Chapter - 12
- Silver and Blood – Now He Is a Laman
The
corridor swallowed Borz whole, but he no longer felt the oppressive weight of
the cave's darkness. Instead, his entire existence had narrowed down to the
weapon in his hand. The Kindjal was no mere
blade; it was a masterpiece of ancestral engineering and a relic of a people
who had traded their comfort for the jagged peaks of freedom. As the faint,
ghostly silver light from the "Tower of Trial" ahead brushed against
the steel, the true nature of the heirloom revealed itself. Borz ran his
fingers along the blade with a trembling reverence. This was what separated the
Kindjal from the common daggers of the world: it was double-edged, honed to a
lethal, razor-sharpness on both sides. Spanning nearly eighteen inches, the
high-carbon steel was too long for a simple knife and too agile for a heavy
sword. It was the perfect balance for the narrow mountain passes and the
cramped, winding stairwells of the Baw, designed to
thrust and slash in a single, lightning breath of motion.
"Know
your steel, young Borz," the Sage's voice echoed within his mind, sounding
like the ancient grinding of tectonic plates. "The Kindjal is never forged
for the weak. It is the signature of victory for the Abrek—the
freedom fighters of these mountains who lived and died for honor, renouncing
the world to guard our liberty. It is made only for the honorable; its steel
turns dull and black in the hand of a traitor, but glows with white fire in the
grip of the brave."
Borz
knew the legends of the Abreks—the lone
wolves of the peaks, warriors of conscience who stood as the final shield
against tyranny. For an Abrek, a drawn Kindjal was the ultimate arbiter of
justice. The deep fuller running down the center of
the blade was not for decoration; it reduced the weight of the steel while
granting it the flexibility to withstand the most brutal strikes without
shattering against bone or shield. It was the genius of the mountains forged in
metal.
The
dehliz opened into a massive vertical void—the hollowed-out spine of an ancient
Baw. The walls were smooth, cold, and pitiless, rising
hundreds of feet into a zifiri darkness. Borz paused for a heartbeat, then
acted on a primal warrior instinct. Instead of sheathing the blade, he placed
the cold, flat steel between his lips, clenching his teeth firmly around the
base of the hilt. The metallic taste flooded his mouth—sharp, cold, and
iron-heavy. To drop this blade was to drop his honor. To lose it was to leave
his soul behind in the shadows of the ancestors.
By the fiftieth
meter of the ascent, his vision began to fracture, and his lungs were heavy
with the stagnant dust of centuries. Every reach upward was a battle against
gravity; every centimeter was a struggle against the screaming of his tendons.
Yet, that metallic iron taste against his tongue acted like a compass,
anchoring him to the climb.
"Do you
know why an Abrek renounces the world, Borz?" the Sage's voice whispered
in his ear. "Because freedom rises only on the shoulders of those who have
nothing left to lose. He who does not sacrifice his home and his peace can
never bear the true weight of this steel."
Borz
answered with a thunderous internal defiance that burned hotter than the
mountain sun. For a Nohcho, to surrender was not just a
defeat—it was an act of treason against ten thousand years of history.
"You
are wrong, Sage!" Borz's mind roared back. "I have renounced nothing.
On the contrary, I possess everything! I am a Nohcho. I am the
representative of my people, my ancestors, and the children yet to be born. I
do not live for myself; I live for my nation, and I will win our freedom at any
cost! In our character, in the very soul of the Nakh people, there is no
acceptance of fate—there is only Resistance!"
The cold
surface of the metal merged with his senses. As his tongue pushed against the
blade's face, a savage communion began. The iron taste bled into his spirit,
mingling with his own blood. The physical pain vanished, replaced by an ancient
fury. With every agonizing inch, his tongue pressed firmer against the steel,
solidifying the bridge between his soul and the weapon.
With
one final, Herculean effort, he hooked his fingers into the summit stones. He
hauled himself onto the platform and snatched the Kindjal from his mouth,
swinging it toward the heavens to pierce the dark. "I am here!" Borz
bellowed, his voice echoing through the ancient hollows. "For my people,
for the Daymokh, and for our freedom—I am here!"
At
the summit, a silhouette formed of black smoke—a dark mirror of himself—lunged
toward him. Borz gripped his Kindjal with both hands. Fatigue was gone; there
was only the unshakable Nakh resistance. He was free as an Abrek,
honorable as a Nohcho, and ready for death like a true warrior. He
looked at the darkness and whispered: "Laman!"
...
As Borz hauled
himself onto the final stone of the platform, his lungs were burning as if
filled with shards of glass. The silvery glow he had seen during his ascent had
now transformed into a radiant, mystical aura that bathed the entire summit.
But when he lifted his head, every ounce of exhaustion froze in his veins.
Standing in the center of the platform, amidst the silver mist, was a colossal
silhouette.
Astonishment
rippled through Borz's body like physical pain. The trembling hands of the old
man he had met below were gone, replaced by arms as hard and veined as ancient
rock. His shoulders had broadened into the expanse of two mountain slopes, and
his once-curved spine now stood with the rigid majesty of a battle tower. But
most jarring of all was the transformation of his attire. The tattered pagan
rags were gone; in their place was the full, formidable regalia of an Abrek
warrior.
He wore the Chokhib—the thousand-year
engineering masterpiece of the Nakh. Across his chest, the Gazyri carved
from ivory were lined like medals of honor. This garment was not merely
clothing; it was a warrior's armor, its tight-fitting design allowing fr
absolute agility in the mountains, even during the most violent sword strikes.
His leather belt carried the sacred Kindjal—the ultimate symbol of an
Abrek's honor.
"You..." Borz's
words caught in his throat. "The old man below... was that you?"
The man stood
as motionless as a monument. The lines on his face remained, but they were no
longer maps of age; they were maps of a thousand wars. Sensing Borz's shock,
the man smiled with a voice that rang like struck steel.
"Does it
surprise you, Borz?" he said, his voice echoing through the hollows of the
tower. "Do you not know our famous Nohcho proverb: **We are young enough
to fight, and old enough to die!**"
The moment Borz
heard those words, a lightning bolt of realization struck his brain. He had
heard this sentence hundreds of times as a child—from the myths carried by the
wind and the ancient counsels of the ancestors. It was the survival formula of
a nation. Borz slowly bowed his head; he was right. For a Nohcho, age was
measured by the strength of resistance, not by the calendar.
"Now, look upon
your true reward, Borz," the Abrek said, opening his arms to the horizon.
Borz walked to
the edge of the platform, and in that instant, the secret of the silver light
was revealed. The suffocating darkness of the cavern had vanished. Looking down
from the peak of the Baw, he saw not an underground shelter, but the full,
breathtaking glory of Daymokh, bathed in the light of the real moon. It was as
if the cave had been pulled back like a curtain, and the tower now stood at the
very heart of the fatherland.
The view spread
before him like a reflection of heaven on earth. The sacred mountains of
Nohchiyco' reached toward the sky like giants wearing white felt caps. The real
moon had ignited a silver fire upon the snowy peaks. Clouds circled the waists
of the mountains like silk sashes, and the rivers flowing through the valleys
sliced the ancestral land like shimmering Kindjal blades. The forests were a
vast emerald sea, holding every shade from the brightest green to the deepest
black.
Borz could not
take his eyes off the mountains of his homeland. This was not just land; it was
a soul manifested in earth and stone. The air carried the sharp, clean scent of
winter, and the soil held the sacred memory of his ancestors' sweat and gunpowder.
Tears streamed down his face. These mountains screamed of the magnificent
reason for existence: liberty. This was paradise. But it was a paradise only a
Nohcho could know—kneaded with pain, watered with blood, and consecrated by
resistance.
"This..." Borz
whispered, his voice trembling. "This is my home."
"No, Borz," the
old Abrek said, standing beside him. "This is your soul. And now, the steel you
carried between your teeth is the key to that soul. Look well upon the
mountains, for they are watching you. And a Nohcho never bows his head before
his mountains."
Borz sheathed
his Kindjal with great honor. The sound of the blade locking into place echoed
across the peaks like a sacred vow. Fatigue and doubt were gone. There was only
eternal resistance and the holy call of the (Daimokh) fatherland.
...
In this chapter, Borz completes his transformation. By carrying the Kindjal between his teeth—a tradition among some mountain warriors to keep their hands free while maintaining a constant connection to their honor—he has earned the title of Laman (Highlander/Mountaineer).
The proverb mentioned, "We are young enough to fight, and old enough to die," is a core philosophy of the Nakh people. It means that for a warrior, age is irrelevant; only the will to resist and the readiness for sacrifice matter.
Did you feel the chill of the mountain air as Borz looked over his homeland? Borz has finally seen what he is fighting for. The question is: Now that he has seen paradise, what is he willing to do to protect it?
Drop a in the comments if you stand with Borz!
Power Stones: If you enjoyed Borz's awakening, please vote with your Power Stones! It helps more readers find our "Daimokh."
Comments: What was the most intense part of the climb for you?
Collection: Don't forget to add the book to your library so you never miss a trial.