1237 AD -- Mongolia

Arghun rode across the sea of grass, heading west at a leisurely pace. Behind him came his 
string of ponies, eight in all. He doubted that he would need more, even to take him all the way to 
the lands of the weak foreigners. No sense in risking his entire fortune, he assured himself for the 
hundredth time. By Mongol standards, Arghun was reasonably prosperous for a soldier, but he 
didn't maintain his standing by foolishly wasting his ponies. No, he would leave some behind for 
his wife, and to guard against disaster.

Not that he cared much for his wife's future. If he died in the strange lands to the west, she would 
be on her own anyway. In fact, he wouldn't put it past her to ride off with the first good-looking 
young man who came along. Arghun was almost positive that she was disappointed every time he 
came back from a battle. He grunted a little to himself and lowered his head against the stiffening 
breeze. It wasn't cold yet, but Arghun felt sure it would be, and soon. The wind and his people, 
they were as inseparable as ponies and grass.

For the hundredth time, he berated himself for not joining the warriors headed west last year. He 
was always a little bit late, not believing that these wars were as big -- or as profitable -- as they 
always turned out to be. Who could imagine that these soft foreigners would have so many 
things? And though these pale, pathetic fighters to the west were poor compared to the decadent 
Chinese, they still had a lot of wealth just lying around. Fools. If they were real men at all, they 
could defend their ponies, but no. Arghun had seen the map once, and heard all the stories. The 
far off land of Muscovy would belong to the Mongols, the same as the rest. The Mongols would 
overrun these *women* far easier than his father's generation had the Chinese.

Arghun sighed and scratched himself nostalgically. Those were the days! If only he had been old 
enough... but he had been only 12 when Genghis had died, not quite old enough to go from 
guarding the herds to fighting in foreign lands. Arghun strongly resented the whims of the gods 
that had denied him the glories of his people by such a few short years. And now, here we was, 
almost too old, and the best enemies the Mongols could find were these pathetic excuses for 
horsemen to the west. Ah, well. The greatest days of the Mongols might be past, but there was 
still loot and blood enough for any man.

Smiling a little in his mustaches, Arghun revised his gloomy opinions. He glanced at the others 
riding near him out of the corners of his eyes ("Watch the eyes," his father had often said, "the 
eyes give away the mind.") and reckoned that he wasn't too old yet, not by a bit. He didn't see any 
man that he guessed could beat him. Of course, most of the best fighters had departed last year, 
but still. If these were the competition for glory and wealth, Arghun would soon be made a general.

He was averaged sized and of average build for his people, but Arghun knew that 22 winters had 
not yet robbed him of his wits or his quickness. And it had hardened him, as it did everyone who 
survived this land. He was tough, even by Mongol standards, and his many scars attested to the 
fact that he was willing to suffer pain and injury to kill his foes. None of his few friends dared to call 
*him* a coward when he declined to ride out last year; they knew it was not fear that kept him in 
the grass.

Arghun frowned now as he rode. Why *had* he hesitated last year when all his friends and 
cousins had left to join the fighting? He quickly shook his head, trying to throw off the 
uncomfortable thoughts. That was problem with this place. Too much time. If a man wasn't 
careful, he could end up spending too much time thinking. A man could go mad.

Just concentrate on the fighting to come, he told himself. A warmth deep down inside spread 
through his belly. The Mongols were the greatest fighters in the world, the kings of the world. Soon 
the pitiful Muscovites would learn all about it.

……….

1231 AD -- Mongolia

The young nomad sat on the ground, methodically preparing arrows. With slow deliberation he 
crafted each one. Arghun knew that he was not the most accomplished fletcher, and so he 
devoted his full attention to the task, not rushing. On the other side of the small fire a woman 
paced back and forth, her arms crossed in front of her. "I don't understand why you have to go." 
She sniffed expressively.

Arghun looked up at his wife through furrowed brows. "Yes, you do."

"You're still so young, just starting out..."

"Would you rob me of honor, of glory?" Arghun didn't appreciate the reminder that he'd only 
reached the age of manhood the previous summer. The war with the Chin, which had been raging 
for the last two decades, was his golden opportunity to win wealth and renown.

"Glory." Her tone clearly indicated what Jelma thought of *that* notion. "What you want is riches. 
You can't fool me, Arghun."

"Shut up." Arghun growled at her. Until this last month, his tone and harsh words would have been 
enough to being her into line. But not anymore; Jelma was not content to be the meek wife any 
longer.

"Shut up yourself! I know you! Big hero? Fah! You'll never be a khan, or a darkhan, you're fooling 
yourself. There's so little high-born blood in your veins, you could bleed to death and not fill a cup."

"That doesn't matter. Genghis himself elevated common herdsmen to the command of regiments. 
It's what a man does that counts. And I'm as much a Mongol as any man alive."

"'What a man does'!" She sneered at him. "And what have you done? Nothing!"

"Why do you think I am going to fight, you stupid woman!"

"Don't call me stupid, you smelly goat! I know what you want! You've heard of the rich plunder in 
the south, and you've been able to think of nothing else. Admit it! You want filthy money, and 
those filthier foreign women, don't you?! You think I don't know what you want, you filthy goat!"

Arghun rose to his feet abruptly, and suddenly Jelma was afraid she'd gone too far. His eyes 
flashed and his fingers twitched, and she was glad that the fire lay between them. He turned and 
stalked away, and she breathed a sigh of relief, never realizing that she still breathed only 
because his bow was unstrung.

He finished his preparations in silence, avoiding her. Some men parted from their wives and 
families with tears and kisses, but no, not him! He had to have a shrew. What were his parents 
thinking? The whole year that he and Jelma had been married had been fine, wonderful even. 
Arghun had considered himself a lucky man. Luck, hah! But once he had to ride off to war, she 
became... unspeakably nasty. He was glad to go. If she thought she could come between him and 
his destiny, she had another thing coming!

Jelma stayed away from her young husband and fretted. She didn't mean to pick at him like that, 
but she couldn't help herself. She had heard the men talking, talking about the young and 
beautiful women that they would bring home from the south. And she knew, just knew that if 
Arghun came home with a girl, the decadent Chinese tramp would become pregnant instantly. If 
only Jelma had managed to catch before he left... it wasn't fair! If a second wife became pregnant 
before her, Arghun would place her above Jelma. How could he do otherwise?

Jelma had a cousin who once whispered that sometimes the man was to blame for a lack of 
children, but that no man would believe this. They would bring home wife after wife, trying to have 
sons. Not that she could *do* anything about it; the Yasa was quite specific -- the penalty for 
adultery was death. Jelma shuddered. She would rather keep her head, even if there had been 
another man to tempt her away from Arghun. If she could not bear his children...

Jelma wept bitter, fearful tears.

……….

1238 -- Near Moscow

Arghun arrived in the camp which was a bustle of well-ordered activity. Though the peoples they 
conquered might call the Mongols barbarians, they knew nothing of the efficiency of the Mongol 
war machine. Arghun could only nod in approval of what he saw. There was a clear difference 
between a well-led force and one that had poor generals. Subotai was everything his reputation 
made him out to be, if the orderliness was any indication.

Though the cagey old general was in charge of this tuman (the Center), the overall command 
rested with Batu, son of the eldest son of Genghis Khan. Arghun had heard nothing but good 
things about both leaders as he past through the pickets to the camp of the tuman. They were 
both reported to be clever, strong, and successful. What more could a soldier ask for?

It took only a single question for Arghun to find his way to the felt-walled yurt where enlistments 
were taken. The corporal in front sat with a Chinese and a Turk. His scribe and his quartermaster, 
Arghun surmised.
The paper and ink in front of the Chinese seemed to bear out his belief.

"Here to enlist." Arghun grunted. He didn't much like Turks, and Chinese even less, but they 
certainly knew how to handle their scrolls and scribbles.

"Name, and previous service." The corporal was already bored, though Arghun was among the 
first of the new arrivals.

"Arghun. Served against the Chin for 3 years."

"What happened? You desert?" The corporal looked scarcely more interested than before.

"Of course not!" Arghun snapped. He didn't ride all this way to be accused of this crap! "I was 
mustered out of the Center, after we secured the western flank. Too many of us for the damn 
Chin to feed. Besides, someone needed to take back all the booty." If the comment bothered the 
Chinese scribe, he gave no indication.

"Why didn't you enlist when the army set out?"

"Is the part of your cursed system? Do I have to answer all these stupid questions?"

"Yes. You do." The corporal gave Arghun a level look, warning him not to lose his temper.

"I had business. Personal business. Anyone calls me a coward, dies." Arghun felt the hot metallic 
taste in his mouth

The corporal nodded. The word of one Mongol to another was almost always good. Foreigners 
might be a different matter, but to call a Mongol a liar was an invitation to a blood-letting. "Fine. 
You're going with the first Thousand. Mustering on the eastern side of the camp." He pointed. 
"Better get moving; we don't do a lot of sitting around here."

Arghun nodded. That was how he liked it. He glanced at the Chinese, who also nodded, indicating 
that he had all the information that he needed. Arghun picked up his gear and stalked off, his bow-
legged gait indicating to anyone who could see his silhouette that he belonged here (though in fact 
the army was largely Turkic).

Arghun quickly discovered that the corporal had not exaggerated; his Thousand was leaving at 
first light. By midday, they expected to be well on the road to their target: Moscow.

For days, all Arghun had heard was the list of cities and towns that had been sacked before he 
had arrived. This list of accomplishments, and the description of the booty already sent to the rear. 
He was fuming. Maybe it was good natured bragging and razzing, and maybe it wasn't. Though no 
one had the balls to say so, they clearly thought he came along only because of the loot. They 
questioned his manhood, if indirectly. As if he was a pup of 14 winters again! He would show 
them!

The siege engines had only been in action a few minutes when the first breach in the walls was 
made. For a large operation, the Mongols would have used prisoners or foreigners in the first 
wave to soak up arrows from the defenders, but they were in a hurry this time. Most of the 
Russians were off being cut to pieces by Subotai and Batu, so they should have no problem with 
this town. So when the breach opened, Arghun spurred his pony forward viciously. There was 
nothing between him and the hole, and nothing beyond but a few weak defenders and then a 
whole town for the taking.

The few arrows that arced up were of no consequence. If one, or many, hit him, they would hit 
him. And if he died, he died. That was the way war went, and Arghun had no illusions of 
immortality, but neither did he have a fear of death.

The arrow that struck him in the chest pierced his light leather armor and knocked him from his 
horse. He briefly tried to curl into a ball; no rider would stop for him, so his best bet was to avoid 
being run over. But his body betrayed him, failing to move. He opened his mouth, but no sound 
would come forth. *If only I had trained as a lancer, the heavier armor might have blocked that 
arrow....* The world went dark.

But concerning their manners and superstitions, of the disposition and stature of their bodies, of 
their country and manner of fighting etc., he protested the particulars following to be true: namely, 
that they were above all men, covetous, hasty, deceitful, and merciless: notwithstanding, by 
reason of the rigor and extremity of punishments to be inflicted upon them by their superiors, they 
are restrained from brawlings, and from mutual strife and contention. The ancient founders and 
fathers of their tribes, they call by the name of gods, and at certain set times the do celebrate 
solemn feasts unto them, many of them being particular, & but four only general. They think that 
all things are created for themselves alone. They esteem it none offence to exercise cruelty 
against rebels. They are hardy and strong in the breast, lean and pale-faced, rough and hug-
shouldered, having flat and short noses, long and sharp chins, their upper jaws are low and 
declining, their teeth long and thin, their eye-brows extending from their foreheads down to their 
noses, their eyes inconstand and black, their countenances writhen and terrible, their extreme 
joints strong with bones and sinews, having thick and great thighs, and short legs, and yet being 
equal unto us in stature: for that length which is wanting in their legs, is supplied in the upper parts 
of their bodies. Their country in old time was a land utterly desert and waste, situated far beyond 
Chaldea, from whence they have expelled lions, bears, & such like tintarned beasts, with their 
bows, and other engines. Of the hides of beasts being tanned, they use to shape for themselves 
light but yet impenetrable armor. They ride fast bound 'unto their horses, which are not very great 
in stature, but exceedingly strong, and maintained with little provender. They used to fight 
constantly and valiantly with javelins, maces, battle-axes, and swords. But specially they are 
excellent archers, and cunning warriors with their bows. Their backs are slightly armed, that they 
may not flee. They withdraw not themselves from the combat till they see the chief standard of 
their General give back. Vanquished, they ask no favor, and -vanquishing, they show no 
compassion. They all persist in their purpose of subduing the whole world under their own 
subjection, as if . they were but one man, and yet they are more than millions in number. They 
have 60000. Couriers, who being sent before upon light horses to prepare a place for the army to 
encamp in, will in the space of one night gallop three days journey. And suddenly diffusing 
themselves over an whole province, and surprising all the people thereof unarmed, unprovided, 
dispersed, they make such horrible slaughters, that the king or prince of the land invaded, cannot 
find people sufficient to wage battle against them, and to withstand them They delude all people 
and princes of regions in time of peace, pretending that for a cause, which indeed is no cause. 
Sometimes they say, that they will make a voyage to Colen, to fetch home the three wise kings 
into their own country; sometimes to punish the avarice and pride of the Romans, who oppressed 
them in times past; sometimes to conquer barbarous and Northern nations; sometimes to 
moderate the fury of the Germans with their own meek mildness; sometimes to learn warlike feats 
and stratagems of the French; sometimes for the finding out of fertile ground to suffice their huge 
multitudes; sometimes again in derision they say that they intend to go on pilgrimage to S. James 
of Galicia. In regard of which sleights and collusions certain undiscreet governors concluding a 
league with them, have granted them free passage through their territories, which leagues 
notwithstanding being violate, were an occasion of ruin and destruction unto the governors &c.

	-Russian writer, speaking of the Tartars (Mongols), circa 1243 A.D.


Evaluations of Chingis and his accomplishments tend toward the extremes. For some historians 
he is the noble savage, the illiterate skyworshipper whose inspired leadership, flawless judgments 
of human character, and military genius catapulted the obscure Mongols to the height of world 
power. For others he is a monumental gangster whose bloodthirsty cruelty and indifference to 
human life mobilized the barbarian Mongols for a worldwide rampage of death and destruction. 
Both images derive from uncritical reading of the medieval sources. The demigod emerges from 
the pages of the so-called Secret History of the Mongols. Though the origin and often the meaning 
of this text are obscure, it has the virtue of expressing the Mongol point of view. Critics of Chingis 
have relied on chronicles written in the sedentary civilizations overrun by the Mongols, in particular 
China, Persia, and Russia. These sources attribute the excesses of Mongol conquest to innate 
depravity. Obviously neither of these views can be taken at face value. Empire building is an 
invariably destructive process, unwelcome to the conquered.

-From "Russia and the Golden Horde: Mongol Impact on Medieval Russian History", by 
Charles J. Halperin


"If the great, the military leaders and the leaders of the many descendants of the ruler who will be 
born in the future, should not adhere strictly to the Yasa, then the power of the state will be 
shattered and come to an end, no matter how they then seek Chingis Khan, they shall not find 
him."

-Chingis Khan

……….

Moscow, Russia

1238 A.D.

…..


Heavier armor would definitely have been nice.

Charging at the enemy with reckless abandon is characteristic of Mongol assaults -- it is what has 
made your people feared from Nan Ling to Novgorod. It is devastating to the enemy when 
Mongolian lancers crash into them, but you weren't a lancer, and that arrow went right through 
your leather vest.

Your immediate concern was not being trampled by the men who followed after you, but in mere 
moments, you became oblivious to the thundering of the ponies' hooves. The arrow must have 
struck deeper than you thought…


The most annoying thing about dying is that you swear you can hear Jelma's scornful voice 
mocking you: "Glory, hah! All you were thinking about was getting first share of the loot, you 
greedy son of goat…."


The second most annoying thing about dying is that you wake up. Because whether you believe 
as the Buddhists do, or the Mohammedans or the Christians, or follow the ancient, simpler ways 
of your ancestors, as Chinghis himself reputedly did, you're pretty sure that after being killed in 
battle, you're not supposed to wake up, curled up on the cold, hard ground as if you just decided 
to lie down and take a nap in the middle of the battle.


You could have been knocked out, of course. A blow to the head could do that, and if you can 
convince the leader of your Thousand that you took a heavy blow to the skull, you _might_ avoid 
actual charges of cowardice, though there will be no avoiding the laughter of your comrades for 
sleeping through the siege of Moscow. And of course, no portion of the spoils…

No, you were hit in the chest with an arrow, you're sure of it. That could also have been 
responsible for a loss of consciousness….

Except now the arrow is lying on the ground next to you. There is still a hole in your leather vest, 
just above your heart. But when you stick fingers through the hole, you feel no wound in your 
chest. There is blood, cold and sticky, almost frozen. For that matter, the side of your head that 
was lying on the ground feels numb. You'll be lucky not to lose your ears to frostbite; though 
there's been no snow yet, it's easily cold enough for it.

Raising your head, you see that it's dark. Your Thousand charged into the breach created by the 
siege engines just before sunset. Now, you see several breaches in the walls, and fires burning 
brightly above Moscow's skyline. You also see trains of horses already proceeding in and out of 
the city, entering with bare backs and exiting laden with loot or captives. You hear screaming, as 
the conquered Muscovites who aren't useful are tortured to death for sport, while the breeding-age 
women are hauled off as war trophies. Craftsmen and others with valuable skills will be herded 
away separately, and sent to wherever Subotai decides to send them.

That was a short siege. Moscow fell as quickly as your commander predicted. And you missed out 
on it. More importantly, you're alive when you should not be, and you're going to have some 
explaining to do….

<><><><><>

Arghun starts upright, falls once, then finally staggers to his feet. The cold and stiffness in his 
joints makes movement quite difficult at first, but he quickly gets the blood flowing again. Frostbite 
will be especially annoying, since he fully expects to be harassed about that too. He can almost 
hear them now "And Argun lost an ear in those warm western lands! He'll have to live in a house 
from now on!" Idiots.

Memory strikes him suddenly, and he looks around hastily for his bow. The light from the distant 
fires is poor illumination to search by, but Arghun doesn't want to leave it until tomorrow. He'll 
have enough problems making up for this disaster without being forced to request another bow 
from the stores.

And then he must walk to the city, another indignity!

Stupid people, stupid city. All they had managed to was buy themselves 5 days, and make Arghun 
look like a fool. Not a big challenge, Jelma would probably say. Her voice is still ringing in his ears, 
and (not for the first time!) he regrets not bringing home a Jurchen wife when he had the chance. 
Maybe that would shut her up.

Arghun trudges on a little faster. His domestic problems can wait; he needs to find his commander 
and report. Maybe he'd be lucky and someone would have seen him take the fall, so there 
wouldn't be any smell of cowardice. Oh yes, Arghun's luck has been reliable... reliably horrible!

The notion of reporting to the medical tent crosses his mind and is quickly discarded. He is not 
hurt, and seeking an excuse *does* smell of cowardice.

If only he can make it in and find his unit before someone important notices him skulking in so 
late.

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

You find your bow lying only a few feet away. As you trudge towards the city, your ears quickly 
warm up, and touching them with your fingertips reveals normal sensations, so that's the second 
bit of luck. You're cold, but haven't taken any cold-weather injuries, at least.


Moscow is a small town, but it was a fairly rich one. You can see the Turks and Chinese who 
outnumber Mongols in this Tuman gathering horseloads of loot. There are plenty of bodies in the 
street, and here and there are still even scattered pockets of resistance.

You catch sight of a vaguely familiar looking face, someone who was in your Thousand. He is 
leading a trio of captured horses after his own pony. Following him, you see where your Thousand 
has set up camp just inside one of the breach-points of the city's walls. It looks as if they are 
taking only easily-portable goods, meaning they may be mobilizing again sooner than the rest of 
the army.

<><><><><>

No frostbite, bow intact. Maybe he wasn't being punished, Arghun thinks to himself.

As he surveys the standard looting, he can only shake his head at the foolishness of these people. 
Resisting only brought them pain. After what the army did in Kolomna in the aftermath of the 
death of Kolgen Khan, the rest of these people should have learned. Apparently the Rus aren't 
very bright.

Arghun pauses, torn. He can just join in the looting, perhaps help with some last pocket of 
resistance to try to earn his share. The place looks rich enough. But his duty is clear: he must 
seek out his Ten and report to the arban commander. Still, he hesitates for long moments.

In the end, discipline wins out over other impulses. Maybe he can still earn a share somehow, 
after he reports.

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

You approach the Thousand. No one recognizes you at first -- you were a new addition. Eventually 
you see a knot of officers, including your arban commander, talking over something around a fire.

You don't have to decide whether to approach or stand there like an idiot waiting for them to break 
up, fortunately. They grunt some sort of general agreement and disperse, and as the commander 
of your Ten turns away, he spots you, frowns, and stalks over immediately. "You!" he snaps. 
"Arghun, right? I've been missing you, I assumed you fell outside the walls. What the hell do you 
think you're doing slinking in now?"

<><><><><>

Arghun ducks his head momentarily; he knows he deserves the rebuke. "Arrow knocked me 
down. I must have hit my head." The words sound lame in his own ears, and he hastens on.

"I'll do whatever it takes to make it up to the Ten. I humbly ask for some task or assignment, to 
allow me prove of some use." Arghun mentally curses the fate that puts him in this awkward 
position, forcing him into the role of penitent before he ever managed to prove himself to his 
comrades.

        -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The commander scowls, looking at your bloody vest. "Some use besides stopping arrows, you 
mean?" he comments acerbically.

"Very well....we're not staying here. Subotai wants a Hundred riding out tomorrow, to burn every 
village between here and Vladimir. *You* will go to every man in our Ten and make sure he's fully 
stocked with arrows, provisions and weapons. If anyone's short anything, you fetch it, and if 
anyone's saddle needs mending or blades need sharpening, yoo do it."

It's a lowly task, suitable for a woman or a boy. You'll be dogged mercilessly by the rest of the 
Ten, and can look forward to weeks of "I need my knife sharpened" cracks. But he could have 
come up with something even more humiliating, if he wanted to be creative, or simply charged you 
with desertion.

"The next time we ride, I'd better see you up front, first one at the enemy, understand?"

<><><><><>

Arghun grinds his teeth audibly as he nods his understanding. To be assigned a task fit for a 
slave! But it is probably no more than he deserved, and the commander is well within his rights.

Without another word, Arghun turns to fulfill the order; he is a soldier. He makes a mental note 
that if *he* is ever given command of a Ten, he will not assign humiliating tasks to the members of 
his unit. It is not the tactic of a good leader, Arghun thinks.

He immediately heads off in search of the commissary, to draw the supplies. Maybe if he seems 
to be simply helping out, the others will not suspect his lowly assignment. Or at least keep their 
mouths shut. Hah, fat chance of that! But it was worth a shot, and taking a large amount of 
supplies and arrows with him, Arghun proceeds to seek out the rest of the Ten.

At least the opportunity to gain a bit of loot might present itself, unless they travel too quickly. 
Sometimes the raiding parties are forbidden to loot, in order to create maximum speed. *That 
would be just my luck.*

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

You get the necessary supplies from stores without too many embarrassing questions, but 
naturally, your comrades demand to know why you're fetching arrows for them, and there's not 
much way to avoid explaining, however terse your explanation. Soon the story of your fall outside 
the walls is circulating, and the ribbing starts.

You're going to have to do something really notable at the earliest opportunity, to avoid being 
stuck with the nickname "Arghun the Soft-Headed."



The next morning, your Ten and nine others forms up outside. Subotai himself addresses your 
group, informing you that the bulk of the army will be following you shortly, with the town of 
Vladimir as its next destination. Your task is to scout the path and remove anything that could give 
the Russians a garrison or a supply site with which to harrass the Center between Moscow and 
Vladimir. Spread terror, crush local resistance, let stories of your ferocity reach Vladimir ahead of 
you so that maybe they'll capitulate more easily than the Muscovites did, etc.

To your delight, he does not explicitly ban looting before he walks away. Not that many villages will 
have much in the way of wealth, but there should be something. This Hundred will probably collect 
everything of even remote value, and burn the rest -- food stores may be hidden so that the 
Center can use them, and so that they are denied to the Russians.


Amidst all this preparation, you feel an uneasiness in your bones. Something has been not quite 
right since you first woke up on the ground outside the walls. It's nothing you can see or hear or 
taste or touch, but something about the world feels differently than it did before. Not being a 
particularly superstitious sort, you'd not have given credence to such odd "feelings" before, but 
you can't shake it.

<><><><><>

No doubt about it, Arghun realizes. He must have struck his head quite hard. There's really no 
other explanation for the strange way the world looked. Under other circumstances he might have 
spoken to his comrades, but for now he knows that this would be madness. The insults would be 
nonstop! It is all he can do to avoid attacking them as it is; he has no intention of giving them more 
ammunition!

The words of Subotai burn themselves into his brain. Subotai the Bahadur was knighted by 
Genghis in the time of his grandfather. Arghun has heard many, many stories around the fire of 
the skill and cunning of this man. To be commanded by the man who was Genghis' right hand, his 
shield and weapon, is an enormous honor. Batu Khan may be in command, but all the men know 
whose plan they follow.

Burning villages and slaughtering peasants is an uninteresting business; no challenge to it at all. 
But the usefulness is undeniable. Remove an enemy's ability to make war, and he cannot offer 
resistance worth mentioning.

And who knows? An opportunity to make up for Moscow might yet present itself. Arghun 
appreciates that thought perhaps even more than the slim chance of making up for the booty he 
lost on the cold ground.

As they rode out, Arghun peers intently at everything they pass. In part he is doing his best to be 
an attentive scout, but he is also concerned that the blow to his head might have affected his 
vision in some subtle way. He knows a sharp blow can induce dizziness, and perhaps this is the 
same thing. He also takes a moment to study his arrows, checking them for the mayhem to come, 
but again also thoroughly examining his eyesight.

      -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The Hundred rides east. By Mongol standards, it is a small force, but when your ponies appear on 
the horizon, you strike fear into the hearts of the Russians -- even if they don't yet know about 
Batu's incursion, they have heard tales of the expeditionary force that made a destructive circuit of 
Russia years ago.

Sensibly, most villagers flee when they see you coming. There are always some slow or stubborn 
ones who remain behind. Idiot peasants with farm implements are quickly dispatched. A few 
riders set out after the fleeing villagers, using them for target practice, and the rest of you collect 
everything of value (which isn't much), and set their huts on fire. One of the Tens amuses itself by 
herding surviving villagers into the huts before setting them on fire, and then shooting those who 
try to force their way out, screaming and on fire. The commander of the Hundred finally tells them 
to stop wasting time and arrows, and then walks over to the horse of one rider, who captured a 
peasant girl and tied her across his saddle. He pulls out his saber and hacks through the girl's 
neck. "What if everyone decided to take a woman with him?" he berates the foolish warrior. "We'd 
never get to Vladimir before the rest of the Center!"

Having admonished the group for early excesses, the Hundred sacks two more villages with much 
greater expediency that day, and then makes camp for the night in the ruins of a third. This time, 
the men are allowed to keep the women alive until the next morning, though there are only five, 
none of them very good looking.

Vladimir is about a hundred miles from Moscow, and you're expected to reach it the day after 
tomorrow. So far, looting has been disappointing -- Russia attracted the interest of the Great Khan 
for its wealth, but all that wealth seems to be in its cities.



As the fires start to burn low, the chattering of warriors and occasional cries from the women are 
drowned out by a wolf howl, very close by. The warriors pause, then laugh, and someone throws a 
hunk of meat out into the darkness. "Wolves are good omens!" he says.

Several dark shapes can be seen moving on the perimeter of the camp...and well within the circle 
of sentries surrounding it. Unusual for wolves to walk past armed men like that. One of them 
snatches up the offering with a savage growl, and they all retreat further back into the darkness.

<><><><><>

It is always exhilarating to drive the pathetic land bound peasants like frightened deer. No 
challenge in wiping out any of them foolish enough to offer resistance, but they would certainly try 
to defend Vladimir. Then the real fun would begin. Genghis Khan certainly had the right of it, when 
he described what was best in life!

Arghun feels a small measure of satisfaction when the Hundred commander disposes of the 
captive. The soldier was certainly foolish! Of course, Arghun's position doesn't allow him room to 
so much as mutter when one of his comrades act foolishly, but that will change. He also carefully 
reminds himself not to get caught up in any distractions along the way (though there was hardly 
enough loot for any chance of that!) since they had an important task. Speed was of the essence; 
that is the backbone of the whole campaign.

The wealth of Russia certainly seems to be in the cities. Of course, the Great Khan certainly knew 
that. Or else he desires the steppes for additional pastureland. And Batu is certainly interested in 
extending his own domain, which these new conquests will fall under, as Arghun understands it. 
Motives and actions of the commanders are a frequent topic of conversation and speculation 
around the fire. As long as the troops obeyed, the commanders probably didn't care, Arghun 
guesses.

Arghun nods and scratches his mustaches over the comment that night that wolves are a good 
omen. Still, a good omen isn't necessarily something that one wants to sleep with, either. "Don't 
get eaten by the wolves!" He calls out good-naturedly to the sentries. He can't help but glance to 
where the horses are -- no nomad wants to see the herd spooked by wolves!

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The horses are a little skittery, but several guards are near them, watching the wolves, with bows 
out. The predators slink back into the darkness, but not before something brushes against your 
senses and makes the hair stand up on the back of your neck.


After that, you find it frustratingly difficult to fall asleep. You toss and turn, until you wonder if it 
wouldn't be just as well to volunteer to relieve one of the sentries, since you apparently won't be 
sleeping tonight. And then something hits you -- a feeling like you've never experienced before, 
like fire running from the top of your head to the soles of your feet. The shock works its way 
through your body and then seems to settle at the base of your spine and send electrical impulses 
shooting up to the base of your skull. It is not a natural sensation, but, you are sure, some kind of 
sorcery that's been put on you.

<><><><><>

The wolves, maybe it is all connected to the wolves somehow? No, this is definitely sorcery, some 
sort of spell that's being cast on him. Damn the Rus anyway; who knew that they had magic? 
Arghun sits up abruptly and looks around, panic rising within him. What can a man do about an 
evil spell?

His comrades would laugh, or perhaps even kill him to remove the evil spell from their midst. But 
wait! The army always travelled with shamans; they could certainly help! Arghun jumps to his feet, 
prepared to rush to the ger of the shamans. But as he looks around the small camp, he 
remembers that this is an advance force. The shamans are with the main army! He curses his 
luck, then curses the Rus again -- their evil sorcerers had undoubtedly planned it this way, striking 
at the exposed van.

Arghun grabs his weapons and moves away from the others; he doesn't want the evil magic to 
come upon them as well. Perhaps if he can get away, he can fight off the spell. And if he is 
possessed by some foul spirit, it will be harder for it to any damage to his comrades is he is not in 
the middle of their sleeping forms.

Still, he doesn't want to alarm the others, who are unlikely to be able to do more than put him out 
of his misery anyway. So he makes his way deliberately, albeit unsteadily, away from the camp. 
He does not take a horse. As he makes his way, he wonders if the wolves will get him -- that 
would be a sign to please any shaman!

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

Most of the sentries ignore you, assuming you are just going beyond the circle of the camp to 
relieve yourself. One calls out "Don't get eaten by the wolves!" Maybe he recognized you in the 
darkness.


You don't see or hear any wolves right away, but you continue to feel the evil magic working on 
you. Then, as you stagger far enough away that the campfire is just a distant bright point, 
suddenly you hear growls, and there are wolves all around you, coming out of nowhere.

And a harsh chuckling sound, which was definitely not made by a wolf.

"Brave little one, aren't you?" calls a voice from the darkness, speaking Mongolian with an accent 
you can't identify.

<><><><><>

Under other circumstances Arghun may have laughed at the jest. Under other circumstances he 
may have thrown the joker to the ground. But this time, he ignores him completely.

Arghun clutches his head, almost staggering as he desperately tries to think of some way to fight 
off an evil spirit. The coming of the wolves is a welcome sight. At least they are something real, 
and they are the ancestral spirits.

But he has no intention to get eaten. As the wolves circle in, he sets down his bow -- the light is 
completely inadequate for shooting. He picks up his sword and studies the darkness, blinking 
mightily to get his eyes to adjust, trying hard to focus past the magic in his head.

The voice from the darkness startles Arghun. The strange accent makes his hackles rise, and he 
bares his blade.

"Who's little? Who the hell are you?" Suddenly a possibility suggests himself, and he snarls as 
peers in the direction of the voice. "Are you the Rus sorcerer??"

      -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The voice laughs. "You are, little one," he repeats mockingly.

The wolves circle you, growling low and deep. And the mysterious stranger laughs even harder at 
your second question.

"Rus? Not I! Perhaps you were expecting someone else....?"

<><><><><>

Between the wolves and evil spell, Arghun is definitely unhappy. But the taunting voice gives him 
something to take out his anger on, and -- as an average sized Mongol -- Arghun doesn't 
appreciate being called "little." Now if only he can *see* the author of his troubles.

"I thought you a Rus, from the cowardly way you hide in the darkness and work your foul magics! 
Are you afraid to show yourself, sorcerer!?"

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

"Challenges come easily, to the ignorant," the voice answers back. "If I was a sorceror, would you 
not be dead already? Have you ever met a sorceror before?"

The voice comes from a slightly different direction, as if the speaker is circling around as he talks.

"I am not afraid to show myself, but neither am I obliged. You are a blustering ignorant fool. Why 
did you leave your campsite, little man? The wolves are my brothers, but I don't recognize you."

His speech is a bit formal and a bit quaint. He speaks Mongolian well, but obviously not as his 
native tongue. He used a plural "you", to indicate not just you but your tribe, possibly even your 
people.

<><><><><>

Arghun concentrates less on following the sound of the voice, and more on trying to see in the 
darkness. How he'd dearly love to put an arrow through that arrogant mouth!

"If you could kill us with your powers, you would have already done so, sorcerer!" The strange 
speech patterns of the voice make Arghun think of formal meetings between clans, but he is too 
angry to be polite.

"I came out here to drive your evil spell from my head, one way or another! I'm surprised the 
children of our ancestors let you call them 'brothers'; they usually have more sense than that!" 
Arghun snaps his retorts into the darkness, his only thought to lure the stranger close enough to 
deal with. He has forgotten his comrades, not so far away, and calling for help doesn't enter his 
mind.

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

"Your ancestors..." the voice chuckles.

"I doubt you have any idea who your ancestors were."

Then he doesn't speak for a while, and the wolves back off a little. Maybe he has disappeared into 
the darkness?


"Is this the first time you have felt this....spell?" he says at last.

<><><><><>

"I know very well who my ancestors were!" Arghun seethes inside at this insult against his 
legitimacy. The long pause and the silence is a mixed blessing; the voice isn't harassing him (and 
maybe the spell will pass), but neither will he have a chance to kill this sorcerer.

>> "Is this the first time you have felt this....spell?" he says at last. <<

"Of course! We don't allow sorcerers to roam *our* lands, casting spells on people! But your spell 
isn't working, sorcerer, because I'm still standing!" The last is a bluff, and Arghun knows it. He 
hasn't the slightest clue what the spell is supposed to do, but he's more than angry enough to 
bluster a bit. He grinds his teeth in frustration at his inability to see -- and kill -- his foe.

        -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The stranger laughs again. "You wouldn't know a sorcerer if he was standing next to you!"

"And you're a young fool, and I'm not about to go to the lengths it would take to beat some 
enlightenment into your skull. You may live or die as the gods will. If you are lucky, we may meet 
again, and perhaps then you will speak with more wisdom."

"I will give you one piece of advice, which is more than I ever got. The next time you feel this spell, 
take care that you do not lose your head."



The wolves recede into the darkness, and then you hear the other man's voice calling from much 
further away, "Remember, young fool, don't lose your head!"

The supernatural sensation fades, leaving you alone in the night.

<><><><><>

'Don't lose your head', indeed! Can the fellow be any more insulting?! Arghun shakes with anger, 
but the spell seems to be fading. He has resisted the evil spell!

But Arghun's fury is not so easily satisfied, and he stabs his sword into the earth and seizes his 
bow. Though there is no chance of success, his pride does not allow him the luxury of sense or 
logic. Arghun looses an arrow into the darkness in the last direction of the voice. He fits another 
arrow to the string, and almost fires it too, but the futility and foolishness of such an action 
overcomes him.

He stands for a long minute, simply trembling with equal parts relief and impotent rage. When 
there is no reappearance of the strange man, he places the arrow back in his quiver and returns 
his sword to its scabbard. What a night!

And what will he tell the others? Arghun hesitates another long minute or two, trying to decide if he 
will be taken for a fool or a madman if he tells his comrades what happened. Finally he calculates 
that he will never be believed. Perhaps when the army is regrouped, he can talk to a shaman, but 
for now it will be best to keep his mouth shut.

Arghun returns to the camp, and his bed. Sleep is an elusive companion this night, as Arghun 
replays the strange encounter over and over again in his mind. Now that his anger is gone, he 
knows somehow that he is fortunate to have come through this encounter with the supernatural 
unscathed. Tomorrow there is work to do, and Vladimir still lies ahead.

In the back of his mind, just as he finally falls asleep, a small part of him wonders if he *did* come 
through it unscathed.

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

You do not feel any more sorcery that night, and the wolf howls remain distant. The next morning, 
your Hundred rides out and continues its marauding path to Vladimir.


You reach the small town two days later, as planned. It's smaller than Russia, but it has strong 
walls. The commander has you ride in circles around the town for a couple of hours, slaughtering 
all the peasants caught outside the walls and butchering the livestock. The Russians were pretty 
quick to retreat behind the walls, so they must have heard tales of Mongol ferocity. Once they 
begin firing arrows at you, the Hundred pulls back.... a Hundred isn't enough to take the town, so 
you will wait outside and out of range until the rest of the Center arrives. In the meantime, you will 
patrol the countryside and continue destroying everything of value while making sure no 
reinforcements sneak up unawares (not that any are likely to arrive -- Russians almost never 
come to one another's aid).

So far, you haven't managed to acquire much in the way of loot.

<><><><><>

The lack of wealth disturbs Arghun. Weren't these western lands supposed to be rich in plunder? 
But there will be plunder when the city falls, of course. Arghun is determined to earn his share, this 
time.

He strives to be first and best in everything, riding tirelessly to the extreme edges of the killing 
zone around the city whenever the need arises. He helps chase down the irritatingly elusive 
whenever they manage to flee. While the slaughter en route was a useful tool, the Mongols take 
the killing around a victim city much more seriously. Nothing will be left of any use to the enemy.

Idly, as he rides back and forth, Arghun wonders if this city will surrender. He doubts it; there 
seems to be some stupidity in the character of the Rus that impels them to resist and thus be 
destroyed. Not-so secretly, Arghun hopes that they do not surrender. He has a great deal of 
frustration to work out, and the inhabitants of Vladimir are perfect for the job.

Things are looking much brighter from Arghun's point of view. The rest of the Center will arrive, 
and he can talk to the shamans about his strange experience (or maybe it was just a bad dream 
and he'll forget the whole thing). Argun feels good, but he's not exactly sure why: loot is in the 
offing, and these Russian winters are fairly nice, so far (compared to the Homeland). Perhaps the 
good weather has given him extra energy.

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

Vladimir looks like it will put up a tough fight for such a small town. Your comrades harry the 
surrounding countryside for several days, and now and then ride close enough to the walls to 
shout insults and loose arrows at them. They fire back, and one man is actually wounded by a 
lucky shot from a Russian archer.

The commander of your Ten says "They may have crossbows... so don't get cocky, no sense 
getting knocked off your horse by a whim of fate when there's nothing really to gain by it. But stay 
alert.... they might decide we're all there is, and sally out to engage us."


They don't, though, and on the fourth day after your arrival, there is the sound of thousands of 
thundering hooves from the west. A cloud of dust on the horizon gives rise to dismay from the 
walled up townspeople, as the rest of the Center rides in.

<><><><><>

In a way, it is a pity that the city-folk do not sally forth. They could have then been lured into the 
jaws of the army, and the time necessary for a siege could have been saved. But the Mongols 
aren't above working for their conquests, especially since the main force has probably collected a 
decent body of slaves by now to do the dirty work.

The arrival of the Center cheers Arghun and the rest of the Hundred. He doesn't mind operating 
on their own, but the rest of the army means that things will get going. And the sooner they get the 
siege engines set up, the sooner the fighting will start, the sooner the town will fall, the sooner the 
loot will flow.

Operations against the city means Arghun will have to put off his visit to the shamans, which 
doesn't disappoint him at all. By the time he has an opportunity, his resolve to investigate the 
supernatural events might have fled entirely. It was a strange night, but perhaps he just got some 
bad kumiss.

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

When the Center arrays itself before the small town, you know the inhabitants must be trembling. 
Why will they not surrender? No doubt they have heard of the atrocities committed against 
Russian cities that resisted them in the past -- of course they also do not have any knowledge of 
the more merciful fate that might await those who submit to Mongol domination. The Mongols are 
still a storm sweeping unexpectedly across the steppes, and the foolish Russians may believe 
they can simply weather it out.


You are not a lancer, and you have had no training in operating the mighty siege engines of the 
Center, so for you and the rest of your Ten, the initial bombardment is mostly a matter of riding 
around the city and sending arrows arcing high over the walls. The likelihood that they will hit 
anyone is low, but it keeps the Russians' heads down. Meanwhile, the siege engines are 
beginning to hurl stones and massive arrows at the walls.

This continues for an hour, until your entire Hundred begins moving closer, anticipating a breach 
soon. But the Russians seem to have posted the bulk of their archers just on the side you are 
facing, as luck would have it. After a premature run at the walls, firing arrows to scatter them 
before parting so the siege engines can enlarge the breach that's beginning to form there, you are 
forced to retreat under heavy return fire. And one arrow comes sailing down from above and 
catches you in the neck. Your leather neckband saves you, so the point only gouges you a little 
before it falls away, but it was a near thing. Your fingers come away bloody when you feel where 
the arrow hit.

The commander of your Ten yells at you "Quit playing with yourself and get back into formation, 
Arghun!" You've been taking this abuse ever since you left Moscow. He hasn't been unreasonably 
harsh, but the sniggering of your comrades and the commander's low regard for you is evident -- if 
you don't manage to acquit yourself well in the assault on the city, you're never going to shake the 
poor reputation you've earned since falling outside Moscow.

<><><><><>

By the time the Center arrives, much of Arghun's anger over the strange incident in the dark has 
evaporated. His desire to kill something to make himself feel better is gone, though he is resigned 
to the fact that there will be a great deal of killing.

When they submit, they lose their property. When they resist, they lose their properties and their 
lives. What is so difficult to understand? Arghun just cannot understand these people, but he 
doesn't lose any sleep over it. They are city-dwellers. Sheep. No, worse than sheep, for they 
cannot even move about *that* freely.

Like a noose, the Mongols tighten the circle about Vladimir, and the siege commences. Time, 
numbers, tactics, strength -- all favor the Mongols. And that wasn't even taking into account the 
engines, which the Rus had none of. Arghun is always interested in the large devices, curious like 
most of his people. Whenever the opportunity presents, he and the others ride over to see the 
engines in action. It's always exciting to see them fling large rocks over the walls, from well out of 
arrow range!

But it is time to go to work, and Arghun joins in, riding as close or closer to the walls than any of 
the others. He is as surprised as any when the Russians actually return fire!

The arrow which strikes him is an unpleasant flashback to Moscow, and Arghun looks at the 
blood, realizing how close he has come to getting killed again! Surely he must be favored by the 
spirits to evade death so narrowly twice in such a short period of time!

His commander interrupts his wool-gathering with a command and insult. Arghun frowns. This 
constant abuse is not a good thing, but he rides back with the others without comment. It is not 
the Mongol way to question or dispute a leader, even just the leader of a Ten. All Arghun can do is 
compare this behavior with the stories his grandfather used to tell about Chingis' exploits, and he 
knows that his Ten commander is a poor leader. He wipes the blood idly on his leg and ignores 
the wound; it is not deep enough to kill him.

Arghun knows that if he does well in the battle, fights bravely, the rest of the Ten will accept him. 
Hopefully the leader will too. All he can do is get himself prepared mentally. He is determined that, 
whatever the cost, no one will be able to chide him for a lack of courage!

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The Russians are determined defenders, if not very good ones. Though in fairness, they are 
horribly outnumbered.

The siege continues, and it is only a matter of time before the walls are breached. Mindful of your 
Ten Commander's warning, that you had better be the first one at the enemy, you are riding at the 
head of the Ten when it charges for the interior of the city, through the sporadic arrowfire that is 
descending on you.


The next few hours are so busy you cannot recall the exact sequence of events in detail. There 
was a great deal of fighting, as the Russians seem determined to throw their lives away en mass. 
In fact, only a small minority of the town put up active resistance, but they were determined 
enough to make the siege of Vladimir a lot more troublesome than any number of villages with a 
total population equal to the city. You ran into militiamen in the streets, and archers firing from 
rooftops, before half the town was set ablaze and everyone, combatant and noncombatant alike, 
was driven out of their homes to be herded through the streets and then butchers. Soon the 
screams of men dying too slowly and women being claimed as prizes fill the air. And you see 
opportunity after opportunity for looting being forcibly kept out of your very grasp, because your 
damned commander keeps saying "This way, men!" "East to that row of houses near their center 
fortress, men!" "Arghun, what are you looking at, those merchant warehouses will still be here 
when the job is finished! We still have the inner keep to take!"

Vladimir, like most Russian cities, is built in more or less concentric circles, each one presenting 
more of a defensible barrier, with the most fortified structure being in the middle of the city. As 
many people as could fit inside have barred themselves in this keep, including the nobles who rule 
the city. Several Hundreds are now arrayed around this keep. It figures that while much of the rest 
of the besieging army is already spreading out to loot and pillage, your unit is still on strategic 
detail.

The Mongols first try shouting at those inside the keep, promising them quicker deaths if they 
come out now. Inexplicably, this fails to persuade the stupid Russians to surrender. So they try 
setting the surrounding buildings on fire, but while the wooden structures go up quickly, the keep 
itself is large, made mostly of stone, and where it's wood, it's hard, resin-coated wood, difficult to 
set on fire.

So the siege crews begin clearing a space around the keep's outer wall, with archers positioned to 
keep the Russian archers up at the top of the inner walls from being able to concentrate their fire 
on the siege crews. A battering ram smashes down the first wall, and they move forward. Your 
Ten will once again have the privilege of being among the first to storm into the breached fortress 
-- it's tempting to think your commander just wants an excuse to keep sticking *you* out in front so 
you can be killed, but no, he seems to be just a gloryhound.

With a crash, another wall caves inwards, while small catapults lob burning debris at the keep, 
along with bodies of Russian townspeople. Both are more distractions than anything else.

<><><><><>

The sack of Vladimir is rapidly losing its appeal for Arghun. His damn Ten commander is a little 
too gung-ho for his tastes. Oh, there's nothing wrong with glory and bravery, and Arghun can 
appreciate the drive to succeed as well as the next man (are they not Mongols?), but this seems 
to be taking things a little too far. How many casualties will they suffer, because of the desire to be 
first?

You can't take off your coat before the snow stops, his mother used to say. Patience was worth 
cultivating. But... the leader is the leader. And Arghun is still making up for lost ground, so he has 
no choice but to be first of the first. Jelma would certainly laugh at him now.

The citadel might have some decent loot in it, Arghun tries to rationalize. Perhaps once the 
slaughter there is complete, his unit would be sitting on top of the best loot in the city. Arghun just 
hoped that he didn't catch fire from the surrounding buildings while waiting for a breach. He had 
once seen a man with his mustache burned off -- not a pretty sight. Arghun rests, sitting on his 
horse, until the next opportunity arises.

When the wall collapses, Arghun groans. The breech is a narrow one, and it looks like they'll have 
to exploit it on foot. Just his luck! He swings down quickly, before the gung-ho commander can tell 
him to do so. He ties his horse, and moves forward, not even waiting for the order. He hesitates 
just long enough to make sure the rest of the Ten is with him (and that their leader won't stop the 
charge...fat chance) before Arghun hurls himself into the breach with his sword at the ready.

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

Your Ten charges through, with several others, and then is forced to fight your way through some 
more defenders, until you reach a heavy wooden door that is a main entrance into the city keep. 
So far you have been lucky, but on the other side of that door will probably be the fiercest warriors 
the Russians can muster against you. A thought to make a Mongol laugh.

Then you feel the same spine-crawling sensation you felt out in the wild, the night you were 
taunted by the voice in the darkness and his lupine friends. You almost stop in your tracks, then 
are forced to keep going lest you be overrun by the warriors behind you.

<><><><><>

Sorcery! None of the others seem to notice it, Arghun realizes. Either the spell is once more 
targeted at him, or he is unusually sensitive to such things. Whatever the case, Arghun is 
infuriated. Either the irritating wizard with the wolves is after him again, or now he's mixed up in 
magic somehow. In either case, he will kill the cursed man!

Arghun immediately joins his voice with the others to call for a ram. They will get this door open, 
and he will have his revenge. But this is a sorcerer, and Arghun prepares himself for anything 
unusual. He wouldn't be surprised if the man can somehow summon the elements or evil spirits to 
do his bidding. Arghun resolves himself not to fall for any tricks.

But how to recognize the evil one? He never got a look at him that night. As he helps to man the 
ram and batter the door, Arghun ponders this difficulty. He'll just have to hope that there is 
something distinctive about him. If not, when the tingling stops, Arghun will know that the wizard is 
dead.

In typical Mongol fashion, once the door falls the waiting archers will clear the doorway. Arghun 
decides to be one of the first ones through after that, diving through to one side, cutting into the 
warriors who will probably be waiting inside the door.

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

When the door gives way with a splintering thud, the Mongol archers seed it with arrows even 
before the rammers clear away the wreckage with another couple of blows from their ram. Most of 
the defenders have thus backed away, and the volley of arrows that follows doesn't hit anyone 
that you can see. As soon as the Hundred commander shouts "Go!", the archers cease fire, and 
you and the other warriors set to charge dash through the breach.

This door is set in a solid, outer stone wall. There is a small inner section that looks like it circles 
around the keep, just within the wall, at least for the length of the corridor you can see in any 
direction. The entryway also continues directly ahead, towards what must be the interior of the 
keep and the place where they would bring deliveries and visitors.

There is another level overhanging the entryway, though, with narrow stone steps cut into the wall 
to your left. You didn't notice them when you came charging through. You notice when the 
Russians above you, out of the line of fire from the archers outside, pour boiling oil over the first 
rank of Mongols to surge through the door. A couple of defenders at the gate, who had flattened 
themselves against the walls to avoid arrows, are now frantically backing away from the Mongol 
onslaught but are also caught in the deathtrap.

The bubbling liquid comes streaming down on your head and shoulders, and your screams join 
those of the other men. Wrapped in your leather armor like a piece of meat wrapped in leaves and 
dropped in a cauldron, you boil. Your face feels as if it is peeling off, and your flesh blisters 
instantly from the neck down. You stagger and fall, conscious only of pain and the wish that you 
could lose consciousness. The certain fact that any defenders who are captured alive will suffer 
an even more horrible and longer lasting fate is no comfort to a dying man.

<><><><><>

Arghun rolls on the ground in agony. For the briefest of instants he worries that the sorcerer might 
escape since only he knows of the evil one's presence, but that concern is driven from his mind by 
the white-hot flood of pain.

The terrible injuries cause Arghun to do the only thing he can; he curls into a ball and tries to fight 
through the pain. Every muscle in his body is clenched as he strives to just hang on -- either he 
will die, or he will master the pain. Either will be an immense relief.

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The pain goes on and on -- you are conscious of men running past you, and someone kindly kicks 
you out of the way so you won't be trampled. There is screaming and fighting, more and more 
Mongols crowd into the keep, while you are left curled up in a shivering ball of pain in the outer 
corridor, covered by bubbling oil that just keeps stripping away layers of skin. If you could muster 
the effort, you might even ask one of your fellow Mongols to slit your throat and end it.

Finally, however, the pain starts to diminish. The agony fades to a stinging sensation all over your 
body, and then minor discomfort, and then you are just lying on the ground covered by hot oil -- 
still steaming in the cold air, but no longer burning. You know your skin must be sloughing off like 
a snake's, and your face is probably maimed beyond recognition -- the fact that you now feel 
almost perfectly normal must mean that shock has set in, the way you've heard sometimes 
happens to men wounded so severely that they're no longer even aware of pain and injury. But 
you can't have completely lost your senses, because you can still feel that evil magical affliction.

<><><><><>

As the pain fades to the manageable level, Arghun unclenches his hands and rolls over. Like an 
old man, he slowly but determinedly pushes himself to his hands and knees. He knows one thing; 
someone was going to pay!

He wipes his hands off as best he can, and mops the oil out of his eyes. First things first: a 
weapon. He looks for his dropped sword, or that of one of his comrades. Maybe he's in shock, 
maybe he's about to keel over and die; Arghun doesn't care -- he's enraged!

He stands up, dripping oil and looking around. He hopes fervently that there are still some pockets 
of resistance.

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

Your sword is lying almost at your feet. Several other of your comrades are lying at your feet also. 
At least one is still alive, shivering and making moaning sounds through chattering teeth. His hair 
is imbedded in the skin of his boiled face, and you can see the back of his neck, blistered and 
swollen and bright red. He won't survive. You can't see much of your own skin, but you must have 
been doused just as thoroughly as he was.

There are sounds of struggle coming from deeper in the keep -- immediately within sight, you see 
only dead and dying bodies. Some of them are the Russians who poured oil on you, lying slumped 
on the stone parapet overhead, or shoved off it and cut to pieces in the corridor below.

<><><><><>

Once he has satisfied himself that there are no Russians about to get up, or still moving for that 
matter, Arghun turns and stomps toward the sounds of fighting. He plans a very unpleasant 
greeting for the first Russian he can get his blade on; he can only hope that it's that aggravating 
wizard! If he passes some cloth (a fallen body, a tapestry, anything), he pauses just long enough 
to wipe off his hands and his sword to make sure that he has a secure grip.

      -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

In the time it took you to recover from the boiling oil, your fellow Mongols seem to have swept 
through the keep, and everywhere you go you can find only dead Russians. You can hear shouts 
and a distant clash of swords, and so follow that sound, hoping to find some Russians still alive 
and resisting, and perhaps the sorceror who is still cursing you.

Then, exiting the labyrinthine inner passageways, and stepping over a couple of *Mongol* bodies 
along the way, you see a small courtyard, or more properly an open space between the inner keep 
and one of the outer walls. About a score of Mongols, including a couple you recognize from your 
Ten, are clustered around the base of a stairway that goes up into a corner fortification. Two are 
dragging one of their comrades out of the bottom of the tower -- the one being dragged away has 
an arrow through his eye.

<><><><><>

Arghun stomps up behind one of his comrades. "What's going on? Some of the sheep droppings 
are cornered, eh?" He looks up the staircase. As has happened to him before, the time spent 
stalking though the keep has allowed his rage to cool, somewhat. "How many?" He shakes his 
sword a bit, angry that the Rus have not provided him with a convenient target to vent against.

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The other Mongol turns and almost jumps when he sees you. "Arghun! I thought you went down 
under that boiling oil!" He stares at you -- you must look frightful.

<><><><><>

"I don't want to talk about that!" Arghun bellows at the man. "What about this?!" He points at the 
stairway with his sword. "How many are there??" Though there is strict standing order that any 
brawling in the ranks will be punished by death, Arghun is perilously close to striking his fellow 
soldier. He needs something to kill, and the fellow wants to chit-chat about his burns!

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The other warrior looks at you, too taken aback by your tone to become belligerent in return. 
"One," he says. "He's killed three men already."

<><><><><>

"That's something. All right, here's what we do. You all get bows and provide some cover fire. 
Keep his head down so that he can't get a good shot at me. I'll rush up and engage him up close. 
He won't be able to use his archery then, so the rest of you follow once I've disabled his bow. Got 
it??" Arghun is so fired up that he doesn't even realize that he's giving orders.

Though the army is strictly regimented, the Mongol traditions from the herding days are more 
cooperational than hierarchical. in fact, the independence of thought of the average Mongol 
warrior was one of the their strengths. Arghun has unconsciously lapsed back into that mindset 
where anyone who has a good idea simply voices it. If it is an idea of merit, it will be followed. If it 
is not, it will be laughed at or ignored.

Arghun looks around at the corpses until he spots one with a more solid helmet, preferably a 
metal one. If he charges up the stairs bent forward, he can use his hands on the steps for greater 
speed while keeping his head down. The helmet could prove a very effective piece of armor in 
that situation.

If no one overrules his reckless (to himself, at any rate) plan, Arghun wrenches the helmet from 
the corpse and puts it on his own head. "Ready?" Adrenaline can be a wonderful thing, and it's all 
Arghun is operating on.

      -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

"He's a deadly-accurate archer --" the other man says, and points at the Mongol with the arrow in 
his eye. "He tried the same thing."

The problem is, the cornered Russian is inside an enclosed tower. You can't even see him, so 
your comrades won't be able to provide any covering fire. The Russian chose his retreat well -- 
only one man can go up those stairs at a time. The only way out, though, is out the top, and onto 
the wall above.

The other Mongols look at each other and at you. "We were going to try lighting a fire under him. If 
you want to try charging him, it's your neck."

"Or eye," someone else says.

"Yanchi was an idiot, he was looking up when he went in," one of the other warriors says, then 
looks at you as you select a helmet and says thoughtfully "Maybe if you strapped a shield on your 
back...."

Clearly, they don't think too much of your odds. But if you succeed -- no one will doubt your 
bravery or worthiness!

<><><><><>

"Is there another way onto that wall?" Arghun points with his sword as he looks for a shield. 
Burning the archer out would be the best thing, the safest thing, but Arghun is in no mood for the 
safest thing. If there is no other way up, he is determined to try this stairway.

       -- Arghun

[Is there a door/way and and/or a window/arrow slit into this corner tower room? Also, does it 
provide a direct shot down the staircase, or is it oblique in some way? How vertical is the 
staircase? In other words, could a man moving up the stairs holding a shield angle it correctly to 
minimize the target provided by either (a) his legs and side, in the case of an oblique angle or (b) 
legs, if it's straight on or (c) back, if it's a very steep staircase. Also, once at the top is there a 
place outside the field of fire to stand? Is there an actual door to this room, or just a doorway? A 
wooden door, one presumes?]

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

"We don't know," the other Mongol admits. "There are probably other towers going up to the top of 
the walls, but this section of wall looks separated."

From outside, all you can see in the base of the tower is that there is no door, and the stairs 
ascend sharply in a zig-zag pattern up the interior of the tower. A shield on your back will probably 
provide some cover, but if the arrow through the other man's eye was an indication of the archer's 
skill, it probably won't cover you enough. You don't know what kind of surface he has to stand on 
up there. From down here, you can see the opening at the top of the tower which allows those 
within to walk out onto the wall, but you cannot see the Russian so presumably he is hiding within 
the tower.

<><><><><>

"Aha!" Arghun looks over the situation, determined to have at least one Russian corpse to his 
name. "Let's smoke him out. We toss some tinder in the bottom, lob in a torch, and the whole 
thing is just like a big smoke hole. If nothing else, it will spoil his view of the stairway, and even if 
he stays in there, I'll be able to go up and get him."

Arghun begins looking for things to burn. "Try to keep the fire away from the bottom of the stairs, 
in case I have to run up." Arghun has a strong suspicion that it *will* come to that, which he 
doesn't mind at all. If the fire itself doesn't create enough smoke, a couple of buckets of water 
tossed on it after it's good and hot should create a nice cloud to cover his ascent of the stairs.

       -- Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The other warriors agree to your plan -- why shouldn't they, it's not they who will be dodging 
arrows running up a smoky stairway! The kindling is soon tossed in, followed by a torch, and then 
they go to fetch other smoke-producing combustibles, like old tapestries made of cheap cloth, and 
the silly paintings these Russians like to use to decorate the interiors of their buildings. One man 
has to be dissuaded from throwing a dusty old rug onto the growing blaze -- one of the Turks 
insists it has some value.


Soon there is plenty of smoke billowing up into the tower -- the Russian archer must be having 
great difficulty breathing.

<><><><><>

Arghun watches the blaze with some satisfaction. After it has produced quite a bit of smoke for a 
few minutes, he moves to the bottom of the tower. Leaning against the outer wall, he waits a few 
moments (just in case the devil Russian saw him approach and anticipates his next move). Then 
he ducks in and out very quickly. All he wants is a good idea what the level of visibility is on the 
stairs.

Nodding to the others, he remarks that it's a pretty good fire. Might as well let it burn a little longer, 
to see if it flushes the devil out.  The time he waits allows Arghun to realize the basic flaw in his 
plan: if the stairway is obscured, it not only prevents the Russian from shooting him, it will prevent 
the Mongols from picking him off once Arghun has engaged him. He groans to himself.

"Listen, if you hear me start to fight him, someone should follow me up, to finish the devil off if he 
should get the better of me." Arghun fervently hopes that won't happen, and that the Russian is 
choking on the smoke even now.

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The smoke is thick and choking. You can't see more than a few steps above you, so at least the 
Russian won't be able to see you either. You proceed up the stairs as quietly as you can, but 
halfway up you betray yourself when the hot ash floating up the tower tickles your nose and 
makes you sneeze. You pause, but there is no immediate response. And as you proceed, still no 
arrows coming from above, and knowing someone is coming for him, you'd expect him to at least 
fire a few blindly into the smoke. The higher you go, the more difficult it becomes, with your eyes 
watering and the smoky air tearing at your lungs. Probing cautiously ahead with your sword, you 
get all the way to the top -- and still have not encountered him! He must be outside on the wall, if 
he hasn't found some way to hide.

<><><><><>

Could the Russian have made it onto the wall without being seen by the Mongols below? It seems 
incredible, but the only other option is that the man is hanging from the stairway by his fingertips. 
In the smoke, this seems unlikely to put it mildly.

Arghun hesitates, considering his options. If the Russian is hiding on the wall, he could be 
planning an ambush. He tries to picture in his mind where a man could hide out there and remain 
unseen. Too late to go back, Arghun knows he is likely to get clobbered if the Russian gets the 
drop on him. If Tengri wills it, that's the way it goes.

Arghun decides that a low attack is his best bet, since his foe might be crouched down to avoid 
being spotted. Arghun bursts through the door low, with a furious slash to the location that a 
crouched man could avoid being seen, as best he can determine it. He returns to a guard position 
to see what there is to see (while still staying low so that his own comrades don't fill him full of 
arrows).

¨ Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

You charge into the blinding smoke, prepared for a surprise blow at any moment, seeking to find a 
solid target with your saber, and as you plunge forward, you hear the men below shouting.

"There he is!"
"The wall--"
"Shoot him!"

You emerge onto the narrow walkway, immediately ducking as you realize now you're out in the 
open, and might be hit by any arrows your comrades are sending in this direction. Smoke curls 
out of the opening behind you. There is no sign of the Russian on this precarious ledge. You see 
the warriors down below in the gap between walls, looking up at you and pointing.

<><><><><>

"It's me!" Arghun growls. He crouches down to avoid being turned into a target. No sign of the 
Russian on the wall. No sign of him in the stairwell. Though it annoys him to do so, Arghun stops 
to think.

He looks along the wall, then back through the smoky doorway. Where could the coward be 
hiding? He considers every possible position.

       -- Arghun

[Is there a roof over the tower/stairway that a person could get up onto? Is there a window or 
opening large enough for a man to make it over the outer wall unseen? Is there an opening 
opposite this one, to the other stretch of wall? Any sounds of anyone else moving around up 
here? Was the landing at the top of the stairs large enough for someone to have hidden on, or for 
Arghun to have missed someone? Does the stairwell fill the tower? I.e. any unexplained enclosed 
places? What is the capital of Abyssinia?]

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

"He went over the wall!" one of the men down below shouts.

That's the one location you didn't look. Was the cowardly Russian so desperate he'd actually jump 
from this height?

Yes. When you stick your head over the wall, you see a man lying on the ground, far below, 
splayed where he hit with arms and legs jutting out awkwardly. A couple of Turks who were down 
the street are wandering over curiously.

<><><><><>

Arghun smacks his fist on the battlement. Stupid Rus! And he is denied his revenge. He watches 
the two Turks approach and shouts down to them. "Make sure he's dead! He killed some of our 
men!"

Arghun hesitates now. He has no wish to go back down the smoke-filled tower until it cools off. He 
watches the Turks curiously. It would be just his luck if the men were carrying good loot on him 
and Arghun had driven him over the wall.

Why would anyone want to die in a fall rather than in combat? Stupid Rus!

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

If this Russian was the sorceror responsible for the spell on you, then it seems his death won't 
end the spell, because you can still feel it gnawing at the base of your skull.

The Turks look up at you, and then swagger over to the fallen Russian. "He looks d--" one of them 
says, and then doubles over as the dead man's sword comes up and impales him through the 
stomach.

The second Turk shows good reflexes by immediately drawing his sword. The Russian is on his 
feet by the time the Turk's sword is out, and he punches the Turk in the face. He pulls his sword 
out of the first Turk as that man falls to the ground, then engages the second man in swordplay. 
From your vantage point, you can see several warriors up and down the street, one cluster of 
which is now taking notice of this skirmish.

<><><><><>

"Ho!" Arghun shouts to the Mongols on the street. "We've got a live one over here!" He waves his 
arms and points to the Russian. No wonder the spell hadn't faded; the fool is still alive! But how 
did he survive that fall?? Truly he is a powerful sorceror! This country is crawling with them!

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The Mongols spot the Russian as he dispatches the other Turk. They immediately begin running 
towards him. The Russian turns to look back up at you, and then sprints off down a side street. 
You notice he is running with a limp, but still manages to move pretty quickly for someone who 
just fell forty feet. And as he tries to elude his pursuers and disappears around a corner, with the 
other warriors chasing behind him, you feel the cursed spell on you suddenly fade.

<><><><><>

Arghun watches open-mouthed as the man rises from the fall and kills not one, but two men, and 
then runs off! He meets the Russian's gaze with almost a sense of admiration. But the man is 
limping, and Arghun has a sudden hope that he might catch up to and finish the sorceror himself. 
He turns and sees the smoke-filled tower. Damn! Pursuit seems out of the question. For the 
briefest of moments he considers jumping. Anything a Rus can do, a Mongol can do better! But 
the Rus is a sorceror, and he undoubtedly used his powers to avoid injury.

He calls down to the men on the inside of the wall. "He got up, killed two men and is running 
away! It's amazing!" Arghun seems to have little choice but to wait until the fire dies down and 
some of the smoke clears. This gives him plenty of time to note two things: making an assault 
with no means of retreat is not a very bright idea, and by the time he is able to climb down, the 
town will probably be looted already!

He spends his time considering this and sulking.

¨ Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

"He jumped over the wall and got up and ran away?" one of the men below asks you 
disbelievingly. "You're pulling our legs!"

Nonetheless, you watch the Russian's pursuers vanish around the corner. By the time the fire has 
died down enough for you to climb back down the tower, you see some of the men who chased 
him returning, but no sign of the Russian.

<><><><><>

"No, he's run off!" Arghun watches the chase as best he can, not really caring if the others believe 
him or not.

When he finally gets down and sees the men who had chased him, he approaches them eagerly. 
"Well? Did you kill the sorceror? The man who got up after jumping off the wall? That was 
amazing."

¨ Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The Mongols who pursued the sorcerer seem frustrated. "He eluded us!" More evidence of 
sorcery, no doubt, as one wounded man shouldn't have been able to give half a dozen Mongol 
warriors the slip. Though of course he would know the town better. One of the leaders is talking 
about going house-to-house and tearing them down to their foundations, or simply setting the 
entire neighborhood ablaze.

Once down on the ground again, you find that at least your exercise in futility was not completely 
useless, as the other men speak admiringly of your charge up the smoky staircase. The tale of the 
Russ sorcerer who jumped over the wall will be repeated in association with your name, which 
might give you some small notoriety, at least.

<><><><><>

Arghun stares in disbelief for a moment when they tell him that the sorceror got away. "Well, he 
had powerful sorcery, of that there's no doubt!" Arghun commiserates with the men whose pursuit 
proved futile. Chasing the man house to house doesn't sound appealing to Arghun, who is feeling 
tired after his rather unspectacular part (he feels) in the day's fighting.

He seeks out the leader of his Ten. Stomping up to the man, Arghun challenges him to find fault 
with his efforts. "I hope that ends the talk about sleeping while there is fighting going on."

¨ Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

Your leader looks at you suspiciously when you show up, and you notice some of your comrades 
are also staring at you in an unnerving way.

"I heard you were seen chasing that Russ sorcerer up the tower," the leader of the Ten says. "But 
Tenjing swears he was right behind you when we stormed the keep, and saw you get doused with 
boiling oil." Tenjing is staring at you the way one might stare at a diseased cur. "How is it you got 
up again when none of the men to your right and left did?"

<><><><><>

"Maybe because I'm tougher than them. Or maybe Tengri favors me." Arghun glares at Tenjing; 
he's had enough of justifying himself to this lot. They are all Mongols, and Arghun is sick and tired 
of being treated worse than a farmer. "Maybe if Tenjing spent more time fighting and less time 
behind my backside, he'd be better able to judge what a man should or shouldn't be able to get up 
from."

¨ Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

"Are you accusing me of holding back in combat?" Tenjing demands angrily. "It takes more than 
toughness to survive boiling oil without a mark! Either Tengri does favor you--" he says with a 
sneer to indicate what he thinks of that possibility, "or--"

"That's enough!" the Ten leader barks, looking wary. Under other circumstances, this would 
quickly lead to a challenge between you and Tenjing, but internal strife during a siege is not 
tolerated, and as your leader, he would also be held culpable if you and Tenjing get into a fight.

If Tenjing had finished his sentence, though, you know what he would have said, and an 
accusation of sorcery is not made lightly. You would have had to have refuted it somehow, or 
allowed it to stick. And you can see the thought is still in Tenjing's mind, and in some of the other 
men. Whether your leader thinks this too, you cannot tell.

"Since we were in the vanguard, and have done so much fighting, our Hundred is off for the first 
watch cycle. You can sleep, or join the looting parties if you want to pick through the town." This 
has the desired effect of giving the men something else to think about, and most of them, Tenjing 
included, look much more enthusiastic about the second option.

<><><><><>

Arghun feels some of his anger at his comrades melt at the announcement of looting. He realizes 
that part of his problem has been the enforced danger, without the reward he had hoped for. He 
feels mollified enough to try a conciliatory gesture.

"Good. Every man in this unit has earned a chance at some loot." He looks meaningfully at 
Tenjing. "*Every* man." If the fool wanted to charge him with evil sorcery after all he had done, he 
would be glad for a chance to tell his side of things. But it seems doubtful to Arghun that their 
leader will want to take this argument to higher command; he is brown-nosing for a promotion and 
probably doesn't want that kind of attention.

If they split up to join looting parties, Arghun plans to avoid the group with Tenjing in it, unless the 
man does something to indicate that he is sorry. If that takes him away from his 'comrades', 
Arghun will be just as happy. He has never been so unhappy with a group of his fellow Mongols in 
his life (his wife notwithstanding), and strangers would be a welcome change -- a damning 
thought, given the usual friendliness and hospitality among Mongols!

¨ Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

Not surprisingly, all the other men want to join the looting as well. Your leader does not organize it, 
though, leaving everyone free to join whatever bands they wish, and Tenjing (and indeed, most of 
your other comrades) seem equally happy to avoid being in the same group with you.


Most of the Russians have already been driven out of their homes. Entire neighborhoods are 
being ransacked now, most of the houses being burned after they've been searched. Here and 
there a few people can be found hiding. Usually they are killed, quickly or slowly depending on the 
patience and temperament of the ones who find them.

The wealthiest parts of town have already been picked clean. However, you know that the 
churches of the Russ often have much gold and other precious stones and metals, and indeed, 
the main cathedral here in Vladimir is an impressive piece of architecture, with gold-plated domes 
and gem-encrusted trim. Unfortunately, that's already got Mongols swarming all over it, and most 
of the best will be claimed by the ranking officers. There are other churches in the city, however, 
and if you hurry you might find one that's not been completely looted.


When you discover one (no gold-plated domes, sadly, but the door is still intact so it hasn't been 
smashed apart yet), you and a dozen other men are among the first to invade the premises.

As soon as the door bursts open, you can see some nice statuary lining the altar, rich cloth 
draped across a pedastal, and various ornamentations on the roof and along the walls that will 
probably break off easily enough. Your share of it will be moderately valuable, and maybe moreso 
if you have a keener eye than the other men as you pick through it for the best items.

When you step across the threshold, however, you feel a surprise -- a strange sensation that 
seems to spread out from the base of your skull and settle into your bones. Neither alarming nor 
obviously malevolent, like the spell the sorcerer cast on you earlier, but it is unnatural. The other 
men keep rushing in, and don't seem to have noticed anything.

<><><><><>

Arghun hesitates and almost stumbles. Another spell? These Rus are a sorcerous people, without 
a doubt! Perhaps they use the churches for their magic? Yes, that certainly is what it feels like, a 
sort of left-over magic. Not like evil spells.

Arghun hesitates for another moment, wondering if there will be some sort of curse or backlash 
for looting this place. But he sees his companions surge ahead, and he dismisses the idea. They 
are unharmed, and Tengri is more powerful than the Russian gods anyway. Heaven has decreed 
the victory of the Mongols, and no pathetic spells will stop them.

Arghun knows the others will make a beeline for the altar, so he moves hastily to some of the side 
areas. Perhaps he can find a shrine or something valuable. If worse comes to worst, there is 
always the general decorations. Maybe he can find some nice bauble for Jelma (though why he 
bothers is beyond him, he grumbles to himself...)

As he looks, he wishes that he were like the others, unable to feel the spells of the enemy. This 
new awareness is too unsettling and troublesome.

¨ Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The sensation continues as you help clean out the church. You manage to acquire a respectable 
stash of items. Still not nearly enough, and it certainly won't satisfy Jelma, but some more looting 
like this and you'll start having a respectable haul to bring home.

As soon as you leave the Russian holy place, the sensation ends, so the spell must have been 
centered there. No one else seems to have noticed it.

<><><><><>

Arghun shakes his head in wonder. The spell that the sorcerer with the wolves cast on him must 
have left him sensitive to the presence of magic. He is glad to leave the church behind him.

It might be possible to find other places to loot some odds and ends, but Arghun has had quite 
enough of Vladimir. He decides to make his way back to the camp. The rest of his unit is still 
looting, so he'll have some privacy to get some rest. He has no desire to spend another minute 
inside the dead walls of this place. How can these people do that? Build a place and live there, 
trapped inside, forever...

He heads back for the last place he saw his horses. He has no doubt that they will be exactly 
where he left them, or secured somewhere not far away by others in his Hundred. He had 
overheard a Turk saying that these foreigners would actually take each other's belongings, and 
not give them back. Stealing from their own tribe! It is one thing to raid other people, but to steal 
from within their own people... truly these people are barbaric.

¨ Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The next morning, you find the sacking is proceeding nicely, almost finished, in fact. Prisoners 
have been herded together, some to be sent back to Mongol lands as slave labor, others to be 
executed in slow and entertaining fashion. A skeleton populace will be left alive, to rebuild the city 
and provide tribute when Batu sends another group by to remind the Russians who the masters of 
this land are now.

The Center will be moving on in a couple of days -- Subotai wants to continue the relentless tide of 
conquest, but he also wants to make sure territory already gained is secured. You're hearing now 
that Batu doesn't plan to just loot Russia -- he intends to *add* it to the Mongol empire. That will 
mean a lot of work (and enrichment) for the bureaucracy-loving Chin and Turks, but meanwhile, 
there are lands even beyond Russia that have yet to be visited...

<><><><><>

Arghun is not one of those who likes to take advantage of the opportunity to engage in torture and 
slaughter for the sake of bloodshed. He takes the more pragmatic Mongol view that a certain 
degree of violence is a necessary and useful tool in making further conquests more efficient. He 
has no interest in taking part in killing, unless it serves a purpose.

It comes as no surprise that Batu plans to add Russia to his ordos; after all, the territory falls 
under that granted to his father Jochi by his grandfather. Batu's clan really got the short end of the 
stick in the division of Genghis' empire, as compared with Chagatai, Ogodai or Tului. But perhaps 
that was the Great Khan's wily plan, to leave largely unconquered lands to the aggressive sons of 
Jochi -- so that they would have ample interest in expanding on Genghis' conquests.

There are lands farther on, and Arghun is optimistic that there will be loot aplenty. But the chill he 
has received from his new comrades has dimmed Arghun's anticipation. The standard is set by 
the leader, and the leader of his Ten is clearly not a good leader. Instead of trying to integrate 
Arghun into the unit, he allows -- nay, encourages -- the other men to treat him like an outsider. 
This is an entirely foreign experience to Arghun, who has always fit in well with is fellows. 
Reasonably well.

Because of the chilly reception (and Arghun's prickly pride) he does not spend his free time 
hanging around with his comrades. Instead he finds himself riding over to the main encampment 
of the Center, to see what's going on there. He doesn't quite bring himself to ride up to the 
shamans' gers, but he checks them out. He also hangs around the command tent. Batu's golden 
ger is with his command elsewhere; the Center is commanded by Subotai, and it is to this man 
that Arghun's thoughts and wanderings are drawn.

The general has a personal guard, of course, and Arghun finds himself wondering how a man 
could get assigned to this unit. They are probably better fighters than himself, he grudgingly 
admits to himself. Subotai can pick his guards from the elite of the entire army. Any man 
interested in learning strategy would leap at the chance to directly serve the right hand of Genghis 
himself.

Arghun notices the camp of Uriangkatai, son of Subotai, set close by his father's. He remembers 
hearing that the young man shows promise as a leader, but his accomplishments are nowhere 
near great enough yet to attract many followers. Perhaps he would be interested in accepting a 
man who is eager to accomplish some great things. Arghun decides to ride over and find out what 
it would take to become one of Uriangkatai's men.

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

It would indeed be difficult to join the ranks of Uriangkatai's men: typically, Arbhans are not split up 
once formed. Indeed, it's common practice to execute any survivors of an Arbhan that lost a man 
in battle, thus ensuring they fight savagely for one another. So theoretically, your comrades should 
fight for you you like a brother on the field, whatever they think of you personally. But then, the fact 
that they almost lost you outside the walls of Muskva might be an indication of why they are now 
having a hard time warming up to you -- a man who gets a reputation for being softheaded is a 
danger to his comrades. Certainly your commander is being foolish not to try integrating you more 
closely. But there's little you can do about it. Asking for a transfer is tantamount to treason -- no 
one ever asks to be moved to another unit. A very fortunate man might find a higher-ranking 
commander takes a liking to him, and thus requests him for his unit. You have no idea what it 
would take to catch Uriangkatai's eye, though.


As you approach his camp, you can't see the general's son himself, but his men seem to be 
taking their ease, sitting around a campfire drinking and eating. No one invites you over, since 
Mongol etiquette demands not only that food be shared with anyone who happens by, but that any 
who wish it come and help themselves without asking. However, they do look at you with mild 
curiousity, as if to ask whether you're lost, or looking for someone.

<><><><><>

Arghun strolls over after hobbling his horse and sits down with the group around the fire. He 
grunts a greeting to them. "So, did anything interesting happen during that last battle?" It seems 
like a good ice-breaker, and he's got an interesting story of his own, when his turn comes.

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

"Interesting, hardly," grunts the nearest man. "These Russians fight like sheep-herders. 
Tenacious, but totally inept. Once you get past their walls they scatter."

"I haven't found a worthy man yet among these city-dwellers," another agrees. "How did people 
like these become so wealthy? Their neighbors to the west must be just as weak!" This man holds 
up a dangling string of silver coins, and kicks at a bejeweled box of some sort. Now that you've 
taken a seat with them, you notice quite a few baubles scattered about, evidence that 
Uriangkatai's men had better luck looting than you did...

"Speaking of sheep-herders, sheep would probably be more appealing than their women!" snorts 
a third. "You hear tales of golden-haired beauties or dark-eyed seductresses, but all I've seen so 
far is dumpy, heavy-breasted cows."

<><><><><>

"I haven't seen any women worth looking at twice, either. But you have done much better than I 
have at finding their wealth."

Arghun forges ahead, before he has time to get annoyed about his lack of success at looting. "But 
I did see one Rus worthy of a Mongol. He had fled to the top of one of their walls." Argun uses 
hand gestures to show the relative positions. "He shot down two men with a bow who tried to go 
up and get him. Through the eye, no less. I would have thought it a lucky hit, except for what he 
did later." Arghun accepts some fermented mare's milk.

"I, for one, didn't want to get shot, so we started a fire for a smokescreen. We hoped it might 
choke him, force him out onto the wall where our men could get a shot at him, but Tengri smiled 
on this one. When the whole stairway was filled with smoke, we went up. I came out onto the wall 
and looked around for him. I was sure he was waiting somewhere, ready to spill my guts. But 
there's no sign of him! Top of the wall, enemies all around, and this one vanished."

Arghun shakes his head, still marveling over the actions of the strange Rus. "So I'm wondering 
where he can be, and when I'm going to get my head split open, when one of the fellows down 
below shouts that he's gone over the wall. That's crazy, I think to myself, but I look anyway." 
Arghun takes another gulp.

"Sure enough, there he is, lying on the ground five spear-lengths or more down. Dead for sure. He 
jumped rather than be taken. A couple of other fellows wander over to him, to make sure. All of a 
sudden," Arghun raises his voice a bit for emphasis, "he jumps up and spits one of them! Before 
the other man can do anything, the Rus hits him in the face. Then the two of them get to fighting. 
Before anyone can get there to help, the Rus kills the second man! Then he runs off. I've never 
seen anything like it!"

Arghun lowers his voice dramatically. "And -- imagine this -- he gets away!"

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

The other men listen appreciatively to your tale. When you finish, one says "That was you at the 
top of the wall? I heard about a Russian who jumped off the top of a wall and then got up and ran 
away, but I didn't believe it, especially when one of my men pointed out the wall he was supposed 
to have jumped off of."

"Very impressive," another grunts. "But I disagree with you that this Russian was worthy of a 
Mongol. Obviously he used sorcery."

"Yes, this land is thick with sorcerers," another says in agreement. "They may pray in their 
churches, but for all the money they lavish on them, it's obvious they rely on magic more than their 
god. I've heard story after story of Russian wizardry since this campaign began."

"You're lucky your foe didn't put a curse on you," the first Mongol says. "I've heard some Russians 
even visit their enemies after they're dead, to haunt them in their sleep..."

"Superstitious nonsense!" an older warrior snaps. "I've killed hundreds of men, including hundreds 
of Russians, and none of them have ever come back to complain about it. You kill a man, and 
he's dead!"

<><><><><>

"I wouldn't have believed it either, if I hadn't seen it myself." Arghun's eyes get a little wide when 
the others almost immediately begin discussing sorcery. He had hoped it was only his 
imagination, but if others were coming to the same conclusions...

"It *did* seem far beyond the normal. I'd say sorcery was possible, even likely." Then Arghun 
laughs a bit. "Maybe he did put a curse on me; I didn't find any loot worth anything because I got 
myself stuck up on that wall."

>> I've heard story after story of Russian wizardry since this campaign began." <<

Arghun turns to this man. "Like what? What sorts of stories?" His interest in these things once 
would have been skeptical amusement, but now he takes the supernatural as seriously as any of 
his people.

¨ Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

"Shapechangers, mostly," the other Mongol grunts. "Peasants who turn into birds, or goats....what 
kind of useless magic trick is that, anyway, turning into a goat? But sometimes they turn into more 
dangerous things, like blood-drinking spirits or night-hags..."

"Superstitious nonsense!" repeats the older warrior who first objected. "You younger men mark 
my words, I've traveled further than any of you and heard all the same stories you have and more, 
and never yet met anything that a heavy enough sword-stroke wouldn't kill!"

"Just because you've been on more campaigns doesn't mean you've seen everything!" the first 
man argues stubbornly.

"And why would the Great Khan bother outlawing sorcery if sorcery didn't exist?" another man 
points out reasonably.

The old veteran just snorts and quaffs another sip of pungent brew. "Well, if you see the man who 
jumped off a wall and ran away," he says to you, "you make sure to bring him over here....I'd like 
to toss him off a wall myself to see if he can perform the same trick again."

<><><><><>

"If he was just nonsense, you can tell that to the two men that he killed. I doubt they would call it 
that!" Arghun agrees with the older warrior in part, but he doesn't like the implication that he might 
not be telling the truth.

"If I see him, though, you can bet that I'll try your test on him. He might be a great jumper, or a 
sorceror, but I'll bet a good sword shoved through his guts will still spoil his day!" Arghun laughs. 
Still, he looks at the other men. The notion that these sorts of events were commonplace is more 
disturbing to him than he cares to admit.

¨ Arghun

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

"I'm not saying you didn't see a man jump off a wall and live," the older warrior says, not exactly 
apologetically, but with a somewhat less aggressive tone. "Just it wasn't necessarily sorcery."

This leads to a spirited argument as to whether a man can jump off the top of a wall and live 
_without_ using magic, but it's largely academic, since none of them are really interested in the 
subject except as something to while away the night hours. They all share a sense of cameraderie 
from long familiarity, one that you lack...which reminds you that eventually you are going to have 
to return to your arban.

<><><><><>

Arghun shares in the discussion as best he can; he might not be a member of this particular 
group, but a Mongol is always at home among his fellows. "Have any of you met Subotai? I've 
always wondered what he's like." He certainly prefers their company to his own arban. But he 
knows that he cannot remain here, and there has been no sign of Uriangkatai.


"Well men, I'd best be moving along. Give my regards to your commander. If I run across that Rus 
wall-jumper again, I'll be sure to ask him if he used sorcery or not -- right before I cut him open." 
He grins and gets up, to return to his own unit.

As he went through the camp he frowns to himself. His dissatisfaction is not proper. He should do 
his best to fit in. But that idiot just won't let him be part of the unit. A Chin would be more welcome! 
Still, perhaps Tengri would yet smile on Arghun; his Ten commander might catch a sword-stroke 
through his head.

<><><><><>

<<GM>>

Your walk back through the camp gives you more time to muse discontentedly, try as you might to 
avoid doing so. You can't help reflecting on how you've gone to greater effort than most, and yet 
been rewarded less. But such is fate, and if the gods choose to spite you now, perhaps their mood 
will change and they will favor you soon. One can only hope.

You barely pay attention to the groans and occasional screams from captives now being tortured 
in a section of the camp reserved for such activities. It serves a pragmatic purpose, but you're not 
one of those who finds it particularly entertaining to watch men being boiled or pressed or 
stretched or flayed, and the men who do take delight in it aren't usually the most cheerful 
company.

What stops you in your tracks and snaps you out of your brooding reverie is the sudden jolt that 
goes up your spine, exactly the same feeling that came over you earlier, during your encounter 
with the Russian sorcerer!