Horselords (17 page)

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.

The priest was struck with some surprise when the riders around him suddenly reined up short. The party had just cleared the top of a small ridge. The scouts in the lead came circling back toward the khahan’s dayguards.

“Priest, come forward!” Yamun shouted to Koja. This was a moment the lama dreaded. He lightly spurred his horse forward, trotting it up to Yamun. The guards moved away, eyeing the surrounding hills suspiciously.

“There,” announced the khahan, standing in his stirrups. He pointed down the slope toward the other side of the valley they had just entered. A small river ran through the valley floor, winding in lazy oxbows through tiny, barren fields. On the near bank of the river was the city of Manass, its white limestone walls shining in the noontime sun.

Koja was surprised by what he saw of Manass. It was much larger than he expected. In tales, the town was never as great as Hsiliang, which was close to the border with Shou Lung, or Skardu where Prince Ogandi lived. Still, Manass was described as one of the guardians against the raids of the mounted bandits who sometimes boiled out of the steppe.

Apparently Prince Ogandi considered the threat of barbarian raids a serious matter, for Manass seemed well fortified. The city was enclosed entirely within a wall. Although it was difficult to be certain, Koja guessed the main wall stretched more than a quarter-mile on each side to roughly form a square. The fortifications were in good repair.

The main gate was large and closed by heavy wooden doors. A gatehouse, several stories in height, was built over the entrance. Other towers rose at the corners. The walls of these were heavily plastered with whitewashed mud, and the roofs were fireproofed by yellow-brown clay tiles. A broad walk ran across the top of the wall and connected each tower to its neighbors.

Within the wall, Koja could see a cluster of yellow-brown roofs broken by the gaps for streets. The city was laid out in a regular grid, the streets running in straight lines according to the advice of ancient geomancers, earth wizards who came long ago from the great cities of Shou Lung. Only occasionally was this orderly pattern broken, perhaps on the advice of these soothsayers or maybe just to accommodate the needs of the citizens.

As Yamun and his party studied the city, a faint sound came to their ears. It was a long, droning blast with overtones of a higher-pitched whistle. Koja recognized the sound from his years at the temple. It was the wailing note of a gandan, a huge straight horn. It took a man with strong lungs to blow one of these instruments. Outside the walls, only a few farmers were in the field, it being too early in the spring to start planting. Those few, however, began a hurried rush to the safety of the citadel.

“Well, they’ve seen us,” Yamun declared. “Go, priest, and deliver my message. Take ten men from the dayguard as an escort.” Yamun didn’t wait to see his orders executed, but wheeled his horse about and set to the business of arraying his ten thousand.

There was only a little delay as the ten guards were assembled for the escort duty. Koja sincerely wished the wait could have been longer, but before long he was riding through the fields, surrounded by the bodyguard. One of them bore the yak-tail standard of Yamun Khahan.

When they reached the gate to Manass, it remained closed. A deep bass voice hailed them from the gatehouse overhead. “State your business for entering the White City of Manass.” The sentry spoke in Khazarish. Koja abruptly realized it had been weeks since he’d heard the clipped sounds of his native tongue.

The bodyguard looked at Koja, waiting for him to speak. Unconsciously standing in the saddle in a futile attempt to get closer to the speaker in the gatehouse, Koja called out in his thin voice, “I am an envoy of the Brilliant Shining White Mountain, Prince Ogandi. I am Koja, lama of the Red Mountain Temple, son of Lord Biadul, son of Lord Koten. I bring a message from the one who calls himself the Illustrious Emperor of All People, the ruler of Tuigan, Hoekun Yamun Khahan. I come under a banner of truce. Open your gates so I can speak with the governor of your city.”

Koja waited for the gate to swing open. The doors did not move.

“Who are the men with you?” the voice shouted back.

“They are my escort and bodyguard,” explained Koja. “Surely the mighty warriors of Manass are not afraid of ten men.” Koja didn’t know about those in the city, but he was certainly afraid of them. He was more afraid, however, of the reception he might receive inside if the bodyguards were not present.

“Do they come in with you?” A new voice was shouting out questions now. Koja guessed a higher-ranking officer had taken over the negotiations.

“The khahan of the Tuigan would consider it insulting if his men were made to wait outside,” Koja pointed out. “In fact, he might suspect us of plotting against him.” Koja looked to the guards on either side. They apparently had no understanding of what was being said—he hoped.

“Your guards must not draw their weapons. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Koja yelled back. His throat was getting sore from all the shouting.

“And there are to be no spellcasters—understood?”

“Only myself,” Koja responded, sitting back in his saddle, “and I am a simple lama of the Red Mountain.”

There was a period of silence. Koja shifted uneasily in the saddle, looking to see how his guards were taking all this. They sat still in their saddles, waiting for something to happen.

“Priest?” the voice called out.