wiseheart | Foreword to the Whitehorse's Son cycle (Reply)

BOOK ONE OF THE ROYAL CHRONICLES OF PENDARLON
THE TALES OF WHITEHORSE’S SON
The storyteller’s word to the listeners

Based on Hungarian folk tales - which is all that is left from our original culture. The Hungarian version is posted to

hiddenrealms. This is just a raw translation and doesn't even come close to it.

Shall I tell you the tale of Whitehorse’s Son? The tale of him who had won the Lady Kaltesh, the Hunter, Mistress of the Marters and Weasels as his wife? The tale of the one who had been raised in the very nest of Símurgh, the bird of marvel who breeds the Sun of the great egg; of Whitehorse’s Son, who saw the Sun die and be reborn?

Shall I tell you of Whitehorse’s Son who fought Midnightmane, the murderous black steed of the lord of the underworld? Who was taught the art of weapons by the young Warlord himself, who overthrew the black bull of darkness and pulled the bark of the holy birch to the roots? Who’d learned the shaman-craft at the knees of Ukkó, Lord of the Fitchews, who allied himself with the giants Wood-tearer and Stone-crumbler, and with the pointy-hatted prince of the wood fairies, Hétszűnyű Kaponyányi Monyók, and who, in the end, became the mightiest shaman-prince of Uttara Kuru, the immeasurable realm of the People of the Ten Arrows, a realm that glittered for ten thousand years? They say that Kambaluk, the immense Southern realm of the Golden Khan, that is hidden behind the Great Wall, has once been but a small province of Uttara Kuru and is now but a pale memory of it.

Shall I tell you the tale of Whitehorse’s Son, whose father was already Prince over the seven tribes of the Khozar people, and whose descendant in the seventh generation finally led the people ‘til the shores of the Great Western Sea?

Very few people know the true tale of Whitehorse’s Son. Even his own name is only known among the shamans, sorcerers, bakshas, scoops, storytellers, chanters and kara-bonces of the nomadic people who lived on the great plains of the East. And when the Khozar tribes migrated to the West, they left the faith of their mothers and took on the stern Ashken faith, the Kings of Shastar officially declared the pagan past of their people as cursed, and the old tales were forgotten in their new, Western realm. Although old customs held on stubbornly in the tent cities of the Desert Fathers, those who could unlock the true meaning of tradition, to explain it to the new generations, had become rare. Thus only the outer shell of their once so rich tradition was left to the late descendants.

The Khozar people left Uttara Kuru before the black waves of the Flood would have buried the great realm at the feet of Mengkúr, the Holy Mountain. Legends say that first they lived for a while in Mázenderán, at the shores of a large, salty inner sea, forcing the former lord of that area, Prince Eveleth of the Skull into submission. From there, a magical hind led them to the far Northeast, to the rich plains of Trofaiah, the land of the two storms, encircled by high mountain chains. After the division of the people, the majority of the seven tribes remained in this country, and these kept the old faith till the ultimate fall of the black lord of the Cursed Lands.

In those late times, High King Arie, the last spawn of the Khozar shaman-clan ruled over the East of Seashore Lands, and thus over Trofaiah as well. Lord Arie was a knight-king of the Ashken faith, like all the knights and nobles of his court. There was, however, one minstrel and knight in his court, son of the eldest desert clan, by the name of Red Huon, who had listened to the old songs and legends of their cousins in Trofaiah, learning from their chanters and storytellers what had been forgotten, and he wrote them down all in his Chronicles, which, when finished, filled a whole hall in the Royal Library.

Red Huon was an attentive and patient listener. The storytellers and bakshas had told him ancient, half-forgotten legends that even them only dared to tell with their hands covering their mouths, because they were still wary of the gods and evil demons in those tales coming back to power. Red Huon himself, raised in the stern Ashken faith, didn’t believe in those gods and demons, and therefore he wasn’t afraid of them either. He didn’t hesitate to write down the old legends – with the proper runes, of course – in large, leather-bound parchment books, and we should be thankful for his work, as otherwise the Khozar oral tradition would be lost for us, irreparably.

Thus, however, thanks to the Royal Chronicles of Pendarlon, we have inherited the most wonderful tales of that great nomadic realm.

The tale of Demir, the White Khan, for example, who had a shining white star upon his brown, who shot his arrows that never missed their target with his left hand, who subjugated the magical white tiger, and he could only speak in stutters because in his youth his throat was hit by an arrow.

The tale of Ozul, the Iron Prince, of whom the songs say that his shoulders were wrought iron, his chest was thrice-forged steel, his features were like iron rods and his heart was like the enchanted black stone. Ozul, who swooped down at Eneth, the magical lady of the fairies in the shape of a black turul, although she tried to escape him by turning into a white hind, and made her his wife.

The tale of Emesh, the Lady who rode on a white steed to battle like any man, and who was visited and impregnated by the young Warlord, the heavenly Prince dispatched to the particular protection of the Khozar people, who, too, visited her in the shape of a black turul.

The tale of Prince Ménróth, the great hunter, the conqueror of Mázenderán, who dared to enter the Spider Valley to challenge the horrible Black Widow, the spider woman who was always weaving the thick cloth of darkness, and whose sons led the people from Mázenderán to Trofaiah, following the magical hind.

The tale of Prince Karaton, who first broke Midnightmane under saddle, who was called by his people Tahamtan (the Large-bodied), and who had to survive harsh tests to win the hand of Ligetszépe, the daughter of Stone-crumbler, the hill giant, and who – according to legend – is still sleeping in enchanted dream with his beloved in the Secret Caves, waiting for the day when his people would need him again.

And, last but not least, the tale of Aj-bars, the very first Shaman Prince. Because Aj-bars was Whitehorse’s Son.