Kapitel 12: Tukal Bey
The sun slowly set beyond the horizon, casting a warm golden glow across the library walls. Alexander and Boris, surrounded by scrolls, leaned over the table. The light of candles struggled against the encroaching darkness, casting flickering shadows on the spread-out parchments.
The silence was broken only by the occasional crackle of wax and the scratch of a quill on paper. Alexander delved into the scrolls Boris had prepared in advance: iron, salt, fertile lands, pastures - everything that Kyivska Rus' possessed. Yet the absence of mentions of gold and silver in the scrolls left Alexander with a hint of disappointment. Without domestic sources of these metals, the prospect of minting coins remained a distant goal.
It became increasingly clear to him that the strength of Kyivska Rus' lay in its land. Agriculture, trade, and craftsmanship - all revolved around this foundation. To increase influence, he needed to develop what they already had: improving agriculture, attracting traders with symbolic goods that could be uniquely associated with Kyiv. Honey, wax, and quality textiles could elevate Kyivska Rus' in the markets.
Alexander sighed and leaned closer to the scroll. A clear path began to emerge in his thoughts: first, establish order; then, improve trade and crafts; and finally, move forward. Along this path, Kyiv could become not just the center of Kyivska Rus' but its primary link to the broader world.
- Kyivska Rus' draws its strength from the land, - he said thoughtfully, running his hand along the edge of the table. - Fields, forests, rivers - this is our wealth. But to rule, it's not enough. Order is needed. Trade, craftsmanship, governance - all must be properly organized
Boris, standing nearby, nodded subtly. His calm, discerning gaze wandered over the scrolls with records.
- You are right, Prince. Our fields feed all of Kyivska Rus', but that's not enough to consolidate power. If agriculture is improved, and peasants are provided with simple tools and knowledge... the harvests will grow. Where there is abundance, there are merchants. Kyiv already attracts traders, but turning it into an undeniable hub - that is what will make your authority unshakable
Alexander looked at Boris. His words carried a confidence bolstered by keen observation and understanding of the situation.
- Then we'll start with what we already have. Develop agriculture. Expand arable lands, strengthen pastures, and support those who work the land. If Kyivska Rus' is well-fed, everything else will be easier, - Alexander spoke firmly, though a hint of fatigue lingered in his voice.
Boris allowed himself a faint smile.
- It is a wise decision. But, Prince, fields alone will not attract merchants. They seek goods that can be sold abroad. Honey, wax, quality textiles, weapons - these could become Kyiv's symbols in the markets
Alexander paused in thought. Taking up a quill, he jotted down a few quick notes.
- Crafts and goods, then. We need to expand fairs, attract more people. Kyiv must become a place everyone aspires to reach. But... - he squinted, looking up at Boris. - This will require order. Guards on the roads, rules for fairs, protection for merchants. The boyars won't like this. They are used to doing as they please
- You're right, Prince, - Boris nodded. His face grew serious. - Order means not just protection but also control. The boyars have grown accustomed to exploiting chaos to enrich themselves at the expense of merchants. But... if you can improve the roads and ensure safety, their revenues will increase. That might convince at least some of them
Alexander smirked.
- Convince some... and the others?
Boris paused. His voice became steady but quiet.
- Everyone has a weakness, Prince. Some will want more land, others the rights to trade. And if that doesn't work... perhaps some need to be reminded of the consequences. Or shown that their privileges depend on your goodwill
Alexander shook his head thoughtfully, tapping the quill against the table.
- You're right. Time, security, and resources. Without them, nothing will work. I'll have to take the risk
Boris regarded him with approval glinting in his eyes.
- You have vision, Prince. As for the boyars... let them see you not only as a ruler but as a protector of their interests. That might help avoid unnecessary conflicts
Alexander exhaled deeply and leaned back in his chair.
- So much to do... All right, let's wrap up. Thank you, Boris. With your help, I'm beginning to see the full picture
He handed the scrolls back to Boris. The monk, with a slight bow, carefully gathered them.
- I'm glad to be of service, Prince. If you need anything else, I am always ready to help
- Very well. You may go. Good night
- And a peaceful evening to you, Prince, - Boris replied softly, disappearing through the door with a faint rustle.
Left alone, Alexander organized the remaining parchments and ran his hand over his weary face. His fingers still felt the chill of the inkwell. Glancing at the candle, he froze; its flame flickered as if mirroring his restless thoughts - unceasing and yearning for action.
Reaching his quarters, Alexander carefully set the scrolls on his desk. Removing his boots and exhaling heavily, he sank onto the hard bed, his gaze fixed on the ceiling. Thoughts of his plans swirled in his mind, refusing to let his body rest.
- Governing and developing a state is no easy task, - he muttered to himself. A faint smile flickered across his lips. - Life here demands effort in everything. Even simple records test patience and precision. But it's exhilarating... knowing you can change everything. Make it better
His gaze grew contemplative but carried a subtle trace of satisfaction.
- This world is like an unfinished book. I can write my legend into it
He ran his hand over his face, though for a moment his eyes dimmed.
- But can I handle it? Sometimes it feels like the weight of this era is too great for me. But can I retreat? No. I'll move forward
Gathering his thoughts, Alexander rose again and sat at his desk. His hand confidently took up the quill. Plans for developing fields and pastures became increasingly clear.
He wrote from the book about wheat cultivation, livestock breeding, crafts, and goods. The notes flowed onto the parchment in neat lines, his thoughts coming easily, one after another.
The next morning came late. Alexander, having fallen asleep at his desk, seemed immersed in a deep slumber. On the table lay scattered notes, and the candles had burned out, leaving faint drops of wax. His face, weary but focused, reflected that he wasn't merely ruling - he was creating.
At the doors to his quarters, Mirnomir and Mstislav stood on guard. Vladimir, who had kept watch through the night, warned them before leaving.
- The prince worked late into the night. Let him rest. Do not disturb him
Inside the room, complete silence reigned. Only the morning light, filtering through the shutters, gently touched Alexander's face, as if promising a new day and new opportunities.
Meanwhile, in one of the largest Polovtsian hordes, the selection of a new khan was taking place. Khan Kara-Buran, once the terror of the steppes, had grown old and weak. The elders and the khan himself decided it was time to choose a successor.
But the horde was divided in their opinions - no one could decide on a worthy candidate. In the end, the decision was made according to an ancient tradition: the winner of the duel would become the new khan.
Kara-Buran had six sons: Tukal-Bey and Kara-Tash, the eldest and primary contenders for the throne; Sary-Batyr, the third son, renowned for his military prowess; Altyn-Aidar, a diplomat and politician who preferred intrigue to direct strength; Kulan-Burya, the fiery and impulsive fifth son; and Tuman-Taichi, the youngest, known as a skilled archer.
That day, everything was to be decided in a duel where the stakes were not just life but the right to rule as khan.
Before each of them stood a choice: fight to their last breath, proving their strength and fearlessness, or bow their heads and accept the authority of the victor.
The strongest, the one who could prove their superiority not only in battle but also in spirit, would gain the right to rule. There was no place for weakness or mercy here - only iron will and the fangs of fate, ready to tear apart anyone who failed the trial.
Tukal-Bey sat in his yurt, bent over a blade he was slowly sharpening. The metal reflected his face, but it was not the face he remembered. A week ago, he had woken up in this body under strange circumstances.
Memories of the modern world mixed with the memories of this body. He, a man from the future, had been transported to the past to become the son of one of the most powerful Polovtsian khans. This body had been doomed to die, poisoned by venom, but instead of death, it had gained a new owner.
- How thrilling this all is - he muttered, running a finger along the blade's edge with a faint smile.
The initial shock he had felt gave way to euphoria. Here, he was free. No one could impose their rules on him anymore or forbid him from being himself. He could finally do all the things he had dreamed of in his previous life but hadn't dared to attempt. This freedom was intoxicating.
- With this strength and power, I can finally become who I've always wanted to be. No one will dare to humiliate me again - his eyes gleamed with a mad light.
He lifted his head and stared at the yurt's ceiling, leaning back, and then quietly laughed - a low, piercing sound that seemed to come from deep within his soul.
Behind him, among the rugs, lay bodies. Men and women. Their frozen faces were twisted in horror, the last remnants of life etched into their expressions. A man with a slit throat, a woman with a bloodied face and lifeless eyes. Their blood formed dark stains, soaking into the fabric of the rugs and the ground, filling the air with the scent of death.
The stench of blood was everywhere. It struck the nose like venom, penetrating the lungs and instilling fear in the weak, forcing them to avoid this part of the camp. But not Tukal. To him, this wasn't just a scene of carnage - it was triumph. The scent of blood was like the steppe wind, intoxicating and liberating. He breathed it in with pleasure, as though only now truly feeling alive.
His calmness was unsettling. In this silent chaos of the dead and the blood, he looked like a ruler, as if this chaos belonged to him, was his creation. And in this creation, he found his place - wild, untamed, and, as he believed, true.
Soon, a man entered the yurt. It was Targul-Arystan, his closest friend. Targul froze for a moment, taking in the scene. Tukal sat among the dead like a king on his bloody throne.
- Oh, Targul, there was a little incident here, but don't worry, I took care of it - Tukal said calmly, as though discussing a mundane hunting accident. - These must have been Altyn's men. I suppose he realized the poison didn't work and decided to try another method. But, as you can see, he underestimated me again.
Targul struggled to tear his eyes away from the bodies and looked at his friend. Tukal seemed frighteningly cold-blooded. His smile, calm and slightly curved, was more terrifying than any threat.
- The duel will start soon. Are you ready? - Targul asked, trying to hide his unease.
- Ready? - Tukal laughed, his laugh almost joyous. - I'm better than ever! Today I'll show them who the real khan is.
- Are you sure? Are you still human, Tukal? Or have you already become a beast that has lost its soul? - Targul's voice was quiet, but tension seeped through it. He watched his comrade, increasingly noticing the changes that had become part of Tukal.
Tukal slowly raised his gaze to Targul. There was no anger or irritation in his eyes, only a chilling calm that made one uneasy. It seemed as though he had calculated everything around him, every word, every step.
- Yes, I may have gotten carried away - he said with icy calmness, as if everything happening was just a game.
Targul felt a chill run down his spine. It seemed the chaos surrounding Tukal was under his complete control. An unnatural calmness, bordering on indifference, revealed a man who had crossed a line, beyond which his former self began to dissolve.
- Alright, I understand - Targul knew that Tukal had changed. But despite his fear, he remained by his side. Who else could prevent Tukal from becoming a monster if not him?
Tukal's thoughts slipped beyond the yurt and the upcoming battle. Not just power. Not just strength. This world was clay that he could shape with his own hands. It was his time, his laws, his rules.
- Let's go
He stood up, grabbed his blade, and headed toward the exit. Outside the yurt, his loyal warriors were already waiting, ready to follow him into any fight.
From the very beginning, he had been stunned to find himself in this world. But soon, this place began to feel like paradise. Here, there were no constraints of a society that judged his desires and ambitions.
Here, he could be himself. If he desired a woman, he took her. If he wanted to kill, he killed. His desires became the law. But his cold-blooded nature, bordering on madness, made him unpredictable. In one moment, he could be calculating, like a master tactician, and in the next, a savage beast, destroying everything in his path.
Today, he was to undergo the final trial - to become the khan. And he knew that none of his brothers could stop him.
Tukal stepped out of the yurt into a camp bathed in morning sunlight. The steppe wind carried the noise of voices, the clanking of weapons, and the pounding of hooves. Warriors, servants, and shamans had all gathered around the arena, built on a raised platform, to witness the duel. This was the day that would decide the fate of their great horde.
Seeing Tukal, his warriors raised their heads. Each of them knew that behind the Tegin (heir) stood more than just strength. They saw in his eyes a fire that didn't waver, even in the face of the strongest winds.
- Today, I will show you who deserves to rule - he said without turning around. His voice was quiet, but every one of his men heard it as though he were speaking directly to them.
He stepped forward, and the crowd parted before him, like the steppe before a storm.
On the arena, surrounded by thousands of watchful eyes, stood his brothers. Kara-Tash, as always, unmoving like a rock. His massive frame and stern gaze inspired fear even among the warriors of the horde. Sary-Batyr, calm but determined, already stood ready, gripping his sword.
Altyn-Aidar casually surveyed the arena, appearing more of a strategist than a warrior. Kulan-Burya couldn't stand still, nervously tapping his foot against the ground, while Tuman-Taichi, though the youngest, was focused, holding a bow at the ready. All of them awaited their eldest brother, the one whom half of them feared to their core.
He was a true primordial beast - inhuman strength, an iron grip, and eyes as sharp as a hawk's. His reactions were so lightning-fast they seemed almost supernatural. Yet even the mightiest beast can fall to poison. But somehow, Tukal had survived. They had gone to unimaginable lengths to poison him, but he still lived.
They knew they stood no chance against him one-on-one. So they had convinced the elders to organize a mass duel, hoping this time they could finally destroy him.
Tukal stopped at the edge of the arena, and his brothers turned to face him.
- You're late, Tukal - Kara-Tash sneered. - Saying your goodbyes before coming?
Tukal smiled, but there wasn't a hint of humor in his eyes.
- Are you sure you'll survive this day, brother? - he said coldly, taking a step forward. - Today, fate will decide who's worthy. And that will be me
Tukal felt no fear of them. He knew he surpassed them not only in strength but also in intellect. He fully understood that he would likely have to fight alone against all of them, for he was the strongest among them. Yet his brothers weren't about to give up without a fight.
This was a mass duel, where all participants entered the arena at once and fought until only one remained standing. The winner would be crowned as the new khan.
The shaman stepped onto the raised platform. His voice carried across the arena, as if the wind itself had decided to speak:
- Sons of Kara-Buran, today you will decide who will become the next khan. On this day, blood will be shed for strength, spirit, and the future of our horde. Death here is not defeat. Death here is a path to greatness
The shaman raised his hand, and a battle horn signaled the beginning. The crowd roared, but on the arena, a tense silence fell. The brothers slowly began to surround Tukal, their gazes full of determination. Each of them knew: today, only one of them would leave the arena alive.
- Tukal, your time has come - Altyn-Aidar called out loudly, not taking his eyes off his brother. - Together, we'll finish you. Only then will we prove our strength
- Come at me, little ones - Tukal sneered, beckoning them with his hand. His voice was cold, as if the verdict had already been passed in his words.
- Enough talk!
Kara-Tash was the first to charge forward, his massive axe slicing through the air with a whistle. But Tukal dodged like the wind of the steppe, and the strike hit the ground, sending up a cloud of dust. Sary-Batyr immediately seized the opportunity and attacked from the other side. His sword gleamed in the sunlight, but Tukal parried the blow, making the crowd gasp.
Kulan-Burya darted in from behind, like a predator, his daggers flashing as they traced swift arcs. One of them cut across Tukal's side, leaving a deep wound.
- Well done, Kulan - Tukal said, retreating, but his smirk was icy. - But you're too predictable
He spun around and struck his brother with his elbow, smashing into his face. Kulan staggered, blood dripping from his split lip.
Tuman-Taichi, seizing the chaos, loosed an arrow aimed at Tukal's knee. The arrow grazed the skin, leaving a long cut. Tukal gritted his teeth and quickly turned to face his youngest brother.
- You're shooting too close to us! - Sary-Batyr shouted, glancing at Tuman.
- If you won't kill him, I will! - Tuman shouted back, releasing another arrow.
Now the arrows flew one after another, forcing Tukal to focus entirely on dodging. His movements were lightning-fast, but he knew this couldn't go on for long. One arrow grazed his shoulder, and another buried itself in the ground mere inches from his foot.
The wound on his shoulder burned, blood dripping down his armor. Yet Tukal did not stop. The pain was merely a reminder of the price he was willing to pay for the throne.
He suddenly lunged toward Sary-Batyr, who was the closest. Their swords clashed once more, sparks lighting up the arena. Sary-Batyr was an experienced warrior, but Tukal was merciless. With a swift movement, he disarmed his brother and thrust his blade into his chest. The crowd gasped as blood splattered across the dusty ground.
- You were a worthy warrior, brother - Tukal said coldly, watching the light fade from Sary's eyes.
- You will never be a great khan, Tukal!
Kara-Tash roared and charged again. His enormous axe cut wide arcs through the air, but his swings were too slow. Tukal dodged and ducked under a strike, grabbing the axe by the shaft. Twisting it free from Kara-Tash's grip, he swung it back and delivered a decisive blow with his sword. Kara-Tash's head fell to the ground in an instant.
- You don't get to decide - Tukal said coldly, his gaze unwavering.
As Kara-Tash fell, the crowd held its breath. Even the bravest warriors would have hesitated against such a foe. But Tukal simply raised his blood-soaked blade, his gaze locking onto his remaining brothers.
Altyn-Aidar had stayed back, watching the chaos. When Kara-Tash fell, he knew he couldn't wait any longer. Moving closer, he hurled a dagger that struck Tukal's side. But instead of following up and finishing his wounded brother, Altyn retreated.
- You've always been too clever to fight fair, - Tukal said, pulling the dagger out.
Blood poured from his side, every movement stinging with pain. But Tukal knew that showing weakness meant defeat. His body burned, but his mind remained icy, like the freezing winds of the steppe.
Kulan-Burya growled like a wild beast, his eyes darting between Tukal and their fallen brothers. He knew he would lose, but he couldn't stop himself.
- Better to die in battle than bow before you! - he roared.
Kulan-Burya charged at Tukal. His dagger slashed through the air, but Tukal sidestepped and grabbed his brother's arm. A brutal kick to the chest sent Kulan sprawling onto the ground.
- You were never worthy of the throne, brother - Tukal said before plunging his sword into Kulan's heart.
Tuman-Taichi, with an almost empty quiver, kept shooting, but his hands trembled. He understood that death was inevitable. His arrows grew less accurate, and Tukal closed the distance with each miss. In moments, he was face to face with his youngest brother. Grabbing Tuman by the throat, Tukal snatched the bow from him and snapped it over his knee.
- You're too young to be my enemy - he said, his voice cold, before delivering the final blow.
Some women closed their eyes, whispering prayers, while others screamed and raised their hands. The warriors looked at Tukal with a mix of awe and fear - he was no longer just the strongest; he was becoming a legend.
Altyn-Aidar was the last one standing, his expression full of despair and acceptance of the inevitable. He knew that even wounded, Tukal was an unstoppable force. Every muscle in his body, every movement, spoke of unwavering determination. As Tukal approached with steady steps, Altyn made a desperate attempt to save his life:
- You are strong, Tukal, but the horde is not just strength. Without wisdom to hold the throne, you will fall - he said, his voice tinged with desperation, trying to reach Tukal's reason.
Tukal merely smiled, shaking his head slowly, almost mockingly:
- You're wrong
His voice was as firm as molten iron. He knew leaving Altyn alive would be like nursing a viper at his chest.
Realizing his words had no effect, Altyn-Aidar pulled out another dagger and threw it. The blade sliced through the air but missed, narrowly avoiding Tukal. It was his last act of defiance. Accepting his fate, Altyn sank to his knees, his gaze filled with bitterness and resignation.
- You've won, Tukal, but killing me will turn the spirits against you. Let me live, and I will prove that I can be of use. Even the strongest khan needs counsel - Altyn whispered, a faint hope flickering in his voice.
Tukal's eyes remained cold, like steel. His reply was short and unforgiving:
- Blood is the price of strength
And before Altyn could utter another word, Tukal struck the final blow, ending the bloody duel. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them again. His gaze moved over the bodies of his fallen brothers. Even with the memories of the real Tukal, he felt nothing for them - they were brothers by blood, but not by spirit.
He knew from the real Tukal's experience that the steppe did not forgive weakness. There was only one rule - the throne demanded blood. And Tukal was prepared to pay that price, again and again, if necessary.
The throne of kings was always paved with bones. Standing above them, Tukal realized he was merely the latest to walk this path of thorns.
He raised his bloodied sword, marking his victory.
The shaman, lifting his bone staff to the heavens, uttered a thunderous incantation. His voice, sharp and powerful like the steppe wind, echoed over the arena, silencing even the most restless:
- Today, the steppe has chosen its khan! The spirits have accepted the sacrifice of Kar-Buran's sons, and only one has proven his right to lead the horde. Bow before Tukal, heir of great blood and unyielding will!
The crowd froze, like a bull before a predator's leap. The silence lasted but a moment, then a roar began to rise, growing louder with each passing second. Warriors started beating their swords against their shields, chanting the new khan's name. Yet not all voices carried the same tone; those close by shouted with respect and approval, but from the distant ranks came wary murmurs, adding to the commotion.
Women standing by their tents raised their hands to the sky. Some sang songs tinged with sorrow, others tossed embroidered scarves - symbols of submission - while still others pressed their lips together, fixing their gazes on Tukal. Faint dissent mixed with the rising excitement:
- Too bloody a khan, - some whispered, only to be drowned out by other voices: - Strong as our ancestors!
The elder warriors in the front ranks blessed the victor, though one of the aksakals muttered quietly, shaking his head:
- The storm stirs the sand, and with it, the blood. He has won today, but can he hold it against the winds of the steppe?
Amid the throng, Tukal's supporters stood tall, their gazes steady and even defiant. They knew a strong khan was the shield of the horde. One warrior, a young but seasoned rider, shouted:
- This day will be etched into the memory of the steppe! Khan Tukal will lead us to conquest!
The crowd came alive again, with women echoing the men's cries. Yet deep within the tents, one elder whispered:
- Another bloody khan... Time will tell if he becomes a ruler or just a flame, quickly snuffed by the wind
The ritual concluded, but the crowd's roar persisted, transforming into a hymn to strength and legitimacy. At that moment, the steppe itself seemed to acknowledge Tukal as its master.
The elders standing in the arena's shadow exchanged glances. Their faces remained stoic, yet their eyes revealed varied emotions. One elder, old and hunched, stepped forward, his voice low but firm:
- You have proven your strength, Tukal. Only those who shed blood for the throne may become khan. Remember, the horde bows only to the one who holds it in an iron grip
- The khan leads us to new conquests, - agreed a younger aksakal, crossing his arms over his chest. - Today, the steppe sees its leader. So be it!
The clan leaders, standing apart, observed the proceedings. For some, Tukal's victory was expected - they already felt the winds of change, seeing in him the power to fortify the horde. For others, his methods seemed excessively brutal, though they understood that a strong khan was both the shield and the sword of the steppe.
- We will follow him, - declared Kaysar, a large warrior with graying hair, addressing his men. - He has proven himself worthy. Let anyone who disagrees step onto the arena and say so!
His words were met with approving shouts. The warriors around began beating drums, further lifting spirits. Young riders near the arena raised their spears high, shouting:
- Tukal is the storm of the steppe! He will lead us to victories, as the great khans of our ancestors did!
Women by their tents whispered among themselves. One, wrapped in furs with a long braid, spoke quietly:
- He is strong, as a khan should be. Better to live under the protection of the strong than to suffer under the weak
- Yes, - agreed another, older woman. - Let the steppe burn with fire, so long as the khan leads us forward
Yet among the elders, there was a quiet murmur. One aksakal, known for his wisdom, leaned toward a neighbor:
- He has proven his strength, but will he have the wisdom? A rule built on blood can bring division
- There is no division in the steppe where the strongest rules, - his neighbor replied with narrowed eyes. - We have seen much blood. Tukal will be the one to unite us. Or he will fall, as others have
The crowd continued chanting Tukal's name, but in the air lingered something greater - a yearning for future triumphs. Everyone understood that this victory was only the beginning. A horde led by a strong khan would either move forward or perish.
Tukal raised his head. His lips curved into a triumphant smile, but his eyes remained cold and ruthless, like the steel of his blade. In their depths burned a dark, unyielding thirst for power, as hot as the desert wind sweeping over scorched earth.
He slowly scanned his warriors, elders, women, and children - everyone now standing under his banner.
- This world will be mine
Wöchentlicher Energiestatus
-- Power-
Rangliste 
-- Power-
Stein