This section is written in diary form of Sukhbataar, something he has decided he will keep for a small time at least, to tell the tale of what he has seen.
****
My ride to that damn encampment was somber and not without difficulty. It took us a full day to actually find it, so well it was hidden, and so far apart our forces were scattered. Scattered. Even now as I write those fateful words to paper, my blood boils. Fucking scattered, Mongols, of all the peoples. But we were, there can be no denying it. To be honest, I am not enraged like a proper Mongol should be, like I should be, nor am I surprised. I am only saddened. Is this the fate of my horde? Perhaps it is for the best, that they taste defeat, that I sup as well from the foul sap of those bitter roots. May the Gods, in all their infinite wisdom, teach our people that the sedentary lifestyles, where the horse is corralled, is for the soft men. Give me the steppes any day over this, the wind in my face, the horse between my thighs, and my woman at my back, grasping me tightly. That and battle are my heavens, I do declare so. And may the Gods give me the strength to endure the bickering of the other Zuuts.
I would have thought that my arrival would have heralded some sort of reaction from the others, a positive one. But such was not the case. Instead, I was greeted with faces, uncaring, and envious stares. The way the others leered at our women was not something I was happy about, and a part of me sought to put a bullet in each of their fucking useless heads.
Useless, that's right. Fucking useless. None of them greeted us, we were not heralded heroes. Was our victory not great? They simply did not care, demoralized from their own losses. It was sad, pathetic even, and at that point I realized that the Zuuts I rode with were the only true Mongols among them. Still, I will make them accept me as their Mingghan, no matter the cost to their dignity. They will follow me. I realize now that I must mold these bastards into Mongols, true Mongols, to live up to the image of Roman Khan, and our Khagan, Tomor Khan. They are Mongol in name only, and instead act as the petty raiders our Noyan has sought to crush time and again. Perhaps this is the reason for their failure. Perhaps this is the reason I was brought from Afghanistan.
Anyway, when I gathered the other Zuuts before me, to say they were unsupportive of my efforts to become Mingghan would be putting it mildly. One of them even dared to declare me unfit for command of my Zuut. I disciplined him with my 1911, pistol whipping him brutally until his face was a pulp with a dozen deep cuts along it. I declared to them all then and there that if they were not my allies, then they were as worthless as the Chinamen we sought to conquer. My words stirred unity, but only in uniting the bastards against me. So be it. I have my allies, they have theirs, but mine and our eyes are open.
That night, I slept, and the voices came for both me and Sengemo, voices this time, barely a whisper amongst the chittering and chirping and madness, but I heard them. What they said, I do not know, but my madness has now deigned to address me in more than gibberish and I am glad for that at least. I know it is not madness, or at least I think it is not. Sengemo does not speak of it, what she sees, what she hears, and I am beginning to doubt if she feels the same as I do. But how can I be sure of anything when I do not even know how I feel, or even how I experience what I do? Let the madness come for me. If it can help me destroy fleshcraftings such as what I fought in the caves, then I will gladly take it into me.
****
Sukhbataar pumped wildly into Sengemo. The dark haired Tibetan woman moaned loudly, gratefully as she wrapped her strong legs around his waist, forcing more of his girth into her. He grabbed her roughly by the hair and bit her neck, not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to bruise, and felt her crotch convulse around his member. Sukhbataar felt energized by his woman's orgasm, and clutched her shoulder, pumping harder now. Both were covered in the mutual juices of their lovemaking, if it could be called that. It was more passionate than that, more animalistic, containing a combination of youthful enthusiasm and rape. As he felt her inner walls ripple around his pulsating manhood, he seized up, forcing himself in deeply, as deep as he could possibly go, and moaned, emptying his potent seed into her. She dug her fingers into his back, clawing at him wildly, grunting, moaning, screaming, his orgasm sending her into another fitful release.
And as they came down from their mutual high, he rolled off her and gently kissed her. His first act of real intimacy with her since they'd arrived in camp. Before then, he would simply sleep, his mind to worrisome for his own arousal to take control. Finally, tonight it became simply too strong and he took her, throwing her to the ground. She gladly accepted what he had to give her, willingly spreading the petals of her flower wide for him to see.
She stroked his shaved head gently, lovingly even, bringing her head onto his chest. Both of them breathed deeply and Sukhbataar began to doze lightly. She nudged him gently, waking him. He shook his head slowly, glancing down at her. Sengemo smiled at him, her face painted in dancing lights and shadow from the coals of the fire pit in the center of their tent.
"Why did you cut your ears?"
"Many reasons I think: anger, shame, defiance, madness maybe."
"Defiance?"
"I was stripped naked and whipped bloody, and then my head and moustache were shorn from me. I took their act of attempting to shame me, to humiliate me, and made it my own."
"You remade yourself."
"Yes."
"Why?"
"I had to. Have you ever burned with such humiliating shame? For the first time in my life, I wished I was in my mother's arms at that moment. I hated that feeling, that weakness, impotence. In that instant, they took my manhood from me, all that I had built up through commanding my men, my respect, honor, status, and crumpled it."
"To regain it you had to reinvent yourself."
"Not just to regain it, but to surpass it. Tomorrow, I go to the Tumen and make my claim to become the Mingghan."
"What then?"
"I will lead the Mingghan, all of the Mongols, to the south and we will set the countryside on fire. I will burn down everything our enemies love, everything they hate, I will burn down their lives and everything within."
"We?"
"Yes, we," Sukhbataar smiled at her knowingly, "The time we have been together, I have learned enough of you to know that you are no Mongol, but you are not like them either. Always moving, by foot or by horse or by cart. Vagabond, nomad, whatever insult hurled at you, and still you continue on, moving always. We are the same like that. This sedentary lifestyle kills us." He took his hand gently in hers and smiled.
"You will be so much more than Mingghan, Sukhbataar," Sengemo said, kissing her lover on the lips passionately.
*****
The Tumen lay back quietly in his bed. The air in his tent was heavy with the stench of death, hot and stale, ungainly even, if air could be so. The old warlord was covered in burns, the eye patch he wore gone, instead a gruesome wound in its place, scarred over, where the eye had been clawed out years ago. The stump where his leg once had been was surprisingly clean, and despite his burns and the stench of the tent, he was in good spirits. As Sukhbataar and Sengemo walked into the tent side by side, the Tumen sat up and smiled at the Zuut.
"Ah," he began, grinning, "the prodigal son returns does he?"
"Prodigal son?" Sukhbataar questioned, glancing at Sengemo momentarily.
"A parable of some import, knowledge gleaned from ancient faiths of my enemies. Even our enemies can teach us much about ourselves Sukhbataar, though I am sure you know that already. So tell me, is the enemy of the Khagan destroyed?"
"It is," Sukhbataar began.
"And the altar?" The old man lay back, his eyes closed now, a gentle grin on his face.
"You knew?"
"Of course we knew," he snapped, sitting up rapidly. The Tumen winced gently as pain shot through his body, but he continued, getting out of bed with surprising ease, standing on one leg. He used his sword as a cane, aiding him in walking, though only for the few hops he took towards Sukhbataar. "I discovered them, long ago, and we've known about their ilk for at least that long, if not longer. We thought them legends, the flesh crafters, but I saw that altar, that cave, and I knew it true. But I did not have the strength to stay and see the job done. Did you see the Great Maw? That vile abomination of a statue upon that altar?"
"I sundered it with my axe."
"Good," he said, "that... thing. They worship it. I do not know much more than that except it hungers, constantly."
"What is all of this? I saw something so horrific down in those caves, a monstrosity made of corpses dead but still living, pulsing with vile ichor. It slew many of my men before we brought it down."
"You'll learn more as time goes on. But this I can assure you: you've seen the faces of our enemy now. Be it the yellow fiends to the south or that demon they worship. You've seen the works of their spiritual worship. But that wasn't the only reason you came here, was it? Don't answer, I know all about your attempts to rally the other Zuuts. Are you so surprised that they would not stand behind you? Perhaps they never will, but it matters not. The word of the Ordu is law, it is the will of the Khagan. And that will be enough."
"What is all of this? I am so confounded by everything that has happened, my Tumen, you cannot understand."
"I can and I do. When I first saw such things I was worse, because I did not have another to aid me through it all," the Tumen motioned towards Sengemo before continuing. "When rebellion broke out amongst those hill people, we had to move quickly. If the Maw was not influencing them, it soon would. And we were right. Their fleshcrafters had awoken and built a totem. Had you not brought them asunder, more and more would be forged, and consume all in their path."
"How do you know what would happen either way?" Sukhbataar looked to the stunned silent Sengemo and then back to the old warlord. The Tumen smiled, his burns splitting and bleeding, and he tapped his empty eye socket.
"Do you accept the position of Mingghan, or shall I place another unworthy man upon it's seat." It was more of a statement than a question, and the Tumen was clear to Sukhbataar that even with all he knew, if he refused command the old Tumen would not harp over the loss.
What should Sukhbataar do?
A.) One way or another, someone will be chosen. It is better to be Sukhbataar.
B.) Sukhbataar will reject the offer, and instead find his own way. He must understand more about this and he cannot learn if he is saddled with command.