David Cook - Horselords
"That is the khan of the Oigurs," the officer said with relish. "He attempted to slay the khahan by luring him into a trap. The Oigurs were the first people Yamun Khahan conquered, so he honored them by placing their khan there."
"Does he treat everyone in this way?" Koja asked as he eyed the dubious honor.
"No, only a fortunate few," said the officer. The other guards broke into laughter as they led the priest up the hill.
When he reached the khahan's yurt, Koja looked down to the plain below. From the doorway the priest had a clear view of the entire Tuigan encampment. It was clear why the khahan had chosen this hill as the site for his yurt. The squat yurts of Quaraband stretched out below in a rough oval, following the course of river.
The tent flap was pulled open as the officer beckoned Koja to enter. Ducking his head through the opening, the priest carefully stepped inside. The khahan's chamberlain tugged at Koja, carefully making sure the priest did not accidentally step on the jamb, a sure sign of evil luck. Inside, it was dark. Koja willingly allowed himself to be led to a seat. As he padded across the heavily carpeted floor, the priest tried to focus his eyes in the gloom.
The Illustrious Emperor to the Tuigan, Yamun Khahan, leaned forward on his seat of cushions at the back of the yurt. His face was lit by the flickering flames of oil lamps hung from the roof poles of the Great Yurt. The light barely revealed his reddish hair, bound into long braids. Occasionally light glinted off the pale, jagged scar that ran across the bridge of his nose and over his cheek. A second old scar gave the khahan's upper lip a slight curl.
Not far from the khahan, General Chanar sat on the rugs, only a single cushion beneath him. The warrior sipped at the hot cup of tea he cradled in his hands. As Koja settled into his seat, Chanar leaned over to the khahan and spoke softly. The khahan listened, then shook his head gently, apparently vetoing the general's suggestion.
"So, envoy of the Khazari, what did you think of the grand council of Semphar?" boomed out Yamun Khahan from the far side of the yurt. Koja was surprised by the khahan's directness, but quickly regained his composure.
"Surely, Khahan of the Tuigan, General Chanar has told you about the conference. I am only an ambassador of the Khazari," Koja protested.
"You're going to tell me about this great conference at Semphar," the khahan ordered bluntly, scratching at his cheek. "I have already heard the general speak. What did the Sempharans have to say?"
"Well, Lord Yamun, the caliph of Semphar was, uh, surprised." Koja shifted his legs, trying to find a comfortable position.
Yamun Khahan snorted with laughter and drained his silver goblet, setting it down on the thick woolen rugs with a muffled thump. "Surprised? I send my best general with ten thousand men, a complete tumen, and the caliph is only 'surprised.' Do you hear this?" He leaned toward Chanar, who was sitting stone-faced while Koja talked. A servant came out of the shadows to pour the khahan another goblet of heated wine and dropped a pierced silver ball filled with herbs into it. Yamun, his face stern and unsmiling, turned back to the envoy. "This caliph didn't tremble in fear at the sight of General Chanar?"
"Perhaps he did, Khahan of the Tuigan, but never that I saw." Koja found his gaze locked with the khahan's. In the dim light, the ruler's eyes were black and riveting. Flustered, Koja could feel his blood reddening his face, even making his bald scalp tingle. The priest suddenly wondered if the khahan was some type of sorcerer. Unconsciously, his fingers fumbled with one of the small scripture lockets that hung around his neck.
Chanar cocked an eyebrow, noticing what the envoy was doing. "Your charms and spells won't help you here, Khazari. No magic functions within this valley."
Koja stopped in surprise, slightly embarrassed when he realized what he was doing. "No magic? How is that possible?" He looked to Chanar for an answer, but it was Yamun who replied.
"Teylas, the Sky God, banished the magic—or that's what the Second Empress Bayalun Khadun tells me. I don't care how it happened. No magic makes this a good place for my capital, a safe place," answered Yamun Khahan between swallows of wine.
"Isn't life difficult without magic?" Koja asked softly.
"If Teylas wanted life to be easy he wouldn't have given us the steppe for a home. And he would have given me an easier people to rule," commented Yamun as he finished off another goblet of wine. "Enough of this. Was the council impressed when General Chanar told them my demands? Will they pay a tax for the caravans? Do they recognize me as ruler of the whole world?"
Koja thought carefully about the answer. "They were outraged by your ... boldness, Lord Khahan. Many of them took exception to your claims. As the king of Cormyr pointed out, 'You do not rule the entire world.' " Koja heard a soft, irritated snort from Chanar.
The khahan slowly stood, stretching his legs. He was not a tall man, but was still imposing. His chest was broad and his neck was thick with corded muscles. He slowly walked with a bowlegged swagger toward the door of the tent. All the while he kept his eyes on the seated priest, the same way a desert cat watches its prey. "Cor-meer? I've never heard of such a place."
Koja, still seated on the woolen rugs that covered the floor, scuttled around to keep facing the khahan. Although the evening was chill, the lama was sweating in the stuffy tent. His orange robes were damp and clammy. Slightly frosty breezes slipped in through the minute gaps in the felt walls of the yurt.
"Is it far?" quizzed Yamun, tugging at his mustache.
"Great Lord?" asked Koja, confused by the sudden shift of the conversation.
"This place, Cor-meer—is it far away?"
"I don't know. It is a land far to the west, even far from Semphar. I have never been there."
"But this king, he talks bravely. What is he like?"
"The king is named Azoun. He is a strange-looking man, with pale skin and thick hair on his face—"
"Pah! I asked what he is like, not what he looks like," the khahan snapped.
"He was a... king, Khahan," Koja said, unable to think of a better word. "He was bold and seemed brave. The others listened to him and seemed to respect his words."
"He sounds like a man to meet. I will go to Cor-meer someday, and then we will see how brave Azoun is," Yamun decided, slapping his thigh. "So this king was not impressed. My words were not enough."
Koja tried to slowly and calmly explain what had happened at the council, at least the way he saw it. "The leaders came to the council to talk. They did not bring armies, only their wizards, priests, and guards. They were ... not pleased, upset. After all, there was a huge army of Tuigan soldiers camped outside the city. Soldiers make very poor diplomats."
"Diplomats! Old men from tents that have no warriors—those are diplomats. Your diplomats meet because they are worried about their caravans." Yamun tapped one of the center posts of the yurt. "You think I didn't hear these things, envoy. Your khans and emperors thought they could fix everything without me, but I rule this land. I rule all the tribes of the land, and nothing is decided without my word," declared Yamun. "So I sent my own envoys—warriors with fat horses and bundles of arrows."
"With all due respect, Khahan, all the ambassadors saw was a great army of men and a brazen general," Koja replied, respectfully bowing his head to the floor. There was a sharp hissing of breath and a muttered curse from General Chanar. Koja bit his lip as he realized he'd just slighted the warlord.
"A brazen general?" Yamun said softly as he turned away from Koja, twisting his mustache between his fingers. "What do you mean 'brazen?' "
"General Chanar is a warrior," Koja answered carefully, hoping that would be sufficient. The khahan tilted his head and waited for more. Nervous, Koja rubbed his neck. "Well, those at the council expected soft words. General Chanar was ... insulting."
"These are lies, my khahan," Prince Chanar asserted as he shifted in his seat. "This foreigner has insulted me."
Chanar's hand slid to the hilt of his saber. Glowering, he stood and stepped toward Koja. "I say you're a liar and you will pay." There was a scraping sound as he started to draw his sword from its scabbard.
"Chanar Ong Kho, sit down," rumbled Yamun, his calm voice carrying easily over the general's mumbled threats. There was a quality of iron in the deeply resonant words. "Will you dishonor my tent with bloodshed? Stay your sword. This priest is my guest."
"He has insulted me!" Chanar insisted. "Didn't I say the council trembled in fear? That they were awed by our might? Is a foreigner allowed to mock me in your yurt?" Sword half-drawn, he turned to face Yamun. Chanar's body was tense, his back arched, his arms stiff.
Yamun strode directly up to Chanar, unflinching in the steady gaze of the general. Looking up into Chanar's eyes, he spoke slowly and softly, but with a hard edge. "Chanar, you are my anda, my blood-friend. We've fought together. There is no one I trust more than you. I have never doubted your word, but this is my tent and he is my guest. Now, sit and think no more of this." Yamun closed his hand over Chanar's on the sword hilt.
"Yamun, I petition you. He's lied about me. I will not let him stain my honor. I will not have this." Chanar tried to pull his hand free, but Yamun's grip kept it in place.
"General Chanar, you will sit down!" the khahan replied. His voice thundered as he spit out the words in tightly clipped fury. "I listen to this man," he said, flinging his finger toward Koja, "but do I believe? Perhaps I should if he angers you so."
Chanar trembled, caught between rage and loyalty. Finally, he slid the blade back into its scabbard and silently strode back to his seat. There he sat, staring darkly at the priest. All through the exchange, Koja stayed quiet, a slight shiver of nervousness and fear running through him. He marveled at the liberties the general had taken in the presence of his lord.
Yamun casually returned to his cushions and waved for another cup of wine. "Chanar is my anda. It is a special friendship, like brothers to each other. Because he is my anda, Chanar Ong Kho has the right to speak freely before me." Yamun paused to look closely at Koja. "You, however, are not my anda. It would be wise for you to remember this when you speak. The Tuigan do not take insults lightly. I should have you whipped for your words, but you are my guest so this time I only warn you," the khahan calmly informed the surprised lama. Chanar's black looks softened.
"I plead for forgiveness for offending the valiant Chanar Ong Kho. I can see that he is a brave warrior," Koja said, bowing to the general. Chanar coolly acknowledged the apology.
Yamun drew a small knife from a scabbard that hung at his belt and held it between himself and Chanar. "Brother Chanar, this priest does not understand our bond. This, Koja of Khazari, is what it means to be anda." Yamun drew the knife across his hand, making a small gash in the palm. As the blood started to well out of the cut, he handed the knife over to Chanar.
Chanar took the knife, turning it back and forth so the light sparked off the blade. Without saying a thing, the general pulled the tip of the blade across his hand. He bit down on his lip at the sudden pain.
As the first drops trickled out of the wound, Yamun pressed his bleeding hand to Chanar's, clasping it tight. Blood seeped from between their fingers, splattering in droplets on the rugs. The two men locked eyes: the khahan confident, the general smiling through the sting.
