The Shaman

Ever since arriving at Dragon Court nine years ago and joining the Imperial Guard, A Zheba had never felt so good. Draw the bow, nock the arrow, release the string—movements simple enough already, yet he could still trim away a few unnecessary details and make them simpler still.

After the failed coup, the failed election, and one failure after another, A Zheba had finally found his long-lost confidence on the battlefield.

Schemes and tricks just weren't for me, he thought.

The cheers, like a gust of wind, gradually died away. Both armies fell back, stretching out their lines and spreading in several directions. It was a sign that an outside force was approaching.

A Zheba looked into the distance. A black line appeared on the horizon, growing thicker and broader, then splitting off into a thin line that crawled toward the battlefield.

He recognized the fluttering great banner. The black horse was the Imperial Guard's standard, corresponding to the Khan King's white horse banner.

After watching for a while, A Zheba wheeled back toward his own ranks. He nodded slightly to the Dragon King and reported to the twelve-year-old commander, "It's the Imperial Guard's shaman."

The Northern Court had no state religion that stood above all others. From princes and nobles to ordinary herders, people could freely choose their beliefs, and there was no problem with following several at once. But every army had shamans in varying numbers. It was an old tradition, like the sorcerers in the Great Snow Mountain army.

These shamans prayed for victory and cursed the enemy. They had long since become little more than optional symbolic figures, so it was no wonder that even Shulitu, the legitimate grandson of the Khan King, was surprised by the news. "Shamans? What are they here for?"

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