Prologue

I found her midst trampled, blood-spattered yellow flowers and the grim remains of myriad enemies strewn about a moderate hollow bounded by low scrub-brown hills. She lay still, solid battered body looking small despite bulky shell of heavy green lamellar armour. The feebly struggling mass of a mailed steppe charger she had named Toğızınşı Jel – her peoples' Khergit words for 'Ninth Wind' – thrashed alongside her.

I did not at first know Tog to see him there, her ninth warhorse of similar name, yet, despite the 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 one 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 sitting ahorse atop one of the surrounding hills at battle's end overlooking us, her devoted warriors.

I shall relate how I came to know and love long ere then, the Empress of New Calradia.