The Scourge of Irkutsk

The Siberian taiga was a silent, frozen hell. The air was so cold it felt like breathing powdered glass, and the ancient pines stood heavy with snow, their branches forming a dark, oppressive canopy. Altan and her small war party moved through this alien landscape like ghosts, their Mongol horses struggling in the deep drifts, their own faces wrapped in furs against the biting wind. They had been in Russian territory for two weeks, guided by the terrified, shivering Dmitri Volkov, their prisoner and unwilling compass. The easy confidence of the open steppe was gone, replaced by the grim focus of predators hunting far from their natural territory.

"This is madness, Altan," Khorchi whispered, his voice a low rumble, his breath misting in the frigid air. They were hidden in a dense thicket of snow-covered firs, overlooking a crude logging road that was little more than a wide track through the forest. "We are deep in their land now. We are a dozen wolves in the land of bears. If we are caught, there will be no mercy, no honorable death."

"They showed our people no mercy when they unleashed the plague," Altan replied, her voice as cold and sharp as an icicle. She checked the string of her powerful composite bow, a familiar comfort in this strange, hostile world. "We are not here for mercy. We are here for justice."

From his position a few feet away, Dmitri, his hands bound and a rope around his neck held by one of Altan's warriors, could only shiver and pray for a quick end. He had told them everything. He had described Colonel Morozov's travel schedule between his headquarters in Irkutsk and a forward military outpost. This logging road was the only direct route. The Colonel, arrogant and secure so deep within his own borders, was notoriously lax about his personal security on these routine trips.

"He will come soon," Dmitri chattered, his teeth clicking together. "He is due at the outpost before nightfall."

Altan gave a curt nod and gestured to her fighters. They melted into the trees, silent and invisible, taking up their positions. They were masters of the ambush, and though the terrain was different, the principles were the same. They waited. The silence of the forest was absolute, broken only by the soft sigh of wind through the pines.

An hour later, they heard it. The faint, rhythmic jingling of sleigh bells, a sound that grew steadily closer. A troika—a traditional Russian sleigh pulled by a team of three horses abreast—appeared down the track, gliding swiftly over the packed snow. It was escorted by six mounted Cossacks, their tall fur hats and long coats making them look like formidable figures of authority. They rode with a loose, confident formation, their rifles slung carelessly over their backs. They expected no trouble this deep inside the borders of the Russian Empire.

From her hiding place, Altan nocked an arrow. "Now," she whispered, and the word was not a command, but a release.

The ambush was a masterpiece of silent, coordinated violence. It was not a battle; it was an execution. From a dozen different points in the dense forest, arrows flew with lethal precision. There were no warning shots, no war cries. The only sound was the soft thwip of bowstrings and the wet, meaty thud of arrowheads finding their targets. The Cossacks, symbols of the Tsar's power, were plucked from their saddles before they could even comprehend they were under attack. They fell into the snow, their bright uniforms blooming with dark, crimson flowers.

Simultaneously, two of Altan's best archers fired at the horses pulling the sleigh. The animals screamed and collapsed in a tangled, thrashing heap, sending the troika careening sideways into a deep snowbank with a crunch of splintering wood.

A figure, cursing furiously in Russian, struggled out of the overturned sleigh. It was Colonel Ivan Morozov. He was dressed in a thick greatcoat, his face red with cold and rage. He drew a heavy Nagant revolver and spun around, ready to fight, only to find himself surrounded. A dozen grim-faced Mongol warriors had emerged from the forest, forming a silent, menacing circle around him. Before them stood Altan, her slim knife now in her hand, its blade catching the pale winter light.

Morozov's eyes widened in shocked disbelief. He stared at Altan, then at the bound figure of Dmitri, who was now being dragged forward by Khorchi.

"The revolutionary whelp," Morozov spat, his arrogance warring with his shock. "I should have had you shot in Irkutsk and saved myself the trouble."

"You are Colonel Ivan Morozov," Altan stated, her voice devoid of any inflection. It was not a question. "You are the man who sent the Black Blood Blight into our lands. You are the poisoner."

Morozov scoffed, trying to regain his composure, to project the authority that was his birthright. "I am an officer of the glorious Russian Empire. You are a savage with a sharp stick. You have no idea what you are meddling in."

"I know that you murdered thousands of our animals, the lifeblood of our people," Altan replied, taking a slow step forward. "I know that you tried to turn our homeland into a diseased wasteland to serve your Tsar's petty games. For this, you will be judged."

She gave a slight nod to Khorchi. The big warrior holstered his sword and moved to the wrecked sleigh. He found what he was looking for: a locked leather briefcase. Ignoring Morozov's shouts of protest, Khorchi placed the case on the ground and, with a single, powerful blow from the pommel of his sword, smashed the lock. He pried the lid open and pulled out a thick sheaf of documents.

"Altan! Look!" Khorchi exclaimed, his voice filled with grim triumph. "Coded reports to St. Petersburg! Lists of payments! Names… Mongol names! It is all here. The proof!"

Altan took the documents. This was the true prize. More valuable than Morozov's life. Here, in her hands, was the undeniable proof of Russia's crime, and more, the names of every traitor and collaborator who had taken Russian silver to betray their own people.

Morozov saw his career, his life, ending. He made one last, desperate threat. "You will never leave Siberia alive! Our army will hunt you down like the dogs you are! Every soldier in the Far East will be looking for you!"

"We are not dogs," Altan said, her eyes as empty and cold as the winter sky. "We are the ghosts of the people you tried to poison." She walked up to the Russian colonel, who stood frozen, his bravado finally failing him. With a single, swift, practiced motion, she drew her blade across his throat. There was no hesitation, no flicker of emotion. It was not an act of rage. It was simply a task being completed.

She turned to her followers, who were watching in silent, awestruck reverence. She held up the captured documents. "We have the proof," she declared, her voice ringing out in the silent forest. "And we have the names. Every khan, every clan leader, every merchant who took Russian silver is on this list. Our work here is done. But our work on the steppe has just begun. We are no longer fugitives from the Qing. We are now the judges of our own people. We will return to our homeland, and we will begin a great cleansing. Every man on this list will pay the price for his treason. We will purify our nation, with blood and with fire."

Altan had completed her transformation. She had ridden into the heart of the enemy's territory, executed a high-ranking Russian intelligence officer, and captured the intelligence that would allow her to launch a bloody, internal purge of her own people. She had become a figure of terrifying, absolute justice, a law unto herself, the self-proclaimed Scourge of Irkutsk.