Horselords (13 page)

A sound of heavy breathing, and a blast of steam across Koja’s face forced him to look again. The banners were gone, and the wall that circled him shivered and moved. It became a great beast, black and shimmering. A pair of eyes, inhuman and cold, stared down at him.

“Are you the khahan of the barbarians?” the beast boomed.

“No,” answered Koja in a weak whisper.

The eyes blinked. “Ah. Then you are with him,” it decided. “That is good. Finally, it is time.” The eyes glowed brighter. Fearful, Koja looked away from the baleful gleam. There was a rushing of wind and then the shape was gone.

Looking up, the priest saw his master again. “Be careful, Koja, of the walls you build,” the old lama called out. The master faded, growing dimmer to Koja’s sight, until there was nothing but the dull gray horizon. Then there was nothing at all.

The priest woke slowly, dimly remembering the voices from his sleep. A sharp tang welled up at the base of his skull, tingling the stubble of his neck hair. Involuntarily, the thin priest inhaled deeply. Suddenly, he was wide awake, sneezing and gagging, his nostrils filled with the smoke of burning manure. He flailed about, then opened his eyes. Thick wads of stinging smoke assailed him. Koja crawled out of his rug and into clear air.

“It is a good day,” a wavering voice somewhere to Koja’s left said.

Still blinking, the priest looked toward the voice. He could hardly see the speaker because the dawn sun blazed behind the man’s shoulder. Koja shielded his eyes from the orange-red glow with one hand and rubbed away the last of his tears with the other. Sitting next to the thickly smoking campfire was the ancient Goyuk Khan, poking at the coals with a stick. He looked back at Koja and smiled one of his broad, toothless grins.

Koja weakly smiled back. His head felt thick from drink and pained from his sudden awakening. His mouth was gummy. The years among the lamas had not prepared him for a night of feasting with the Tuigan.

“Is time to eat,” Goyuk said. He didn’t look the least bit haggard from the celebration. Poking the fire again, Goyuk fished out an ash-covered lump, bits of burning coals still clinging to it. Picking it up carefully, he brushed the embers away with his dirty fingers and held it out to Koja.

Koja looked at it dubiously, knowing full well that he had to take it or offend the old khan. It looked like a scrap of the horsemeat sausage, roasted in the fire. He gingerly took it, juggling it between his hands to avoid burning his fingers.

“Eat,” urged the khan, “is good.”

“Thank you,” said Koja with a forced smile. He ate it down quickly, doing his best not to taste the meat. Breakfast finished, Koja struggled to his feet to look for water. The sun had barely risen over the horizon, but already men were about. The guards were changing, the dayguards replacing the nightguards. Quiverbearers and household slaves were going from yurt to yurt, preparing for the morning.

Not everyone was awake, however. Koja weaved through the sleepers clustered around the feast-fires. Most of the revelers were still snoring blissfully, unusual for the Tuigan camp, which was normally bustling by this hour. Some were wrapped in their blankets and rugs, curled closely around small mounds of smoldering embers. However, more than a few were sprawled haphazardly over the ground, their kalats pulled up tight around them. Koja guessed many of them slept on the same spots where they had passed out the night before.

After much futile searching, Koja finally collared a servant carrying a bucket of water. Scooping it up with his hands, he gulped down a mouthful. Though cold enough to numb his fingers, the priest splashed the water over his face and head, vigorously rubbing his skin to clear his brain.

One of Yamun’s quiverbearers presented himself to Koja. “The Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, Yamun Khahan, sends me to ask why his historian is not in attendance at the yurt of his lord.” The servant remained kneeling before the lama.

Koja looked at the man in surprise. He hadn’t expected the khahan to conduct business so early this morning. Furthermore, the priest didn’t realize his presence would be needed so constantly. “Take me to his yurt,” he ordered.

Obediently, the servant led Koja through the clutter around the feast-fires. Reaching the tent, the man announced Koja’s arrival. The priest was quickly ushered inside.

This morning the yurt was arranged differently. Yamun’s throne was gone, and the braziers had been moved to the sides of the tent. The flap covering the smoke hole was opened wide, as was the door, allowing rays of sunlight to dazzle the normally gloomy interior. In the center of the yurt, in a shaft of sunlight, sat a circle of men. Yamun was bareheaded, his conical hat set aside. The light gleamed off his tonsure and brought out the red color of his hair. He still wore the heavy sable coat he had worm the night before, though now it was mud-stained and smudged with soot. The other men had likewise removed their hats, making a ring of shining bald domes in the center of the yurt. Koja was reminded of the masters of his temple, although they didn’t sport the long side braids favored by these warriors.

“Historian, you’ll sit here,” called out Yamun as the lama entered. He slapped his hand on the rug just behind himself.

Koja walked around the circle and took his seat. Chanar, bleary-eyed from the night’s festivities, sat on one side of Yamun. Goyuk sat on the other. There were three others wearing golden cloths and embroidered silks, signs that they were powerful khans, but Koja did not recognize them. Their rich clothes were travel-stained and rumpled. At the farthest end of the circle, sitting slightly away from the rest, was a common trooper. His clothes, a simple blue kalat and brown trousers, were filthy with mud and grime. He stank powerfully, Koja noticed as he walked by.

The khans glanced toward Koja as he sat. Goyuk smiled another of his gaping smiles. A look of displeasure sparked in Chanar’s eyes. Yamun leaned forward, drawing their attention to the sheet spread out in front of them.

It was a crude map, something which surprised Koja. He hadn’t seen any maps since arriving, and he had assumed the Tuigan had no knowledge of cartography. Here was another surprise about his hosts. The lama craned his neck, trying to get a view of the sheet.

“Semphar is here,” Yamun said, continuing a conversation begun before the priest entered. He thrust a stubby finger at one corner of the sheet. “Hubadai waits with his army at foot of Fergana Pass.” He traced his finger across the map to a point closer to the center. “We’re here.”

“And where is Jad?” asked one of the khans Koja didn’t know.

“At the Orkhon Oasis—there.” Yamun pointed to the far side of the map.

The priest strained even harder to see where Yamun was indicating. All he could make out was a blurry area of lines and scribbles.

“And Tomke?” the same khan asked. He was a wolf-faced man with high, sharp cheekbones, a narrow nose, and pointed chin. His graying hair was well greased and bound in three braids, one on each side of his head and a third at the back.

“He stays in the north to gather his men. I’m going to hold him in reserve,” Yamun explained. There was a grunt of general understanding from the men listening. They studied the map for a few minutes, learning the dispositions of the armies.

“What will you do?” Goyuk finally asked, his nose practically touching the map as he screwed up his eyes to see the lines. “Semphar? Or Khazari?” At the mention of Khazari, Koja scooted sideways a little, trying to find a better angle to see the map. By leaning to the left, he could see it clearer.

“Semphar must fall. They’ve refused my demands. Hubadai will march against them.” The khahan traced a line on the map. Again there was a murmur of approval. Chanar glanced at the wolf-faced khan, giving him the tiniest of nods.

“Great Yamun,” the man said, “I must speak because it is my duty under heaven. Your son Hubadai is a brave and valiant warrior, but he is young and has not gone to war often. The caliph of Semphar is a mighty ruler. Our spies tell us he has many soldiers protected by great stone walls. It would be wisdom to send a wise and experienced warrior to instruct and aid your son.”

“My son is my son. He must fight,” Yamun snapped.

“Of course, Great Khan,” Chanar noted. “He must command. Perhaps Chagadai does not mean you should send a new commander. Send someone you can trust to advise Hubadai. Make this advisor commander of the right wing.”

“Hubadai is young and his temper is quick,” pressed Chagadai, the wolfish khan. “Send him someone to cool his rashness, someone who knows the traps of war. Send someone your son can learn from.”

” ‘A wise man has a wise tutor,’” Chanar offered.

“They speak wisely, Yamun,” wheezed out Goyuk.

The khahan looked at the khans around the circle, pondering the advice. “Chagadai’s advice is good,” Yamun finally said. “But who should I send? You, Chagadai?”

“Great Lord, my wisdom is the wisdom of the tent,” the khan demurred. “I do not have the cunning for war. Send a warrior who has served you well.”

“I am too old,” said Goyuk, before Yamun could even ask him. “Send a young man.”

“What about you Chanar?” Yamun asked.

“I hoped to visit the yurts of my people,” the general began, “but by your word, it shall be done.”

“Then it is done,” Yamun concluded. “I hoped you would ride by my side, but you must serve my son now. He’ll listen to you.”

“You have my word, Semphar will fall.” Chanar bowed, smiling as he did so.

“But what about Khazari?” inquired Goyuk, pointing at the map. Koja, peering over their shoulders, could see that Chagadai pointed to the same general area of the map as the Orkhon Oasis. So Prince Jad was camped near Khazari, he thought.

“Before we talk, we must hear the reports of the scouts,” Yamun said. “Come forward, trooper.”

The soldier at the back slid forward and prostrated himself.

“This man led the scouts I sent to Khazari. We will hear his report. But first,” Yamun said, turning to Koja behind him, “you must go. Wait outside. You will be called when you are needed.”

“Yes, Khahan,” Koja said softly, concealing his bitter disappointment. Yamun’s face was impassive, unconcerned, but Chanar looked at the priest with smug satisfaction. As quickly as he could, Koja hurried out of the yurt.

Outside, the revelers were waking up. Koja, with nothing else to do, sat down on his haunches beside the doorway. He strained to hear anything of the conversation inside, but the thick felt of the yurt swallowed up the words.

Koja sat there, disconsolate, watching hung-over khans wander away from the scene of last night’s feast. The dayguards walked among the circles, kicking awake their brothers who had passed out the night before. A few halfhearted fights broke out, more loud arguments than real brawls.

One did turn into a serious battle as two men wrestled across the ground. Their fight quickly attracted others, and soon there was a shouting crowd around the battlers. Yamun and the khans came out of the yurt shortly after the fight started, but no one seemed very interested in stopping the conflict. Yamun and the others stood by as the two brawlers rolled around, trying to get each other in a deadly hold. Within minutes, though, one man screamed, and the fight ended as quickly as it had started.

Ignoring Koja, who sat expectantly by the door, the khahan called down to the big wrestler. “You are a good fighter.”

The man knelt where he was. “Teylas has given his strength to me,” he answered.

Yamun raised an eyebrow at the man’s words “What’s your ordu?”

“I am Sechen of the Naican,” the wrestler answered. “I have killed five men with my bare hands, Khahan.” Behind him the dayguards dragged his dead opponent away.

“Sechen, you’re proud and shameless. I like you,” Yamun said impulsively. “From now on you will serve at my side.”

Sechen fell into the dirt, humbling himself before the khahan. Inarticulate cries of thanks poured from the man’s lips.

Koja looked in horror at the big wrestler. The khahan had just honored an admitted killer, praising the man for what he had done. Astonished, the priest looked at the emperor of the Tuigan. The man showed no shame or conscience for what he had just done. Koja had almost forgotten just what the Tuigan were. For all their cunning craftsmanship and military skill, the Tuigan were still uncivilized barbarians. Koja wondered if they could ever be anything more.

Yamun finally finished speaking with the wrestler, but the grateful man was still kneeling at his feet. Looking at Koja standing beside him, the khahan gave no notice of the priest’s horrified expression.

“We have reached a decision, lama,” Yamun said. “I have an answer for your prince.”

“What is the message I am to take to Prince Ogandi?” Koja finally, hesitantly asked, his voice trembling with rage and fear.

“You don’t. The Tuigan ride to Khazari with their own answer. No one speaks for us,” Yamun pronounced. “And your prince will hear from me very soon.”

Elsewhere in the royal compound, another meeting was just beginning. It was a furtive liaison in one of the yurts used as a storehouse. The tent’s felt walls were black, darkened by powdered charcoal. The smoke hole was sealed shut, and the door flap was tightly closed. It was an isolated yurt, seldom visited or disturbed.

Outside, a few soldiers, wearing the blue kalat of common troopers, leaned on their lances. Their eyes were far from idle, though. Under a guise of nonchalance, the men constantly scanned the area, ready to warn of any intruders.

Inside, the black yurt was barely lit by one small lamp. It burned fitfully, the little circle of light it cast growing and shrinking with each flicker. The dim glow revealed rolls of fabric, sealed baskets, rugs, and stacks of metal pots. Nestled in all this, within the circle of light, were General Chanar and Mother Bayalun. She was dressed in a simple robe, hardly fitting to her station. Around her head she had wrapped several coils of a shawl, until her face was hidden in shadows. Her staff leaned against a bale beside her.

“Did you do as I instructed?” she demanded, leaning forward to look the general in the eye.