Witch Bone and the Mongol Queen
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Witch Bone And The Mongol Queen Ch. 02 free porn video
A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR:
First, let me thank everyone who read the first chapter and offered their insights and views. The food-for-thought I’ve received from you has helped me to think about what to include (and not include) in the newest revision. Thank you!
Normally after I’ve finished a story I write a little introduction, musing about what inspired me to write it, or perhaps trying to explain certain words or phrases that were used. In any event, with this particular story my introduction was quickly spiraling out of control with the details about who 13th century Mongols were and so on. History lessons are lovely in theory, when you’re in school and not thinking about sex, but kills the mood in any other context. With that in mind I removed those notes and placed them at the end as an postscript. Here, though, is a summary of the characters for those who might find the Chinese and Mongolian names a wee bit confusing. Cheers!
CAST OF CHARACTERS:
Saru’sinul-tu — Young Mongol warrior from the now extinct Kara-Khitan tribe of Mongols. Her name means, ”the lust that can only be found in the moonlight.’
Lady Linshui — Brilliant Chinese general and practitioner of Taoist dark magic during the Ming Dynasty. Her friends and foes alike call her the Witch Bone. It is her goal to conquer everything between the Yellow River to the Danube. The crumbling Mongol empire is the only thing standing in her way.
Turakina Khatun — Granddaughter of Genghis Khan on her mother’s side. The title Khatun is the female equivalent of the Khan. Her ferocity in battle has earned her the Persian nickname of, ‘Divooneh,’ the Crazy or the Mad One.
Fatima — Borjigin Mongol, like her queen, Turakina. She is the younger woman’s tutor, bodyguard and lover. It is she who first witnesses Saru’sinul-tu during the Battle of Qaraqata.
Une-Khitay — Mongolian general and uncle to Saru’sinul-tu.
Une-Calada — The Mongolian general tasked with laying siege to Beijing.
Baatarsaikhan and Avtalyon — Cousins to Saru’sinul-tu.
General Hu Hua-Yong and General Jui Jy-Shou — Loyal Chinese generals under the command of Lady Linshui.
Ubaid al-Jayyani — Muslim warlord who, through political connections, holds the post of Taishi, a rank similar to that of a Grand Vizor.
* * *
CHAPTER 01:
[1301 A.D.]
The heat from sun’s rays quivered the air, a heat ignorant of the waters above the cloudless skies, a heat that blurred all far-flung objects alike. Across this kingdom of sand, camped around a small oasis of palms, lay a fire-cooled horde: Mongolian nomads, shepherds of the steppes. Naked bodies of men and women were stretched equally upon the ground in what little glinting shade they could find. It was Thursday on the southern edge of the Gobi desert, what the Chinese called the plains of Xi Xia.
These were more than nomads, however, they called themselves the Warriors of the Eternal Blue Sky, made up from various conquered Mongolian tribes that the Great Khan, Genghis, had brought under his control. Kara-Khitan women lay side by side with male shepherds from the Dorben clan. The Khurilar, the Uriankhat and the Khori Tumed rode along side with their once bitterest of enemies, the Ma’alikh-baya’ut. The air was full of the the musky odor of nutmeg and orange slices, sweat and horses, Damascus steel and drying blood. Genghis had united them and taught them the ‘three divine arts:’ riding horses, shooting arrows and wrestling. On horseback they wore round caps of metal adorned with bands of wild animal pelts. The cloth of their deels, roughly made from flannel dyed, had once been dark in color but the sun bleached everything to a pale lilac. Oxen-hide shields hung against the palms with bows and cheerily painted quivers full of arrows lay by their side. On horseback they were the greatest riders in the world: indomitable in strength, fantastical in courage. Bu in the soul-sapping heat, however, even just resting in the shade, they had become slow, sweet, dazzled and dim. Little droplets of sweat covered necks and breasts, pendulous balls, thick round asses and wiry pubic hair.
Near the horde’s larger grove was a smaller one. In the center was a large tent, a ger, which had been recently erected. The exterior was made out of canvas, dyed a dark blue to keep the heat of the sun away. Around this tent all manners of slaves worked. Korean grooms rubbed down the coats of squat little ponies. A Berber cook, captured in a caravan raid, watched three Chinese eunuchs under his supervision prepare a feast.
Inside the ger the walls were hung with plum and gold silk. A carpet from the looms of Armenia covered the floor. On it were spread four chairs, on which sat the officers who would oversee that their raid into China was successful. Their commander was a man of some fifty years of age, the sort with a face that expressed both energy and resolution. He wore a plush, velvet hat symbolizing his rank, one that had an upturned brim with an embossed pointed top. A gold belt encircled his waist. On his feet were a pair of upturned boots that prevented him from slipping out of his stirrups during an impassioned battle charge. His named was Une-Khitay Khan and was at the time considered the greatest military strategist alive … the greatest male military strategist, that is.
Next to him sat his companions, two were young men, his nephews, dressed in outfits similar as to their uncle. The fourth member of the party was a teenage girl whose muscles, showing clearly beneath her skin, testified to a life of hard work and poverty.
Powerful as the Mongolian empire once had been, the events of the last few decades showed to all who cared to see that a life and death struggle with the Ming Dynasty was fast approaching. Genghis Khan had subdued China once, but now the conquering nation of Mongolia stood on the brink of collapse.
The girl, Saru’sinul-tu, niece of Une-Khitay, had been, from her earliest memories, trained by her uncle to survive. When she was ten years-old Une-Khitay took her with him on a campaign in Salji’ut steppes, there she had bathed in the frigid water from the melting runoff of snow up in the ice-clad hills. She had kept up with the rapid flight of the Khan’s horsemen, sent out in pursuit of the rebelling Qongrat tribes.
‘It is not enough that we can trace our blood back to the Great Khan,’ her uncle had often said. ‘There was a time when Kara-Khitan horsemen alone won our battles and subdued our foes. But today we are few and the Ming empire is vast. Beijing looms greater and more powerful year by year. That is why we must make every effort to show ourselves worthy of domination. That is why I mentioned of our queen, Turakina Katun, who, young as she is, is said to be the greatest woman in all of Mongolia.’
Saru’sinul-tu nodded. She was an apt student. She could wield the curved scimitar of a warrior. She could swim the coldest river, traverse long distances at the top speed, send an arrow with infallible aim to a target as the best of any Chinese archer could.
‘The sun is going down, uncle,’ the girl said, standing by the door of the ger, ‘the heat is slackening off.’
‘If you say so, Saru’sinul-tu,’ one of the younger men laughed, ‘I feel just as sweaty now as I ever have. This is the fifteenth time that you have been to the door in the last half hour. Your restlessness is driving us all crazy.’
‘Avtalyon, dear,’ the girl replied, laughing in turn. ‘It’s the first time we’re going to see the Forbidden City! I’m sure you are longing to test your bow and arrow on something other than Onggirat tribesmen.’
‘It’ll be the first time we sack the Forbidden City, you mean, Saru’sinul-tu,’ the young man replied, ‘but the Chinese will not leave the fortress they call Jinyi until dawn so I’m well content to be quiet until then.’
‘Your cousin is right, niece,’ the general said, ‘impatience is not a virtue.’
‘And yet brother Baatarsaikhan says nothing at all about that,’ Avtalyon remarked, turning around to look at his cousin sitting next to him. ‘I bet during the five hours we’ve sat here that his thoughts have never once been on what the Witch Bone might or might not do.’
‘That is true,’ Baatarsaikhan said, speaking for the first time. ‘I am thinking of Mongolia, of the corruption and misrule that saps our strength.’
‘It is best not to talk about that, Baatarsaikhan,’ the general said, sternly. ‘The subject is a dangerous one, there are spies for the Taishi everywhere. To be denounced as hostile to our regent, even if he is a foreigner, is to be lost.’
‘I know the risks,’ the young man answered, rising from his chair and walking up and down the ger. ‘I know that so far all who have ventured to raise their voices against our new regent have disappeared. Yet, even if the dangers were ten times as great I cannot keep silent. What has Ubaid al-Jayyani gotten us into? His extravagance and corruption have drained imperial finances and paralyzed our army. The tribes of Uru’ut and Khurilar have been lost to us. Our allies in the Himalayas, Russia and India turn their backs in shame that so mighty an empire has sunk so low. How can a Borjigin who loves his ancestry remain silent?’
‘All you speak of is true, Baatarsaikhan,’ the general said, sighed, ‘though I should be flayed alive were it whispered outside the ger that I said so, but at present we can do nothing. Had the great Altan-Bolod lived, then I believe that he would have set himself to clean out the First Queen’s stables, but now no warrior living today could accomplish that. You know how every attempt at revolt against Ubaid al-Jayyani has failed, how our people have, again and again, been crushed into the dust just when victory seemed likely. No, Baatarsaikhan, we must suffer all of which you speak of until some hero arises, some leader and deliverer.’
Here the older man stood up as well, paused and then continued.
‘I have hopes, great hopes,’ he said, in an even lower voice, ‘that such a soul might be found in our queen, Turakina Khatun, who seems to possess all the genius, wisdom and military talent of our Great Khan. But hush. Let us speak of this no more. I suspect that even among my servants there are spies in league with Ubaid al-Jayyani.
There was silence in the ger. Saru’sinul-tu slumped down in her chair, for a time forgot even that the next day, or possibly the day after, they would be at the outskirts of Beijing. With the impulsiveness of youth and a fiery heart Saru’sinul-tu, naturally, inclined to the perspectives of her nephew, Baatarsaikhan, rather than to the more sober counsel of her uncle. She still burned with shame and anger as she heard the tales of disasters which had broken the sons and daughter of Temujin, making money their god, suffering their armies to become paupers, permitting the the nomadic people of the steppes to become servants to alien agents and lords. This was Taoist sorcery cast by far wiser and far seeing foes than anything Genghis Khan could even dream about.
As evening closed in the stir in the neighboring camp aroused Saru’sinul-tu from her thoughts. A singer was called for and an old man played upon a horse-headed fiddle.
‘There is a khan’s daughter, I shall tell you, I shall tell you, I shall. Who strides forth in a queen-like way, and has the claws of a hundred tigers. Who strides forth in a mother-like way, and has the jaws of a thousand tigers. Who strides forth in a warrior’s way, because she is rules over all the tigers.
For months rumors had flown across the border that something sinister, something terrible, was slowly gathering itself together in the heart of China. Those who believed in magic claimed that the Ming court had finally hired a Taoist witch to raise the dead, or perhaps to craft an army out of stone, to lead against the Mongols. The Parliament of the Steppes hurriedly came together and it was decided to meet this threat, whatever it was, head on.
The expedition had arrived at the small oasis the previous evening. During the night the deep howling of wolves could be heard endlessly among the foothills. So close were they that the watch guards were required to light great grass fires to scare off the nights cats from making any attack upon their war horses.
The evening dragged on.
Just before dawn, as Saru’sinul-tu was drifting in and out of sleep, she heard a sudden challenge from a sentry outside, followed instantly by loud and piercing screams from hundreds of throats. She sprang to her feet.
‘Outside!’ Une-Khitay cried, only half dressed, but clutching his sword. ‘The enemy is upon us!’
Looking about in the dark Saru’sinul-tu could seem to locate her sword. All her hands discovered was a long, bamboo stick used for stirring fish ponds. Clutching this she rushed out of the ger, right behind her uncle.
* * *
CHAPTER 02
Save for the sighs of the wounded and the gasps of the dying nothing rose into the air except the circling shadows of vultures whose black wing tips swept ever closer while the roar of battle died away. The sun hung, as it always did, a ball of frustration, glowering down upon the western hills. Across the trampled fields all was quiet, no war drums echoed. The screaming was over. Those who could had fled while the rest lay where they had fallen.
On her gangling mare, high above a hillside copse, Fatima watched, as she had been doing ever since the first streaks of dawn had appeared, back when the sleeping hosts of the idiot general Une-Calada Khan had awaken to find themselves amidst a flying forest of arrows and in confusion had moved out onto the plains of Xi Xia, there to meet the relentless hordes of Lady Linshui, the most trusted general of the debauched Hongwu Emperor.
Fatima had tsk-tsked in surprise and disapproval when she saw the glittering squadrons of mounted Chinese warriors draw out in front of the masses of their slow but loyal foot soldiers, leading a sloppy advance. They were the best Northern China had to offer: cavalries from the Tangut tribes, the Jin and the Jurchen and the Minyak. But to Fatima they seemed only amateurs and she shook her head. They were going up against the likes of old Qaidu Khan and his amazon daughter, Khutulun, a warrior who was, as the 14th century chronicler, Ghiyasud din Khwandamir of India, once put it, ‘a superb general, one who could ride upon the enemy ranks and snatch up a solider, all the while on horseback and with one hand, as easily as a hawk snatches a sparrow.’ This battle would determine much, for civil war was about to divide the Mongolian tribes once again.
Watching, she had become dumbfounded at the Mongolians charge. With a thunderous roar they attacked the vanguard of Lady Linshui and then swept up the long slope of a hill into the teeth of raking fire from Chinese archers hidden over the crest. Fatima had seen the Chinese launch their whole might against the oncoming cuirassiers, the Mongolian light cavalry. She had seen the cuirassiers turn, collapse and scatter, the horse-plumed riders toppling off backwards from their steeds, dead before they hit the ground. Fatima wondered: who was leading such a sloppy attack against an army that should be so easy to beat? Where was wise Qaidu Khan? Where was iron Khutulun?
She had watched, amazed, as the Kara-Khitan horsemen swept on, reckless of both their horses’ endurance and of their own lives, blindly crossing the ridge where the enemy lay. From her vantage-point Fatima could see both sides of that ridge and she knew that there lay the main power of the Chinese army: forty-two thousand foot soldiers, the dreaded skirmishers, all in heavy armor, bearing spears and cruel, curved swords. As they crested the ridge the Kara-Khitans realized that the real battle still lay ahead of them. But by now their horses were all haggard, their bow strings broken, their hearts choked with grime and pain and the fir
st hint of defeat.
Fatima had seen the Mongols waver and look back for their leaders. In desperation the horse warriors hurled themselves at the massed enemy, trying to break their ranks by stupid fury alone. That charge never reached the enemy’s line. Instead, a storm of arrows that blackened the sun and sang as they sped through the sky broke their charge. The whole first rank of horses and riders went down, quilled like porcupines. In the spray of red ruin that leaped up the next line behind them stumbled and fell as well, their horses trampling the dead and wounded alike.
All this Fatima had seen in bewilderment. She had seen, too, the shameful retreat of certain Mongol warlords, the savage last-stand of others. On horseback, on foot, besieged, they all fell, one by one, while the storm of battle broke around them and the blood-drunk heavenly army — for Lady Linshui was said to command a celestial army of shamanesses, tamed female demons, queens and their consorts — all fell upon the Mongol invaders. Retreating, lords thundered through the ranks of their very own tribesmen. Whole cuirassiers units fled in confusion while others received the full force of the Chinese wrath. Men and women staggering backwards stubbornly, opposing every gained foot, but unable to check the unvanquishable foe.
Now, as Fatima scanned the field, the celestial army had paused and returned to loot the dead and cut up the dying. Those Mongolian lords who had not fallen had flung down their bows and surrendered. On the farther side of the dry valley Fatima shivered at the screams which rose into the sky. Lady Linshui’s warriors were butchering their prisoners.
‘Tengri!’ muttered Fatima. ‘My mother’s people bragged that they could hold up the sky forever on the tips of their arrows. Now the sky has fallen and the dead are meat for the vultures!’
Reining her horse Fatima rode away through the copse of trees. The woman had come this way not to witness history, but rather because she was on a mission assigned to her by her own queen. However, even as she emerged out onto the rocky hillside she saw a prize that no pure-blooded Borjigin could refuse. Red eyed and racing in a lather, a tall steppe horse sped by in a cloud of dust. Fatima spurred forward quickly, hoping to catch the flapping reins. Finally, having caught the high-strung warhorse, she trotted swiftly down the slope with her prize, away from the silence and stink of the battlefield.
Suddenly she stopped among a clump of stumps and burrs. Right in front of her Fatima beheld a small pack of men retreating. A tall, richly clad warlord stood in their middle. His helmet was gone. He was broad shouldered with skin an almond brown, as was the fashion at the time he sported a mustache and goatee. He was grunting and cursing as he attempted to hobble along using a broken spear as a crutch.
As Fatima watched, the big man stumbled and fell. The small band stopped and surrounded their lord. A strange feeling came over Fatima, as if she was being watched. She turned around, looking about the copse of trees. Nothing.
Then, out from the bush, emerged a girl, the likes of which Fatima had never seen before, even among the feral Borjigins of her people. She was taller than Fatima by a good foot, her strides were like that of a mountain dog. Her long, braided hair framed an oval face with ludicrously long eyelashes, her disorderly, bushy eyebrow were the sort legends were made of. Her skin was the color of the moon. The bamboo staff that she held in one hand looked flimsy enough, though her dirty deel was torn and splattered. Her arm was stained red up to an elbow, blood dripped from a deep slash in her upper forearm.
‘Boovu saa!’ spat the wounded warlord in Manchurian, a dialect of which Fatima understood a bit, ‘we lost the war.’
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