THE PROPHET QUEEN

by Laura Davids Todd

Part One: Sarkel – The White Fortress

Chapter 1  

Leya first disobeyed her father on the day the raiders came.

The thunder of their horses’ hoofs woke her. “We’re under attack,” cried Father. “It’s the Pechenegs!” He grabbed his arrows and his powerful curved  bow, and aimed a kick at Leya’s brother. "Bulan, get up, lazy slug! Get your weapons!”

She struggled out of her blanket to follow her brother. Father waved her back. “Leya, go back—hide under the covers. They mustn’t see you--it’s girls like you they want!”

And the two men scrambled out of the yurt.

“Leya! Come!” Mother pulled her down and threw an arm over her. The young girl squirmed with impatience. How could she cower under a blanket, not knowing what was happening? 

“But Mother… I want to see what they look like!” She squirmed out of Mother’s grip and reached for her hunting bow. With heart pounding, she dashed out of the yurt and hid herself among the tall grasses.

She had heard about the savage Pechenegs all her life. They crossed the borders into Khazaria and raided farms and nomad clans like her own, the Kimmeri. They stole sheep…people said they drank blood. And they kidnapped women and children for the slave traders: girls just like twelve-year old Leya.

In fascination and terror, she pressed herself flat on the ground and stared up at the yelling horsemen who menaced the ring of yurts. From her angle on the ground, they looked monstrously huge, silhouetted against the dawn sky. Their skulls, bald but for a single braid, gleamed with sweat. Coats of fur and rags covered their bare chests. They screamed, cursed and shot arrows, keeping the Kimmeri clan defenders occupied while others of their number attempted to break into the sheep enclosure. 

 “Camel’s anus,” cried Uncle Kundaj, loosing an arrow. It struck one of the raiders in the shoulder. 

Another of the horsemen sent an arrow whizzing just an inch past Father’s head.  “May the Black Erlikh rot your bones--" Father cried, and broke off with a scream as the next arrow bit into his thigh.  He dropped his bow and fell backward, clutching the injury.

A raider in a fur-trimmed hat came charging past Father. He thundered down toward Leya’s hiding place, his mouth wide in a savage yell of triumph. Leya pressed herself flat and held the small bow sideways against the ground, concealing it from view. With trembling fingers, she laid an arrow in place. As the rider leaped above her, she let the arrow fly.

The horse reared with a scream and threw its rider off. The man landed hard on his back and before he could rise, Bulan leaped on him with drawn dagger. Several of the clan women charged out of the yurts at once, shrieking their chilling war cry. They descended on the fallen invader with their sheep-gutting blades and made quick work of him. 

Leya hid her eyes. But the rest of the clan took courage and sent a renewed barrage of arrows against the riders.

“They’re leaving, by the Sky Father!” Bulan rejoiced.

Indeed, the raider horde began to lose stomach for the battle. With a few parting curses, they retreated, to disappear into the maze of hills beyond the encampment.

Leya saw none of it. Her head was spinning now with the terror she had blocked out before.

The clan gathered, shakily counting their losses. "The sons of jackals got away with two sheep,” Aunt Gul reported. “But we made them pay a price.”

Leya's grandfather Mugan hung his head. “Manas was on guard—he’s dead."

"Bashtu, you're hurt," Mother knelt beside Father, who knelt holding his leg.

"Look at that fellow. See his fine hat! " Leya’s brother, fifteen-year old Bulan, pointed to the dead Pecheneg. “He must have been their chief—and I brought him down!” The raider’s black horse stood nearby, flicking its ears. A small, red-fletched arrow protruded from its hindquarter. 

"No you didn't," Leya suddenly realized, and leaped to her feet. "It was me who shot his horse and made it throw him!” She looked at the dead raider’s bulging eyes and the bleeding ruin of his throat, and thought she might be sick.

Father struggled to his feet, noticing her presence for the first time. “Leya? What are you doing out here? I told you to stay inside—“ he stepped toward her and broke off, clutching his wound. “Disobedient brat--they’d have taken you! You know what they do to young girls?”  

“But…he didn’t take me. I brought him down!” 

Father raised his hand. “Don’t talk back to me!“

“Leya?” Her brother Bulan cut in. “You claim the kill? Don't be ridiculous. You’re just a child." He removed the Pecheneg chief’s hat and placed it on his own head. Preening, he smoothed his thin mustache and long black braid. "That was my arrow that stopped his horse."

Now that it was over, Leya wasn't sure exactly how it had happened. She put a hand on her forehead, trying to steady herself. “Look,” She pointed to the horse, which stood a ways off swishing its tail. It did not look so fearsome now: it was only a sturdy Kabardin pony.  “That’s one of my arrows. See? You made those arrows for me, Bulan, to hunt rabbits. You put the red fletching on.” Her small arrow did not appear to have done much damage to the horse.

Bulan stared.  “Why, so I did!” His scorn melted and he gave her a pat on the head. “Guess you’ve made a liar out of me.” A broad grin creased his sun-bronzed face.  "My sister is a hero--a Pecheneg slayer. Get her a trophy!"

"Yes, a trophy!" the others cried out. Bulan rolled the dead raider over with his boot and hacked off his greasy braid. He knelt to present it to her as if offering tribute to a princess. “In the old days, a girl had to kill an enemy before she could wed. Now you can get married!”

The Kimmeri clan responded with whoops and cheers. She understood now: her dear brother had deflected Father’s attention from her disobedience.

"I don't want to get married." Leya flushed with embarrassment and dropped the disgusting token. "Here's what I want." She walked over toward the pony, holding out a hand.  "Beautiful creature, I claim you for my trophy. I’ll heal you and train you,” she told the handsome creature, “and call you Karalpa. Black Hero."

***

Leya ran her brush over the horse’s flanks. No other girl her age had such a fine animal. “Karalpa, you’re the best horse that ever lived.”

In the week since the Pecheneg raid, she had lovingly nursed and groomed the pony every day. Her grandmother, the shaman Almalik, had made a poultice to apply to the wound. “When you’re all healed, we’ll ride across the steppe…” She broke off her pleasant reverie, as she noticed two mounted figures approaching the encampment.

Her hand went to her bow, which she carried now at all times. Two riders weren’t much of a threat, but these days the clan took no chances. Already the others had spotted the intruders and left their usual tasks of cooking and herding.

"It's the King's men," a boy cried, and everyone gathered to greet them.

The riders carried fluttering banners:  the King’s six-pointed star, and the Wolf Totem of the royal Ashina clan. Their polished chain mail shone in the sun.

“May the Holy One send prosperity to the tribe of Kimmeri.” The officials dismounted and touched their foreheads in respect. “We greet you in the name of the High Khagan and the Bek, King Joseph, Lord of the Realm.” 

Father arrived last, leaning on a walking stick. Leya’s grandfather Mugan, tribal elder, made a formal bow before the visitors. “May God send long life to the Kings of Khazaria and their loyal servants. How may we be of service?” 

The superior officer took off his pointed helmet, exposing a face scarred from a lifetime of battle. “I am Tarkhan Kiligh.” He walked with a limp, Leya noticed. “The King needs soldiers. We have orders to take one able bodied man of fighting age from every clan, to defend against Pecheneg incursions all along the border.”

Father’s hand went to his wounded leg. “The Pechenegs have already been here. You see what they did to me. It was lucky that our clan’s shooting skill drove them off.”

“Yes, you’re fortunate! I should like to meet some of your skilled archers,” said Tarkhan Kiligh, “and invite one of them to join King Joseph’s army at the White Fortress of Sarkel. He’ll be paid well—one silver dirham per month. ”

The people exchanged wary glances. Everyone knew that a royal ‘invitation’ was not to be disobeyed. 

“My Lords.” Bulan stepped forward and bowed before the royal envoys. “I’ll accept your invitation.”

“Bulan—“ Father turned to the King’s men with an undertone of anger.  “Tell the Bek Joseph that we can’t spare anyone. Who will defend us? I’d go myself, but they’ve already crippled me, as you can see.”

Bulan held out a hand. “Father, are we cowards now? The Kimmeri have always been great warriors, since the time of the jihad!”

The jihad had happened 300 years ago, but it still remained a vivid memory. The words of the tale sprang into Leya’s mind:

At Derbent the Khazar armies did stand
at the Gate of Gates to defend our land
From the invaders' implacable horde
Who came in jihad, crying 'Allah or the sword!"
They came to reap souls as a farmer reaps grain
The men lay in heaps, by thousands slain
Our men were surrounded, no hope did they see
Till our King stepped forward. "I yield,” said he,
And gave up his soul so his men could go free.

“I’m your man.” Bulan faced the King’s men, smiling a brilliant grin. “I have slain a Pecheneg chief.” He touched a jaunty finger to the chief’s hat, which now rested on his own head. “ Now I’ll ride and fight with King Joseph, and bring back many more fine trophies for the clan!”

Leya could no longer hold back her jealousy. “But Bulan, it was me who stopped the Pecheneg. You said so yourself.”

Bulan feigned surprise, then broke into a grin. “Why, so I did! Forgive me, sister, I forgot.”

The Tarkhan stared at Leya.  “Is that right!” He turned to Leya’s father. “Does the girl speak truly?”

Father’s boot traced a tight circle on the ground. “Leya, I’ll have a word with you later.”

“If such a thing is true,” said the Tarkhan to Leya, “we honor you, brave warrior-maid!”  He scrutinized her with sharp black eyes, as if assessing her resolve.

They faced each other: the hardened commander, and the young nomad girl, just on the edge of womanhood: a lithe, wiry figure, hard-muscled from a life of tending animals. Her black hair, twisted in multiple braids, hung nearly to her waist.  She had the broad features and high cheekbones of the eastern folk, and her deep-set black eyes sparkled with intelligence and spirit.

She wore the simple clothing of all the steppe people:  wool kaftan and sash, baggy trousers, leather boots, sheepskin cap, and a long curved dagger belted at her side. There seemed nothing to distinguish Leya sher-Kimmer from the rest of her clan. And yet the Tarkhan must have seen something, for he moved closer to speak for her ears alone.

“Once in a hundred years,” he said, “the Holy One raises up a woman of spirit as a boghatur: a noble warrior-hero.  There have been few such since the illustrious Ras Tarkhan--but by the staff of Avram, perhaps one day you’ll be among them.” He inclined his head, as a gentleman to a lady, and his lip twitched in a smile. “Shall we see you one day at the White Fortress of Sarkel, m’lady?”

“No.” Scowling, Father stepped in front of Leya. “My daughter will stay with her family. Leya—go back inside. Bulan—pack your gear and go with them.”

It took Bulan barely five minutes to pack his extra kaftan, boots and bowstring, and give his mother a farewell hug. “Leya, my heroic sister,” he whispered, pinching her cheek, “now you’ll be the defender of our family. Remember!”

            And so she waved farewell to her brother— her arrogant, teasing, infuriating, loving brother—and off he rode, his back ramrod straight and proud between the King’s men. She stared after him until they disappeared from sight, and blinked back a tear.     

            The others all stood around discussing the royal visitors: their horses, armor and gear. Leya decided not to wait for her father’s displeasure.  He hadn’t looked at all happy about her little exchange with the King’s officer. The last time he’d worn that expression, when she had lost a sheep while picking berries, he had used his leather belt on her. She fled back to the horse enclosure, hoping that Father’s wounded leg would prevent him from coming after her.

The Tarkhan had only been joking, calling her a boghatur. Women could fight to defend their homes and families, but no sane woman would choose a warrior’s life. To see a man killed close up—it wasn’t as glorious as the tales made it seem. The face of the dead Pecheneg had haunted her dreams all week.  

Still… what had the King’s officer said to her? “Will you go one day to the White Fortress of Sarkel, m’lady?”

The White Fortress. The name caught her imagination…she saw a place of mighty ramparts and snapping banners, from which heroes in shining chain mail charged out to the sound of war drums and trumpets. And she had been invited there!

And then Father had stepped in front of her, banishing her to the smoky yurt and the cookpots.

For the first time in her life, Leya knew rebellion. “Karalpa, someday I’ll go to Sarkel,” she whispered, while brushing the horse’s glossy coat. “And I won’t let Father stop me.”

Chapter 2
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