Dawn breaks over the encampment near Pezijil, casting a pale light over the sea of tents. The air is crisp, biting at the skin of the men who stir within the camp. They emerge, one by one, into the cold morning, the breath from their lungs visible in the chilly air.
The Tengr Mountains, now behind them, loom in the distance, a reminder of the grueling journey they have endured. The path they have traversed over the past few days has been arduous, a constant uphill battle against nature's might. But what lies ahead presents a different kind of challenge.
Dukar, his face marked by fatigue, sits on a rough-hewn log, tying his worn boots. His fingers are numb from the cold, making the simple task frustratingly difficult. Around him, other drafted men from Tepr go about their morning routines – some tending to their meager belongings, others silently eating their scant rations.
The Moukopl leadership, easily distinguishable in their ornate armor, move through the camp with a sense of superiority. Their eyes, when they fall upon the men from Tepr, hold a mix of disdain and indifference. It is no secret that to them, these men are nothing more than expendable pawns – a buffer against the Yohazatz threat at the Northern Wall.
Whispers and murmurs fill the camp as the Moukopl officers bark orders. “Move out! We march in an hour!” their voices harsh and unyielding. The men from Tepr exchange glances, their expressions a blend of resignation and apprehension.
Dukar, joining a group, overhears snippets of their conversation. “I’ve heard the Yohazatz are fierce warriors,” one man says, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Do we even stand a chance?” another asks, his face lined with worry.
Dukar remains silent, his thoughts a tumultuous sea. Like many others, he knows little about the Yohazatz, only that they are the enemy of the Moukopl. But the prospect of fighting for a leadership that sees him as nothing but cannon fodder weighs heavily on him.
As the hour approaches, the camp stirs into action. Men line up in ragged formations, their armor and weapons a mismatched collection, far from the uniformity of the Moukopl ranks.
A Moukopl officer rides past Dukar's line, his horse snorting in the chill air. “Remember, you fight for the glory of Moukopl,” he shouts, his tone implying the unspoken threat of what disobedience would entail.
The march is relentless, each step a testament to the hardship these men from Tepr endure under the Moukopl’s rule. Among them, some struggle more than others – those who do not speak the Moukopl language find themselves at the mercy of their superiors’ impatience and cruelty.
Dukar, trudging alongside his fellow tribesmen, notices one of the men from Jabliu, a young fellow named Arban, stumbling under the weight of his pack. Arban’s lack of Moukopl language skills has made him an easy target for the soldiers’ derision.
A Moukopl officer, spotting Arban's struggle, strides over, his face twisted in a sneer. With a harsh shove, he knocks Arban to the ground, his pack scattering in the dirt. Arban, unable to voice his protest, braces for the worst.
“Get up, you lazy swine!” the officer barks, kicking dirt onto Arban.
Dukar’s blood boils at the sight. Without thinking, he steps forward, placing himself between the officer and Arban. “He doesn’t understand you,” Dukar says, his voice firm, despite the danger of his defiance.
The officer's eyes narrow into slits, his gaze shifting to Dukar. “And what of it, Tepr dog? Not speaking the language of humans means he’s an animal. And we beat animals who don’t obey, so scram before you get beaten up too!”
Dukar meets the officer's gaze squarely, his jaw set. “He speaks the language of humans, the ones from Tepr. He deserves respect, like any man.”
The officer scoffs, about to retort, when another figure approaches. The newcomer, clad in finer armor, exudes an air of authority. This is Tun Zol Bazhin, a young general known for his disdain towards the Tepr men.
Tun Zol Bazhin surveys the scene, his eyes lingering on Dukar. “What’s the issue here?” he asks in a tone that brooks no argument.
The officer straightens, saluting. “This Tepr swine,” he gestures towards Dukar, “thinks he can tell us how to discipline our own ranks.”
Tun Zol Bazhin turns his attention to Dukar, his expression unreadable. “Is that so? You believe you know better than us, Tepr?”
Dukar stands his ground, though the weight of the general’s gaze is heavy. “No, General. I only seek fairness for my people.”
The general steps closer, his presence imposing. “Fairness? You speak of fairness while marching under our banner, eating our food, using our weapons. You owe us your life, Tepr.”
Dukar’s fists clench at his sides, but he maintains his composure. “We were drafted, not given a choice. We serve because we must, not because we owe.”
A smirk plays on Tun Zol Bazhin’s lips. “Bold words for a conscript. You have spirit, I’ll give you that. Perhaps too much for your own good.” He pauses, his eyes appraising Dukar. “You’ll serve as my squire. I’ve lost mine during the previous campaign. If anyone can teach you your place, it’s me.”
Dukar’s heart sinks at the decree, but he dares not refuse. “As you wish, General.”
The general nods, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “We'll see if we can't temper that arrogance of yours.”
As Tun Zol Bazhin strides away, the officer glares at Dukar before following his superior. Dukar helps Arban to his feet, his mind racing. Serving as the squire to a man who despises his people is a dangerous game, but it might just give him the insight – and opportunity – to protect his fellow Tepr men.
The march continues, but now, under the watchful eyes of Tun Zol Bazhin, Dukar knows that every move he makes will be scrutinized. Yet, within him, a quiet defiance still burns.
The journey to the Northern Wall is an arduous one, and Dukar quickly finds himself caught in the vise of Tun Zol Bazhin’s capricious demands. The young general seems to relish assigning him the most menial and degrading of tasks, from cleaning his armor to serving his meals, all under the guise of ‘squire duties.’ Yet, Dukar's role as a translator becomes a crucial bridge between the Moukopl commanders and the Tepr draftees, his linguistic skills both a burden and a lifeline.
As they finally crest the last rise, the Northern Wall comes into view, stretching across the horizon like a serpent made of stone. Dukar can’t help but stop in his tracks, momentarily awestruck by the sight. The massive structure, with its towering battlements and imposing fortifications, is unlike anything he’s ever seen. It stands as a testament to the might and ambition of the Moukopl empire.
The army merges with another contingent already stationed at the Wall. These soldiers, hailing from the southern reaches of the empire, are markedly different in appearance from both the Moukopl and the Tepr. Their skin is darker, and they carry themselves with a kind of resigned endurance.
As Dukar mingles among them during a brief respite, he listens to their conversations, their words heavy with a thick accent that turns the Moukopl language into something almost unrecognizable. He finds himself straining to understand them, his own fluency in Moukopl suddenly feeling like a native tongue in comparison.
One soldier, noticing Dukar’s Tepr attire, approaches him. His Moukopl is halting, but his message is clear. “We’ve been here since the last harvest,” he says, his eyes distant. “Left our homes, our families. Probably moved on by now. What else would they do?”
Dukar nods, a knot forming in his stomach. These men, too, have been torn from their lives, conscripted into a war that isn’t theirs. They share a bond of forced service, a camaraderie born of shared suffering.
“Do you think we’ll ever go back?” the soldier asks, a hint of desperation in his voice.
Dukar wants to offer reassurance, but the truth is stark and unyielding as the Wall itself. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But we must keep hope.”
The soldier nods, his gaze returning to the towering Wall. They stand together in silence, two men from vastly different worlds, united by a common fate under the Moukopl empire’s banner.
The night falls heavy upon the Northern Wall, casting long, cold shadows across the barracks. Dukar, weary from the day’s toil, is summoned to Tun Zol Bazhin’s quarters. The young general, sitting with an air of authority, flicks a dismissive hand towards a stack of documents.
“Translate these,” he commands, his voice laced with impatience. “And be quick about it.”
Dukar picks up the papers, his fingers tracing over the foreign script. He hesitates, a question burning at the back of his throat. “Why do you despise us so much?” he asks, unable to keep the curiosity from seeping into his voice.
Tun Zol Bazhin’s eyes narrow. “You Tepr are nothing but barbarians. Uncultured, unrefined. You’re lucky to be graced by the civilization of the Moukopl.”
Dukar chuckles, the sound bitter. “And being born within your walls makes you cultured? Refined?” He shakes his head. “You confine yourselves in your empire, yet you know so little of the world beyond.”
Tun Zol Bazhin stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Watch your tongue, squire. You forget your place.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Dukar retorts, his voice rising. “It’s you who fails to see past your own arrogance.”
The air between them crackles with tension, the distance of mere feet feeling like a chasm. Dukar’s words hang in the air, a challenge that cannot be taken back.
Tun Zol Bazhin, his face twisted with rage, lunges towards Dukar. His fist connects with Dukar’s jaw, a sharp crack that echoes in the small room. Dukar stumbles back, pain radiating through his face, but he regains his footing quickly.
With a growl, Dukar launches himself at the general. They collide with the force of years of pent-up frustration, their grunts and the sound of fists meeting flesh the only sounds in the room.
The fight is brutal and unrelenting. Tun Zol Bazhin, trained in the art of combat, lands several blows, but Dukar, fueled by a deep-seated anger and resentment, fights back with a ferocity that surprises even himself.
They knock over furniture, papers fluttering to the floor like wounded birds. Each punch thrown is a manifestation of their clashing beliefs – the Moukopl’s arrogance against the Tepr’s defiance.
Finally, Dukar manages to pin Tun Zol Bazhin against the wall, his forearm pressed against the general’s throat. Their breaths come in ragged gasps, eyes locked in a fierce battle of wills.
“Enough,” Dukar hisses, his voice low and dangerous. “I am not your puppet, and I am not less than you.”
The struggle between Dukar and Tun Zol Bazhin takes a sudden turn as Bazhin, with a display of brute strength, flips Dukar onto the ground. The impact sends a jolt through Dukar's body, the hard floor of the barracks pressing against his back. For a moment, he is stunned, his breath knocked out of him.
As he lies pinned under the general, Dukar's gaze inadvertently focuses on Bazhin’s face, now mere inches from his own. For the first time, he truly observes the man who has been his tormentor and commander. Bazhin's features are strikingly familiar – a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and piercing eyes that mirror Dukar's own. His skin is weathered by the elements, telling tales of battles fought under the harsh sun and through biting winds. A few scars, like silent badges of honor, mark his forehead and cheeks, adding to his intimidating presence.
The most distinguishing feature, however, is the long, single braid that hangs down Bazhin's back. It sways slightly as he leans over Dukar, a symbol of his status and a stark contrast to Dukar’s own untamed hair. Bazhin's physique is more imposing, his shoulders broader, his arms showing the results of years of rigorous military training.
"You're wrong," Bazhin spits out, his breath hot against Dukar's face. "You are my puppet. You are less than me. And for your insolence, you'll spend a week in detention."
Dukar, undeterred even in defeat, retorts through gritted teeth, "Then you'll have to drag me there yourself."
With a grunt, Bazhin stands, seizing Dukar by the ankles. He begins to drag Dukar across the room, his movements rough and unyielding. Dukar's body scrapes against the rough wooden floor, the sensation of every splinter and stone imprinting on his skin.
The journey to the jails is a humiliating one. Dukar, dragged like a sack of grain, tries to keep his head up despite the pain and the indignity of his situation. Soldiers and other drafted men turn their heads, watching the scene unfold with a mix of shock and awe. Whispers and murmurs ripple through the ranks, but no one dares intervene.
Tun Zol Bazhin, his expression a mask of cold fury, doesn't waver in his task. He drags Dukar through the camp, his grip firm and unrelenting. The long braid sways with each step he takes, a stark reminder of the difference in their status.
Dukar, despite the physical discomfort and the blows to his pride, keeps his gaze fixed ahead. His mind races, not with thoughts of regret, but with a burning determination. This humiliation, he vows, will not define him. It will only fuel his resolve to stand up against the tyranny of the Moukopl and to find his place in this world of conflict and power struggles.
As they reach the jails, the heavy door creaks open, and Bazhin tosses Dukar inside with a final act of disdain. The door slams shut, the sound echoing in the small, confined space. Dukar lies there, on the cold, hard floor, his body aching but his spirit unbroken.
“Who is my new visitor?” A hoarse voice echoes.
In the dimly lit confines of the jail, the air is musty, heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and damp stone. Dukar, sprawled on the cold floor, turns towards the source of the voice. The man sitting in the shadows has a rough appearance, his clothes nothing but tattered scraps clinging to his lean frame. His skin is darker than Dukar's, weathered and marked by the sun, and his hair, matted and unkempt, falls around his face in tangled locks.
"I'm Dukar of Jabliu," Dukar replies, his voice echoing slightly in the small cell. "And I'm not a visitor, but it seems I'm your new roommate."
The man chuckles softly, a sound that seems out of place in their grim surroundings. "Tepr... I recognize your language. I am Puripal of Qixi-Lo, fourth son of Qaloron Khan," he introduces himself with a hint of a resigned smile.
Dukar studies Puripal more closely. His face, though dirty, has a noble bearing, with sharp, intelligent eyes that seem to carry a depth of experience and sorrow. His build is wiry but strong, suggesting a life of physical exertion and hardship.
"It's my first time meeting a Yohazatz," Dukar admits, shifting to sit up.
Puripal’s laugh is bitter. "I am but a failure, a man who failed to die when he should have," he says, his eyes reflecting a deep melancholy.
Dukar shifts slightly, his curiosity piqued by Puripal's somber declaration. The dim light of the cell casts shadows across their faces, adding a layer of gravity to their conversation.
"Failed to die? That's a strange way to describe oneself," Dukar remarks, his tone tinged with a mix of intrigue and empathy.
Puripal looks up, his eyes meeting Dukar's. "Don’t you get it, boy? I carry within myself some secrets that my people would have liked to see me die with, rather than rotting in this cell and getting tortured again and again until I reveal them. No clue why I’m sharing that with you anyway. For all I know, you might be sent here to steal them from me."
Dukar nods, understanding the weight of such a fate. "But surely, your survival means something. You're still here, still fighting in your own way."
Puripal's chuckle is devoid of humor. "Surviving isn't always living, Dukar of Jabliu. Sometimes, it's just a prolonged agony, a wait for an end that doesn't come."
Dukar considers this. "I am not a spy, Puripal of Qixi-Lo. I am but a man from Tepr who wishes to see the Moukopl’s downfall. So, please share with me, not your deepest secrets, but an advice. How have the Yohazatz managed to stand against the Moukopl for so long? What's the secret to your resilience?"
Puripal leans back against the cold stone wall, his gaze distant. "Resilience? It's less about strength and more about necessity. The Moukopl see us as nothing but a nuisance, a thorn in their side. Our lands, our people... they want to erase us, make us a mere footnote in their grand narrative."
"The Moukopl’s might is legendary," Dukar admits. "Their empire spans vast lands, and their army is formidable."
"But might isn't everything," Puripal counters. "The Yohazatz have something the Moukopl lack – a deep connection to our land, our traditions. We know every hill, every valley, every secret path. Our warriors fight not just with weapons but with the spirit of our ancestors. We fight for our identity, our existence."
Dukar listens, absorbing every word. "Yohazatz and Tepr might be closer than we think."
Puripal nods, a trace of pride flickering in his eyes. "Yes. But the Moukopl's arrogance is blind. They see only barbarians, not realizing that our spirit is unbreakable. They may win battles, but they will never conquer our hearts.” Puripal's laughter is dry, devoid of mirth. "The mightiest empire? Weak. Corrupt. Their empire stands on brittle foundations, a house of cards waiting to collapse. It's a miracle it still exists."
Dukar frowns, processing his words. "Then why does it still stand?"
"Because," Puripal says, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, "only those who have seen the truth with their own eyes can see the cracks. To the rest, it’s an unassailable fortress. But it's only a matter of time before it implodes."
Dukar sits back, absorbing Puripal’s words. The notion that the mighty Moukopl Empire, the force that seemed invincible and unyielding, could be on the brink of collapse, stirs something within him. It’s a revelation, a shift in perspective.
Puripal’s gaze is distant, lost in thoughts. "We, the Yohazatz, have always known. Our struggle is not just about survival. It's about waiting for the right moment, for the empire to show its true, weakened self."
Dukar nods slowly, a new understanding dawning upon him. The cell, with its cold stone walls, suddenly feels less constricting, as if the conversation has opened a door to possibilities he had never considered.
In the dimly lit cell, the days blend into one another, marked only by the occasional sound of footsteps and distant voices. For Dukar, this involuntary confinement becomes an unexpected respite, a chance to rest his weary body and engage in conversations that open his eyes to new perspectives. His cellmate, Puripal of Qixi-Lo, shares tales of the Yohazatz, their struggles, and their indomitable spirit, filling the hours with stories that resonate deeply with Dukar.
As time passes, Dukar grows accustomed to the jail's routine, finding solace in the simple companionship and the break from the relentless demands of Tun Zol Bazhin. But the peace is short-lived.
One day, the sound of approaching footsteps disrupts their quiet existence. The heavy, measured tread is unmistakable. Dukar’s heart sinks as the door creaks open, revealing the imposing figure of Tun Zol Bazhin. His face is stern, his eyes cold. Despite his silent hopes, the general stands before him, very much alive and unscathed.
Dukar stands, a mix of reluctance and resignation in his movements. He looks at Puripal, offering a nod of farewell. "Thank you for the stories and wisdom, Puripal. I won't forget this."
Puripal, his expression solemn, nods back. "Good luck, Dukar. May the spirits watch over you."
As Dukar steps out of the cell, the light from the outside world momentarily blinds him. He blinks rapidly, trying to adjust. Tun Zol Bazhin stands waiting, his posture rigid with authority.
"Now, back to work.” Bazhin says coldly. “And don't expect any leniency for your time away. All the tasks you've missed have piled up, and you won't see a meal until they're done."
Dukar clenches his jaw, fighting back the surge of anger. The thought of returning to the endless toil under Bazhin's watchful and unforgiving eye fills him with dread. He silently follows the general, each step taking him further away from the brief respite of the jail cell.
Dukar returns to his duties, his hands once again stained with ink and dirt as he toils under General Tun Zol Bazhin's relentless scrutiny. The days blur into a relentless stream of work, leaving Dukar exhausted but resolute, his thoughts often wandering to the stories and wisdom shared by Puripal in the quiet of their cell.
The Northern Wall buzzes with activity as the Moukopl army prepares for an advance through the treacherous Kamoklopr, a vast expanse that serves as the gateway to the Yohazatz territory. Among the soldiers, an undercurrent of unease ripples through the ranks, a mixture of fear and anticipation for the battle ahead.
One day, as Dukar trails behind Tun Zol Bazhin, he notices a gathering that stands out amidst the usual military bustle. A figure, regal and commanding, sits atop a magnificent horse, surrounded by imperial guards who seem almost reluctant to meet his gaze, their eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
The figure’s presence exudes an air of undeniable authority, and his attire, rich and elaborate, sets him apart from the rest. He speaks with a confidence that draws attention, his voice carrying over the murmur of the troops.
Dukar watches, intrigued by this distinguished individual. As he and Bazhin draw nearer, the figure spots the general and waves with a flourish, his voice surprisingly cheerful and feminine. "General Bazhin!"
Tun Zol Bazhin's usual stern demeanor shifts as he approaches. He bows deeply, a gesture of profound respect, addressing the figure in a tone that conveys both reverence and subservience. "Your Highness," he greets, his voice steady yet tinged with a rare hint of deference.
The gathered soldiers whisper among themselves, the name "Your Highness" echoing in hushed tones. Dukar realizes with a jolt that this person is none other than the current heir of the vast Moukopl empire, a revelation that sends a wave of excitement and nervousness through the ranks.
The heir's face is youthful, his features sharp and refined. His eyes, bright and observant, survey the scene with an intelligence that belies his years. His demeanor, though regal, carries an approachable warmth, a stark contrast to the usual sternness of Moukopl nobility.
Dukar observes the exchange with keen interest. The heir engages General Bazhin in conversation, his gestures animated, his laughter light and unguarded. It's a side of Moukopl royalty that Dukar has never witnessed, a blend of grace and approachability that seems almost out of place amidst the rigid hierarchy of the empire.
As the general converses with the heir, Dukar takes the opportunity to study this influential figure more closely. The heir’s attire is adorned with intricate embroidery, the fabric rich in color and texture, indicating both wealth and status. The way he carries himself, with an effortless elegance, speaks of a life spent in the highest echelons of power.
Yet, despite the opulence, there's an underlying strength in his posture, a sense of purpose that resonates with Dukar. It's clear that this heir is more than just a figurehead; he's a leader, one who commands respect not just through birthright but through his own merits.
As the conversation concludes, General Bazhin straightens up, offering a final respectful nod. The heir smiles, then gracefully turns his horse, his guards forming a protective circle around him as he moves through the camp.
Dukar watches the retreating figure, his mind swirling with questions and thoughts. The heir's presence on the Northern Wall, so close to the front lines, signifies something momentous – a shift in the tides of war, perhaps, or a deeper involvement of the empire in the conflict with the Yohazatz. Whatever the reason, Dukar senses that the coming days will bring significant changes, and he can't help but feel a mix of apprehension and curiosity about what lies ahead.
Dawn breaks over the encampment near Pezijil, casting a pale light over the sea of tents. The air is crisp, biting at the skin of the men who stir within the camp. They emerge, one by one, into the cold morning, the breath from their lungs visible in the chilly air.
The Tengr Mountains, now behind them, loom in the distance, a reminder of the grueling journey they have endured. The path they have traversed over the past few days has been arduous, a constant uphill battle against nature's might. But what lies ahead presents a different kind of challenge.
Dukar, his face marked by fatigue, sits on a rough-hewn log, tying his worn boots. His fingers are numb from the cold, making the simple task frustratingly difficult. Around him, other drafted men from Tepr go about their morning routines – some tending to their meager belongings, others silently eating their scant rations.
The Moukopl leadership, easily distinguishable in their ornate armor, move through the camp with a sense of superiority. Their eyes, when they fall upon the men from Tepr, hold a mix of disdain and indifference. It is no secret that to them, these men are nothing more than expendable pawns – a buffer against the Yohazatz threat at the Northern Wall.
Whispers and murmurs fill the camp as the Moukopl officers bark orders. “Move out! We march in an hour!” their voices harsh and unyielding. The men from Tepr exchange glances, their expressions a blend of resignation and apprehension.
Dukar, joining a group, overhears snippets of their conversation. “I’ve heard the Yohazatz are fierce warriors,” one man says, his voice barely above a whisper.
“Do we even stand a chance?” another asks, his face lined with worry.
Dukar remains silent, his thoughts a tumultuous sea. Like many others, he knows little about the Yohazatz, only that they are the enemy of the Moukopl. But the prospect of fighting for a leadership that sees him as nothing but cannon fodder weighs heavily on him.
As the hour approaches, the camp stirs into action. Men line up in ragged formations, their armor and weapons a mismatched collection, far from the uniformity of the Moukopl ranks.
A Moukopl officer rides past Dukar's line, his horse snorting in the chill air. “Remember, you fight for the glory of Moukopl,” he shouts, his tone implying the unspoken threat of what disobedience would entail.
The march is relentless, each step a testament to the hardship these men from Tepr endure under the Moukopl’s rule. Among them, some struggle more than others – those who do not speak the Moukopl language find themselves at the mercy of their superiors’ impatience and cruelty.
Dukar, trudging alongside his fellow tribesmen, notices one of the men from Jabliu, a young fellow named Arban, stumbling under the weight of his pack. Arban’s lack of Moukopl language skills has made him an easy target for the soldiers’ derision.
A Moukopl officer, spotting Arban's struggle, strides over, his face twisted in a sneer. With a harsh shove, he knocks Arban to the ground, his pack scattering in the dirt. Arban, unable to voice his protest, braces for the worst.
“Get up, you lazy swine!” the officer barks, kicking dirt onto Arban.
Dukar’s blood boils at the sight. Without thinking, he steps forward, placing himself between the officer and Arban. “He doesn’t understand you,” Dukar says, his voice firm, despite the danger of his defiance.
The officer's eyes narrow into slits, his gaze shifting to Dukar. “And what of it, Tepr dog? Not speaking the language of humans means he’s an animal. And we beat animals who don’t obey, so scram before you get beaten up too!”
Dukar meets the officer's gaze squarely, his jaw set. “He speaks the language of humans, the ones from Tepr. He deserves respect, like any man.”
The officer scoffs, about to retort, when another figure approaches. The newcomer, clad in finer armor, exudes an air of authority. This is Tun Zol Bazhin, a young general known for his disdain towards the Tepr men.
Tun Zol Bazhin surveys the scene, his eyes lingering on Dukar. “What’s the issue here?” he asks in a tone that brooks no argument.
The officer straightens, saluting. “This Tepr swine,” he gestures towards Dukar, “thinks he can tell us how to discipline our own ranks.”
Tun Zol Bazhin turns his attention to Dukar, his expression unreadable. “Is that so? You believe you know better than us, Tepr?”
Dukar stands his ground, though the weight of the general’s gaze is heavy. “No, General. I only seek fairness for my people.”
The general steps closer, his presence imposing. “Fairness? You speak of fairness while marching under our banner, eating our food, using our weapons. You owe us your life, Tepr.”
Dukar’s fists clench at his sides, but he maintains his composure. “We were drafted, not given a choice. We serve because we must, not because we owe.”
A smirk plays on Tun Zol Bazhin’s lips. “Bold words for a conscript. You have spirit, I’ll give you that. Perhaps too much for your own good.” He pauses, his eyes appraising Dukar. “You’ll serve as my squire. I’ve lost mine during the previous campaign. If anyone can teach you your place, it’s me.”
Dukar’s heart sinks at the decree, but he dares not refuse. “As you wish, General.”
The general nods, a glint of satisfaction in his eyes. “We'll see if we can't temper that arrogance of yours.”
As Tun Zol Bazhin strides away, the officer glares at Dukar before following his superior. Dukar helps Arban to his feet, his mind racing. Serving as the squire to a man who despises his people is a dangerous game, but it might just give him the insight – and opportunity – to protect his fellow Tepr men.
The march continues, but now, under the watchful eyes of Tun Zol Bazhin, Dukar knows that every move he makes will be scrutinized. Yet, within him, a quiet defiance still burns.
The journey to the Northern Wall is an arduous one, and Dukar quickly finds himself caught in the vise of Tun Zol Bazhin’s capricious demands. The young general seems to relish assigning him the most menial and degrading of tasks, from cleaning his armor to serving his meals, all under the guise of ‘squire duties.’ Yet, Dukar's role as a translator becomes a crucial bridge between the Moukopl commanders and the Tepr draftees, his linguistic skills both a burden and a lifeline.
As they finally crest the last rise, the Northern Wall comes into view, stretching across the horizon like a serpent made of stone. Dukar can’t help but stop in his tracks, momentarily awestruck by the sight. The massive structure, with its towering battlements and imposing fortifications, is unlike anything he’s ever seen. It stands as a testament to the might and ambition of the Moukopl empire.
The army merges with another contingent already stationed at the Wall. These soldiers, hailing from the southern reaches of the empire, are markedly different in appearance from both the Moukopl and the Tepr. Their skin is darker, and they carry themselves with a kind of resigned endurance.
As Dukar mingles among them during a brief respite, he listens to their conversations, their words heavy with a thick accent that turns the Moukopl language into something almost unrecognizable. He finds himself straining to understand them, his own fluency in Moukopl suddenly feeling like a native tongue in comparison.
One soldier, noticing Dukar’s Tepr attire, approaches him. His Moukopl is halting, but his message is clear. “We’ve been here since the last harvest,” he says, his eyes distant. “Left our homes, our families. Probably moved on by now. What else would they do?”
Dukar nods, a knot forming in his stomach. These men, too, have been torn from their lives, conscripted into a war that isn’t theirs. They share a bond of forced service, a camaraderie born of shared suffering.
“Do you think we’ll ever go back?” the soldier asks, a hint of desperation in his voice.
Dukar wants to offer reassurance, but the truth is stark and unyielding as the Wall itself. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But we must keep hope.”
The soldier nods, his gaze returning to the towering Wall. They stand together in silence, two men from vastly different worlds, united by a common fate under the Moukopl empire’s banner.
The night falls heavy upon the Northern Wall, casting long, cold shadows across the barracks. Dukar, weary from the day’s toil, is summoned to Tun Zol Bazhin’s quarters. The young general, sitting with an air of authority, flicks a dismissive hand towards a stack of documents.
“Translate these,” he commands, his voice laced with impatience. “And be quick about it.”
Dukar picks up the papers, his fingers tracing over the foreign script. He hesitates, a question burning at the back of his throat. “Why do you despise us so much?” he asks, unable to keep the curiosity from seeping into his voice.
Tun Zol Bazhin’s eyes narrow. “You Tepr are nothing but barbarians. Uncultured, unrefined. You’re lucky to be graced by the civilization of the Moukopl.”
Dukar chuckles, the sound bitter. “And being born within your walls makes you cultured? Refined?” He shakes his head. “You confine yourselves in your empire, yet you know so little of the world beyond.”
Tun Zol Bazhin stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “Watch your tongue, squire. You forget your place.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Dukar retorts, his voice rising. “It’s you who fails to see past your own arrogance.”
The air between them crackles with tension, the distance of mere feet feeling like a chasm. Dukar’s words hang in the air, a challenge that cannot be taken back.
Tun Zol Bazhin, his face twisted with rage, lunges towards Dukar. His fist connects with Dukar’s jaw, a sharp crack that echoes in the small room. Dukar stumbles back, pain radiating through his face, but he regains his footing quickly.
With a growl, Dukar launches himself at the general. They collide with the force of years of pent-up frustration, their grunts and the sound of fists meeting flesh the only sounds in the room.
The fight is brutal and unrelenting. Tun Zol Bazhin, trained in the art of combat, lands several blows, but Dukar, fueled by a deep-seated anger and resentment, fights back with a ferocity that surprises even himself.
They knock over furniture, papers fluttering to the floor like wounded birds. Each punch thrown is a manifestation of their clashing beliefs – the Moukopl’s arrogance against the Tepr’s defiance.
Finally, Dukar manages to pin Tun Zol Bazhin against the wall, his forearm pressed against the general’s throat. Their breaths come in ragged gasps, eyes locked in a fierce battle of wills.
“Enough,” Dukar hisses, his voice low and dangerous. “I am not your puppet, and I am not less than you.”
The struggle between Dukar and Tun Zol Bazhin takes a sudden turn as Bazhin, with a display of brute strength, flips Dukar onto the ground. The impact sends a jolt through Dukar's body, the hard floor of the barracks pressing against his back. For a moment, he is stunned, his breath knocked out of him.
As he lies pinned under the general, Dukar's gaze inadvertently focuses on Bazhin’s face, now mere inches from his own. For the first time, he truly observes the man who has been his tormentor and commander. Bazhin's features are strikingly familiar – a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and piercing eyes that mirror Dukar's own. His skin is weathered by the elements, telling tales of battles fought under the harsh sun and through biting winds. A few scars, like silent badges of honor, mark his forehead and cheeks, adding to his intimidating presence.
The most distinguishing feature, however, is the long, single braid that hangs down Bazhin's back. It sways slightly as he leans over Dukar, a symbol of his status and a stark contrast to Dukar’s own untamed hair. Bazhin's physique is more imposing, his shoulders broader, his arms showing the results of years of rigorous military training.
"You're wrong," Bazhin spits out, his breath hot against Dukar's face. "You are my puppet. You are less than me. And for your insolence, you'll spend a week in detention."
Dukar, undeterred even in defeat, retorts through gritted teeth, "Then you'll have to drag me there yourself."
With a grunt, Bazhin stands, seizing Dukar by the ankles. He begins to drag Dukar across the room, his movements rough and unyielding. Dukar's body scrapes against the rough wooden floor, the sensation of every splinter and stone imprinting on his skin.
The journey to the jails is a humiliating one. Dukar, dragged like a sack of grain, tries to keep his head up despite the pain and the indignity of his situation. Soldiers and other drafted men turn their heads, watching the scene unfold with a mix of shock and awe. Whispers and murmurs ripple through the ranks, but no one dares intervene.
Tun Zol Bazhin, his expression a mask of cold fury, doesn't waver in his task. He drags Dukar through the camp, his grip firm and unrelenting. The long braid sways with each step he takes, a stark reminder of the difference in their status.
Dukar, despite the physical discomfort and the blows to his pride, keeps his gaze fixed ahead. His mind races, not with thoughts of regret, but with a burning determination. This humiliation, he vows, will not define him. It will only fuel his resolve to stand up against the tyranny of the Moukopl and to find his place in this world of conflict and power struggles.
As they reach the jails, the heavy door creaks open, and Bazhin tosses Dukar inside with a final act of disdain. The door slams shut, the sound echoing in the small, confined space. Dukar lies there, on the cold, hard floor, his body aching but his spirit unbroken.
“Who is my new visitor?” A hoarse voice echoes.
In the dimly lit confines of the jail, the air is musty, heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and damp stone. Dukar, sprawled on the cold floor, turns towards the source of the voice. The man sitting in the shadows has a rough appearance, his clothes nothing but tattered scraps clinging to his lean frame. His skin is darker than Dukar's, weathered and marked by the sun, and his hair, matted and unkempt, falls around his face in tangled locks.
"I'm Dukar of Jabliu," Dukar replies, his voice echoing slightly in the small cell. "And I'm not a visitor, but it seems I'm your new roommate."
The man chuckles softly, a sound that seems out of place in their grim surroundings. "Tepr... I recognize your language. I am Puripal of Qixi-Lo, fourth son of Qaloron Khan," he introduces himself with a hint of a resigned smile.
Dukar studies Puripal more closely. His face, though dirty, has a noble bearing, with sharp, intelligent eyes that seem to carry a depth of experience and sorrow. His build is wiry but strong, suggesting a life of physical exertion and hardship.
"It's my first time meeting a Yohazatz," Dukar admits, shifting to sit up.
Puripal’s laugh is bitter. "I am but a failure, a man who failed to die when he should have," he says, his eyes reflecting a deep melancholy.
Dukar shifts slightly, his curiosity piqued by Puripal's somber declaration. The dim light of the cell casts shadows across their faces, adding a layer of gravity to their conversation.
"Failed to die? That's a strange way to describe oneself," Dukar remarks, his tone tinged with a mix of intrigue and empathy.
Puripal looks up, his eyes meeting Dukar's. "Don’t you get it, boy? I carry within myself some secrets that my people would have liked to see me die with, rather than rotting in this cell and getting tortured again and again until I reveal them. No clue why I’m sharing that with you anyway. For all I know, you might be sent here to steal them from me."
Dukar nods, understanding the weight of such a fate. "But surely, your survival means something. You're still here, still fighting in your own way."
Puripal's chuckle is devoid of humor. "Surviving isn't always living, Dukar of Jabliu. Sometimes, it's just a prolonged agony, a wait for an end that doesn't come."
Dukar considers this. "I am not a spy, Puripal of Qixi-Lo. I am but a man from Tepr who wishes to see the Moukopl’s downfall. So, please share with me, not your deepest secrets, but an advice. How have the Yohazatz managed to stand against the Moukopl for so long? What's the secret to your resilience?"
Puripal leans back against the cold stone wall, his gaze distant. "Resilience? It's less about strength and more about necessity. The Moukopl see us as nothing but a nuisance, a thorn in their side. Our lands, our people... they want to erase us, make us a mere footnote in their grand narrative."
"The Moukopl’s might is legendary," Dukar admits. "Their empire spans vast lands, and their army is formidable."
"But might isn't everything," Puripal counters. "The Yohazatz have something the Moukopl lack – a deep connection to our land, our traditions. We know every hill, every valley, every secret path. Our warriors fight not just with weapons but with the spirit of our ancestors. We fight for our identity, our existence."
Dukar listens, absorbing every word. "Yohazatz and Tepr might be closer than we think."
Puripal nods, a trace of pride flickering in his eyes. "Yes. But the Moukopl's arrogance is blind. They see only barbarians, not realizing that our spirit is unbreakable. They may win battles, but they will never conquer our hearts.” Puripal's laughter is dry, devoid of mirth. "The mightiest empire? Weak. Corrupt. Their empire stands on brittle foundations, a house of cards waiting to collapse. It's a miracle it still exists."
Dukar frowns, processing his words. "Then why does it still stand?"
"Because," Puripal says, leaning closer, his voice dropping to a whisper, "only those who have seen the truth with their own eyes can see the cracks. To the rest, it’s an unassailable fortress. But it's only a matter of time before it implodes."
Dukar sits back, absorbing Puripal’s words. The notion that the mighty Moukopl Empire, the force that seemed invincible and unyielding, could be on the brink of collapse, stirs something within him. It’s a revelation, a shift in perspective.
Puripal’s gaze is distant, lost in thoughts. "We, the Yohazatz, have always known. Our struggle is not just about survival. It's about waiting for the right moment, for the empire to show its true, weakened self."
Dukar nods slowly, a new understanding dawning upon him. The cell, with its cold stone walls, suddenly feels less constricting, as if the conversation has opened a door to possibilities he had never considered.
In the dimly lit cell, the days blend into one another, marked only by the occasional sound of footsteps and distant voices. For Dukar, this involuntary confinement becomes an unexpected respite, a chance to rest his weary body and engage in conversations that open his eyes to new perspectives. His cellmate, Puripal of Qixi-Lo, shares tales of the Yohazatz, their struggles, and their indomitable spirit, filling the hours with stories that resonate deeply with Dukar.
As time passes, Dukar grows accustomed to the jail's routine, finding solace in the simple companionship and the break from the relentless demands of Tun Zol Bazhin. But the peace is short-lived.
One day, the sound of approaching footsteps disrupts their quiet existence. The heavy, measured tread is unmistakable. Dukar’s heart sinks as the door creaks open, revealing the imposing figure of Tun Zol Bazhin. His face is stern, his eyes cold. Despite his silent hopes, the general stands before him, very much alive and unscathed.
Dukar stands, a mix of reluctance and resignation in his movements. He looks at Puripal, offering a nod of farewell. "Thank you for the stories and wisdom, Puripal. I won't forget this."
Puripal, his expression solemn, nods back. "Good luck, Dukar. May the spirits watch over you."
As Dukar steps out of the cell, the light from the outside world momentarily blinds him. He blinks rapidly, trying to adjust. Tun Zol Bazhin stands waiting, his posture rigid with authority.
"Now, back to work.” Bazhin says coldly. “And don't expect any leniency for your time away. All the tasks you've missed have piled up, and you won't see a meal until they're done."
Dukar clenches his jaw, fighting back the surge of anger. The thought of returning to the endless toil under Bazhin's watchful and unforgiving eye fills him with dread. He silently follows the general, each step taking him further away from the brief respite of the jail cell.
Dukar returns to his duties, his hands once again stained with ink and dirt as he toils under General Tun Zol Bazhin's relentless scrutiny. The days blur into a relentless stream of work, leaving Dukar exhausted but resolute, his thoughts often wandering to the stories and wisdom shared by Puripal in the quiet of their cell.
The Northern Wall buzzes with activity as the Moukopl army prepares for an advance through the treacherous Kamoklopr, a vast expanse that serves as the gateway to the Yohazatz territory. Among the soldiers, an undercurrent of unease ripples through the ranks, a mixture of fear and anticipation for the battle ahead.
One day, as Dukar trails behind Tun Zol Bazhin, he notices a gathering that stands out amidst the usual military bustle. A figure, regal and commanding, sits atop a magnificent horse, surrounded by imperial guards who seem almost reluctant to meet his gaze, their eyes fixed firmly on the ground.
The figure’s presence exudes an air of undeniable authority, and his attire, rich and elaborate, sets him apart from the rest. He speaks with a confidence that draws attention, his voice carrying over the murmur of the troops.
Dukar watches, intrigued by this distinguished individual. As he and Bazhin draw nearer, the figure spots the general and waves with a flourish, his voice surprisingly cheerful and feminine. "General Bazhin!"
Tun Zol Bazhin's usual stern demeanor shifts as he approaches. He bows deeply, a gesture of profound respect, addressing the figure in a tone that conveys both reverence and subservience. "Your Highness," he greets, his voice steady yet tinged with a rare hint of deference.
The gathered soldiers whisper among themselves, the name "Your Highness" echoing in hushed tones. Dukar realizes with a jolt that this person is none other than the current heir of the vast Moukopl empire, a revelation that sends a wave of excitement and nervousness through the ranks.
The heir's face is youthful, his features sharp and refined. His eyes, bright and observant, survey the scene with an intelligence that belies his years. His demeanor, though regal, carries an approachable warmth, a stark contrast to the usual sternness of Moukopl nobility.
Dukar observes the exchange with keen interest. The heir engages General Bazhin in conversation, his gestures animated, his laughter light and unguarded. It's a side of Moukopl royalty that Dukar has never witnessed, a blend of grace and approachability that seems almost out of place amidst the rigid hierarchy of the empire.
As the general converses with the heir, Dukar takes the opportunity to study this influential figure more closely. The heir’s attire is adorned with intricate embroidery, the fabric rich in color and texture, indicating both wealth and status. The way he carries himself, with an effortless elegance, speaks of a life spent in the highest echelons of power.
Yet, despite the opulence, there's an underlying strength in his posture, a sense of purpose that resonates with Dukar. It's clear that this heir is more than just a figurehead; he's a leader, one who commands respect not just through birthright but through his own merits.
As the conversation concludes, General Bazhin straightens up, offering a final respectful nod. The heir smiles, then gracefully turns his horse, his guards forming a protective circle around him as he moves through the camp.
Dukar watches the retreating figure, his mind swirling with questions and thoughts. The heir's presence on the Northern Wall, so close to the front lines, signifies something momentous – a shift in the tides of war, perhaps, or a deeper involvement of the empire in the conflict with the Yohazatz. Whatever the reason, Dukar senses that the coming days will bring significant changes, and he can't help but feel a mix of apprehension and curiosity about what lies ahead.
