Daughter of the Yellow Dragon: A Mongolian Saga (Fractured Empire Book One)

Under the Eternal Blue Sky, the Great Genghis Khan blessed our lands,

brought order to the disordered, and gave us heirs.

Along the White Road, His descendants walked,

expanding our empire until desire overcame pride.

And from this Black Road came the curse of the rabbit demon,

the desire to covert what was not ours, to draw blood for blood.

Soon after, all that remained of the once Great Khan’s descendants

was bathed in blood and lost to time like sands in the Gobi.

As the age declined, we fell into disorder,

abandoned our cities and retreated to the north, licking our wounds.

Prologue: Boy in the Basket

East of Khyargas Lake – Altai Mountains – Summer 1453

Thunder rumbled across the foothills of the Altai Mountains, created by the hammer of hundreds of hooves pounding against the unforgiving rocky ground. Another volley of arrows whistled across the wide blue sky toward Lady Samur’s hand-selected warriors. Unebolod didn’t dare glance back as he heard a horse squeal and crash against the rocky earth, tumbling end over end and crushing the rider, or as dust coated his face and made his mouth dry. He didn’t slow to assess the number of casualties this most recent volley claimed. Escape was paramount. He had given his word, and his word was iron. Being given such an important task at barely fifteen had made him determined to succeed and prove his worth.

It also offered him a chance to avenge his family by undermining Esen’s reign.

Unebolod leaned closer to his own horse, urging it onward at breakneck speed. They passed spotty lines of fir trees in a blur of motion, their scent mingling with the smell of horse and body odor. The horse bobbed its head and huffed out quick breaths. It was a fine horse Lady Samur had given him, and one of the fastest, but it couldn’t outrun arrows.

Esen’s men outnumbered his own twenty to one. Unebolod and the rest of Lady Samur’s warriors had attempted to make a stand, fighting Esen’s own elite warrior, but they could not hold against superior fighters in superior numbers.

“Above all else, the Borjigin heir must survive,” Samur had urged her men when she had set them upon this critical task. “Above me. Above your men. Above you. Bayan is the last blood and bone of the Great Khan, Genghis, the last true son of the Borjigin clan and your future Great Khan. If he falls into the hands of Esen’s men, he will not survive.”

Unebolod vowed to escape Esen’s grasp, along with the rest of the men riding with him, and deliver the three-year-old child to the safety of Lady Samur’s allies in the east—Unebolod’s own brother and Khorchin clan. He knew that was the reason Lady Samur chose selected him, but it still filled him with self-importance.

A vow was a vow, and his word was iron.

Unebolod had tied the child in a basket for safety. He was youngest and lightest of all the men, so they had tasked him with care of the basket for a quicker ride. They had hidden the basket in a hole in the ground near the Altai foothills before engaging Esen’s men in battle. If none returned to Bayan, the child would die in that basket.

“Unebolod!” Altan called from beside him. Altan glanced over his shoulder and ducked low to his horse as an arrow narrowly missed the space his head had just occupied. “This will not work. The Oirat will overrun us or kill us with arrows in short time.”

Unebolod risked a glance back, clutching the reins in tight fists. He swore a vow to Lady Samur that he would see this done and escort the boy to his own clan where Bayan would be safe. His own brother had returned weeks ago to secure control over their Khorchin clan.

My word is iron, he thought, remembering those same words from his own father. Oaths were unbreakable. Without honor, a man had nothing, and Unebolod was determined to prove himself a man.

“Let us circle around and engage the force to buy you time to make off with the child,” Altan said.

Unebolod reached for his bow, but Altan shook his head.

“It has to be you. Go. Retrieve Bayan Mongke and take him to your brother as Lady Samur commanded.”

Unebolod eased his grip on the bow and returned all his attention to the foothills where the basket waited.

Altan released a ferocious war cry, “For the Borjigin! For the Great Khan!”

The rest of Unebolod’s companions broke off, circling their horses around to engage with Esen’s men, bows drawn and arrows already returning fire.

The horse beneath Unebolod continued snorting as he veered away from battle toward the foothills, hooves beating the ground. But not loud enough to drown out the clash of battle he had left behind. Men shouted. Arrows whistled in the air. Swords clanged. Horses whinnied and shrieked.

The sounds soon receded and Unebolod fell into rhythm with his horse, leaning close to maintain full speed. His own body bobbed in tandem with the dip of the horse’s head, taking short, even breaths with the beast. The Altai Mountains rose higher as he neared them, their rocky majesty providing a promise of success—of escape.

Bayan Mongke was close. Unebolod would retrieve the basket, secure it to his horse, and escape into the mountains where Esen’s men dared not go. Too many opposed Esen so far to the east after he had murdered so many of the Borjigin lords. Borjigin loyalists crawled the mountain passes waiting to pick off any who dared enter, but for one exception.

Bayan Mongke. The future of Mongolia. A true Borjigin prince.

The familiar sound of approaching horses echoed off the foothills. Unebolod hoped the men had succeeded in routing Esen’s force. His horse was slowing and wouldn’t be able to run much longer. Unebolod reduced the pace slightly, hoping to increase the distance they could travel before the horse gave out.

The hooves closed the distance with each passing breath. Unebolod glanced back, only to have his hopes dashed.

Esen’s men approached. Only a handful remained, either successfully killing Lady Samur’s men or breaking formation to pursue him while the others engaged in battle. At the rate they closed in, Unebolod could not afford to stop and pick up the basket. He could not afford to lose any speed before reaching the protection of the mountain pass.

The handle of the wicker basket peeked over the edge of the hole in the distance. Unebolod checked the progress of Esen’s men. Fifty yards. At this pace, his horse might just barely make it into the pass before they closed in on him.

He could still outrun them. As long as he didn’t slow his speed.

The basket was close now, and Unebolod didn’t have the luxury of time to decide on a suitable course of action. Instead, he followed his instincts and let his father’s training kick in.

Unebolod removed the string from his bow with a swipe of his hand, tucking the string in the belt of his deel. Without the string, the limbs of the bow curled outward into a hooked shape. Unebolod wrapped the reins around one hand, which he used to grasp the pommel of the saddle in a sturdy grip. In the other hand, he turned his bow to use as a hook. Applying his thighs for balance and strength, he shifted his body to the side to bend closer to the ground. With a mighty swoop, Unebolod hooked the basket handle with a limb of his bow and tossed it into the air ahead of him with a powerful thrust.

Esen’s men persisted, but their focus shifted to the basket as it tumbled from the wide blue sky toward the earth. A few arrows zipped toward the basket, narrowly missing the wicker.

Unebolod held his breath as he righted himself in the saddle and released the death-grip on the reins. Knees guiding the horse forward and holding his balance, Unebolod stood and stretched toward the basket. It fell perfectly in his outstretched hands.

The men giving chase released a war cry.

Unebolod let out a whoop of victory and maintained his speed as he secured the basket to the horse.

Then the two of them raced into the mountain pass where other clans were waiting to provide cover.

Esen’s men did not stop. Not even as the arrows of the other clans hiding in the upper passes of the mountains rained death down on them. Not even as the very last of them died behind Unebolod.

Chapter One: Spirit of Khutulun

Ongud Territory – Eastern Mongolia – Spring 1464

A warm breeze ruffled the hem of Mandukhai’s riding deel—a simple tunic wrap worn by the Mongol people. The spring breeze carried with it the promise of a coming summer, and she closed her eyes, smelling the fresh grass in the air and savoring this moment of peace.

All around her, the Ongud clan busied themselves loading carts with the promised bride-price. Women fussed over linens and chests of precious silver and jewels. Men checked the horses and oxen to ensure they were prepared for the journey ahead. Mandukhai did her best to ignore them all, to ignore her fate. The bones had been cast; the bargains struck.

Mandukhai would marry Manduul Khan, the ruler of the Mongol nation and a man she had never laid eyes on.

Ten steps away, her mother and step-father consulted with the soothsayer once more before her departure to be certain Mandukhai’s journey would be without peril. She wished she could not hear their conversation, but the breeze also carried with it the hushed words.

“It is assured,” Soothsayer Getei said confidently. He glanced her way. She pretended not to notice. “Your daughter will become the queen and bring honor to your family and her father’s name.”

Mandukahi had only just turned sixteen, and the last thing she dreamed of was becoming a queen. As a girl, her father had told her stories of Khutulun, the fierce warrior princess and daughter of Qaidu Khan of the Chagatai Khanate nearly two hundred years ago. Khutulun earned the respect of the men around her with her superb fighting skills. The tales Mandukahi’s father had spun depicted Khutulun as superhuman, able to ride into enemy ranks and snatch captives as easily as a hawk could snatch a chicken. Mandukhai could also ride with proficiency, shoot with accuracy, and hunt with stealth. Her father instilled a deep desire to be strong and respected like Khutulun.

I do not want to be a queen, father, she thought, folding her hands into the sleeves of her deel. I want to be a warrior, like Khutulun.

But a bargain had been struck between Mandukhai’s clan and the Great Khan’s advisors. The Oirat had a stranglehold on the Great Khan’s trust, and after Mandukhai’s father betrayed Esen, khan of the Oirat, when she was only four, the Ongud had struggled to maintain peace between the opposing sides of a war. Mandukhai was the peace offering. Daughter of the Ongud and of the very man who betrayed Esen, she was the perfect choice. They had promised her to another Great Khan, years before, but he died before Mandukhai came of age. She had hoped that his death would bring about her freedom.

She never envisioned herself as a prize or a Khan’s wife. The young dreamer in her had always fantasized about meeting a strong man able to best her in wrestling or archery, someone who understood how to read the Eternal Blue Sky and predict the weather. Someone who knew how to live the life of a nomad as she did. A man who could see her for who she was and not just as a potential womb for sons.

“It is time,” her mother said, guiding Mandukhai’s horse by the reigns.

Mandukhai shuddered.

Her mother’s forehead creased in sympathy. “Any girl would be thrilled to make such a match. You have been gifted a great honor, Mandukhai. You will be respected and cared for. Your marriage brings us peace, and your children will inherit the Nation.”

But Mandukhai didn’t want to be cared for. She was perfectly capable of caring for herself—to ride with proficiency, shoot with accuracy, and hunt with stealth.

Knowing this was goodbye, and that she may never see her mother again, Mandukhai thrust her arms around her mother and hugged her tight. Such displays were for children, but if these were her final days as a child, Mandukhai intended making the most of them.

Her mother hugged her back and whispered in her ear, “Remember what I told you about men. Be wary of who you trust. Keep Nergui close. He is sworn first to protect you above all others.”

“I will,” Mandukhai murmured back before letting go.

The withdraw of her mother’s arms sharpened the cool spring air. Mandukhai wanted to retreat back into her embrace.

“Lady Mandukhai,” Nergui said from several feet away, mounted and ready to ride.

Mandukhai spun around, scanning the carts and seeking any excuse to delay the inevitable.

They had packed her felts onto a cart—felts she had dedicated years to pressing from will for the future structure her husband’s family would provide. All was in order.

Once more, Mandukhai said goodbye to her mother, who sniffed one cheek. Mandukhai prayed her mother would not sniff the other. When she did, Mandukhai’s heart fell into the pit of her stomach. Her mother did not expect to see her again.

Raising her chin proudly, afraid of showing any sign of weakness to her clan, Mandukhai mounted her horse and started her journey away from the eastern steppes of her Ongud clan to Mongke Bulag where the Manduul Khan had established his capitol. She didn’t look back as her mother made offerings of milk to the earth mother. …