Chapter 29: The Horse-Taming Man (Part I)

The attendants’ ministrations ceased just before a bottle of blood could be poured into Anda’s mouth. These servants belonged to the priests of Dalet, and thus believed the blood would soothe the temper of Sekhmet. Anda drove them away with no more ceremony than one would use to dismiss a household servant who had been busy at their duties for years. The attendants had no choice but to depart, casting longing, tear-filled glances back at him with every step.

"Father, they show you such reverence, yet you treat them so coldly once you've had your fill?" Aaron asked, clearly dissatisfied. He had only just returned, weary from his journey and still covered in layers of dust.

Anda glanced at his son, instinctively shielding his hair as he asked guardedly, "What have you sent into the future this time?"

Aaron put away his tools and lay back in his chair. "Nothing. I wasn't even asleep, so how could I have been dreaming? I merely buried a clay tablet. You were resting your head on a girl's lap waiting to be fed grapes when I was carving it."

"I am worried that Malum might struggle to communicate with others when he goes out. Are you not the least bit concerned?"

Anda adjusted his sleeping position, tilting his head back. "The Macraggans are experts at negotiation and debate. While not as adept as Alpharius, they are more than capable of handling routine intelligence-gathering tasks."

Aaron scratched his head. "There you go again with terms I don't understand. Alpharius?"

Anda’s tone grew irritable. "My memories are a chaotic mess. Don't ask me how I know that name. You lot in the future must have caused some terrible disaster, leaving me unable to distinguish which memories are meant for the present."

"Anyway, move aside. Give me that recliner." Anda stood up and tossed his son to the side. "This chair is much more comfortable. Find somewhere else to rest. Malum will return after midnight; remember to meet him."

"Ah—what a busy day. I'm so tired." Anda stretched, closed his eyes, and drifted into a satisfied sleep, not even sparing his son a glance.

Aaron grew agitated, leaning over to whisper into his father’s ear: "Are you truly unconcerned about the battle I am about to face? That enemy enjoys decapitating his opponents and has even killed a crocodile single-handedly."

"If my head is twisted off and tossed at your feet, will you be hiding on that bald priest’s bed, snickering?"

Anda turned his back to him, muttering, "Your brothers could crush ferocious beasts with their bare hands the moment they were born. You are their older brother; it is only a mortal you are dealing with, so there is no need to worry. If it comes to it, there is always Malum—just send him out in front."

"That is precisely what he is useful for."

Aaron gritted his teeth, repeating, "What he is useful for?"

"Listen to that—how cold. Do you treat everyone as nothing more than a tool that happens to be useful?"

Anda was already snoring, and no matter how much Aaron called out, he would not answer. Forget it—in this day and age, fathers are unreliable, so one must rely on oneself.

Aaron stood up and spat in disgust at his father. He then rummaged through his luggage for a wooden sword—a prop he had prepared years ago for a performance in Thebes, which had been canceled because the old man had fallen ill with vomiting and diarrhea, rambling about "Mortarion" and "foul things." By the time the old man recovered, the performance was over.

Fortunately, the experience gained during those rehearsals remained: how to parry an enemy's strike, how to angle one's blade against axes and longswords to minimize wear, or how to use a bare hand to disarm an opponent by catching the blade at just the right spot. But those had all been choreographed moves practiced with peers. He truly wished someone could teach him how to actually fight.

As he pondered this, drowsiness suddenly washed over him. His eyelids grew heavy, the wooden sword slipped from his hand to the floor, and he stumbled into the tent to curl up in a comfortable position.

"Father, sooner or later I will beat you to a pulp. Just like Heracles threw you to the ground at the Olympic Games."

He could no longer resist the sleep, and he drifted off completely.

In his dream, an endless, wide expanse of grassland stretched out before him. He still held the wooden sword, along with a round shield he had never owned in reality. On the shield was an emblem of an unconnected ring in white against a blue background—likely because of Malum.

The neighing of a horse reached his ears. A steed—one he had never seen before, nearly larger than the physical form of Malum’s Heavenly Guardian—tugged gently at its bit, signaling for its master to move forward. The master of the steed was a shirtless, tall "boy" with a braid, carrying a broadsword at his waist and some coiled ropes.

"Are you one of the legendary spirits? When the fog starts to rise on the steppe, the elders say spirits appear. They are the bones that were not given a sky burial, waiting for passersby to request a new battle, hoping to meet death once more."

The boy’s face was still youthful, yet he was already a head taller than Aaron. He spoke in a rapid, yet incredibly clear cadence.

Finally, not a bald man!

The moment Aaron saw him, he knew this was his younger brother—though far younger than when he had met Lorgar and Guilliman. He was still in his childhood, in that stage of rapid growth.

Aaron looked down at his feet; indeed, he had no shadow. He looked up at the boy and put on a mystical air. "Retreat. Let an adult warrior come here. You are but a child."

The boy shook his head, showing no fear of the "ghost," and pulled his mount forward. "Although I am only four, according to the traditions of Chogoris, once I catch a wild Chogorian warhorse by myself, I can undergo the rite of passage to become a warrior and earn the right to plunder, rather than remaining a commoner with no right to hold a blade."

"Spirit, you are the one who should retreat."

The boy led his warhorse away. He did not ride it, and his pace was slow, as if he were conserving his strength for the battle to come.

Aaron had no choice but to turn and follow. It was rare to have a brother he didn't have to look up at. "I am Aaron Will. What is your name?"

"Jaghatai," the young Jaghatai replied calmly. "I feel no hostility from you, which is why I did not strike immediately. Otherwise, you would be the seventeenth enemy I have beheaded on this journey. Stay away from me."

Well, aside from Guilliman, who knew his identity from the start, all the other brothers were wary at first due to their environments. That was fine; it saved him from worrying that his brothers might be deceived by others.

Aaron did not back away. Instead, he mimicked Lorgar’s prayerful posture, pressing his palms together. "Jaghatai, I am merely a wandering monk," he said, his bald head gleaming. "As far as I know, the taming of horses is not an individual feat, but a matter of constant breeding and domestication, preserving the stable traits within a population."

"Taming a wild beast alone—that is the stuff of heroes in myths and legends."

These Chogorian horses were truly magnificent; they could even be paired with a full-sized Malum, and the proportions wouldn't look strange. Though, as his brothers grew even larger, he would certainly need to find a suitable replacement.

Jaghatai’s brows arched slightly. He replied coldly, "The warriors of the White Scars are all heroes—no, wait. I hear it—"

"Get back!"

His ears pricked up. He rested his arm on the shoulder of the horse beside him, his entire body seeming to fuse with the beast. His muscles tensed as if he were ready to spring into action at any moment.

*Thump, thump, thump—thump!*

"The hoofbeats of those arrogant Chogorian wild horses."