David Cook - Horselords
The khahan was dressed in formal clothing—leather boots dyed red and black, a pair of yellow woolen trousers, a blue silk jacket embroidered with dragons, and a leather coat-robe with broad cuffs and collar of white ermine. His cap was low and only slightly pointed, the brow a thick band of sable fur. From under it hung his braids, bound in coils of silver wire. Glass beads dangled from the long ends of his mustache.
For all the grandeur and might Yamun Khahan claimed, his yurt was furnished simply. The felt rugs that formed the walls were brightly dyed in geometric patterns, as was the custom, but aside from the dias there was little else in the tent. A stack of cushions rested along one wall, and an incense burner sat in the middle of the room. Oil lamps hung by chains from the ceiling braces, which were themselves carved and embellished with silver plaques of scrollwork. Behind the khahan was a stand, which held his bow and several quivers of arrows.
The old man in front of Yamun sat at a low table. Neatly arranged on it were several pieces of paper, an inking stone, and a heavy, square silver seal. Koja guessed the fellow was a scribe.
"Welcome, Lama Koja of the Khazari, to the tents of Yamun Khahan. The khan of the Hoekun and emperor of all the Tuigan people asks you to sit," said the khahan in the weary tones of a man bored with protocol.
A servant scampered from out of the darkness, bringing a cushion for Koja. A place was set for him in the center of the floor, just behind the incense burner. Kneeling on the cushion, Koja bowed his head to the floor.
"If the yurt you slept in was comfortable, I give it to you,"
Yamun offered, suppressing a yawn.
Koja bowed again to Yamun and carefully began the speech he had rehearsed for this formal reception. "The khahan does me great honors. I am only a simple envoy of my prince. Knowing that you would attend the council of Semphar, he ordered me to carry messages to you from his hand. I have brought these with me," Koja said, pulling two packets from the sleeves of his robe. They were large blue envelopes, bound with red silk string and closed with the wax seal of Prince Ogandi. Koja set the letters on the rugs before the khahan.
The khahan waved his finger, and the scribe picked up the letters. Taking these, he presented them with two hands, his head bowed, to the khahan. Yamun took the envelopes and studied the seals while the scribe returned to his seat. Apparently satisfied that they had not been tampered with, Yamun broke the first open and carefully unfolded the sheet. Uncertain what languages the Tuigan might understand, the letter had been written in both the flowing script of Semphar and the hachured ideograms of Shou Lung. Yamun scanned the page and passed it back to the scribe.
"My scribe will read these. I have no use for reading," the khahan bluntly explained. The scribe carefully placed the paper on the writing desk.
"Koja the Lama," continued Yamun, arching his back to stretch, "you are the envoy of the Khazari. Therefore, I've ordered proper documents prepared for you, stating your position and the honors you must be shown. These will keep you from being mistaken for a bandit or a spy." Yamun's eyes flicked up and down over the priest. "Show these signs and you will be allowed to pass unmolested—except where my word says you will not go. No one will refuse you because defying my word is death."
Yamun waved to the scribe once more, who scurried from his table to present Koja with a golden paitza—a heavy, engraved plate, almost a foot long, strung on a red silken cord.
Taking the paitza, Koja studied it closely. At the top was the fanciful face of a tiger, the seal of the khahan. Below it was writing, carved in Shou characters. Koja read it softly aloud. " 'By the power of eternal heaven and by the patronage of great grandeur and magnificence, who does not submit to the command of Yamun Khahan, that person is guilty and will die.' "
"Wear it about your neck and do not lose it or you may find yourself in trouble." Koja gently hefted the paitza and decided to wear it somewhere else.
"Now, priest, I must dismiss you. There are other things I must do. I will consider the words of your prince. When the time is ready, I will prepare a reply." Yamun abruptly ended the meeting, turning to the scribe while ignoring the presence of the priest.
Bowing one last time, Koja took his leave. After the previous night, the formality and shortness of this meeting was jarring. Perhaps, he thought, there was something he didn't understand about Tuigan hospitality.
Koja returned to his yurt to work on his reports. Since leaving Khazari, the priest had tried to maintain a careful account of his mission by writing his observations in letters to Prince Ogandi. Although Koja had sent a few missives from Semphar, he had not had the chance since. Pulling out a bundle of sheets, the priest began to carefully add the recollections of last night and today to the papers. He quickly became engrossed in the work.
It was dark when Yamun summoned Koja back to his yurt. The khahan sat alone on the dais. The scribe was seated at his little table. A wick floating in a bowl of oil provided the man with light. Other lamps were lit, casting a dim illumination against the dark. Koja was ushered in with little ceremony.
"Sit, priest," Yamun said, dispensing with formalities. Koja took his seat on the cushions in the center of the floor. "No, here." Yamun pointed at his feet. "You will look at my hand."
"As you wish, Khahan." Koja reached into the front of his robe, getting his charm pouch.
"Priest, will you join me in drink?" Yamun asked while he watched the Koja rummage through the bag.
"You are most gracious, Khahan. I will take wine."
Yamun clapped his hands, taking care not to strike his bandage. "Bring hot wine and kumiss for me. It's a better drink than wine," he said, pointing a finger at Koja. "Kumiss reminds us of who we are. It is our blood. But," he concluded with a grin, "it is an acquired taste."
The servants appeared and poured the drink into silver goblets. As they did so, Koja carefully unwrapped the bandage on Yamun's hand. The skin around the edge of the wound was black and crusty, but there was no sign of swelling. Already it had started to knit properly. "Let the wound air," Koja advised the khahan.
"Very well. Now, for the sake of formality, read me your prince's words," Yamun requested. Reaching into his robe, the khahan produced the letters and tossed them to Koja. He leaned forward, intent on Koja's words.
The priest unfolded the sheet and squinted, trying to make out the words in the dim light.
" 'To the gracious lord of the steppe from Prince Ogandi, ruler of Khazari, son of Tulwakan the Mighty:
" 'Long have we heard of your people, and great are they in their lands! Mighty is your valor. Greatly it pleases us to have so stalwart a neighbor—' "
"What does it say?" Yamun interrupted impatiently, tapping his fingertips together.
"Great Lord?"
"What does your prince say? Tell me. Don't read anymore. Just tell me."
"Well..." Koja paused as he scanned the rest of the letter. "Prince Ogandi offers his hand in friendship, hoping that you will enter into peaceful trade with him. And then, later on, he proposes a treaty of friendship and defense."
"And the other letter, what does it say?"
Koja unfolded it and scanned through the lines. "My prince has outlined this proposed treaty for you to consider. It calls for recognizing the borders of the Khazari and Tuigan lands. He says that, 'Your enemies shall be our enemies' " Koja stopped to see if the khahan had understood. "It's a promise to assist each other against attackers."
"He does not threaten war?" Yamun asked sternly.
Koja looked at the letter again. "No, Great Lord!"
"Does he state that assassins will be sent to slay me?" Yamun fingered at the baubles in his mustache.
Koja wonder just what Yamun was getting at. "Not at all."
"Hmmm . .." Yamun stroked his mustache. "Then why would someone tell me these things?" he wondered out loud as his gaze settled on the old scribe. The man went pale, sweat beading out on his forehead. "Why would someone tell me lies?"
"I did not lie, Lord! I only read what was there!" the scribe babbled as he frantically pressed his face into the carpets. His voice muffled, he continued to plead. "I swear by the lightning, by the might of Teylas, I only read what was written! I am your faithful scribe!"
"One of you has lied and will forfeit his life for it," Yamun rumbled, looking from the priest to the scribe. The prostrate servant began heaving with muffled sobs. Koja looked at the letters again, baffled by this strange accusation. Yamun looked at the two men over his folded hands, his mind deep in thought.
Suddenly the khahan stood, knocking the stool over, and strode to the doorway of the tent. "Captain!" he shouted into the darkness. The officer appeared within a second. "Take this dog out and execute him. Now!" Yamun thrust his finger at the scribe. With a shrieking wail the man clutched at the carpets for safety.
The scribe's pathetic screams grew louder as the black-robed guards approached. Koja slid back, out of the way of the grim-faced warriors. Yamun's visage was fixed with anger and hatred.
"Shut up, dog!" the khahan shouted. "Guards, take him!"
Three soldiers picked up the scribe and carried him from the tent. His muffled cries could be heard through the tent walls. Yamun waited expectantly. The screaming grew frantic and hoarse, then there was a dull thud and the screaming stopped. Yamun nodded in satisfaction and took his seat.
Koja realized that he was trembling. Lowering his eyes, the priest practiced his meditation to regain his composure.
The captain of the guard pulled the tent flap aside. In his hands was a bloodstained bundle—a simple leather bag. Wordlessly he entered and knelt before the khahan. "As you ordered, so is it done," the captain said as he unwrapped the package. There, in the middle of the cloth, was the head of the scribe.
"Well done, Captain. Take his body and feed it to the dogs. Set that," he sneered, pointing to the head, "on a lance where everyone can see it."
"It will be done." The captain looked at Koja in curiosity, then took the head and left.
Yamun let out a great sigh and looked at the floor. Finally, he turned to Koja. "Now, priest, bandage my hand."
Still trembling slightly, Koja took out his herbs and began to work.
2
Mother Bayalun
Yamun trotted his horse, a sturdy little piebald mare, through the camps of his soldiers. Alongside him rode Chanar on a pure white stallion. From behind came the jingling clatter of reins and hooves as five bodyguards, black-robed men of the elite Kashik, followed closely behind.
It had been days since the audience with the priest from Khazari, and Yamun was still reflecting on the events. He scowled as he pondered the contents of the envoy's letters. The prince of the Khazari wanted a treaty between their two nations. Yamun didn't know if that was desirable, and, before deciding, he needed to know more about the Khazari—their numbers, strengths, and weaknesses. "The sleeping rabbit is caught by the fox," or so went the old saying. Yamun had no intention of being lulled to sleep by mere paper.
Dismissing the topic in his mind, Yamun slowed his horse and looked with pride on the endless sea of soldiers' tents and campfires. This was his army. He had organized the tribesmen into arbans of ten men, then jaguns of one hundred, further still to minghans of one thousand, ending finally in the tumen, the great divisions of ten thousand men. Every soldier had a rank and a place in the army, just as Yamun planned. Under his command the men of the steppe were transformed from raiding bands into a tightly disciplined army.
