David Cook - Horselords
Jad grunted, sounding a little like his father. "What about the other? We can learn more from him."
Koja rubbed his shaven head, and looked at the body of the fox-man. The gaping gash that shattered the creature's chest was black and thick with flies. "I do not think it will work. He is not a man. His spirit is not the same."
"Then we've learned nothing," Yamun's son said in disgust, brushing the dust from his kalat as he stood.
"We have a name—Ju-Hai Chou," the priest pointed out. He was relieved that no names from Khazari had come up.
"And we have a mandarin's title," Goyuk added. "Big herds grow from small sheep."
"Perhaps," Jad conceded as he climbed back up the bank. "Still, I don't see anything useful in it." The rest of the group got up and followed.
They rode back to the khahan's camp with little conversation. The midday sun beat heavily on the corpses covering the battlefield. The stench grew stronger. Koja never before realized that war left behind such death and decay. He knew that some men died in the battle and others often suffered hideous wounds, but the aftermath was always something forgotten, ignored. Nobody ever told of the horses' screams or the bloated bodies of the unburied that covered the ground.
The group reached the camp without any interruption, detouring only a few times to avoid some packs of jackals that refused to flee from their approach. As they wound their way back through the warriors' tents, the men came out to greet them. The troopers stood quietly with their heads downcast as the prince passed. At first, the men seemed mournful for the loss of Jad's father, their khahan. Watching them line the way, the priest could sense an uneasiness among the men. The mourners fixed their gaze on Jad, as if waiting for him to do something.
From the back of the crowd, a man suddenly broke into an anguished chant, improvising a lament to the fallen khahan.
"The winds of heaven are not balanced.
The body of birth is not eternal.
"Who drinks the sacred water of life?
In our short lives, let us enjoy.
"The winds of heaven are beyond touch.
The lives of men are not eternal.
"Who drinks the sacred water of life?
In our short lives, let us enjoy."
The singer's voice cracked as his lyric soared and trembled. Quickly the other men took up the chant, repeating the singsong verses, embellishing on them. Voices broke above the mass to carry the words higher.
The song spread ahead of the prince, greeting him at every turn on the way to the khahan's tent. It seemed that every trooper turned out along their march. Khans knelt in respect as the prince rode by. Men, even the horribly wounded, struggled to get to the front of the press, where they could make themselves seen. Koja watched as a crippled trooper, his foot lost in yesterday's battle, was carried forward by his companions, his pallet hoisted over their heads. It seemed to take all his effort to sing the simple lyric, but sing he did, hoarsely bawling out the words.
A surging mass of men followed them up the hill to the khahan's tent. As their numbers grew, the tension increased. "Let us see the khahan!" someone screamed. "Let us see his body!" There was a grumbling swell underneath the song as more and more men called out to see the khahan's bier.
"Guards, keep them out!" Jad shouted over the noise as he entered Yamun's compound. The dayguards dashed forward, forming a triple line around the gate. Their weapons glinted in the sun, a bristling line of sword points. Officers on horseback shouted commands, their steeds prancing behind the line. The menacing black forms of the dayguards pushed forward, forcing the crowd back. Jad and the rest of his party disappeared into Yamun's tent, Sechen at the rear.
Koja hurried to check the khahan. Yamun was still alive and breathing, a victory for the day. The blankets were soaked in sweat and his color was still like that of the ice high in the mountains of Khazari. Hastily, Koja stripped off the coverlets and demanded new ones. A quiverbearer hastened to fulfill the request.
Jad came to the sickbed and watched for a moment, saying nothing. The khahan was asleep, and there was little the prince could do. Satisfied that Koja was attending to Yamun, he turned back to Goyuk. The old khan had just finished offering a prayer to the small felt idols that hung over the door. Reaching into a bucket of kumiss by the sill, Goyuk dipped his fingers in the brew and sprinkled it on each idol. He kowtowed to the little red cloth figures and then turned to join the others.
"You should remember the old ways, Jadaran Khan," chided Goyuk. "Teylas be angry with you." He pointed to the doorway, leaving no doubt what he wanted the prince to do. Jad held his tongue. Although Goyuk was presumptuous to speak that way to him, the prince knew that the old man was right. Obediently, he knelt down at the door and offered up his prayer, going through all the motions to make the ablution. Outside the doorway, he could hear the muffled chanting of the men. Jad wondered how long they would be satisfied to wait.
Goyuk beamed a toothless smile as Jad finished the ritual. "You are a good son. Maybe you make a good khahan, too."
The suggestion caught the prince by surprise. "My father isn't dead yet," he snapped. The weight and pressure of the day were catching up with him, and Goyuk's intimation only added to his rage and frustration.
"No, no, of course not," Goyuk quickly agreed. "But the time may come."
The prince let himself relax slightly, accepting Goyuk's explanation. "If it comes to that, I hope I'll have your support. There are many things I don't know, much I need to learn. You've always served father well, and I'd like you to do the same for me."
"Of course," said the old man, following Jad back to the sickbed.
"Lama, how is the khahan?"
Koja frowned. "The sweating may have driven the poison out of his blood."
Jad nodded impassively. "Are you certain?" he pressed.
Koja bit at his lip, then replied honestly. "No, Prince Jadaran. I think that he will live. I cannot promise that he will live."
Jad walked to the yurt's door and beckoned Koja to his side. The prince pulled open a corner of the door flap as Koja joined him. "Hear the men, lama?" he asked, putting his hand on Koja's shoulder. "They fought for him. If his assassins were alive, that crowd would rip them apart with their hands and then feed the guts to the jackals. If he dies in your care, I could not stop them."
"I still cannot promise you anything," Koja insisted. He stepped away from the door and looked Jad firmly in the eye. "I do not want to fail."
"Nor do I," echoed Jad. He looked back out the doorway and coldly murmured, "I wish I could give them the ones behind all this. Especially Bayalun."
"This you cannot do," consoled Goyuk, his sharp ears picking up Jad's softly spoken words from across the tent.
Jad let the tent flap drop. "Why not? Her wizard struck down my father," he argued. "The men would believe me."
"You have no proof she do this," Goyuk said, tapping the carpet where he sat to emphasize his point. "Think like your father. She has many relatives, many friends. You must have proof, not suspicions. Besides, the wizards and shamans protect her."
"Then what do I do?" Jad cried in frustration. "I need proof before I can act, but this viper works freely against us. I need to find Yamun's killer!"
"Wait, Jad. Be like the tiger hunting for the deer. Whoever it is will make a mistake. It will happen soon," Goyuk advised. "Ambition will cause them to blunder. We must wait until that happens."
"How long can we keep the army together, just waiting? We need to do something." Jad squatted beside Goyuk, looking to the old khan for guidance.
It was Koja, however, who spoke, from the side of Yamun's sickbed. "A funeral. If the khahan is supposed to be dead, there must be a funeral."
Jad glared over at the lama. "What good will that do, priest? It will only remind them the khahan is dead."
Koja stood and moved to where the two men sat. "It will keep the khans busy—and keep them following your orders. And it may give your father time to get well."
Jad stopped and considered Koja's words. He glanced to Goyuk, and the old khan nodded in agreement.
"If you give orders for the funeral," Koja continued, "the khans still listen to your words. They will grow used to following your commands. It will keep them from grumbling and give the men an outlet for their pain."
Jad, chin sunk to his chest, watched Koja while the priest explained his plan. As he finished, the prince raised his head and spoke. "You are much more than a simple lama. I see why father has seen fit to name you his anda."
11
Reunion
Bayalun stood in front of her yurt with Chanar at her side. Surrounding both of them were Bayalun's guards. The troopers stood tensely alert as the khadun read from an ancient scrap of yellow paper. Chanar peeked at it over her shoulder. He could read—a little anyway—and wasn't about to miss a chance to show off his meager skill to Bayalun. To his dismay, what he saw was unintelligible, a strange and twisted script. Worse still for his pride, Bayalun read from the unrolled sheet with ease, her tongue tripping over the tortured phrases.
As she spoke, a gloom settled over them and the colors leached away from everything. Chanar tensed with fear as the world went gray—the white robes of the guards, Bayalun's black hair, the red silks of his own shirt, even the orange glow of the fire. Then, there was nothing.
Abruptly, there was something. Solid ground slammed up under his feet, wiping away the brief feeling of floating. Chanar staggered, but several of the guards stumbled and fell. Bayalun managed to remain on her feet with ease. At any rate, they had arrived in Yamun's camp.
And apparently they were not welcome.
The men of Yamun's Kashik who surrounded them held drawn swords ready. The guards were a grizzled group, seasoned campaigners wearing dirty black kalats stained with blood. They watched the newcomers with hard stares. Black beards and braids were thick and foul with grease.
Only their scarred cheeks were free of the filth. Chanar recognized many and knew their names from previous battles. Watching them, the general moved slowly and carefully. These guards were poised to strike. It was clear in the way they stood, the way they held their swords, and the friendless look in their eyes.
Bayalun's guards stood no less at the ready, their sword tips wavering in anticipation. Chanar slowly drew himself up. He was a khan, a prince of the Tuigan, not some thief. Looking his imposing best in a red robe and gold vest embroidered with blue dragons, Chanar glowered at the Kashik around him.
"Let me pass! I bring the khadun of the Tuigan to see the body of her husband," Chanar shouted. His face was clouded and dark, and his eyes narrowed to hard, unfriendly slits. The battle-hardened, bloodthirsty old brawler in him rose to the fore. "Clear the way or die!" he bellowed, drawing his sword with a menacing flourish. The general's shoulders heaved as he pumped himself up with fury and courage.
The Kashik shifted on the balls of their feet, preparing to meet his charge. They had their orders, and Chanar's threats were not about to make them falter.
