, I suppose.” He said, looking particularly at Nariva.

“Some places aren’t meant to be conquered,” Nariva said sharply, with an undertone of warning.

Valmin laughed. “Oh, I’m not conquering. I’m simply exploring—well, I mean, anyone can explore, can’t they?.”

Vostusiva exchanged a glance with Nariva, as if they had already made up their minds to investigate the map’s secrets on their own. Once Valmin had gone, they arranged to meet that night at the Lobster Pot tavern, where Nariva agreed, with some reluctance, to guide Vostusiva through the mountain passes. She knew that Vostusiva’s father had befriended many of her people in his day, and in the low candlelight of the tavern, they agreed to collaborate. They would go to Bakutalu, explore a little, but leave it undisturbed, and definitely not bring anything back with them.

 

Their journey began by traversing steep ridges and sheer valleys, navigating by landmarks Nariva knew from tribal stories. There were many difficulties to be overcome - ice-clad cliffs, snowblind passes - and the days of hard travelling exhausted them both, but they clung to the memory of the Painted Map.

Then, one afternoon, as they scaled a rocky ridge, Nariva spotted some figures moving swiftly across the trail ahead of them. It was Valmin, along with two armed Estasean mercenaries.

“Do we trust him?” Nariva asked.

“Not at all,” Vostusiva whispered back, drawing her cloak around her as they edged  towards the men. They drew closer, trying not to be seen, but Valmin spotted them. His laughter echoed across the ridge as he taunted them. “Oh, come now! We’re all heading for the same place. Why not join forces? Or are you worried about sharing a bit of glory? Or some of the spoils?”

“It’s not about glory, and there won’t be any spoils,” Vostusiva replied coldly. “ Bakutalu must be left unspoiled.”

“Suit yourselves,” Valmin smirked, moving ahead with his guards.

 

The journey grew harder as they neared the pass that led to Bakutalu, the landscape unfolding like a half-remembered dream. The air seemed to shimmer with strange light. In time, they came to a river—exactly as drawn on the map—which snaked down from the mountains. But as they came to the river’s edge, Nariva’s expression turned grave.

“This is as far as I go,” she said, stopping at the riverbank. “My people say crossing here invites the wrath of spirits.”

Vostusiva hesitated but felt she had to continue. She touched Nariva’s shoulder. “Wait for me here, then. I’ll only be two days”

Leaving Nariva behind, Vostusiva ventured forward, deeper into Bakutalu. She was moved by the land’s beauty, but she had a feeling of trespassing in a place sacred and untouched. Suddenly, on a cliff edge, the figure of a man emerged. 

“So, you couldn’t resist, could you?” he sneered.

“You’re deluded, Valmin - you can’t claim this place or anything which is here. Bakutalu isn’t to be taken by you or anyone.”

He laughed, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword. “And who is going to stop me?”

Out of nowhere, Nariva appeared in front of him - she did not draw any of her weapons but her stare bore into him. “Leave now,” she warned, “or the spirits of this land will deal with you”

Valmin lunged at her, lost his footing, and plummeted headlong off the cliff, crashing into the rocks below. Vostusiva and Nariva stood silent - their breath visible in the cold mountain air - Valmin had made his own fate. Valmin's guards charged at Nariva, but she easily dealt with them. Their bodies also went over the cliff, followed by their heads.

As they turned to leave, Vostusiva paused, gazing back at Bakutalu’s almost mystically beautiful landscape. She would never need to return here —the memory would always be enough. The deaths she had witnessed here couldn't taint the wonder and the unique air of Bakutalu. Returning to Estasea, Vostusiva and Nariva said goodbye, for now at least . Nariva was returning to the steppes and they had an unspoken understanding that Valmin’s death and that of the guards should remain their secret.

 

The Exhibition that had included the Painted Map came to an end, and the Map was returned to storage in the archives of the Scholars Hall. Not long afterwards, however, there was a fire - tragically, before the Map could be copied, it was destroyed. Fortunately, though, not much else of any value was lost.

The Caravan of Shadows

A story from the old days of the frontier, popular in Perfidian schools

 

Meren Vey, a spice merchant in a very modest way of business in Danfelgor, sat in the busy Cargo Tavern, next to the Merchants' Hall, warming himself with a cup of mulled wine. His fortunes, never outstanding, had taken a downturn lately, and he was growing desperate to make some money. A great deal of business was conducted in the Cargo, and he hoped something might come his way. And, after a while, as he stared out of a window a middle-aged man in a grey hooded cloak approached his table.

“Master Vey,” the stranger said in an accented, silky voice, “I represent certain, er, important trading interests in Estasea. We require a reliable merchant to transport a small, valuable cargo across the steppe.”

“What kind of cargo?” Meren asked, his curiosity piqued as he sensed an opportunity.

The stranger pulled out a small, carved ebony box inlaid with silver and ivory. The box had a very robust-looking lock on it. 

“This contains an artifact of some value. You have a reputation as an honest man, and you will be paid handsomely for your discretion and, er, speed. But be aware that the road is liable to be  dangerous, and there are those who would even kill for what this box holds.”

He didn't hesitate - despite the potential danger, Meren needed money so desperately that he felt that he had no choice.

 

A few days later, at the main caravanserai, Meren joined a group of travellers led by Tula Deyar, an experienced steppe guide with a good reputation. The caravan included traders, nomads, and a quiet young woman named Sareen, who claimed to be a healer and kept herself apart from the rest of the travellers. As they journeyed across the open grasslands, Tula warned the group of increasing bandit activity. 

“They’ve grown bolder,” she said. “And they’re led by Kharsek, called Pelikranu Snow Leopard, an outlaw who doesn’t tend to leave witnesses to her crimes. Each one of her gang has a price on her head, so they are bold to the point of being reckless - they don’t think they’ve got anything left to lose.”

Meren felt the weight of the box in his satchel and cast a nervous glance at Sareen, who seemed to be watching him more closely than the others. Near a rocky outcrop, the caravan was ambushed - Kharsek and her outlaws swept in on horseback, wielding sabres and shouting war cries. The caravan fought back fiercely, but it was clear they were outmatched. As Meren crouched behind a wagon, clutching the box, Sareen appeared beside him. “Give me the box,” she demanded.

“What? Why?”

“No time to explain,” she snapped, pulling a dagger from her belt. “Trust me, or you’ll never see Estasea alive.”

Meren handed it over and Sareen made a jinking run into the chaos, moving like a cat. Moments later, there was a searing flash and a massive explosion - smoke engulfed the area of the skirmish and the bandits fled in confusion. When the smoke cleared, Sareen was gone, and so was the box.

 

Determined to recover the artifact—and his reward—Meren convinced Tula to help him track Sareen once they got to Estasea, where they discovered she had sold the box to a wealthy collector in the Grand Market. But when they confronted the collector, they learned that the box was empty. Sareen had cheated both Meren and the bandits.

“She only sold me the box - and she took something far more valuable away with her,” the collector said, handing Meren a note left behind by Sareen. It read:

“The Moonstone belongs to the people it was stolen from. Seek me by the Estasea River at ten bells tomorrow if you wish to understand. I’m sorry for taking it but it wasn’t yours anyway.

Down at the river docks, Meren and Tula found Sareen handing a glowing crystal orb to a group of horsemen dressed in the riding clothes of the steppe. She turned to Meren and explained that it was a sacred totem of their tribe, stolen some years ago by merchants who were now trying to sell it to a family of Estasean nobles. It was clear from the faces of the tribesmen that Meren was not going to be getting the orb back.

“These are people of the Thunder Hoof, as am I  - my real name is Ribabanja  Fox Daughter, and it was my Uncle who had the Moonstone stolen from him. Now it is back with the Thunder Hoof - it has great power in the hands of our high shaman.”

“You betrayed me!” Meren shouted.

“I didn’t betray you,” Sareen replied calmly. “I saved you - morally and literally. If you had delivered the Moonstone, you’d be deeply complicit in the theft. And do you really think that people like these would have kept their word and rewarded you fairly? They used your desperation to further their crimes - most likely they would have killed you once the Moonstone was in their hands”

Meren stared at her, torn between anger and understanding.

“Alright, so you failed them,” Sareen admitted. “But your reputation with a gang of thieves like them doesn’t matter anyway. Do you really think they're going to report you to the City Guard? What matters is what you do now. Do you keep following the same trail - as a failed trader - or do you ride a different horse from now on?”

Meren looked at the Thunder Hoof warriors, seeing their joy and reverence for the orb. He thought of his struggles, his desperation to restore his standing, and the hollow promises of wealth he had clung to. Slowly, he nodded. Ribabanja was right - he needed to make a new life for himself.

“What now then?” he asked.

Sareen smiled faintly. “You know what you must do - you have to start again. Be better than the man you were. We know that you are not to blame. You didn’t know the Moonstone was rightly ours - come and find me if I can ever help you.” 

With that, she jumped up onto her pony and rode off with her clansmen, never to be seen in Estasea or Danfelgor again.

 

Meren returned to Danfelgor knowing and abandoned his life as a spice merchant, eventually becoming a mediator between the legitimate merchants of Estasea and Danfelgor and the tribes of the plains. He brokered deals and supplied goods to the trading posts which he helped set up. He sought out Ribabanja and she helped him form bonds with the steppe folk. The Thunder Hoof elders furnished him with references which stood him in good stead with all the peoples of the steppe.

Not long after the skirmish on the plains, a war party of the Thunder Hoof caught up with Kharsek's bandit gang and hanged every one of them.

The merchants who had stolen the Moonstone threatened to blacklist Meren, but he faced them down, telling them that he would make everything he knew about their illicit dealings public, and even go to the court if they didn’t back down.

It didn't happen overnight, but in time, Meren's work brought stability and increased trade to the frontier and earned him good commissions and respect from those who valued his integrity and contacts with the tribesmen.