David Cook - Horselords
Images of the dream came back to him as he began pacing around the yurt. His old master had talked of his lord, and the strange creature claimed Koja was with the khahan. Who was his lord? Prince Ogandi had sent him as ambassador to the Tuigan. The khahan had sent him as ambassador to the Khazari. Now he was a prisoner. Koja felt lost, the events of the day casting his own actions into doubt. There was no treaty between the Tuigan and Khazari as a result of his actions. Instead, there was an army on the border of his homeland. He, as envoy, had failed his prince.
Exhausted, the lama sat back down and prayed to Furo for guidance, silently whispering his sutras as he sat huddled near the door. Finally Koja realized what he must do. As a lama of the Enlightened One, Koja must guide the khahan to be a true ruler, more than just a warlord.
His decision made, Koja strained to hear any sounds of the struggle, but the tumult of battle had ceased. Koja sat patiently, until sleep finally settled over him.
The guards came and woke the lama during the night. It was dark and bitterly cold in the thin mountain air, and Koja was shivering from the instant he awoke.
"Quickly," ordered Sechen, "come with us." The lama groggily heard the words without really understanding them. The guard grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet. "It's time for you to go."
"Go where?" Koja managed to ask as the Kashik pushed him through the doorway. His bodyguards were being none too kind.
"Away. We're leaving," Sechen offered as explanation. It didn't tell Koja much. The guard pushed the priest toward a horse. Servants were already setting to the task of taking down the yurt. Indeed, the camp seemed to be astir, but in an oddly silent way. The normal sounds of breaking camp— the grunted shouts, clatter of cups, even the braying of camels—were all missing. The men, even his guards, spoke in hushed tones. The fires, normally blazing, were damped to the lowest coals.
"I would like to see the khahan," Koja declared as he became more aware of where he was.
"You will," answered a guard, much to Koja's surprise. A servant held the horse for Koja to mount.
"What is going on?" Koja demanded one more time. Somehow he suspected the question was futile.
"Be quiet," Sechen hissed. The other guard nodded in agreement, smiling with a mouthful of crumbling, decayed teeth. They roughly hoisted the priest into the saddle and then mounted their own horses. The big wrestler reached over and took Koja's reins, leading his horse along. There was no clopping of horse's hooves; the pace was marked instead by a soft plodding. Koja looked at the lead horse and saw that its hooves were wrapped in bindings of rags. Wherever the army was going, they were taking great efforts to do it quietly.
The group rode in the darkness for some time, going mostly downhill. All around, Koja could hear the quiet movements of other riders. Shapes moved in and out of his vision. The lama wondered if they were moving to Manass. Had it, against all possibilities, fallen to Yamun's attack, or was the khahan secretly reinforcing whatever remained of the three thousand men already encamped outside?
As the hours went by, the priest became confused. They traveled too long to be going to Manass, even though they went slowly.
With the dawn, Sechen and his fellow guard finally came to a halt. They were on the edge of a rocky bluff overlooking a flat valley floor. A line of birches marked the course of a small stream that cut through the valley. Behind Koja were more trees, making the tops of the low mountains dark blue-green in the morning light.
While Sechen watered the horses, another nightguard came with a message for the wrestler. "The khahan orders you to send the priest to him," was all the man had to say. In a very short time, Koja found himself in Yamun's camp.
The Khazari priest expected the camp to be like a furious beehive of activity, with Yamun hearing reports and issuing orders, couriers galloping in and out, and commanders plotting out strategies—just the way he imagined any great leader's camp must be during times of battle. When he got there, however, he was astonished. Yamun Khahan, his son Jad, and the old Goyuk were all sitting on stools, drinking hot cups of Tuigan tea.
Slightly off to the side was a wrinkled, old wizard. In the weak light of the dawn, the sorcerer looked drawn and lean, radiating an otherworldly feeling. Perhaps it was the effect of spending a life steeped in strange magics. Koja knew that the arcane arts took a toll on their masters, sometimes even draining them of vitality.
Like the others, the wizard was sipping a cup of tea, although he did not join in the muted conversation. Instead, the wizard sat close enough to their circle to listen, but looked the other way, watching the sun rising over the ice-frosted peaks of Khazari.
Yamun and his companions did not appear to be hurried or concerned, rather more like a group of men relaxing before a hunt. They looked up, noting Koja's presence. Jad made a show of watching the tree line while old Goyuk smiled his bland smile and noisily sucked up his tea.
Yamun stood as Koja came closer to the circle. "Welcome," he said evenly. Koja could not guess what Yamun's temperament was. "Sit. Have some tea."
Koja dutifully took his place, trying to decide how he was being treated. In just a day, he'd been a diplomat, a prisoner, and now—well, he just didn't know. So many things had been going on, and none of them seemed to make sense. "Khahan," he inquired, "am I your prisoner or your envoy?" Koja chose his words with care, trying not provoke the khahan into some rash action.
"In my land you are my historian," Yamun explained, rubbing at his chin. "In Khazari, you are Khazari. Some of my khans think you are a clever spy for your people. I do not want them worrying about you."
Koja stammered, "But—but, Great Lord, you sent me to Manass to deliver your ultimatum just yesterday."
"Yes, but remember, you asked. I thought you could persuade them to be reasonable." The khahan took Koja by the arm and led him away from the others. "You didn't. And you came back with ten dead men. There have been questions."
"Questions?" Koja's voice hardened in unexpected anger.
"They are groundless and insulting" Yamun assured him.
"But there are questions ... so you have me confined," Koja said, a trace of bitterness in his tone.
"Yes," Yamun said simply. "It was for your own safety."
"My own safety, Yamun?" Koja asked skeptically, irritated at the suggestion.
"If you wander about before a battle, people think you are a spy. If you don't, no one kill you. Is good plan," chortled Goyuk, interrupting from the other side of the circle. The old man seemed to be in a particularly good mood this morning.
Koja mulled over the old general's words. There was some sense to them, but he still wondered if Yamun had some other reason for his confinement. "What happened last night? I heard sounds of fighting," the priest questioned, trying a different subject.
"Are you the khahan's man or Prince Ogandi's man?" Jad interrupted. He stood, watching Koja carefully. The prince's eyes were dark and hard. Finally, the priest broke the stare, stealing a look toward Yamun.
The group fell silent, waiting for Koja to answer. Yamun settled back on his stool, fingering a small knife while he watched the priest carefully. Goyuk did a poor job of pretending to be interested only in his tea, but he, too, watched the nervous lama from the corner of his eye. Only the wizard looked away, seemingly unconcerned. Still, Koja could see the mage flexing his wrinkled hands, the long fingers practicing the motions needed to cast a spell.
Koja tried to consider his choices carefully, but his mind was filled with memories that tugged and pulled against each other. There were the oaths of loyalty he swore—to Ogandi, to the Red Mountain Temple, to the god Furo. There was his father, sitting next to the fire in wintertime, then Yamun bending over his pallet and Chanar's hate-filled glare. Overriding all these images was the dream of his old master standing in the darkness, building walls.
"I have no lord," he whispered. The memories faded from his mind. Jad relaxed, but showed no pleasure in the priest's words.
Yamun stirred and stepped forward. He laid one hand on his son's shoulder and the other on Koja's. "My historian is an honest man. 'Liars never say no, fools never say yes,'" he quoted, looking at Jad.
"Ai!" agreed Goyuk. He raised his cup high and then took a long noisy slurp.
"Ai! To our success today," pronounced Yamun, letting the two go. Jad found his cup and raised it in a toast. Koja fumblingly found his own cup and raised it up.
The men sat and drank another cup of the hot tea. Even Koja was thankful for the salted brew. It soothed his tired, tense nerves. The priest had no idea what was to happen this day, but for now he was content to wait.
Finally, Yamun spoke. "It's time to get ready." Jad and Goyuk nodded in agreement and stood. "Goyuk, take command of the right. My son, you lead the left. I'll take the center. You, Afrasib," he commanded, pointing at the wizard, "will stay with me. As will you, Koja."
"Where are we going?" the lama asked hesitantly, hoping that he might now get an answer.
"It is time to put my plans in motion," was all that Yamun would say.
9
The Trap
Yamun Khahan paced along the bottom of the dusty gully, kicking at stones and scraping little patterns in the dirt with his toe. Occasionally he stopped and marched up the slope and stood at the edge of the tree line to gaze across the plain. To his left and right, sheltered in the gully, were two thousand horsemen, huddled below the level of the plain.
In preparation for the coming conflict, Yamun wore his battledress—a glittering steel breastplate engraved and chased with flowers, a leather skirt sewn with metal plates, and a golden pointed warhelm. A coif of chain mail hung from the back of the helmet, covering his neck. The metal draped on Yamun's body clinked as he walked.
For the last three hours or more, the khahan, Afrasib, Koja, and a host of troopers had waited, more or less patiently, in the gully. The dry wash ran a jagged course, coming down out of the hills to the north and then angling to the southwest, where the mouth of the valley opened into the broader fringes of steppe. A thin stand of willows and tamarisk lined the banks, giving shade to the weary men. Koja, tired of watching Yamun pace and tired of waiting, sat against the base of a tree. Sechen stood nearby, never letting the priest get far from him.
Even in the shade, Koja was sweating. The big wrestler had found a suit of armor for the priest, a heavy thing of metal plates stitched to leather, in the style common to the Tuigan. The armor was ill-fitting, with absurdly big shoulders and long, droopy sleeves, but Sechen had insisted that he wear it. "You might be hit by an arrow," the guard warned. The helmet Sechen had produced fit little better than the armor.
Koja watched as the khahan turned from the plain and came back down the embankment. Yamun fretted back and forth, impatient for something to happen.
"Why do we wait here, Khahan?" Koja asked as Yamun ventured close.
Yamun, stopped short by Koja's question, scowled at the priest and almost snapped a sharp reply. Then he relented. "We wait here to capture Manass, historian. At least that is the plan."
