David Cook - Horselords
It took Koja a little while to realize this camp was different. His yurt was raised. He turned in a circle, looking over the camp. All around were shadowy, moonlit domes, the rounded shapes of the felt tents. Small welcoming fires blazed on the dusty prairie among the tents. Short, squat, Tuigan men wandered among the fires.
Drifting through the night came the wail of a band of musicians, the scraping notes of the khuur and the rhythmic rattle of a yak-hide drum. A singer suddenly added to the cacophony, wailing in the two-voice style peculiar to the steppe. Somehow the man produced both a low, nasal drone and a high-pitched chant at the same time. Koja was glad the musicians were some distance away, as he had not yet learned to appreciate the finer points of Tuigan music. It all sounded like the screeching of evil spirits, or at least what Koja thought evil spirits sounded like, since he had never really heard any screech.
Hodj came out of the tent with Koja's bright orange silk robe, which the priest had packed away for the journey. Although he found his master's insistence on clean clothing odd, Hodj tried to do his best to fulfill the priest's wishes. He helped Koja pull the robe on over his travel-stained garments. It was too cold to take them off, even though the clothes were caked in dried sweat, dust, and grease. Finally somewhat presentable, the priest set out for Yamun's tent.
On his way there, Koja noticed that the soldiers seemed in a very different mood this night. On the surface they were happy and cheerful, but the priest sensed a grim and resolute mood underneath. Around many of the fires, men sprawled against their saddles, drinking ladles of kumiss and swapping stories. At one fire, a thick-mustached trooper held his sword between his legs and scraped along its length with his honing stone. A bright glint of metal caught the priest's eye at another fire. There, another soldier sat cross-legged, a suit of armor stretched out in front of him. It was a fine piece of workmanship, with the same cut as the man's kalat but made of overlapping scales of polished steel. He was carefully checking it over, testing the strength of the stitching that held each metal scale to the thick leather backing.
Yamun's camp was larger and more elaborate than the previous night's. The tent-wagon was gone and, instead, Yamun's white-chalked yurt had been raised. The khahan's standard stood next to it. Nearby was another tent, almost as large, patterned with black and white stripes. A smaller standard, unfamiliar to Koja—a pole topped with a silver crescent and a human skull—stood outside its door. There were more nightguards present than usual, all in full Tuigan-style armor and tensely alert.
Koja was hastily ushered into the khahan's tent. Yamun and another younger man sat at the yurt's center, leaning over a low table that had been set in front of them. Trays at their side held cups of Tuigan tea and piles of gnawed bones.
The younger man stopped talking when Koja stepped through the threshold. He turned and stared at the priest. His face, although similar to Yamun's, was more pinched and less heavily lined. His right cheek was badly pitted by the pox, and a half-moon-shaped scar made a pale mark on his forehead. Like Yamun, the stranger had a red tint to his hair. The man's locks were tied in two thick braids that dangled below his shoulders. Silver and shell ornaments capped the ends of his braids.
The stranger wore a long, tight-fitting robe of black silk, imported from Shou Lung and cut in the style of a trooper's kalat. Raised patterns woven into it gave the robe a shimmering texture. Beaded red cords, fixed in place with hammered silver bosses, hung from his shoulders. Embroidered across the front of the robe, in red and gold, was a serpentine and leaping dragon against a sea of brilliant blue and silver clouds. A saber, the scabbard covered with deep blue lapis lazuli, hung from his broad golden belt. Koja was surprised by this, for few visitors were allowed to bear weapons within the khahan's yurt.
Yamun didn't glance up as the lama entered, instead continuing the discussion with the newcomer. "Your men are too close to the river. Move your forward tumens back. Set their camps between the two hills to the south. You'll keep your own tent here. Have your commanders report to me in the morning." The younger man sat quietly, noting all of Yamun's commands.
"You summoned me, Khahan," Koja said, kneeling on one knee with his head bowed.
"Sit," grunted the warlord, pointing to a space alongside the table. The younger man said nothing, but watched Koja carefully as he took the place indicated.
"Join us in tea, historian," Yamun said, setting his own cup on the table. "This is Jadaran Khan, commander of the great left wing. He's been here for a day, waiting for us to arrive."
Koja realized the man sitting next to him, the commander of the great left wing, was Yamun's second son, Prince Jad. He turned and, still seated, bowed respectfully to the royal prince. "I am honored by the brilliance of the commander of the great left wing," Koja lauded, being as polite as he possibly could.
"Enough of that," interrupted Yamun. "We've been talking while you slept. Tomorrow my army rides to Manass. You know this place?"
Koja grew pale. He nodded. "Manass is in Khazari."
"Is it strong?" Prince Jad asked. His voice was similar to Yamun's, but with a nasal twang.
Yamun raised his hand in admonition to his son. The prince instantly fell silent. "Is Manass your home?" the khahan asked casually, as if making small talk.
"No, Lord Yamun," Koja answered guardedly.
"Then none of your clan is there," Yamun said with finality. "That's good."
Jad looked to Yamun to be sure he had permission to speak. "Who rules Manass?" he asked timidly.
"Prince Ogandi, of course," answered Koja. "But he does not live there," he quickly corrected.
Jad nodded. "Who, then, is the khan of this ordu? How many tents does he have?"
"I do not know," Koja said apologetically. From Jad's words, he grasped that neither the prince nor Yamun really knew what Manass was. They thought of it as a camp, a collection of tents.
Koja's first instinct was to inform them of their error. Just as he was about to speak he stopped, his mouth open, the words tumbling back down his throat. They would learn the truth soon enough, he decided.
"It doesn't matter," Yamun assured the priest, pouring more tea. "We'll see these things with our own eyes, hear them with our own ears. I won't ask my historian to speak against his people." He raised his cup to the priest. "Ai! I drink to my clever and wise friend."
"Ai!" toasted Prince Jad, his own cup raised. They both noisily slurped at their cups of tea.
"Ai," echoed Koja, a little less enthusiastic than the other two. He sipped slightly at his cup, drinking as little salted tea as possible.
Yamun set his cup firmly down on the table and leaned forward toward Koja. His breath reeked with the smell of sour milk. "I ask my historian, though, to go to his people and give them a message. You've seen my people and how I rule them. Tell your people how I'm generous and kind to my friends. Describe to them the wonders and riches you've seen. Count out the size of my army for your leader." A look of puzzlement crossed Koja's face. "Don't worry, you have my blessing. 'A thief can't steal what is already given.' "
Yamun wiped a drop of tea off his chin with the sleeve of his robe, then continued. "And, when you are done, you must also tell this leader something. Say he must recognize me as the Illustrious Emperor of All People and submit his city to me."
Koja swallowed hard when he heard the new title Yamun was claiming for himself. "They'll never do that."
"Tell the leader of Manass that if he doesn't submit, I'll have him and all the members of his family killed. Tell everyone that death is the punishment for those who defy me, but that I'll spare those who do not resist. And then you must return to me with the answer."
"If you kill them, who will rule for you, Khahan? You can conquer Khazari, but what benefit will that be?" Koja steeled himself as he spoke. "Unless you have governors of your own, you will need the rulers of Manass to keep the peace. But—"
"But nothing. The matter is decided," Yamun snapped. He sat upright, his muscles tense. Koja noticed that Jad was also stiff and hard-faced.
"Now," Yamun pronounced as he rose to his feet, "it's time for you to go and rest. This meeting is over. You may return to your tent, Koja of the Khazari."
The audience ended, the priest quietly slipped back outside and returned to his yurt. During the walk, Koja pondered the surprising outcome of the audience. Certainly the Tuigan warlord was wiser than it seemed. Still, now the khahan's mind was set on Khazari. Koja wondered if Yamun had planned beyond the conquest. Perhaps, he finally decided, I can guide Yamun and protect Khazari at the same time.
In his tent, Koja did not sleep well. All night he awoke in fits, wondering in the darkness what he should do. What should he tell his fellow Khazari? Recommend they surrender or urge them to fight? He was a Khazari, or at least he was when he started this trip, but now he was not so sure. If he told his people to surrender, was he betraying them?
It was a puffy- and red-eyed priest who greeted the dawn the next day. Even the brilliant golden sky that lit the jagged mountains of Khazari could not raise his spirits. Seeing the peaks of his homeland only furthered his feeling of despair. Reluctantly, Koja joined the assembled company of Yamun, Prince Jad, guards, quiverbearers, and messengers. The group mounted their horses and rode along a rising, winding trail that led them up out of the valley and onto the high plain of Khazari.
By the light of day, Koja looked down on Yamun's army. With Jad's arrival, it had swelled to almost twice its number, fifty or sixty thousand men. The yurts filled the narrow valley floor, and dotted among the tents were herds of horses.
Rings of pickets surrounded the camp. At the head of the valley, in the direction they were going, a mass of men was forming up. Rank upon rank of mounted warriors, an entire tumen, were preparing to march on Manass.
"I brought you up here to see this. These men come as proof of my word," Yamun explained when he noticed Koja's worried look. "I don't think this ordu of Manass can withstand an entire tumen." The khahan spurred his horse ahead, angling to join the front of the column.
The troops assembled, the tumen set out on the route to Manass. They followed a road, little more than a rutted path, that had been used for centuries by the caravans from Shou Lung—caravans that could no longer cross through the great steppe. From what Koja was able to infer, the army was still a half-day's ride from the city. The khahan was advancing on Manass with only a part of his army, while other tumens were to cross the border at other mountain passes.
The small command group rode throughout the morning at the front of the tumen. Yamun was preoccupied with his messengers, and he gave a constant stream of orders. A scribe rode at his side, scribbling out the commands, his paper balanced precariously on a little board that, in turn, rested across his saddle. Koja wondered where the scribe came from or if the fellow knew the fate of his predecessors.
Jad rode well away from the priest, surrounded by men of his own bodyguard. At times the prince would ride over to have a word with his father, but apparently had no desire to talk to the priest. Koja didn't mind this. He was not in the mood for company. His own thoughts and concerns possessed him so much that he hardly even noticed the passage of time or the terrain they rode over.
