Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/12547904.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Major_Character_Death, Rape/Non-Con,
      Underage
  Category:
      F/F, F/M, Multi, M/M
  Fandom:
      Mount_&_Blade_(Video_Game)
  Character:
      Alayen, Baheshtur, Borcha, Katrin, Odval, Nadia, Edwyn, Artimenner,
      Matheld, Marnid, Ghazwan, Jeremus, Klethi, Ymira, Deshavi, Bunduk
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-10-29 Updated: 2018-02-05 Chapters: 12/? Words: 15745
****** Steppe Child - A Tale of an Empress of Calradia ******
by uncajerf
Summary
     DISCLAIMER: All characters and locations save the main heroine are
     created and owned by Taleworlds™ Entertainment and/or the Floris Mod
     Pack. Certain dialogue borrowed from the game Mount & Blade (& DLC).
***** PROLOGUE *****
I found her amidst trampled, blood-spattered yellow flowers and the grim
remains of myriad enemies, all strewn about a moderate hollow bounded by low
scrub-brown hills. She lay still, solid battered body looking small despite its
bulky shell of heavy green lamellar armour. The feebly thrashing mass of a
mailed steppe charger she had named Toğızınşı Jel – her peoples’ Khergit words
for ‘ninth wind’ – lay alongside her. I did not at first know Tog to see him
there, her ninth warhorse of similar name, yet, despite its golden steppe eagle
plume missing, I recognised my love by the silvery faceplate of her grievously
dented spiked helm and an achingly familiar mass of charcoal tresses spilling
from within. As well, her cherished hand-and-a-half sword, Qan – ‘blood’ – lay
chipped and gore-streaked across a knee, the leg below also apparently gone, as
nearly taken by a couched lance those many years ago…
I beg my audience’s indulgence …
Between then and now much time has passed, and my heart lies lighter, though no
less saddened, in my breast. So I will tell you now the story of how I found
her there, instead of as usual overlooking us, her devoted warriors, sitting a-
horse atop one of those surrounding hills at battle’s end. I will relate how I
came to know and love her long ere then, the Empress of New Calradia.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Shyrrell began her life on the vast high steppe of the Calradian continent,
that part which formed the eastern Khergit Khanate following the first empire’s
sundering centuries ago into said Khanate and the Sarranid Sultanate, as well
as the realms of Swadia, the Rhodoks, Nords, and Vaegirs.  Though uncertain,
the nearest village she recalled – or at least the one most commonly visited by
her nomadic tribe – would probably have been Ada Kulun.  Her people avoided
settlements other than to very occasionally trade with them, and she had never
been to a large town, much less a city, ere she found herself on her own,
orphaned in childhood.  Not that she ever looked toward marriage and family
life; a restless soul, it perhaps proved fortuitous that circumstances evolved
as they did, becoming leader of a warband and eventually⸻
But I get ahead of myself; all would come about in its own time, and I wouldst
start at the beginning.
Despite great reticence to discuss – or blocked painful memories of – her early
youth, I came to understand that Shyrrell had been held captive by steppe
bandits for most of it, certainly explaining her lifelong hatred of all
brigands, especially those of her native lands.  Although she managed to escape
them at some point long ere she would have been considered of age by her
people’s custom, she remained upon the rolling steppes, managing to live on her
own much as her people had for millennia, hunting animals for food and furs,
gleaning other necessities from the barren-seeming semi-arid plain.  She became
profoundly adept at certain skills such as making and fletching her own arrows,
to complement the heavy curved Khergit bow she… appropriated from her captors
along with a spirited steppe pony – her first ‘Tog’.
By necessity as seasons passed and she continued to grow into her woman’s body,
she also made her own clothing of antïlopa leather, in addition to, for making
yurts, collecting felt of the huge, shaggy two-humped tüye and feral horses;
animal stomachs and bladders for water bags; everything else required by a
plains dweller: gut-thread, bone needles, flint or bone tools; she even
concocted tattoo dyes from certain plants, minerals, and charcoal.  She had
virtually everything she needed, other than human company.
Though she would never admit, I suspect that, beyond simple curiosity and
wanderlust – even outside a need to trade for luxuries and the few things she
could not make – loneliness impelled her to seek human inhabitation separate
from untrustworthy steppe dwellers; doubtless, her motivations were all of
these and more.  Whatever the stimuli, she began to take game, furs, other
goods into settlements for barter.  Alas, in addition to being young and naïve,
Shyrrell had no head for trade, and so, as I soon deduced as well, she
invariably suffered fraud on almost every occasion (though she would never
concede this, either).  I met her upon one of these excursions, when I had
cause to… assist her with a particularly roguish dealer.
“Mayhap I should discuss your offer with the guildmaster,” I interjected that
memorable early spring morning; a cold drizzle did not dampen the market
square’s custom.  The trader, a thickset woman, lips pursed like a fish’s,
round grey eyes similarly goggling, scowled at me from beneath a deep green
felt canopy and lighter shaded merchant’s headdress; wiped sweaty palms on
belted, shiny yellow dress.  Her victim whipped her head about; uninhibited by
loose chin strap or sun veil at the nape of a ragged once-red felt douli hat, a
matted thicket of waist-length hair, black as moonless night, swirled.  I felt
immediately arrested by deceptive presence and exotic looks, especially the
odd, pentacle-shaped mark barely lighter than the girl’s fine dark features,
set in the middle of her forehead, eyebrow to hairline, partially covered and
shaded by the broad-brimmed douli.  It did not resemble a tattoo; instead
seemed scarified, as if burnt into her deep bronze skin, rather than coloured
shades of blue – kök boyağış – the way her people generally decorated their
persons.  Otherwise dressed in nondescript skins and furs, eyes the colour of
smoky sky stopped my heart for stretched moments.  Younger than she at first
appeared, she did not speak.
The merchant did.  “Begone, tentak!  This were no concern of yourn.”
I recalled my breath, pulling gaze from girl.  “I make it my concern.  And I
repeat: Do you wish me to bring this to the attention of the guildmaster?  You
know you are trying to cheat this… young woman.”  Glancing at her once more, I
reached to sort through large piles.  “May I?”  Fingered soft tanned skins
amongst rather fine quality furs, felt, and leather; hefted several bags of
reasonably clean salt; inspected tied bundles of dried and salted meat and
fish, all smelling smoky, pungent though not putrid.  On offer a rusty iron
knife, a fist-sized, melting ball of near-rancid butter, two small mouldering
cabbages, plus a quarter-wheel of hard cheese, worms and all.  She still spoke
naught, but those arresting eyes did not deny permission.
“All of this,” I continued, “is worth more than four-score the paltry, inferior
goods on offer.  I recommend you give her” —I did the accounting in my head—
“two thousand denar, or merchandises such as she desires of fair value.”  From
the corner of one eye I discerned the girl’s expression: a mix of confusion and
annoyance.  Whether annoyed at my interference or the trader’s lack of scruples
– perhaps both – I could not adjudge.
The trader spluttered and protested of course, but eventually agreed on 1500d;
I bade her count out the money, telling her ‘we’ would take the remainder of
our barter elsewhere, seeking better common.  At which point she became – in
the stereotypical manner of many merchants – obsequious.  Though I left it to
Shyrrell – I did not yet know that for her name, of course – she wordlessly
accepted the four heavy purses of coin, then stood, glancing suspiciously from
the bags to me, as if not knowing what to do with them; I suspected that she
could not count, mayhap had no experience of currency, seeing her people
exclusively bartered.  Meantime the seller began to produce other items, trying
to reengage her interest; we both ignored her.
“Come along,” I suggested.  “We should not stand about the street… like this. 
Mayhap the tavern…?”  When she cocked her striking head quizzically, the douli
shading all but those eyes, I struggled for the word in her language:
“Taberna?”  Yet I guessed they had no such thing on the open steppe…
Though few took notice of us beyond another male patron pretending to look at
the merchant’s wares – albeit I could tell he was as intrigued as I with the
‘outlander’ girl – I wanted to save her embarrassment of explaining why she
ought stow her purses against pickpockets and other ne’er-do-wells.
 Admittedly, however, I wanted to satisfy a sudden peculiar urge to be alone
with her – or at least more alone than the public market of Narra, the second
largest city of the Khergit Khanate.  Yet she appeared to not understand,
confirming for me that the language of local commerce – at least the dialect –
might be different than her native tongue, which may also explain much of her
hesitancy.  I tried again, in several regional patois I had acquired during my
time as a caravan guard and sometime itinerant merchant myself, asking her to
accompany me to the tavern.
At last those eyes went wide in alarm and the head jerked back, thick tangle
flying and knocking the hat askew; she began to back away, money pouches still
held out like poisonous serpents; looked as though she may drop them to reach
for the short curved bow stave slung on her back – unstrung against the easing
rain – or more likely the chipped one-handed Khergit executioner sword hanging
from a faded red hip sash.  I reassessed her at that; swords being uncommon
save by nobles or otherwise wealthy, I wondered how she came by it.  I would
needs wait assuaging my curiosity, however, since she turned to trot through
the main town gates, mane swaying, gait curiously awkward, mayhap due to
unseasonable attire of thick green-brown furs and clashing red sandal wraps,
all whilst lobbing me uneasy backward glances.  I resisted an urge to call her
back or follow; I had the bizarre notion that I had not seen the last of the
girl, along with certainty that, should I be unwelcome, she could take care of
herself with that bow and sword…
***** Chapter 3 *****
It happened that Shyrrell found me next.  I should first explain that the youth
proved quite venturesome when she deigned to enter a city at all.  You see, her
people looked upon the Khanate – they had scant knowledge of other cultures –
with a peculiar mixture of jealousy and loathing.  Though obviously wealthy –
compared to most nomads, in some respects at least – how, they marvelled, could
people live in immobile structures of wood and stone?  Villages were strange
enough, yet towns and cities of thousands…?  Most nomad tribes could relate to
ostensibly peaceful gatherings of similar numbers, even tens of thousands,
albeit only temporary amalgams of somewhat disparate peoples for festive
occasions, trade, bridal ‘capture’ (I will tell you of that curious custom
later), and the like.  Moreover, they did not recognise the Khanate as
sovereign; they felt no kinship with the tas turğındarı – stone-dwellers – yet
remained too disorganised or disinterested in asserting any right to hegemony
over the steppes themselves.  Then again, mayhap they preoccupied themselves
overmuch with fighting one another.
Shyrrell had recalled the word for ‘tavern’ I had used, managing to find
directions to whence I sat, once again in Narra a few weeks later, bemoaning my
horrid fate.  Little did I know, then, how poorly it compared with hers…
“You… man.”
Looking up from my clay mug of local brew, I was about to offer something terse
regarding an astute observation, but those eyes suddenly captured me and I
could not speak – nearly choked instead on my mouthful of dark foamy ale.  She
stood, red douli pulled low over adorned brow, a fur stole or two all but
strangling her, as though to hide despite the hostelry’s dimness.  The smoky
orbs – when I could flounder my way to their surface – betrayed some unease,
yet stance in those odd sandals along with hand on sword hilt betokened
assurance at odds with ostensible age and background.
“You… man,” Shyrrell repeated.  She pronounced the word oddly, as if disliking
its taste.
I found my voice: “Undeniably.”
She did not react to my lame humour.  “I… Shyrrell.  You… siz mağan
kömektesesiz.”
I recognised her dialect – mostly.  “Yes, I did help you – no thanks
necessary.”  I confess, however, that a few techniques of extending one’s
gratitude leapt unbidden from my clouded mind, even though I remained almost
certain that she probably had seen fewer than fifteen summers…  I wondered
about her clan’s custom regarding⸻
Her expression remained unchanged; perhaps she did not comprehend.  “Joq.”
“No?  I did not help you?”
“…did…net…?”
“Y'oq,” I supplied in the local dialect.
“No…  Yes…  Man help… qazir.”
“Ah.  Apologies.  How can I help you now?”
“Your pardon, goodsir.”
The new voice, that of a mature woman originating from behind me, mitigated
somewhat my normal reaction to its sudden placement in such environs. 
Nonetheless, I turned rather awkwardly, hand on cudgel haft, jarring the
scarred wooden table whilst failing to tug the club from my worn linen sash –
like as not fortuitously, though the tone and image belied any threat.
Dark hair cut unevenly not quite to shoulder length – neither as long nor
charcoal-black as Shyrrell’s – the speaker indeed proved to be female well into
middle years.  Lined, medium-complexioned face, light grey eyes, divined
experience and composure, whilst plain though clean woollen tunic, hose, and
worn leather apron bespoke tradesperson or perhaps mercantile background,
though not rich, if the latter.  A heavy falchion hung from wide belt.
“Your pardon again, goodsir… xanım.”  The second address, meaning ‘madam’,
acknowledged the girl in her dialect, all but confirming the speaker’s
occupation of itinerant merchant like myself; learning local languages improved
trade relations – not to mention profits.  “I don’t mean to intrude,” she
continued, “but I thought I could be of some assistance.  My name is… Meniñ
atımKatrinemes.”
The girl cut off my indignant response (I felt myself quite fluent in most
Khergit argots).  “Shyrrell.  Mağan tapsırma boyınşa kömek kerek.”  She eyed
the woman; I suddenly felt ignored.  “Meni qutqarw twralı wäde berildi, mağan
biraz adamdar qajet.”
I had to admit – to myself, anyway – that she had quite abruptly lost me; I
thought she said something about prisoners, and wanting a man, or more than
one, but she once more pronounced the word as if spitting out a bitter bite of
limon fruit.  In any event, Katrin conversed with her rapidly, finally turning
to me and starting with the obvious:
“Her name is Shyrrell.  She wants help with a task she has been given by a
local merchant.  He says his brother has been kidnapped, and he wants a party
to deliver the ransom and bring him back.  She is asking both of us – she needs
at least five besides herself.”
“Why five – or six… or whatever?”
Katrin shrugged square shoulders, but Shyrrell answered.  “Man… bastıq man…
tell me… bes.”  It seemed she understood well enough.  The girl held up a small
fist, lifting one dusky finger at a time with opposite thumb and forefinger,
counting out loud: “Bir, eki, üş, tört, bes.”  I began to suspect more strongly
that she could not cypher much past the sum of her fingers and toes – maybe not
even including the latter.
I shrugged in turn.  “How many do we face?”  It did not even twig before I
spoke that I had already made up my mind to join her, but as I was soon to
discover, Shyrrell had that effect on almost everyone; you found yourself
agreeing to what she wanted before you knew it, notwithstanding actual
circumstances and irrespective of probable perils.
Katrin translated.
Arms remaining at her sides, the girl lifted both hands, palms toward me; I
recalled the gesture being the equivalent of a shrug amongst her peoples.  As I
said about danger and risks…
“Excuse us.”
I started again – feeling vexed at being crept upon by women…
Two more, this time.  Both appeared of an age, perhaps sixteen or seventeen
summers or thereabout.  One, pale, boyishly slim and not tall, bore short-
cropped red hair and blue-green eyes, a plain linen undertunic beneath a
commoner’s belted blue cotte that barely changed circumference from narrow
shoulder to hem of floor-length green skirt.  Winding, embroidered patterns
encircled upper sleeves and hem, whilst a long dagger protruded from a rawhide
girdle cinching the cotte at almost non-existent waist.  Taller by more than a
head, the other girl’s coiffure rolled blonde hair into a templet above a pale
forehead and bright blue eyes, otherwise shiny tresses would have brushed the
tips of paired nipples thrusting insolently from the tight bodice of a long-
sleeved mauve woollen dress, beneath which pointed red shoes peeked.  A once-
white linen apron that, like the dress, had seen too many washes and mendings,
nearly covered the skirt; both secured by a narrow cloth cingulum that enriched
its wearer’s definitively feminine waistline – and also gript a long, curved
knife.
What is it about girls and blades? I wondered idly, half-drunkenly.  “My
ladies!” I cried instead.  “Allow me to buy⸻”  Stifled myself, recalling that I
lacked the price; was ignored again withal.
Another long string of conversation followed betwixt the women, Katrin
apparently translating the situation for the newcomers, cutting me out
entirely.  Reaching for my mug, my vexation peaked to find it spilt across the
grimy tabletop.  Now, who…?
“Goodsir.”
I found the older woman, Katrin, peering at me, amusement not quite masking
distaste – or mayhap the other way around.
Unjustifiably snapped, “What?”  Immediately regretted it.  “My apologies.”  A
little unsteadily, rose to my feet, essayed a bow.  “My name is Marnid.”  I had
to think how to ensure I would be brought along for this enterprise.  “I am… a
caravan guard and wandering merchant… just now between jobs.  I recently
assisted” —I caught Shyrrell’s intense gaze and my thoughts nearly veered off a
cliff— “ehm… this young lady.  How… might I serve?”
“With these two lasses, Klethi and Ymira, we now number five.”  Katrin had a
penchant for stating the obvious.  “We need one⸻”
“Eyo!”
“Fire and blood!” I expostulated, quite at wits’ end at being surprised by
women.  Whirling once more, I found another standing behind me, this time
startlingly similar to Shyrrell.
Yet, no; even in my briefly overwrought state, at first glance I could isolate
superficial resemblances.  Of lighter hair shade only chin-length, much darker
of skin and broader of face, eyes matching hair colour, this girl also appeared
older, perhaps twenty-or-so.  Thick-lipped and flat-nosed yet attractive in
more than a similarly exotic way, her eyebrows curiously appeared to be shaved
off.  Mayhap less notable: attire of long-sleeved tunic under curious apron-
like ‘dress’, both apparently made of coarse, undyed buckram or hemp, gathered
and clasped by a plain iron buckle at one shoulder; another strap rested on
opposite shoulder, part of a harness for the quarterstaff and strung longbow
criss-crossing her back.  Garment draped to just below the knee, revealing hide
shoes and dirty, holed linen legwraps like those encasing forearms – doubtless
the latter serving as meagre vambraces against bowstring burn.  At least her
narrow leather belt, buckle matching the other two, held no blade.
“I Deshavi,” the newest lurker announced in a throaty purr.  “I hear your talk,
and I want join.  I use bow and staff…  All bandits” ⸻she spat on the dirty,
sawdust-littered floor⸻ “get that.”  Fondled weapons.  “And this.”
“Altı!”  Appearing smug, Shyrrell held up the fingers of one hand plus the
other thumb.  The first of infrequent times I saw my lady smile – at least in
happiness.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Except at certain peculiar times, smiling generally proved hard for Shyrrell,
like as not due to her challenging life and never having learned the diversion
of humour, or at least never having much reason to smile whilst growing up;
maturation perforce thrust upon her precipitously.  She did not remember her
parents at all, as she had actually been captured even before her toddling
years.  Which is not to say the girl never knew ease; once she became wealthy
even beyond her own conception of the term, she indulged in various pursuits
such as building a fine stone manor house in the village of Tash Kulun, one of
her early fiefs, collecting thereon various champion horses from across
Calradia.  Her castle in Narra she filled with myriad weaponry, all of
unmatched quality; some she could not even wield herself, such as gigantic two-
handed swords and mastercrafted warbows with a draw even beyond my love’s
rather formidable strength (once she grew into her woman’s body, that is). 
Then again, many could not be wielded a-horse regardless, whence my beloved
practically lived.  Long ere came those times, however, even when she found
herself with a few hundred denar – whether actually ‘to spare’ or not – she
spent it learning all the love poetry she could from travelling bards.  Such as
the first time I recall to mind…
“Are you mad or simply thick-skulled, child?”  Artimenner, a haughty engineer
from my own homeland across the sea in Geroia, joined us recently, though had
yet to find his ease in our company.  Dark brown eyes glared at Shyrrell –
something I had already come to recommend against.  “We barely scrape together
coin enough so we don’t have to starve for a while, and you squander it on
poetry?”
“Poézïya.”  Mild, our young leader’s tone, and misleading.
“What?”  The stocky older man blinked, lifted his chin, scratched pointed black
goatee.  Creases in tanned face deepened as he scrutinised Shyrrell.
“She said ‘poetry’,” another newcomer, Baheshtur, supplied.  Also from the
steppe, albeit a different tribe – the Shamir; Shyrrell recalled not her own
tribe – he nonetheless understood her easily, both her ways and tongue. 
(Perhaps more than the rest of us save, mayhap, Deshavi, whom had also been
held captive by Khergit bandits.)  The lanky noble lounged against a wall of an
Uxkhal tavern in Swadia, whence our party now relaxed upon a successful
delivery of ale from Ichamur, another Khergit town – our first real job. 
Delicately sipping from his chipped clay mug, narrow black, upward-tilting eyes
did not blink.  Having a similarly shaped beard as the other man, his otherwise
bald head sported a brown Khergit topknot and tail, matching the hue of heavy
fur robe and contrasting with Artimenner’s gold-and-scarlet finery.  Added,
“And it is her money.”
“Nem fielaan!” Klethi agreed in her Sarranid tongue.  “You got pay, yes?”
“And we are not starving,” I put in.  Shyrrell entrusted me with our cash; she
still had no head for numbers, though I tried to teach her.  I saw to our
party’s supplies and common equipment, and thus far we struggled – not
surprisingly, given our newness as a group and inexperience – but not overly
so.  Furthermore, her personal financial situation should concern no one.
“You no like poedry?” Shyrrell asked the engineer.  Though I did not at the
time, I recognise now when tone and indirect glance offers preliminary warning.
“That isn’t the point,” he snapped.  “I have some experience in these matters,
and… well, one never knows where one’s next meal may come, is all.  ’Tis best
to plan accordingly.  That’s all I’m saying, girl.”
“I like poedry.”  Our captain turned away from him, raised her mug of kumis. 
“Işiñiz!”
“She says, ‘Drink up!’” Baheshtur advised, though the exhortation probably
needed no translation.
We did so – Shyrrell, rarely – on many an occasion thence, travelling from town
to village to city transporting all manner of goods for trade across the
continent, for almost two years.  My lady’s restless spirit, however – perhaps
more so an aggressive, some might say ‘bloodthirsty’, nature – allowed her
limited satisfaction as a travelling merchant, thus we anon moved along toward
our entwined destinies.
***** Chapter 5 *****
Even though I soon gave over the mercantile aspect of leadership to Katrin, who
had more experience and, admittedly, skill at bartering and assessing goods’
worth, we continued our marginal existence all the same.  I still handled
disbursing wages whilst counselling Shyrrell on investments; it took some time,
but she eventually bought herself a business enterprise in practically every
city of note in Calradia; wineries and breweries, mills, linen weaveries and
velvet dyers, ironworks, and the like.  Coincidentally, we began to acquire
somewhat of a reputation as bandit slayers; anon, Shyrrell eagerly sought
clashes with increasingly larger bands, and this soon became a much more
lucrative source of income to our burgeoning party – selling loot and ransoming
captives, that is, along with the occasional commission from a local lord or
village elder.  We therefore gave up our itinerant mercantile enterprises, and
began to seek contracts to eradicate bandits and other miscreants.  While we at
first earnestly avoided almost all robber bands, since they always grossly
outnumbered and overmatched our fledgling troop even up to a-score-or-so,
eventually they began fleeing us.  More on our bandit-slaying anon, but I first
needs tell of another companion.
As our – more so Shyrrell’s – renown grew, she attracted increasing numbers of
youthful recruits from local villages, as well as other would-be heroes, and
our numbers swelled.  One notable companion, Alayen, a disinherited noble from
Reyvadin in the Kingdom of Vaegirs, much to my aggravation immediately made an
impression on my lady.
Looking back from a vantage of old age and supposed wisdom, I can now honestly
assess his effect on the girl: Shyrrell had had no male role models virtually
since birth; having grown up a slave and egregiously abused by men – as well
as, it should be noted, women – she had no personal experience of dashing,
poetically heroic figures she idolised in stories and her beloved epic poetry
(so-called Qahramon Qissa, more commonly known as Nart (Heroic) Sagas).  Alayen
surely offered that and more (especially, much later on in our collective
acquaintance, in full shining armour astride similarly caparisoned charging
warhorse; striped lance couched, colourful streamers flying…).  Jaw-length fine
brown hair framed broad, reddish stubbled good looks; coupled with a reserved
charm and undeniable aura of confidence – subtly rimed with melancholy – I can
see how she was smitten from the outset.  Withal, I can also now feel almost no
jealously as I recall how I found them once, my traitorous imagination filling
in details not related to me or self-witnessed, in all their salacious variety…
***** Chapter 6 *****
As if witnessing the horsed pair racing far below, sparse clouds lined up like
fluffy white goslings trailing a mother goose across a cerulean sky.  Raising a
trail of yellowish dust, the riders stretched in full bareback gallop across
the virtually flat, sandy steppe, not bothering to dodge sparse vegetation
emerging in drab shades of green and tan.  On they coursed, apparently vying to
be first to pierce the hazy horizon from the white-topped mountains rearing far
behind.  Cresting a deceptive hill opened a vista of valley floor whence a
broad, calm ribbon of grey-blue usurped the horizon; down the suddenly steep
decline the riders careened, throwing up clouds of darker sand replaced by
gouts of water as they plunged into the river shallows.  Both figures, tresses
flying – one, sporting shorter brown hair, dressed in full dust- and sweat-
laden garments that may once have been rich; the other, black mane whipping
wildly, wearing but a short belted leather jerkin and booted leggings that
bared dusky thighs – gript their mounts’ bay withers despite abrupt
deceleration and nearly being launched in tandem toward opposite shore.  Gloved
hands entwined manes as, bent over their horses’ bobbing heads, the straining
animals swam virtually nostril-by-flaring-nostril to the opposite shore. 
Pulling slightly ahead as her steed broached the sandy bank, the woman –
manifest the way wet, spare attire now clung appreciatively – flung herself
from streaming mount ere it even skidded to a halt; rolling twice or thrice,
sand flying, she at last sprawled on her back.  Joined an instant later by the
man, flopping almost atop her, she breathlessly shouted her triumph:
“Men jeñdim!”
Equally out of breath, he replied, “Yes… Yes, you won.  What was… the prize
again?”
“Brize?”
“Prize.  Jülde?”
“Ha-ah.  Brize is…”
He caught her looking at him askance, and simultaneously could not fail to
notice her modest breasts, heaving as though seeking egress from shrunken wet
leathers; knees drawn up, slightly spread, sweat-and-sand-dappled thighs bare
to buttocks similarly drew interest, though he chivalrously restrained thoughts
travelling with avid gaze toward almost as naked crotch; tunic and leggings
scandalously short.  Seemingly reading his mind, she suddenly jumped up –
whence she found the energy already he could not twig – to begin peeling her
clothes, a process that resembled skinning a frozen haunch of meat.  Half out
of one combined boot and legging, she hopped, lost her balance, fell into the
soft, pebble-strewn sand.  Shrill laughter erupted along with handfuls of
beach, flung in all directions as she writhed in sheer joy.
Infectious, the young woman; she moved people in many different ways, and the
older man felt no different; joined her, in mirth, at least.  Yet it seemed
that if she could not undress herself, she would assist him instead.
“This is why… you… beybaq,” she breathed as she grabbed the hem of his tunic,
pulled up.  “Too much… kïim.  Too big!”
Half-heartedly he slapped at her fingerless gloved hands; did not mind so much
that she persisted – knowing that he did not relinquish the fight due to
fatigue.  Protested, “A loser?  Begone, woman!  And you mean too heavy – awır,
not ‘big’.  I refer to my attire, of course.”
Shyrrell paid the knight no mind – leastwise his words.  Wresting soggy shirt
over his head and flinging it wetly away, with some difficulty she pulled her
wet gloves off; seized leather belt ere he managed to entrap small yet
surprisingly strong, blue-dotted hands, stilled their plucking at the leather
knot; drew intense gaze to enquiring one.  Wide, toothy grin altered only
slightly as eager expression flitted to hesitant.
“What…do you want?”  As soon as he uttered the question, Alayen recognised its
absurdity – and how it might be taken.  Too late.
The grin slipped to shy smile, expression toward anxiety; hands moved away.
The chevalier half sat up, placing leather-cased hands over hers in her lap;
almost snatched them away when he realised they lay in her nearly bare lap. 
“That is… Are you certain, Shyrrell?  Do you know whence this leads?  Is it…
 Is this what you wish?”  Struggling to translate fully, he wanted no
misunderstanding.  As far as he knew, the young woman – girl; barely seventeen
summers, if that – had desultorily accommodated only Klethi and Deshavi in her
furs during their band’s travels the past couple of years or so.  What
transpired therein could not be mistaken, as sleeping in groups in yurts or an
open campsite left little room for privacy.  (Regardless, neither the nomadic
Sarranid nor Khergit peoples displayed any sense of reserve regarding matters
of the flesh; their lifestyles precluded it.)  Still, Alayen knew the girl had
heretofore suffered, and the knight demonstrated virtually every quality
normally attributed to the class, chivalry foremost.
“I…”  Smile faded to tautness around mouth and smoky eyes, which still shone in
anticipation.  “Want…”
He brought two sandy fingers to flushed, parted lips; admonished mildly,
“Hep.”  Brushed the sand away, stroked a high ebon cheekbone, traced
scarification on forehead, around an ear, neck; moved tangled wet hair from
across one eye…
The girl all at once appeared to lose direction; stared at him, varied
expressions disputing sovereignty.  Mouth parted further as if to say something
more; tongue tentatively appeared, grin inexorably returning as his concern
evolved to warmth and – undeniably due to body proximity and wisps of steam
beginning to rise from wet clothing – ardour.
Shyrrell responded.  Giggles replaced a burst of laughter, zeal re-emerging as
she wrested the cinch on his sandy breeches loose, pulled them partway down. 
Abruptly consternation returned; sharp intake of breath accompanied backward
reel.  Retaining her attention, the yurt, arisen from crotch of soaked
smallclothes, emphatically failed to contain the ensconced member that emerged
from waistline like a florid snake leaving its den.  The tip of her tongue
appeared once more to taste a mixture of salty sweat and dripping river water. 
Wiping sand and further long hanks of wild black hair from eyes and face, hands
resumed position on naked thighs.  Alayen had difficulty averting his own gaze;
hers continued to avidly eye his goods, at last prompting his own scan of the
woman’s posture (to the Seven with gallantry!): sitting, one bent dusky leg
mostly bare, empty boot flopped near the other splayed leg.  In struggling with
her own joğaltw, Shyrrell had managed to wrest one legging almost off; short
homemade tunic by now shrinking even further in the semi-arid heat, normally
loose neckline tightly bound her breasts, thrusting twin, puffy-looking
protrusions against the thin dark leather.  Moreover it had ridden completely
above her waist.  And she wore no smallclothes.
Alayen’s fervour escalated at the sight of the girl’s near-hairless cleft
pouting at him, seeming to blossom even as he stared, to reveal shiny delicate
pink lips in erotic contrast to deep black outer mound, much darker than the
rest of her.  Attention drawn back to her face at her sharp gasp, the knight
realised his own plight; followed her gape to espy his manhood further
endeavouring to free itself.
“I shall require your assistance with this, milady,” he told her in a mock-
stern tone.  However, humour mayhap being the most difficult concept to breach
language barriers, he had to choose simpler words and a more direct approach. 
Rising and kneeling close – somewhat awkwardly due to certain constrictions –
took her hands and placed them each aside the object of her attention.  “Ahh…
Kömek.”
Twigging the plan immediately, the girl pulled away his waterlogged boots and
trews, then, with some assistance in the form of him pushing dusky hands to the
garment’s ties, plus a raised hip immediately followed by the other, she
managed to remove the remaining unfamiliar article.  Withal, Shyrrell avoided
coming too near his cock, as if indeed it may be a poisonous thing liable to
strike without warning.  Perhaps not all too surprising, given her upbringing…
“I believe milady will now need some assistance with her wardrobe.”
Shy grin denoted at least some understanding of tone and meaning.
Alayen rose on knees in the sand, aware that his prodigious member strained to
reach even farther than the hands gently plucking at her leathers.  Chuckling
half in humour and half in frustration at her attire’s non-cooperation, he
started as Shyrrell suddenly produced a wicked curved knife that flashed
metallically against darkly bronzed skin whilst she deftly pared away virtually
all remaining inhibitions.
Slamming the knife into the sand, she lay back propped on elbows, garments
strewn like her hair in lank ribbons amongst sandy divots; appeared to breathe
more deeply even than just following their horserace.  For his part, he caught
himself devouring her visually, quickly determining that doing so more
literally would probably be the best opening gambit.  He would treat her as a
virgin, for, although he had no illusions about her actual status, she
exhibited many requisite reactions, and moreover his awareness of her former
life remained foremost in his impassioned mind.
Doubtless unaware of her exact effect on him – enhanced by a few puckered
scars, bunched muscles over shoulders and arms suggesting understated power;
dusky breasts heaving, puffy dark caps pointedly excited; lithe legs crossed
modestly at the ankles, arousal their connexion nonetheless apparent – the
chevalier’s prick twitched, eliciting little hissing breaths from his partner
almost in time with his own involuntary movements.  Mesmerised, she followed
its waggle as he kneed through the sand between her legs; leaning, deliberately
he allowed the swollen head barest contact against water-dappled dark skin,
questing, as it were, to find a home here and there; perhaps this small recess
in the centre…?  No… too high.  The girl whimpered equally keenness and alarm.
Contrarily, he prodded his member even higher, maddeningly brushing each
quivering breast, engorged dark nipples; pulled back, leaned lower, aimed
delicate kisses at chin, along strong jawline, nose, forehead, eye, other eye…
 Both closed in anticipation even as mouth parted, breath drawn and held as two
pair of lips met, one tongue probed.  Quivers ceased all at once, mayhap in
surprise at the prehensile member delving at strong teeth, attempting a moist
duel with hers.  Alayen vaguely recalled something about her people nuzzling
and rubbing noses in place of kissing; thus, upon essaying what he hoped might
be a sound replication of familiarity, gently guided head and jaw, instructing
her on the unaccustomed technique.  Trusting she would find this alternative
pleasing, the knight continued for some time, quickening her responses using
tactical forays of hands and fingers on firm defences.
Apparently it would suffice; she moaned, muscles juddering, limbs twitching,
flailing away from him, as if to avoid contact.  Responding withal, she began
to yield, pushing hips up at him, hands reaching, caresses followed by brief
clutches that quickly escalated to an impressive grip on a shoulder and ass
cheek; her youthful strength and burgeoning passion provoked grunts akin to her
own.  Unexpectedly, the girl reverted to semi-passivity, allowing him instead
free rein across writhing body.  Knees nudged legs farther apart as he trailed
kisses and licks all down his young leader’s tense frame, sparing nook nor
crevice as he approached the focus of her desire and his.  Engorged nipples
suffered wanton treatment from lips, tongue, teeth; false entrance, found
wanting, was spared further probing from aught but tongue tip; finding salt and
sand, he gaily spat to one side.  Standing and laughing, he grabbed her up from
the beach and, though not inconsequential, slung her weight easily over a
shoulder, ran a few steps to fling her squealing – doubtless in delight mixed
with not a little outrage – into the slow-moving, chill river.
Splashing after her, he caught her as she spluttered and flailed, shaking and
wiping water and hair from eyes; another yell as he dragged her back onto the
strand – this time adequately rinsed of grit.  He positioned her such that
round buttocks barely remained awash, legs trailing into the river and
involuntarily bending; knees splayed, he dove into glistening pink cunt.  A
gasp exploded into a cry when his tongue lanced into sodden centre, penetrating
deep ere it flickered before withdrawing, only to thrust low, slashing up like
a sword.  Yet no weapon could rip across the sensitive nub atop her opening and
elicit such feelings as tore from her lungs thence; shouting her pleasure,
Shyrrell all but bucked her lover off.  He clung, hands gripping taut ass, at
once directing and restraining her lunges.  Responding again, her fingers
twined in matted hair, mashing him into her crotch; certain of his own
appreciative grunts sounded pained – exacerbated as she climaxed abruptly when
a finger, quickly followed by a second; much too tight a space for more –
daggered alongside tongue.  Bounding and yelling whilst he pressed the attack,
her thrashes subsided to mild convulsions, then tremors as he let up.
“Ah, ahh… Oo, ooh… Ah-HAHHH!” Shyrrell groaned.
Yet it was not over.  Alayen retraced his path up the overwrought girl’s
palpitating compact body, repeating the assault on swollen breasts and mouth as
nether lance levelled in anticipation of full charge; acutely aware of his
lover’s trembles translating not in small part due to outright fear, his cock
queried her, insistently yet tenderly seeking entry.  All at once her reactions
quickened; crotches and bellies smacked wetly as she impaled herself.  She
shouted again, climaxing once more just as he attempted to withdraw to begin
thrusting; arms and legs wrapped around him such that he once more winced as
though gripped by a giant constrictor.  Withal, he allowed her convulsions
surcease ere resuming the battering at her gates, gaining impetus till a trench
appeared beneath her bottom that quickly filled with water, splashing and
squelching sounds escalating with his own cries.  The volume of her yelps
likewise amplified, sheering off abruptly ere peaking as they convulsed in
tandem, spewing sand, water, sweat, spittle, other secretions, at the finish
line at last.
Or so he thought.
***** Chapter 7 *****
The cavalier did not mind interrupting his doze on the shore whence he lay next
to her after rinsing off, to a sensation not only of lapping water and cooling
wind raising ruddy hairs and gooseflesh on his skin, but more so the inexpert
yet powerful wet draw upon his prick.  Lifting dripping head, confusion
momentarily cast aside pleasure as he drew in a sharp breath along with the
sight of the commander of their warband engrossed with reviving his fallen
member.  Head and dark swirling tresses all but obscured her arms and
ministrations from view – not that he minded that, either.  Alayen watched her
well-formed upper back and shoulders ripple along with irregular head bobs;
despite the rest of her remaining hidden under the surface – or mayhap because
of it, apart from a glimpse of twin dark cheeks and shapely calves and pale-
soled feet waving in counterpoint with the gently sloshing river – the nomad
girl’s attractiveness only intensified.  He must have moaned, for she looked
up, mischievous white grin mostly hidden behind lank ribbons of black hair and
the angry head of his cock, which protruded from water otherwise covering his
lower half.  Fingering sodden hanks from one shining grey-blue eye, she
continued double-fisted erratic pumping, pink tongue darting.
“I decide waking you,” she informed him, “or you drowned.”  Tongue-swipe.  “You
in” —tongue-lash— “bath anyway.”  Lick.  “So I wash” —slurp— “this piece.” 
Apparently the young woman began to grasp humour in the vernacular, though
grammar still needed practice.
“Milady does… a splendid job,” he growled.
Enthusiasm closed the gap on inexperience.  Suddenly she released him;
splashing to her feet, amazingly, she bent and had little trouble – aside from
slippery grip – hoisting him across both sturdy shoulders and essaying a step
or two into deeper water ere heaving him off, accompanied by a resounding
shriek and splash nearly atop him.  Impressed once more by her hidden strength,
Alayen’s ardour intensified; he emerged, lance couched, fully intent upon
revisiting prior treatment of her.  Yet this time Shyrrell displayed her
leadership on an alternate battlefield.
Grabbing an appendage never intended as yoke or handle, the girl – fully a head
shorter and perhaps two-thirds his weight – pulled the man upon the shore;
turning, pushed him emphatically down on his back in a gout of sand (not that
he particularly resisted).  Fortunately, she relinquished control at same
moment only to leap astraddle his stomach, wet heat of her cunny squelching
against hard belly as she planted large feet alongside him.  The dark, blue-
dappled skin of the backs of her hands made his sculpted chest appear stark
white in contrast where they roamed, first lightly stroking, plucking plastered
reddish hairs erect, then clawing and pinching, poking as though to discern by
touch what lay beneath.  Encountering only hardened muscle, she began a slow
back-and-forth slide, gradually increasing tension against his cock, which
thrust ever more insistently against the small of her back, cleft of her ass,
until both started at sudden contact with sultry furrow.  Grabbing, she worked
his member, rubbing it everywhere it would reach, most especially up and down
in time to rise and fall of her haunches as she did half-squats above him; the
feel of shaft buffing cunt lips drove further urgency on his part, especially. 
Her other hand, placed firmly upon his chest, denied attempts to match her
movements, much less assume command.
Yet again she switched tactics: standing only enough to skitter backwards and
fall semi-prone between his legs, hers waving gaily once more, she renewed
attack on steely cock.  Testing its tensile strength, she pressed it to rippled
hairy stomach, laughing at how it sprang back when let go.  Even more
pronounced as she bent it the other way – albeit a groan of pain and a firm
grip on her arm accompanied by a sharp look warned her against overdoing this
manoeuvre.  Instead, she changed the game, first by tagging it with licks, then
trying to catch the cock in her mouth, hands free, with minimal teeth, as it
leapt about.  Anon tiring of this, the dusky girl captured it in earnest,
subjecting the head to imprisonment and summary torture till she endeavoured to
stuff as much as possible down her throat; gagging at last, this skill she
determined to practise as well; for the nonce her dungeon awaited its occupant.
Straddling him once more, both lovers groaned in unison as she lowered herself
upon him; slowly at first, hands enwrapping his cock, she moved it and herself
in opposite little circles; sat so her depths abruptly filled.  “Ïä!” the girl
exclaimed as he merely repeated moans and growls, pawing legs, arms, ass,
breasts…  “Ïä!”  She altered hand and foot placement whilst commanding a
frontal assault, experimenting with pace and angle till control, as in most
battles, quickly became lost in the heat of conflict; shouting, the captain
surrendered to pleasure washing over her like a flash flood of the nearby river
as he, voicing his own submission, spurt anew inside her.
***** Chapter 8 *****
Admittedly, having sought our commander’s whereabouts as darkness threatened
from our party’s camp farther downriver, I only witnessed that last
engagement’s conclusion.  As I have mentioned, details, real and imagined, of
thought and deed, have erstwhile bedevilled me, yet I reluctantly yielded then
as now to circumstance.  Over the years, the anguish I felt as my lady
continued to share aspects of herself with others in ways I in which could not
partake have faded with time, and no longer pierce as a pike to my heart. 
Mayhap only dull ache, of dagger tip left deep in my soul…
But again I digress.
Fortuitously, we found them in time to bring our commander back to take charge
of a situation: Our scouts, Klethi and Deshavi – the former having accompanied
me and several other warriors on our mission to locate Shyrrell (whence we had
to restrain her from intervening in the… congress), Deshavi and Baheshtur
leading another scouting party in a different direction – had espied a robber
band at least twice our size, having one or more similar trailing it. 
Returning to camp – our leader unabashedly riding quite literally bareback,
since her clothing had been… damaged – she took hardly enough time to don fur
and leather armour whilst, despite protests of nearly all the companionship,
directing preparations for attack.
“But we have barely over forty troops!”
I wanted to remind Artimenner that numbers, no matter the context, meant little
to Shyrrell, but held my peace; tactical matters not being among my talents.
“Reported are at least two bands of sixty or more apiece,” the haughty engineer
went on.  “It be suicide!”
Our leader continued to saddle her mount, as though ignoring the debate.
Baheshtur countered, “What is your woe, qorqaq?”  The Khergit had just called
the other man a coward.  “Perhaps you should stay behind with the servants if
you are afraid.  Even our good Medicus, Jeremus, has more courage—”
“I would have your head for that, my lord, should I not be forbidden from
dueling nobility.”
“I renounce the prohibition if—”
“I not.”  Shyrrell’s tone remained low, yet all could hear, despite our looking
upon a golden shield slung across square back as she cinched her saddle. 
“Combanion wish fight another, leave, never come back.  Osılay bolıñız.”  She
did not have to add, ‘Be it so by my word.’  All understood.
“Milady…if I may.”  Alayen, courteous as always, still risked my lady’s ire. 
Albeit after what I had recently witnessed between them, mayhap she had a heart
to forgive the knight – this once.
“Osılay bolıñız.”
Or not.  Alayen should consider himself lucky; our captain of few words seldom
repeated herself.
Shyrrell strapped bow case and scabbarded sword to horse’s tack; leapt aboard
as if floating, fitting soft boots into stirrups.  The lightly armoured steppe
pony – Second Wind – reared, eager as its rider.  “Make readied – we go…
 Jawıngerlik!”
To battle, indeed…
******   ******
***** Chapter 9 *****
Thwuck of sword cleaving leathers and flesh failed to eclipse the bandit’s
scream as he toppled from charging mount; thunder of hooves receded as a lance
speared into the dirt next to me, flipping away whilst the corpse bounced near
whence I panted on both knees, short sword held in feeble effort to ward the
lance-thrust that never came (yes, a shield would serve better, but that arm
felt broken).  My lady had saved me – did so again, two arrows hissing, one
finding flesh behind me to draw another strangled cry.  Exhausted, I turned,
struggled to my feet; latest would-be attacker sped away, slumped backward over
horse’s withers.
The battle – a third successive engagement versus bands of numerically superior
and better armed foes – waned at last, dead and dying outnumbering those still
fighting across the dry plain.  Casualties were grievous; we had probably lost
half our troop, certainly many more depending how many wounded – I soon
discovered among them Klethi, Ymira, Katrin, Matheld, Jeremus, Firentis, as
well as myself – would recover.  As it happened, fate spared all companions,
yet the orange-haired Swadian left shortly thereafter regardless, citing
Shyrrell’s leadership style as… not too his taste.  Unquestionably the knight
had courage and honour at least equivalent to Alayen’s (notwithstanding the
fact the former had slain his brother in a love triangle), yet I know he
thought my lady just too reckless and bloodthirsty.  Indeed, it began to cause
strife betwixt other members of our party, in spite of how easily she
replenished our numbers and more over the next few weeks of rehabilitation.
Recovering in camp near Ada Kulun, the isolated village on the edge of
‘civilised’ Calradia – essentially the eastern border of the Khergit Khanate as
well – our company relaxed as much as possible.  We strove there following that
combat, and, in spite of depleted numbers, quickly exhausted our, as well as
the tiny hamlet’s, paltry stores.  Tensions thus remained elevated, even as I,
Firentis, Katrin, Klethi, and a few warriors already recuperated, accompanied
Shyrrell on a foraging trip.  A risky endeavour, since bandit infestations also
remained a severe threat, necessity nonetheless impelled us to roam farther
than intended.  Happenstance decreed that, in visiting several other villages,
we successfully recruited and found meagre supplies.  As fate would further
have it, however, another band of marauders ‘caught’ us.  Once more, the
general feeling prevailed that Shyrrell did little enow to avoid the encounter,
even though we were weakened as well as outnumbered.  Escaping with naught to
show for our efforts – perforce abandoning our miserable supply cache when yet
another robber troop approached – we returned emptyhanded whence the mood only
worsened.
Firentis left immediately after that latest ignominy, but others – amongst them
Borcha, Bunduk, Deshavi, Baheshtur, Katrin, Jeremus, and Artimenner – now
voiced their own disapprovals.  Deshavi, having ‘seniority’ amongst companions
expressing an opinion, spoke first:
“Men qarındasıma qarındasımın.”  In declaring, ‘I am sister to my sister’, the
youth made a rather unusual avowal of her loyalty to Shyrrell, seeing that the
women probably originated from different – and therefore rival – tribes.  “I
have accepted her salt.  But we…suffer.  Too many fall.  Too many are hungry. 
Men ayttım.”
Our group discourses took the form of a Khergit tribal council for obvious
reasons.  Each said his or her piece, concluding with, ‘I have spoken’.
Baheshtur followed, repeating Deshavi’s affirmation – even more rare, since he
knew his tribal affiliation and was moreover a noble, whereas neither woman,
both commoners, did.  “Men gaplashganman,” he concluded in his own dialect.
Next spoke Borcha, also a Khergit peasant, whom had proclaimed innocence over
accusations of being a horse thief, Shyrrell taking him at his dubious word. 
“Men qarındasıma qarındasımın.  My courage is that of the oltin shavkat, the
small soaring bird that defends its nest from the bigger cho'l burguti.  I have
accepted her salt.  I say also that too many fall.”  Added, “Jaqsı mağınada,”
an expression loosely translated as, ‘It is not according to good sense’.  “Men
ayttım.”
Others proclaimed similar sentiments, one or two additionally bemoaning the
irregularity of sıyaqı tölew, which could be imprecisely rendered as ‘honour
payment’, actually taking many forms, such as recompense for murder, taxes to
one’s lord, as well as wages; not generally in coin, that is the form we
adopted for convenience despite my lady’s reluctance to agree to such a foreign
concept.  Bunduk even grumbled about being “out of honey again”, however Klethi
intervened, supporting Shyrrell, asserting how hard times were to be expected
and sneering at tabyid almaeiz – otherwise known as ‘bleating goats’.
Our leader, according to her wont, said virtually nothing at this semi-formal
gathering.  She made earnest eye contact with each speaker – something that
engendered truthfulness in most, diffidence in many, fear in some – nodding
almost imperceptibly as each had their say.  Acknowledged all with a simple,
“Men estidim,” which meant, ‘I have heard’.  She would consider and give answer
– or make her decision known – more or less indirectly in the near future.
That answer would be precluded, however, due to circumstance: This time
Shyrrell happened to meet the khan.  Klethi having identified his banners for
her – and never being particularly shy; the steppe tribes having a tradition
that their leaders be approachable in any case – she rode up and introduced
herself as our parties chanced upon one another on the plain near the ruler’s
capital of Tulga.
“Shyrrell?  This name is known to me.”
The mostly mounted groups swirled about one another, Sanjar’s surpassing ours
by at least three hundred soldiers, compared to our fifty-or-so; acquaintances
offered greeting, rivals exchanged insults… more or less good-naturedly.  Since
my lady had no allegiance or flag of her own, and she approached openly, giving
no sign of aggression – not to mention being outnumbered nearly seven-to-one –
the ruler’s bodyguard allowed her to greet her supposed king; Baheshtur and I
the only others allowed near, however.
“You have no standard, and go by no other name – yet I have heard of you.  How
is this so?  You serve no lord – are a woman – and yet you earn recognition in
your own right.  I would be… impressed if I knew more about you…  I don’t even
know what to call you… mening ayolim?”  Sanjar did not remove full horsetailed
helm, much less bow from heavy steppe charger – though he would not be obliged
to do so even if he indeed greeted a noble lady.  Tone both annoyed and
bemused, muffled voice rasped on from behind expressionless golden mask.  “I
find myself not knowing if I should be offended and ordering your arrest, or
bowing.”
“I know her.”  Bare-headed, late-twenties, the mounted speaker sidled
alongside, another heavily armoured figure in red lamellar.  Narrow dark eyes
flashed beneath heavy brow, over broad nose, thin, short black beard.  “She has
no other name because she is qul.  O'n To'rt, I claim you as Qochqin – your
tamg'a is mine!”
“Runaway slave?” Sanjar queried.  “You recognise her by your mark upon her
forehead, Lord Urubay?  And name her ‘Fourteen’?”
“No one own me.  I Tegin, no qul.  Men ayttım.”
“You see, my lord,” Urubay countered.  “This slave even uses the slave
language, protesting that she is ‘free’.  Her mark belongs to me, therefore her
person belongs to me.  Men gaplashganman.”
Baheshtur interceded.  “Shyrrell Bahadur has lived free for many seasons. 
Shyrrell leads her own tegin kompanïya…bepul kompaniya…”  He clarified ‘free
company’ in the nobility’s dialect.  “We all name Shyrrell Bizning Ayolim, and
we will fight for her recognition as Our Lady.”  Concluded, pointedly in the
others’ parlance, “Men gaplashganman.”
A fist suddenly clenched my heart; we had no chance against the khan’s army…
“Yagah…a dispute!” Sanjar exclaimed.  “So be it.  I call the Kengash.”
Having formally convened his Council, both leaders’ closest advisors gathered
in a circle, remaining mounted, to have their say.  Other than skins of kumis
passed about, it proceeded almost indistinguishably from Shyrrell’s: her
companions swore allegiance and argued her ‘nobility’, whilst the khan’s
counsellors advocated for the law.  My understanding of Khergit legal niceties
being limited, I said nothing, and could not predict the outcome.  Mayhap no
one could have.
The khan, helmet now doffed, pronounced judgement.  “Lord Urubay declares this
woman slave, offering proof of his mark.  This woman proclaims her freedom and
even nobility, by witness and deed, and by living Ozod for more than the
required year-and-a-day.  Despite her escape, the law deems her property until
the sharafli to'lovi is paid.  Shyrrell, are you prepared to compensate your
rightful lord, Urubay?”
“My lord, this is most…unusual.”  Although I did not know how ‘unusual’, I felt
I had to say something.  I did not have to identify myself, introductions
having been made.  Regardless, some would recognise me only as ‘foreigner’.
“Who are you, chet ellik?” another lord demanded.  “You have no place here—”
“I have given him gapirish imkoniyati, Dundush Noyan,” Sanjar asserted.  “All
here have been given say.”  Turned to me.  “I hear your objection…Marnid, is
it?  Do you have more to say?  Evidence?”  I did not.  “Now I have spoken, and
await answer.”
“Dwél.”
The word chilled me even more than Baheshtur’s avowal; Shyrrell had invoked
formal duel against a warlord years her senior and doubtless far better trained
and experienced, not to mention bigger and…  And I wanted to shout another
objection, but knew it would be both futile and dishonourable to my lady.
“Duel?”  Respect rimed interest in the khan’s tone.  “So be it.  Shyrrell has
challenged; what challenge does she make?”
“Küres.”
“Kur…?  Yagah – kurash?  You wish to wrestle Urubay Noyan?”  Respect almost
equalled wonder in the khan’s expression and tone, though her rival’s
countenance retained a sneer; the crowd’s murmurs revealed scepticism if not
derision.
Though far from unusual when young – nomads encouraged both boys and girls to
compete in gruelling horseraces as well as wrestling matches versus one another
up to the age of nine-or-so summers – when they got older, contests naturally
became more unbalanced, especially in directly physical confrontations, unless
adversaries were matched in relative size.
“Jılqı küresi.”
Confusion abruptly claimed my anxiety; Shyrrell wanted to wrestle a horse? 
Ridiculous, of course, and not what she said.  As Baheshtur reminded me under
his breath, though rare now amongst city-dwelling Khergit, nomad tribes
maintained a long tradition of ‘pure’ sport, including the so-called ‘three
virile games’ of horse racing, wrestling, and archery.  Often the first and
perhaps the second took the form of a team event from horseback – somehow
involving the body of a slain enemy – yet one-on-one engagements remained
common.
I should mayhap pause here to mention that, for these traditional reasons,
Shyrrell looked upon western mêlée tournaments as trivial and unworthy of her
time, not true ‘physical’ contests at all.  This is why she had always passed
up opportunities to enter the regular circuit around Calradia – an arena
existing in virtually every large town – lately going so far as to ignore the
occasional formal invitation from ranking nobility, to the detriment of her
broader reputation.
Withal, this engagement would be conducted according to Urubay’s rules; though
Shyrrell picked the event, pertinent regulations would be chosen by the
challenged party.  Since there existed many variants, aside from two norms –
namely of victory by forcing any part of an opponent’s body to touch the
ground, in addition to the toğay, or riding quirt, the only customary ‘weapon’
allowed – other protocols had to be determined beforehand.  When the lord
stipulated bilak va tok, once more I needed elucidation; Baheshtur supplied
that grip would be limited to an adversary’s wrists; attacks – using other than
quirt – limited to ‘slap’.  Thus far it did not sound too serious…
“Yalang'och,” Urubay announced next.
‘Bareback’ naturally not being unusual, I nonetheless did not see how this
helped our captain, her confident-appearing smirk notwithstanding.  Moreover,
soon standing next to one another alongside their horses and similarly stripped
of armour – both nude from the waist up, otherwise wearing only breechclouts –
he obviously still out-weighed and out-muscled her.  All at once my thoughts
briefly drifted – yet not to whence the reader might imagine.
Some time ago I wondered if Shyrrell’s dismissal of Lezalit might have been
precipitous; the son of a Gerioan count had been our chief trainer and much
more knowledgeable than Bunduk, a mercenary crossbowman from the Rhodok
Republic; but the former’s brutal methods reminded my lady too much of a slave
master.
Even so, our leader’s regimen of training and exercise – not to mention harsh
upbringing and lifestyle – had behoved her; she appeared even more fit than…
well, when I had recently observed her together with Alayen (albeit I admit to
being otherwise distracted then).  She yet looked small in comparison, though
no less confident for all that; hair mass tied in a heavy top-knot that
nonetheless trailed to square shoulders; smoky eyes bright, looking at nothing
in particular; not-quite imperceptible smile; chin tilted defiantly.  For his
part, Urubay appeared brash, though veiled glances at my lady’s arresting form
evinced flashes of lust overlaying wroth.  I dreaded what losing would mean for
her; death would be a mercy…
Whereby Urubay announced the next stipulation: “O'lim.”
“Y'oq,” Sanjar Khan immediately vetoed, adding: “To the death is against all
tradition.  Yaxshi ma'noda emas.”
The last comment translated same as Borcha’s argument about good sense, and I
managed a breath or two before Urubay spoke again.
“Ot poygasi.”
I understood ‘horse race’ well enow; felt apprehension lifting, relatively
confident in my lady’s skill in this stipulation.
Urubay pronounced the last condition: “Ot jangi.  Men gaplashganman.”
Horse…fight?
Once again Baheshtur explained, whispering, “Horses allowed to fight as well.”
“What?” I expostulated, drawing more than a few angry glances.  Muttered, “What
do you mean?”
He shrugged.  “Horses are allowed to fight.”
I knew not what this may signify, though it could not be good, pony versus
warhorse.  Did they fight each other, their riders, or both?  I would needs
find out, I supposed.
Tossing its head nervously, the woman’s spotted steppe pony, though a worthy
mount, compared ill with the doubtless superbly trained huge chestnut charger
standing stoically by its master.  Regardless, my lady’s smile quirked as,
seemingly at some signal, her mare lifted its tail; a long stream of horsepiss
splashed the dusty ground, eliciting a response at last from the stallion of
stiffened posture and twitching brown skin; then, baring teeth and flaring
nostrils, he emitted chuffing breaths – and a fat horsecock suddenly dropped
under his belly.  Certain he would have whirled to inspect the mare’s rump had
Urubay not asserted control by yanking an ear and taking a fistful of black
mane (no tack, not even bridles, were permitted ‘bareback’), using full weight
to hold the stallion.
She’s in estrus? I wondered needlessly to myself.  Somewhat bemused at the
situation, I did not see further advantage…
No one else appeared to notice as Sanjar Khan proclaimed the contest’s
stipulations settled.  He sent pairs of riders out in the steppe to wait at
regular distances not quite out of sight of one another; Baheshtur, Borcha,
Alayen, and I were appointed.  “Duelistlar will ride to each tashqaridai pair,
who will offer encouragement.  When the last is reached, the rider will return
here by the same route.  First is allowed to drink.  The duel starts when the
second rider arrives.  Rider whose hand, foot, or body touches the ground,
loses.  If Shyrrell wins, she is Ozod.  If she loses, qul.  Men gaplashganman.”
***** Chapter 10 *****
Having won much honour from that duel, Shyrrell became even more famous.  Still
she eschewed formal tournaments, instead continuing a ‘circuit’ of bandit-
crushing, anon acquiring the moniker Scourge of the Steppe – Cho'lning G'azabi
or Dala daw-Damawı.  The nickname notwithstanding, elsewhere in Calradia proved
unsafe for bandits as well; she rather enjoyed the Sarranid deserts – indeed,
she made friends there amongst the nobility, boldly greeting any party we
encountered – and contrariwise did not mind the frozen semi-wastes of the
north, either.  Two terrains my love never did learn to appreciate, however:
mountains and especially forests.
“Men ağaştardı jek köremin!” she spat one day.
Our company wove through some of those ‘hated trees’ on the trail of forest
bandits near the Swadian village of Ibiran.  Worse when we actually engaged, of
course; Shyrrell’s extraction and our composition being primarily light
cavalry.  Thus, when that encounter proved too close a fight – due to lack of
manoeuvrability – she invented a new training regimen in the form of forest
races: avoiding trees, jumping over deadfalls, ditches, and the like.  Soon our
captain purposefully set up obstacle courses and target dummies, bidding us
practice, and it became quite popular; many of us acquired great expertise at
what we called jaris sekirw – ‘jump races’ – especially Deshavi and Borcha as
well as, naturally, Shyrrell.
Dodging through trees taught skills steppe horsemen never had occasion to
learn, and later on, even our heavy knights benefitted somewhat.  Naturally,
lancers and archers remained inhibited, but our tactics changed further; we
became preternaturally good at wending, spirit-like, through all but densest
woodland, surging upon our enemies and slashing them to pieces ere disappearing
only to circle about and do it again from another direction.  In this way
neither could our opponents employ wholly effective defensive postures, since
such terrain also hindered cohesive anti-cavalry formations such as the pike
square.
Likewise we shunned mountains, albeit my lady learned to employ height to her
advantage, and would deign have us dismount, on occasion, when terrain or foe
absolutely compelled it.  (Though it may have been simpler to regularly employ
dismounted stratagems, unless in a siege or accidentally unhorsed, one might
well ask Shyrrell to cut off her legs as fight on foot.)  Thus, quarry learned
that we would not be easily dissuaded from pursuit, or quite how we might come
upon them.  If an enemy refused to give up a strong position, she eventually
learned to decline an encounter as well, not caring if certain companions
looked upon it as ‘retreating’, and less than honourable.  Indeed, as Shyrrell
proved her tactical skill time and again, these sorts of complaints diminished.
During our travels we also had occasion to view battles betwixt others,
including sieges of keeps and city fortresses.  I believe that Shyrrell learned
a lot from simply observing; I would overhear her murmuring to herself from a
position on a hill overlooking an encounter, catching phrases such as, “Tım
küşti...aynala”, and “Ustaw… Ustaw…  Endi!  Endi!” as if directing the battle
herself, advising, ‘Too strong…go around’, and ordering, ‘Hold…  Hold…  Now! 
Now!’  Even so, sieges long confounded her – again unsurprising, given her
unfamiliarity with the simplest permanent dwellings, let alone fortifications
and siege engines.  Yet she continued to learn.  Doubtless Artimenner proved an
invaluable source of engineering expertise, despite his rather dilettante
nature (he did not get along with Jeremus, especially, and therefore kept
leaving us, only to return time and again).  Unfortunately my lady saw more of
war’s brutality as well, which also affected her worldview.  I recall one day—
Yet I meant to tell you first of the other reason Shyrrell hated trees – and
brainless horses.  Although I forget the actual engagement – an otherwise
unimportant victory – it proved pivotal in her learning, both in regard to how
we selected and trained our warmounts, as well as, later on, general tactics. 
It occurred after the forest bandit encounter I have just mentioned, and thus
had less effect on battle stratagems than her choice of not just the sturdiest
and prettiest steed – at least amongst those intended for war.  While already
an incomparable judge of horseflesh, my lady also developed a few intelligence
tests, starting with placing an olma – the native Khergit fruit the rest of
Calradia calls an apple – on the ground before the animal, then covering it
with a wooden bucket.  If it took the horse too long to knock over the bucket
to nab the delicacy, she would not even give it the next test: Similar to how
we set up obstacle courses, this involved putting a stout branch or log across
two widely spaced stumps or rocks, at about cannon-level (midway betwixt hoof
and knee), the bucket opposite, this time with an apple in sight on the
upturned bottom.  If the animal leaned for it or tentatively tried to step over
– usually knocking the obstacle down – they did not ‘pass’; those that walked
around it graduated to the next tests, albeit her favourites were those that
aggressively kicked the hurdle aside or even successfully stepped over it, thus
demonstrating agility as well as cleverness.  Following experiments adjudged
whether a horse spooked easily – sudden movement, loud noises from all
directions – and finally the actual ‘tree’ test, whence a mounted trainer sent
the animal on a direct collision course with a significant tree (not one of the
scrub specimens common on the steppe).  Without further manipulation of reins,
knee pressure, or even subtle body shifts, if the horse itself failed to easily
avoid the obstacle… well, another failure.
Which leads me to the reason for the test: that is, when Shyrrell got entangled
with a tree and, whilst extricating herself, a peasant stabbed her in the leg
with a scythe.  Of course she managed to easily despatch the attacker, but this
being the first time my lady had been significantly injured – in true battle,
anyway – she took grave offence at everything about the situation, not least of
which the length of her recovery.
During that time our restless captain sent nearly all of us into hiding,
especially after what had happened after she broke her leg – amongst other
injuries – during the duel; no one save Klethi seemed able to deal with her
moods – or mayhap I should say ‘mood’, as she had only one when seriously
injured: cantankerous.  We set our camp far from inhabitation, once again a
number of yurts (most of us having adopted Shyrrell’s preference of avoiding
indoor accommodation and living essentially as nomads).  Besides Klethi,
Deshavi and Ymira and I took turns trying to care for and amuse her.  All aside
from Klethi had some skill at healing, so when Jeremus finished – he generally
lost interest once he had cleansed, leeched, and sewn a wound, preferring to
turn over dressing and after-care to someone else and return to normal camp
illnesses and his books – we did our best to manage our leader.  Shyrrell by
now intensely disliked not being active and in charge, so this is why none save
Klethi could abide her for long under these circumstances.  I should point out
that the little thief, who grew up in Mayalurg Castle in the Sarranid
Sultanate, was by now indubitably in love with our commander, something I
abruptly came to understand due to a series of incidences, both witnessed as
well as overheard and heard of, taking place at that time, adjoining other
recollections.
As learned during her last long recuperation, we early on sought distractions
for our lady; knowing her love of poetry, we engaged a number of travelling
bards to entertain her, in addition to a few awızşa tarïxşı, the singers of
Khergit oral histories known as aites.  Traditionally, Khergit children were
expected to memorise at least seven generations of ancestors by way of these
sagas – mayhap why it miscarried this time, seeing that Shyrrell had no such
background.  Then again, the tarïxşı should not have commented on her lack of
gen.
“Ketw, qaz ündestik!”
I believe the insult translated as, ‘Get out, honking goose!’  At least I trust
so, since Shyrrell had bidden me record these stories as well as our discourses
and adventures, so she could learn to read using them – which I had been trying
to teach her, heretofore with modest success.  This is also why I remained in
her yurt, witness to almost all that took place during that intense time, as
though aught but one of the stools upon which I sat; along with a bed on either
side of the low eating table near the central hearth, left and right of the
south-facing entrance; to the north, a cupboard/altar between two decorated
wooden storage chests; and on either side of the elaborately embroidered felt
door curtain, weapon and saddle racks, plus a pantry for food and utensils.
She threw a platter of uneaten food at him; the only reason not a dagger or
javelin because Khergit hospitality prohibited weapons in a yurt other than
when placed on the racks or reequipped just prior to exiting.  Withal, the
heavy wooden plate glanced off the poor man’s head, staggering him, three of
its four short removable legs scattering, ere Klethi interposed herself between
them to preclude further flying objects as I helped the singer out.  I took him
to Jeremus’ tent to have his wound seen to.  There, Odval – a peasant from
Tulbuk village in the Khanate, who kept boasting at having ‘won’ the annual
archery tournament there – looked at us askance, blowing smoke rings.  By now
the entire camp knew she had cheated – having more or less admitted so herself,
regarding how the location of targets were unknown “except if you sleep with
the one who places them”.  I mention this because of what happened later,
involving this cheat as well as Deshavi and Baheshtur.  Alayen would also be
involved – or mayhap I should say ‘affected’.
But once again I race ahead of events.
“Ya-hah!” the cheater exclaimed.  “Pretty Face didn’t like the stories?”
I thought that rather obvious, so I only glared at the svelte woman; the other
reasons being Jeremus’ curious fondness for her – hence her presence in his
yurt – and the fact that she lounged virtually naked on one of his beds,
smoking an alshaysha.  Beautiful, exotically similar to my lady, gold hoop
earrings dangling, high breasts thrusting…  I looked away, still uncomfortable
amidst Khergit and Sarranid mores, and withal feeling as though I betrayed
Shyrrell merely through such appraisal.
Jeremus, fully dressed in his usual heavy robes despite the tent’s warmth, said
nothing, instead putting down his book and getting up to rummage through one of
his supply chests (yurts are traditionally arranged almost identically).  Odval
stood, not donning anything more besides the near-sheer Sarranid eaba'atan robe
she did not even bother to belt.  My mind began to cloud with hemp fumes from
the hookah, and I found myself unable to focus on more than her generous,
gently swaying form as she began to chant in an unnerving, almost inhuman
guttural rumble that raised every hair on my body.  The sound carried through
the camp; though I could not follow the words – if words they were – anon I
recognised someone playing a dombra in perfect accompaniment, almost at once
joined by another of the small lute-like instruments having a long, narrow
neck.  I also heard a kobyz, similarly constructed but longer-necked and two-
stringed instead of four-, and played with a bow vice strummed.  Stunned by the
young woman’s vocalisations, unlike anything I had ever heard – later finding
out it was called juldırw äni, or ‘throat singing’ – I failed to notice our
leader having entered the tent and obviously listening intently ere she
clapped, grinning, and bid the party move outside.  We all followed, Odval
dressing more due to requirements of climate rather than modesty, I am sure.
Each group of three or four yurts shared an outdoor fire pit – indoor hearths
used only during inclement weather – and around the nearest one virtually all
the encampment crowded.  Borcha added his voice to Odval’s for several awe-
inspiring duets, interposed by Katrin, Bunduk, Alayen, Ymira, even Jeremus,
each adding songs from their various backgrounds including lullabies to folk
songs to hymns.  As we all did our collective best to empty the camp of
victuals and libations, Klethi finally sang one apparently in praise of archery
skill – hers in particular – which precipitated a ‘boasting contest’ followed
by an actual challenge (albeit exactly who challenged whom I cannot recall). 
Though the wisdom of arming several dozen belligerent drunks and inviting them
to ride and shoot in fading light escaped us all, nonetheless almost everyone
eagerly mounted up for an archery competition.
Unfortunately we all forgot about Shyrrell’s handicap, and whilst she won –
like as not being the least inebriated, if for no other reason – she
exacerbated her injury.  Deshavi, Baheshtur, Katrin, and even Odval placed in
the competition – I forget in which order – though Ymira fell off her horse
when it stumbled on a rock or something, injuring her shoulder and thus ending
the contest.  As Jeremus attended to both – Shyrrell’s excitement barely
allowing her to remain still as he re-sewed and bandaged her wound – the
eating, drinking, dancing, singing, and fucking resumed – not necessarily in
that order.  Now being well after sundown, a chill wind whipping icicles of
sleet, our leader, mood noticeably improved, bestowed gifts on her competitors
and suitably praised their skill.  Along with hemp- and torch smoke and the
redolence of cooked goat- and horsemeat, an undeniable hunger laced the cool
pre-winter air, albeit not for the remains of the impromptu feast.  I
recognised it even if I had not seen the predatory look in my lady’s firelight-
bathed features as she eyed various nearby couplings, or heard it in her voice;
her sexual appetite continued to grow.
“We all go to…vanna.”  I detected not only lust but command as she rose.
Normally only a few companions at a time accompanied one another to either
communal steam yurt; those either already familiar with the casual mix of sexes
as well as others who became used to it and eventually enjoyed it.  Klethi,
curiously, rarely did unless alone with Shyrrell and mayhap Deshavi – I now
believe due to jealousy over what oft occurred therein – but Deshavi, Ymira,
Borcha, Baheshtur, Nizar, Odval, Nadia, and Matheld habitually partook.  Katrin
declined, this time saying she and Bunduk would retire to their own tent and
“leave the pleasures of youth to the youth”, and Matheld had gone on a
diplomatic mission to enhance Shyrrell’s right to rule.  Alayen, as usual, even
over our captain’s near-insistence, drunkenly argued against the practice’s
‘unhealthiness and ungodliness’; yet, like the monk, I think lust overcame
propriety.
Similarly, Edwyn, a Swadian miller whose wife and daughter were raped and
killed by knights, normally felt too uncomfortable, but Nadia, whom had fled
her Sarranid village of Sekhtem to avoid being the mayor’s next victim-wife (he
purportedly hanged them all after their first night together), persuaded him,
albeit doubtless the drink had more than a little effect on their scruples as
well.  (Sajjad and Rolf, though not with us at the time, also invariably
refused, the reformed Sarranid bandit-cum-monk objecting on religious grounds,
the latter to “mingling with unclean peasants”, despite the irony of the
ostensible reason for ‘mingling’ and my certainty that Rolf boasted as much
noble blood as I.)  Hence, the rest of us, including Ghazwan, Klethi, and even
Jeremus, cajoled by sensual Odval, squeezed into one small tent; our soldiers
would share the other.
Steam and qarasora tuqımı smoke soon filled the yurt; seeds were cast on
braziers, whilst the central hearth heated large stones over which we ladled
water.  I began to lose concentration, events merging and becoming hazy as the
dim interior.  Some I like to believe I dreamed, as if watching from above,
others I know I did not, though I care not to separate the twain.
***** Chapter 11 *****
“You will learn me the… sorıp alw tayaqşa.”
“Ha-ha-hah!”  Deshavi, releasing Nizar’s big cock from broad mouth, laughed
throatily, leaned back on wooden stool.  Black skin shone in the muggy dimness,
generous breasts lolling; ankles demurely crossed, bushy sex prominent; shaven
brow, white teeth reflected torchlight.  “You want me to teach you to suck
prick?  Why do you think I’m the one?”
Alayen, sitting naked on another stool beside Shyrrell, nuzzled her, failed to
engage; captain instead stared at Nizar, who rose from his own seat to step
closer to the lanky, darker woman, prodding swollen member against thick lips.
“Ehmm…” Shyrrell murmured.
Deshavi laughed again, cutting herself off as, hands free, she thrust the hard
length far enow to feel black curly hairs tickling nostrils; he grunted. 
Releasing him with a plop, beckoned, “Come. Kneel.”
Around them others engaged in similar activity: Ymira, murmuring, shoulder in a
sling and bandaged, used the other hand to push Borcha’s ragged dark head into
her blonde crotch as he knelt and kneaded huge breasts, plucked long ruddy
nipples.  Dusky Odval bounced in Jeremus’ lap, the rather corpulent pale monk
goggle-eyed, hardly moving with the lanky woman’s hands round his throat,
mouths pressed together.  On stools facing one another, Baheshtur and Ghazwan
mutually masturbated, groping and kissing savagely.  Nadia’s yelps emerged from
whence she lay nearly hidden beneath Edwyn, the ex-miller’s fleshy white
buttocks quivering as he endeavoured to pound the little bronze Sarranid into
the grass mat-covered ground.  Marnid attempted to engage Klethi, but the
skinny girl wriggled away, pushing apart Deshavi’s legs and lapping at the
dusky crease laid bare by questing fingers.  The youth instead approached
Ymira, who accommodated him in willing mouth.
“On the other side,” Deshavi bade Shyrrell.
Sounds and smells of sex underlay pungent steam.  The band’s leader knelt
beside Nizar, smoky eyes wide, devouring the sight of the slim ebon man
thrusting into the other woman’s mouth; the self-professed poet and lover from
Ergellon Castle in Swadia recited:
 
       “Lo, doth my love await,
           heart aflutter;
        Lo, doth my love’s breath’d sighs enflame
           and enkindle;
        Lo, doth I approach,
           so to assuage her ardour”
 
Since the true test of a poet-lover lay in his ability to perform in both
capacities at once, Nizar continued to narrate in a steady tone, even as
Deshavi began her instruction.
“Now, watch.”  The voluptuous black woman pushed Klethi away so she could turn
and face the man, legs now spread either side of his.  “Not all pricks are this
big,” she remonstrated.  “So it takes some practice to be able to do this.”
 Abruptly throating him all the way, he droned on without a hitch.  Gripping
his narrow buttocks, she impaled herself on his lance a few times, making
controlled choking sounds.
“Eya!  I wish I had a cock!”  All ignored Klethi’s petulant tone as she
wriggled around behind the man, endeavouring to get betwixt Deshavi’s legs
underneath him.
 
       “Lo, behold how rounded breast
           proffer’d doth swell,
       And ruddy teat point,
           as though to one accus’d;
       Lo, doth my lips caress and grasp,
           its stiffen’d tip to tease”
 
“You already know how to lick?” the instructor resumed.  “Shyrrell!”
Captain tore gaze from huge black member enwrapped and stroked in two nearly-
as-dark hands.  “Wha…?”
“Ha-ha-hah!  Pay attention!  The enemy must be scouted…like this…”
A woman yelled, “Don’t shoot inside me – filthy beast!”  Ymira shoved Borcha
off, grabbed his modest prick, aiming at her flat white belly as he grunted in
time with ejaculations.  Simultaneously, Marnid burst in her face.  Crying out
again, the golden-haired, temporarily one-armed woman released one member to
direct the newest assault over big tits, using purple cockhead then fingers to
smear it over long nipples, lips, ere licking all.  Murmuring despite prior
vocalisations of distaste, she exchanged pricks once more, similarly treating
the other.
 
       “Lo, behold the moistened cleft unfurl’d,
           and now doth my oral appendage essay
       To taste and pull the pearl,
           to torment till ’tis most turgid”
 
Ghazwan, meanwhile, growled as Baheshtur bent him over, poured olive oil over
his modest cock and the other man’s bunghole, began to energetically fuck him. 
Reaching around, the Khergit jerked the Sarranid’s average prick till they
climaxed almost simultaneously, grunting and collapsing atop one another.
Odval screeched, “O, qudaylar!” convulsing with yelling partner.  Jeremus’ grey
eyes fairly popped from his head as he stiffened, thick heels drumming on the
mats as she fell off, grabbing his fat prick from the floor to milk remains of
dribbling pearly liquid.
“UH-UHHHhhnn!” he groaned, belly rolls jiggling.
Alayen, on his back, spread Shyrrell’s dusky fat labia, probed and lapped
glistening pinkness from beneath as she knelt across from her instructor; Nizar
having laid supine.  She grunted, yet appeared too engrossed in her lesson to
otherwise notice the knight.  Both women ravaged the lean black man’s member,
Deshavi slurping and throating, Shyrrell doing her best to lick and suck in
tandem.
 
       Lo, now lieth open the way to Haven,
           and so doth mighty ram probe
           at unguarded gates;
      Lo, doth my love bid entry,
           bridge lower’d, portcullis rais’d,
           moat cross’d;
       Lo, doth my love cry surrender;
           and doth I offer terms earnest
          and tender.”
 
“No, you must move!  Up and down, up and down…  Yes.  Now all the way!” 
Deshavi pushed her commander’s head down upon the thick cock.
Shyrrell gagged, choking and pulling away as it spurted, shooting copiously
into sultry air.  Deshavi, capturing it, impaled her face to its root, held on
as he grunted and jerked; finally having ended his recital, she held fast till
his convulsions ceased.  Trickles of white cream leaked as she withdrew.
 Grabbing her captain by the head, jamming their lips together, tongue thrust,
expelling his emission into the other woman’s mouth.  Shyrrell grunted in
protest, tried to push away, spit it out.  Yet, for once not in control, and
‘learning’ as requested, accepted the gift – to a point.  Deshavi let it
dribble down lips, chins, slurped it up again, lapping it from Shyrrell’s face,
finally gulping it down around appreciative purrs.  Her pupil appeared frozen,
as though unsure, even as Alayen continued to suck and tongue vigorously,
kneading their leader’s ass and modest breasts; yet as he seized her big
‘caterpillar’ she finally reacted, screaming in climax – cut off when Deshavi
resumed their aggressive kiss.
“Forsooth!” the knight all at once shouted.
“Al'abalah!”  Klethi, despite diminutive stature, had grabbed him by both
ankles, bodily dragging the big man from under Shyrrell.  “Get away from her,
you fuckers!”  The little redheaded thief then attacked Nizar, leaping upon the
helpless man, thin arms a blur, slapping furiously at face, head.
Her countryman, recovering perforce, tried to defend himself, block blows,
grabbing at her.  “Twqf!  Majnun baghy.  Alnzwl ly!”  Finally getting hold of
his assailant, threw her off and stood unsteadily, half-stiff cock swinging.
The tiny naked girl sprang to her feet, this time somehow coming up with two
knives; hatred twisting fine brown features, sparking jade green eyes, attacked
again, daggers slashing at his crotch.  A dark form intercepted the assault as
Nizar leapt backward and Shyrrell tackled the smaller woman; struggling briefly
ere overpowering her, wrenched and slammed thin wrists on the floor till
weapons fell to damp matting.  Though Klethi’s struggles ceased, the glare
turned upon her leader contained something else: hurt… betrayal?
“Go out,” Shyrrell growled.  “You no longer in company.  Men ayttım.”
Distress became confusion ere returning to seethe, angry glow fading from the
redhead’s green eyes, replaced by dull resignation.  Captain stood, allowing
Klethi to rise, leave the steamy yurt without a backward glance.
***** Chapter 12 *****
“Don’t cry,Äkem. Anamwill be all right.”  My young daughter tried to comfort
me, but I felt beyond consolation.
My wife lay mortally injured, naught to be done.  After all… after everything,
it had come to this: She, dying on a muslin shrouded feather bed suspended from
the ceiling of our castle in Ichamur, surrounded by finery and baubles, the
earnings of a lifetime – all meaningless!  It could not end this way
–wouldnot!  Slow and agonising, not the way of a warrior…
The life seeps from her as I watch, helpless; I hold her wrinkled brown hand,
already cold.  I see graven in mine the passing of so many years as I reach to
stroke long silvering hair away from exotic face; once-bright eyes, dulled by
pain, open briefly to gaze at me; all features otherwise as they were the day
we met, so long ago—
I awoke in a cold sweat.  The dream, so real…  Precognition?  I knew not then,
of course, but am ineffably saddened to realise—
Ah, my mind again wanders as I lose focus on my story; I beg indulgence once
more, dear reader, as I return to my tale.
Our first battle for the khan occurred near that same village of Dirigh Aban. 
We met Boyar Gastya once more – the same lord whom we prevented sacking that
hamlet – albeit this time we engaged on a field of our choosing, namely the
slopes of the Boroxoro Tawları, the hilly border region betwixt the Khanate and
Kingdom of the Vaegirs, close to Sungetche.  It surprised my lady, I think, how
Gastya had been able to replenish his ranks so readily, and I know it rankled
that he had escaped our last meeting.
We could identify the boyar as he approached by his standard: a crossbow on a
field of yellow – that is, or, a word meaning ‘gold’ in the Swadians’ intricate
system of heraldry.  We observed, Shyrrell’s expression beneath steppe cap
unreadable, whilst the small enemy party thundered upon us.  Fighting his mount
for control, the big, leather-barded roan appeared already lathered, wild-eyed
as his rider sawed reins and laid about its neck with a riding crop.  Rearing
to an unsteady halt before us, Gastya glared at her over bulbous nose, squinty
black eyes sharp in contrast to dusky round cheeks; thus did he resemble a
petulant, bearded jer silekeyleri, the small brown rodent whose burrows proved
the bane of steppe horse and rider alike.  Naturally, he threatened our leader,
opening the ritual parlay prior to engagement:
“Suka, ty ne naydesh' menya takim legkim protivnikom!”
I translated for her: “You’ll not find me so easy an opponent this time.”  He
had also called my lady a ‘bitch’, but I saw no reason to translate that word.
Horse twisting in circles, he went on for some time, trying to bait her into
the game, else doing something rash, for which she would lose face.  “YA
poveshu tebya svoimi sobstvennymi muzhestvami!”  I’ll hang you with your own
guts!  “YA nadenu glaznyye yabloki vashikh detey na ozherel'ye!”  I’ll string
the eyeballs of your children on a necklace!  This last only proved that he did
not know his opponent as well as he ought – Shyrrell having no offspring then,
of course – which should be a prime consideration in one’s insults.  He
proceeded to comment on her lack of parentage as well as, contradictorily,
being the ‘baseborn spawn of a mountain goat’ that her father had rutted with. 
Still, my lady declined response, despite this being virtually a ceremonial
event amongst both peoples.  Finally, our enemy spat and yanked his mount
toward his lines, viciously heeling it and raising his quirt.
Shyrrell then spoke, almost too softly for anyone to hear, though her words,
surprisingly in his own language, brought him sharply about.  “Gastya,” she
called, deliberately omitting his title.  “YA voz'mu vashu loshad'.”
Looking again at the boyar’s horse – which she had just promised to take – I
could see why, as it appeared a fine specimen, exactly the sort of horseflesh
she revered.  And it was probably the worst insult one horse lord could offer
another – aside from actually stealing it, that is.
Snarling, Gastya made to charge our captain, as though to wield quirt against
her instead.  Fortunately the man’s escorts intervened, lest he lose more face;
they left, their leader still spitting curses over his shoulder and struggling
against mount and bodyguards.
The actual battle proved anti-climactic. Though outnumbered at least two-to-
one, we smashed the largely unmounted enemy, running circles around their
hapless foot soldiers, shooting them so full of arrows we all nearly ran out
ere we charged and put the rest to lance and sword.  Shyrrell bade us leave
Gastya for her – more so warned us against harming his horse on pain of slow
death.  Since both steed and rider took the field encased in wax-hardened cuir-
bouilli leather, they could shrug off most ‘accidental’ attacks, yet regardless
he spent the brief encounter mostly chasing our captain about the battlefield
screaming curses, whilst we fought him off along with his over-eager mounted
lieutenants.
Although Alayen, Borcha, Baheshtur, and I normally constituted Shyrrell’s
informal bodyguard, and we managed to ensure she was not overwhelmed, we lost
contact – battle going as battles normally did – until I saw her racing out of
some sparse tree cover down a hill, pursued by several enemies both on foot and
a-horse.  Törtinşi Jel, a sturdy dun desert steed, proved more than a match for
their speed; our lady shot another enemy twice as I observed, sending him
tumbling down the slope; abruptly whirled, swapping bow for sword.  Racing past
a foot soldier, she hacked off the upraised arm bearing a hammer, leaving him
screaming in the grass whilst deflecting a sword-blow from Gastya on her shield
and ducking similar from the last, mounted attacker.
I charged, lance couched, managing to surprise the latter from the flank;
punching the heavy steel tip through blue banded mail hip fauld, I skewered leg
to mount, the heavy ash pole shattering on impact and nearly tearing my arm
from socket amid screams of dying horse and spinning, one-legged man.  I barely
managed to keep my seat as I wheeled about, numbly drawing my own sword, to
witness Shyrrell dismount and stride to another fallen foe – Boyar Gastya.
 Thereupon she appeared to endeavour to wrench enemy’s head from shoulders;
suddenly I realised she would kill him.
“My lady!” I shouted, leaping down next to her.  “You must not!”
She had his helmet off; raised her sword to behead him.
Gastya, feebly raising a bloodied gauntlet, cried, “YA ustupayu!  YA tvoy
zakly…uchennyy!”
“NO!”  I took the awful chance of seizing Shyrrell’s mailed sword arm; I saw my
death that day, not for the last time.
“Jiberw.”
I let her go as bidden, feeling my sudden demise now more likely than the
enemy’s.  Breathless, I persevered in the face of her wroth.  “You cannot kill
him…my lady.  Rules of war forbid it.  He is nobility… unhorsed, wounded…
disarmed.  We can ransom him – tölem,” I clarified, hoping the term translated.
She looked upon her enemy, and I believe he saw his own death.  “I yield!” he
repeated, still in his own tongue.  “I am your prisoner!”
I am certain neither mercy nor ransom factored into why Shyrrell spared him;
like as not instead so he could watch her sword return to its scabbard whilst
she strolled toward his nearby mount – which, shorn of its odious rider, all at
once appeared gentled, grazing amongst boulders, flowers, corpses.  Taking its
dangling reins, amazingly – because warhorses are generally trained to respond
violently to any attempt at handling by other than its master – it allowed
itself to be led to stand over former owner.
My lady removed her helmet; wind lashed streams of black hair that had as usual
loosed its fetters.  Grinned fiercely, blue eyes flashing.  “I take your
horse.”
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