The gates swung open with a groan.

The timber protesting as it slowly moved from a comfortable rest.

The sound broke the silence and a mountain cacophony followed it.

Courses nang, wheels creaking as they rolled over the rough ground and a chorus of voices

chanting together.

The song was for the honored death, a man whose deeds deserved praise that echoed across

the rolling grasslands of the steppe.

A chariot led the procession.

It belonged to the chieftain, the man for whom those songs were sung.

Many times he had ridden it into battle, hurling stone-tipped javelins as it sped amongst

his enemies.

It had carried him for years, right up until the moment an arrow had pierced his heart.

The chieftain's blood still stained the wood.

The dead chieftain's favorite horses drew the vehicle, and his favorite son held the

reins.

The young man smelled the copper tang of old blood and looked down at the stain, then looked

up to avoid it.

He stared straight ahead, his eyes locked on the freshly turned earth of the mound that

waited.

Tons of earth that covered the timber burial chamber in which his father would be interred.

It had already held an assortment of weapons, pottery, and copper ornaments.

Even a chariot, like the one in which the sun now rode, all that remained was the body

...