Kutlug looked at the laughing Tatars across from him and laughed in fury. "Lowly slaves, cherish the little time you have left."
On the Tatar grasslands, the rise of every new tribe meant a reshuffling of power. Before the Qiyan tribe unified the Tatar grasslands, its strength and pastures had both been far inferior to those of the Naimans.
Every laughing Tatar before him was part of the new military aristocracy that had risen atop the mountain of corpses and sea of blood of the Naimans. Many had even once been Naiman slaves, and they had long been mortal enemies of Kutlug.
A bonfire blazed to life atop the hill.
A shaman wearing a silver ritual crown and holding a human-skin ritual drum began dancing an ancient, mysterious dance around the fire.
The attendant shamans beside him poured meat, milk, and wine from bowls and basins into the bonfire. The flames were strangely mystical; the moment the offerings entered them, they turned into an unfathomable plume of blue smoke that rode the wind straight into the heavens.
Boom!
A violent wind suddenly rose.
The banners that had only been gently swaying were instantly whipped about by the gale. Sand and dust filled the air. Those among the Khitan army who wore face guards fared better, only hearing pebbles rattle loudly against their helmets.
Those without helmets or face guards could not even open their eyes.
A blazing fire of vengeance burned in Kutlug's eyes, as though he had once more seen the Tatar slaughterers raising their blades and hacking down his clansmen during that great battle on the grasslands.
He let out a roar like thunder. "It is the Tatars' shamans! Master Jueyuan, please vanquish these demons!"
"This old monk is here!"
The eminent monk from the eastern Huayan School,