“Hunt down the traitor, and bring them back to me alive!” 

The voice of the Great Khan fills the room, louder than the pounding of many metal fists upon the long table. Inhuman shrieks of pride follow his decree. A violent, ear splitting din ensues. 

Chinggis IV brings his hands together, massive articulated gloves made of steel that clash with a resounding cry. The tent grows deathly silent. All the warlords and bounty-hunters, in terrible awe of the Khan, watch him with a hushed fear. “Or…” he continues, “if the rebel is never found, I will tear out your hearts and eat them myself!” 

Nobody doubts him, not for a moment. Hasty salutes are thrown up, and cries of “Hail the Silver Horde!” are shouted by many men. I too, bring my hand, palm sweating more than ever, up to my forehead, but I remain silent. While my golden mask obscures my visage, I am too near to the Khan. He could very much recognize me, an act that could spell doom for myself and my lineage. I must leave this place at once. 

As meat and rice wine begins to be passed around amongst still terrified warriors, I come to a dreaded realization that it will be impossible to leave. The Khan would most definitely not allow it. My mission may be more compromised than I previously believed.

Still, I see my goal in sight. The great death-mask of Babur, my own ancestor, set in the most brilliant blue-white porcelain, hangs high amongst the rafters. Yes, I am a Mughal, though the empire is long dead– ten thousand years gone at the least. (What year is it now? Alas, I cannot recall.) Every face in this tent has been set on shaping a pure, beautiful mask from the skin of my own corpse. For I am the last of my line, and I will not allow my history to fade away like an unraveled silk robe. I must steal Babur’s mask, if I cannot, I do not deserve to live.

The Khan, Chinggis IV, is circling the table now, inching ever closer to me every second with his clicking gloves, his massive beard nearly scraping the dirt floor. I have a weapon, a silver dagger concealed in my boot, but it would be impossible to use. Sitting at this same table are Horde warriors trained to shoot at the momentary instant of the flash of a blade. The soft gray contents of my consciousness would be flung upon the tent walls before I had a chance to move.

However, I have one advantage over the Khan: he knows not my face. He only knows of the red-black brand on my neck, the one that means _traitor._ The very brand that I am covering with my cloak and my shining golden mask. The brand which his father gave me moments before I gouged out his eyes with my own metal fingers. 

_My gloves. _That must be the solution. They show the marking of a great warrior for the Khan, and I haven’t taken them off since my defection. Even though I am the traitor, no Uyghur warlord or Neo-Ming general would dare make any violent move against me. The Horde gunslingers know better than to shoot at the sight of an honorable challenge. Even so, I will not fight with honor. The bastard Khan doesn’t deserve such respect. 

I slam my iron gloves, still stained from the months-old skull and brains of Chinggis’ father, onto the table, like the Khan had done moments before. Heads snap towards me like the cylinder of a newly reloaded revolver. A pair of fiery sneering eyes cross over dozens of startled fighters and finally land upon mine. “Who are you, who thinks they can come masked into my court with heavy gauntlets? Does your own insolence blind you more than your golden face? I should have you shot where you now stand, yet still I have a certain curiosity in your desire.”

I stare him down from under my mask. “No, I am not blind. Nor am I deaf towards the cries of my slaughter amongst the members of your court.” I begin to rise out of my seat. “Come, bastard. Fight and die to the last member of a lineage you swore to destroy.” With a deft hand, my mask and cloak are torn off, revealing the traitorous brand on my neck, and a violent glint in my eyes. “The Silver Horde does not tolerate cowards.”

An armored man to my left grabs his blade. “The traitor!” he gasps, and swings towards my unguarded neck. The sword glances off my right gauntlet, and his face is turned to pudding with my left. More warriors begin to step up, and others shrink away in fear. 

“Halt!” The Khan’s voice booms louder than ever before. Everyone, even myself, freezes, save for a single Turk, who continues to charge. Chinggis snaps his fingers, and the sharp flash of a single gunshot lights up the face of the man, who promptly falls over with a hole through his heart. 

“Traitorous one! You have played a dangerous game making an appearance here, amongst all these powerful men. However, I rather enjoy this predicament in which you have put yourself, for it allows me to peel the skin off of your face myself! Come, Let us duel!” The Khan motions to have the long table removed, as well as the corpses lying motionless on the dirt. A silver-plated yak horn is sounded, and men enter with horse skin drums and other strange instruments. Soon, a circle is formed by eagerly watching warlords and officers. Only the Khan and I are in the center, staring each other down.

He is a tall man, and a large one. Two-thirds of a head higher than me and nearly twice as wide. With his metal gloves, each of his already huge fists are larger than my head. It would take but a single swing to split open my skull, and the spiked studs on his fingers are sharp enough to rip out my heart. He is a monster, a hulking, unstoppable mass. I must be careful. 

I step into a fighting position, high on guard. He won’t let me throw the first punch, but I won’t attempt it. I am poised to grab the dagger in my left boot. With a fast bladed weapon, the fight could be finished quickly. 

“Are you prepared, rebel? I know not your true name, nor shall any man ever. Your line shall rot like dying roots in poisoned soil. Reduced to mere dirt. I hope your ancestors are watching you, for they will see you fail like all the else.” With that, he grabs the ancient mask of Babur off its hanging place, and places it upon his own face. _Blasphemy! Disrespect to my forefathers!_ I grit my teeth with anger, but hold my ground. Not yet. A couple more seconds.

A thin-faced official with a wispy beard steps between us, facing the Khan. “My master. I bless you with the strength of Genghis and the entire line. Hail the silver horde.” He now turns towards me. “You will die like a dog. Be ready.” With that, he steps back and sounds the battle-horn. The fight has begun.

It’s over in seven seconds. 

A flash of a dagger. 

A lumbering giant moving like liquid.

_How is he so fast?_

Shattering a beautiful porcelain face with a blade.

Fountains of blood and a crushed eye.

Two massive fists moving faster than I can see. 

White, searing heat. 

_Pain._

I step back from the dying Khan, my dagger embedded into his left eyelid, with crimson liquid dripping from the lashes. Staggering, and looking down, I notice that a sizable amount of my midsection is missing. Pieces of metal and white porcelain are embedded into my gut. Nearly all of my willpower is being used to keep myself from collapsing. 

“You are slain, O weakling Khan” I manage to choke out, as my throat begins to fill with thick blood. He looks at me with his single intact eye, behind half of the shattered mask of Babur. In this moment, I cannot tell what he is thinking. Is he angered that he has been bested by his mortal enemy? Is he resigned and defeated? Or is he not feeling anything at all? 

I trip my way over to Chinggis’ shuddering heap and grasp his head with my right glove. As I keel over and darkness starts surrounding the corners of my vision, I crush his skull with the last strength I have. Have I failed? I choose to believe that I haven’t.