There was a fire where Sanjar’s eye used to be, radiating inward from the black hole that had taken up half his field of vision. The white-hot pain that had overtaken his senses when the Mongol bit his eye out had dulled, degenerating from a terrible, all-consuming blaze into a coal-seam fire to rival the Gate of Hell in Darvaz.

Sanjar was no stranger to suffering, of course: an Arystan commando would have at least a couple of ribs broken or suffer the near-death of drowning during training. He could be lost in the wilderness during recon training and know the unceasing dirge of starvation and the screeching tones of thirst that clawed at the mind and ate away at a man’s sanity. Sanjar had even suffered the terrible poisoning from a hollow point bullet stuck in his belly, forced to cling to life for weeks even as the acid in his stomach ate away at his intestines, kicking and screaming at the imam who leaned over his bed and tried to offer him words of wisdom to ease him into the afterlife.

Had Sanjar still had any control of his faculties, he would have perhaps reconsidered his approach: he would have headed back to Saryojek and found his comrades, where they would have cleaned and dressed his wound and given him a few days’ rest while they went after the Mongol, tearing the forest apart and turning every stone before bringing him before him, kneeling and bleeding for Sanjar to blind with a red-hot poker and then strangle at his leisure.

If Sanjar had any clarity of mind at that moment, he would have perhaps chosen to drive the Mongol so deep into the woods that he would have been lost without any chance of ever escaping, so he could watch him as he ran around screaming and bawling, while he wasted away from hunger and thirst. Sanjar could even set up camp there and wait, until the Mongol found him and crawled to him, begging for the Kazakhstani to put a bullet in his brain.

But Sanjar could think of nothing beyond revenge: his mind could consider no alternative but that of the death of the biker-scout, by his own hands, in that instant. The Mongol, stripped of his scalp-jacket, running through the forest in his yellow-grey wind-resistant suit was anathema of the highest order to Sanjar, who was now intent on reaching it and tearing it apart, stripping the flesh underneath until his world was dyed red.

I will kill him and then I will die. Sanjar thought, as he stopped, dropped to one knee and lined up the Dragunov’s iron sights. Panting, licking at his cracked lips, he pulled the trigger with the ghost of his index finger, then his middle finger. The rifle’s report was like thunder. Around the Mongol, dirt and bits of tree bark exploded, showering him. His depth perception was gone, his aim wasn’t worth a good goddamn.

But Sanjar still pulled at the trigger, lining the crosshairs up to the Mongol’s head, his knees, his gut, his loins. And each time, he would see in his mind’s eye the man being taken apart and almost hear his hoarse screaming sounding above the thunder of his rifle.

And every time, the yellow-grey shape would move farther away, limping onward.

So it was, as Sanjar heard the click, click, click of the hammer striking an empty chamber, his magazine spent, that he threw away his rifle, the tenets of his training forgotten, pulled the combat knife that the Mongol biker-scout had left behind from his belt and broke into a jog, aimed to conserve energy and keep his enemy in sight, while the Mongol ran and tumbled and exhausted himself on the harsh terrain.

This time, he would not underestimate his enemy: he had been trained in the ways of fighting men in the field of battle; the Mongol had instead fought like an animal, grasping and biting and clawing. Once before, Sanjar had suffered this indignation, the day he had lost his trigger finger to an Uzbekistani raider, a girl of fourteen years with a shattered spine, her mouth flecked with spittle and blood.

Sanjar and his squad had been ambushed as they were making their way across a narrow rocky path, a twelve-liter tank of gas split between them (fresh from their raid on the little village) when the child's blind shot began tearing at his comrades. Hidden among the rocks, he couldn’t clearly see the shooter. The blow that had left her crippled and dying had been a lucky one, pulled off almost without thinking. 

She had been beautiful, Sanjar thought then. Black-haired and green-eyed, skin the color of coffee. Her face was that of a predator, her features drawn by famine. Her legs were still kicking out of habit, the muscles desperately seeking direction from the brain, their lines of communication cut off by a tiny bit of flying lead. Sanjar could have simply shot her point-blank with his service pistol but he knew he couldn’t afford wasting the bullet. So he took out his knife and leaned down at the girl. What he should have done, was hold her down by the hair, pressing her face against the rocks and run the edge of the blade through her jugular, quick and clean.

Instead, he took his time. Holding his knife beside her eye so she was looking down at its finely honed point, his free hand wrapped around her neck and began to squeeze. The girl had killed four of his friends, four men that had been left behind during a NATO exercise to starve and die in the middle of the wasteland. They had bled together, they had starved and thirsted and suffered together and she had put a bullet in them for hate's sake.

Sanjar’s fingers were clenching the supple throat, staining the tanned skin with streaks of blue, his nails digging into the flesh, drawing blood. The girl thrashed, snarled and gagged, before finally reaching out to strike him in the face and throat. Sanjar had blocked her blows with his right hand, the knife forgotten on the ground. It was then that the girl reached out and bit into his trigger-finger.

It lasted for an agonized eternity, as the girl’s teeth bit through skin, muscle and clacked shut around the knuckles. Sanjar screamed in agony, tugging against the girl. She only bit harder, twisting in the opposite direction and then spat.

Sanjar’s hand came free, blood spurting from the tiny stump. Without a word, without a single peep, he grasped at a jagged rock laying beside her and brought it down on her face. There was a crack, crack, crack and her wrathful, wild beauty was gone into a homogenized mess of red and white. The feet kept kicking for a good half-minute, before finally ceasing.

The Mongol had been the same, like the girl. Savage,  hungry. Now he was desperate and scared while Sanjar was hurt and mad. He knew that, even as he kicked and stomped through the vegetation, his breath coming out frantic and ragged. He tripped onto a rock and stumbled, losing sight of the target for a moment. When he looked up, the Mongol was gone.

Snarling, almost feral, Sanjar spat and roared for a while, before noticing the track where the underbrush began anew. The Mongol had made his way to a cluster of fir trees, seeking cover. Perhaps he had thought he might pull the wool over his half-blind pursuer. Perhaps he had thought the Arystani commando couldn’t smell his fear.

Approaching silently, almost cat-like, Sanjar inched toward his target, knife held with the blade facing downward. He was going to make this one last: a slice at the forehead, to blind him. A blow to the chest, to knock the wind out of him. Then, hamstringing. Then, the knife cutting at each finger in turn flick, flick, flick in quick succession. And only then, only after the Mongol had been nothing but a screaming mess of blood and stumps, only then would Sanjar grant him death, bringing his eyes with him to Saryojek, to show off to his comrades.

Sanjar's mind was afire with the thought of his terrible, godlike retribution as he entered the cluster of trees. So engrossed was he in his hate that he barely noticed the screaming man, pale-faced and scared beyond belief, as he brought the rock down on him from his blind-side. Something gave way at the top of Sanjar’s skull, caving into the soft meat of his brain, blinding him once and for all, making his legs give way under him as he writhed uselessly like a stricken cat on the forest floor.

The Kazakhstani let out a single, hoarse roar, before the rock came down on his head. He was still alive by the third blow.

***

Nergui was screaming long after the Kazakhstani sniper’s head had been reduced to a mass of featureless meat. Even after that, Nergui kept kicking at the dead body, when the rock  - slick with blood - slipped from his hands and tumbled in the dirt. He stopped, halfway through, to retch and stumble before finally allowing himself to drop to the ground, exhausted.

Above, the forest canopy had blended in with the starless night. Around him, the world grew suddenly silent. Invisible things slithered and beat leathery wings. Somewhere in the distance, a crow cawed at its brothers, calling them to feed.

Nergui searched through the dead man’s belongings, taking what he could: a hand-cranked flashlight, his combat knife, three packets of rations, a half-full canteen of water and…

A GPS tracker. Nergui looked at the thing, amazed. Finding such a trinket on a man, so many years into the end of the world was a million-to-one possibility, what with it being little better than a brick when the batteries ran out. He pressed the POWER button on it, to check for any lingering juice. Unsurprisingly, the thing had upped and died long ago. The things, he recalled, would drain the batteries like crazy but in the old days that hadn’t been too much of a hassle. 

Nergui patted the dead man down, looking for batteries, a hand-crank charger, anything at all he could use. All he found was half a dozen bullets and a rifle-cleaning kit. Throwing those away without a second thought, Nergui tested the flashlight. A couple of turns at the lever and it produced faint, tiny light. A dozen faster ones and the flashlight burned to almost maximum intensity. The racket it made was unbelievable, scaring away the murder of crows that had secretly gathered among the branches. It would have to do.

Wiping his combat knife, Nergui placed the fine-honed tip on the case screws of the flashlight. It had been a while since his brother had shown him how to jury-rig things like that back in the good old days, when he had been a petty bootlegging crook but he would have to try.

The knife’s tip was a clumsy fit on the cross-recess screw, the steel eating away at the top, slipping on occasion, once even cutting into Nergui’s palm. Biting the inside of his lip to keep from cursing, Nergui kept at it. Behind him, a hungry, daring crow landed on the dead man’s chest and began to pick at the choicest, softest meat of his face. Beside him, another pecked at the pool of his own congealing blood, giving Nergui a dirty look as he tried to shoo it away.

Fighting back exhaustion, swallowing back his own rising bile at the sound of beaks pecking at flesh, scraping against bone, Nergui continued his work, hoping that what he was doing was right, that the GPS would work and that his brother’s advice hadn’t been entirely useless, after all. 

And all around him, looking through the eyes of gathered ravens, peeking at him through the pool of his own blood and down through the fir tree branches, the little gods watched the panting, praying man and passed judgment.

***

On the proper execution and conduct of a Myangan Movie Night, according to tumen-law:

All men are to deliver their arms to the weapons-masters two hours before the commencement of the festivities and are to retrieve them upon their completion. The weapons-masters will not be held accountable for any loss of equipment before or after this event.

Baraat was the first in his zuun to deliver his weapons: his regulation AK-47, his four magazines and (reluctantly) his family’s saber. The weapons-master (an arbat-lord not of his zuun that he had known by the name of Miser) took note of his weapons in his inventory and tied them together with a length of adhesive tape, marking Baraat’s name and rank before throwing them onto the pile.

For the duration of the festivities, each man is entitled of a 300 ml flask of vodka from the myangan’s reserves. Further consumption of the stock is punishable by flogging. The responsible  zuun-lord must deliver 20 lashes to each man that is found drinking from the myangan’s reserves, with any additional lashes administered on the myangan-lord’s discretion. Food must be provided from each man’s personal stock.

Baraat filled his vodka-flask strapping it on his waist, as he made his way to the screening area, a clearing about 30 meters wide and 50 meters long. His mouth felt dry, but he daren’t touch the stuff. Already around him, about a dozen men were gulping down their rations, two of them from his own command. Baraat hoped he wouldn’t have to flog them. Slowly, clumsily, Baraat hobbled to the screening area, with a folding chair that he had got on loan from Kushi Ursut strapped on his back.

Each man is entitled to providing himself with his own seating arrangements. No seat is to be larger in size or greater in height than a regulation folding chair. The zuun-lord is to be held responsible for any disruption regarding seating arrangements that may arise from any of the men in his command.

Baraat had come early, taking down the folding chair and placing it in the middle of the screening area. In his experience, this was always the best seat: not too close (where he would not be able to make out the subtitles or have to lean back to make out the action) and not too far where he would be subject to the jeering and cheering of the drunkards.

Each man is to be provided with one regulation dose of mukhomor mushroom, provided from the myangan’s common stock. Exceeding this dosage (or taking a dosage in excess of the one provided) is punishable by imprisonment in the stockade for a fortnight. The zuun-lord responsible for the men performing this transgression must carry out the penalty accordingly.

“Care for a mushroom, zuun-lord?” Kushi asked, rattling the leather satchel in his hand, as Baraat settled down on his chair.

“Thank you” Baraat said, taking one of the sun-dried chunks in his hands, turning it.

“Have you ever had one?” Kushi said, popping one of the chunks in his mouth, chewing on it.

“No.” Baraat said, blushing. “I wasn’t…of age.”

“Ha!” Kushi exclaimed, chewing at the chunk with greater vigour. “Well, you might not be of age, but you’ve sure got two hundred men under your command! I say do whatever the hell you like!”

“Is it…is it bitter?” Baraat asked, halfway through popping it in his mouth.

“Tastes bloody awful, if you ask me. I suggest you bite little out of it each time, try not to get too much spit on it. Damn thing could make you retch. Also, you might not want to vomit too much out: loses some of its kick.” Kushi said, pushing the chunk against the inside of his cheek and sucking on the juice.

Baraat looked at the dried, dead thing in his hands (the wicked, brown-black thing that the Buriyat shamans held in highest regard), breathed deeply and popped it in his mouth. It felt like fur on his tongue, taut and stretched over wire-frame. Somehow, it reminded him of the trophy in his grandfather’s study back home. He bit into it carefully, slowly at first. Something popped and squirted against his teeth and splashed on his tongue. It tasted the way Baraat always imagined dead things would taste: sickly and bitter beyond words.

“Don’t spit it!” Kushi said, his hand reaching out to grab Baraat’s jaw, holding it in place. Baraat groaned and thrashed against his grip, “swallow, now. Come on, down the hatch.”

Baraat swallowed the juices, the taste not unlike that of gasoline, down the throat. His teeth clenched, the rest of the mukhomor chunk safely tucked against his cheek, he grabbed the vodka flask on his belt and gulped half of it down. It didn’t help to ease the fire in his throat.

“That’s something.” Baraat managed, fighting back nausea.

“Not bad, for a first timer.” Kushi said, slapping him on the shoulder. “Chuluun could hardly hold his the first time. Lost it in front of the whole zuun. He lashed the three men who laughed hardest till the skin on their backs peeled right off.”

“Was he better at this? Being a zuun-lord?” Baraat asked, flushing.

“Can’t tell yet, what with this being your first day on the job. But you took down a tank single-handed and that’s the best reference I’ve heard so far,” Kushi said, setting his own folding stool beside Baraat’s.

“Fat lot of good it will do me, if I mess this up.” Baraat said, looking at the workers as they set up the scaffolds and began to roll out the big projection screen. “The other zuun-lords, they didn’t seem too happy to see me.”

“I imagine so. They had to sack whole cities and take China itself before anyone even noticed them! Well, not all of them.” Kushi said, nudging Baraat with his elbow. “Some of them just had to bend over to the right myangan-lord and hold on to their ankles for a while.”

Baraat looked at Kushi, shocked. The arbat-lord only smiled his black-toothed smile and burst out laughing, slapping his knee.

“I am sorry, zuun-lord. But you should have seen the look on your face!” Kushi said, wiping the tears in his eyes. “Just you make sure you don’t get your men killed. That’s all you need to do. No daring-do, no great feats of valor required.”

“Gansukh Kiryat said that the Batu-Khan would make me myangan-lord. He told me I should settle for this.” Baraat whispered.

According to the mercy of each zuun-lord, any held in the coward’s stockade can be allowed a viewing of the feature film for the duration of the movie night, without any of the mushroom or vodka privileges allotted to each man.

“I say settle,” Kushi said, pausing mid-gulp “you don’t want this mess on your shoulders. I know I wouldn’t,” he went on, pointing at the milling mass of fighting, cussing, drinking men all around him as they gathered in the screening area. Somewhere in the distance, the cowards and the hostages were taken down from their usual places at the sides of the RVs, where they kneeled like trapped birds inside cramped cages, so they could see the show. Around them, Mongol warriors kicked at the bars and spat and jeered at the grimy, starved creatures.

Baraat barely even glanced at those men, his eyes suddenly drawn to the lone figure that moved among the throng untouched, unhindered: she was the woman in Gansukh Kiryat’s RV during morning report. The woman with the funerary-smoke eyes, whose hands he knew had healed him as he lay on the bed, feverish and broken. Something had clicked in his mind the moment he recognized her, something had somehow felt right when he saw her in that RV.

If Baraat had been born ten years earlier, he would perhaps have called what he felt love. If he had bothered to confide his feelings to his parents, they would have shook their heads, shrugged and chalked it off as juvenile infatuation. Both opinions, would of course, have been utterly wrong.

Baraat realized he had been holding his breath for an entire minute. Kushi’s jeering at the cowards in the stockade had been lost to him, the throng of the myangan around him dulled by the pounding sound in his ears. In the moment it took the Chinese woman to walk across the crowd and slip inside the hospital tent, Baraat Buriyat, the youngest zuun-lord in the history of the Horde, had discovered base animal desire. His teeth cracked the mushroom chunks into his mouth before he knew it, gulping the juices and bits down all at once.

“…ask me, the end of the world was the best thing ever happened to me.” Kushi finished, as he chewed and popped the brown chunk. 

“Who is that woman?” Baraat asked. Around him, the projector lights went out.

“What woman?” Kushi whispered, his voice reverently lowered at the sound of the projection machine revving up. Behind the men, the screen became spotted, tarnished, as a flicker of images began to flash across it, a motion picture about to be born.

“The Chinese woman. The doctor,” Baraat went on. The mushroom was roiling in his gut now, boiling and spinning in his stomach, saturated in acid, the first drops of psilocybin beginning their long trek into his bloodstream and toward his brain.

“You mean Heng? You don’t want to mess with her, zuun-lord. She is Gansukh Kiryat’s own Ogtbish. Plus, she’s the only medic in this entire myangan who’s not a complete and utter hack,” Kushi said through gritted teeth.

The harming of an Ogtbish without the consent of the myangan-lord responsible is punishable by death. Association with Ogtbish in an unofficial manner is punishable by stripping of rank and tantamount to desertion in the field of battle. Hampering of an Ogtbish’s task is punishable according to the will of the myangan-lord responsible for the Ogtbish.

“I was just-” 

“Don’t.” Kushi whispered harshly. "Just don’t. The Ogtbish are not to be trifled with. If you think yourself a hard man, then you have never truly met a hard woman. If you’re looking to get laid, the myangan has a perfectly serviceable harem."

Baraat felt suddenly bitter, angry. Bile rose up in his throat, almost choking him. He’d known of the girls in the harems of their initiation in the folds of the Horde in the backseat of mounts, their faces buried against the faux-leather of the seats, utterly silent, their mind and bodies broken well past the point of agony. He had been offered one, in the aftermath of the taking of Jiunquan, the fire that consumed the city roaring in tandem with the one in his loins. But when he’d seen the mess of blood and seed between her legs, the fire in him had gone out, quenched by a cold, lightless vacuum. The other men hadn’t, thankfully, noticed.

He wasn’t going to have a broken, useless thing as his consort, this much he knew. But if the Ogtbish - Heng, her name was Heng, Baraat savored it - was out of his reach, he would find a way to make her his. It just wouldn’t be the Horde’s way.

Baraat was about to get up, when Kushi’s hand gently pushed him back down on his seat. The arbat-lord never once turned his head to meet Baraat’s gaze. He only shushed him silently, reverently, as the movie’s score boomed through the megaphones across the A353 and the lion on screen roared mightily, unaware of its gilded hoop.