Horselords (18 page)

“Yes?”

“Know this. Should you make the slightest sign to cast a spell, you will be killed before you can complete it. Is that understood?” The voice spoke the last with great emphasis.

“It is understood,” Koja answered clearly.

There was a drawn-out scraping noise as the gates were unbarred. It ended with a loud clunk, and then the massive wooden halves began to swing open. With grunting strain, a team of soldiers pushed the gate open wide enough for the riders to pass through.

“Do not draw your weapons,” Koja charged his men, “or we will all surely die. Remember, your task is not to get me killed.”

Inside the gate was a company of archers, their weapons nocked and ready. The men stood tensely, lined up on one side of the street instead of both, so their arrows wouldn’t accidentally kill their own men if there was a fight. The soldiers wore simple cotton robes, dyed in blues and reds. Koja suspected the robes covered armored suits of leather and mail. Each man wore a pointed cap decorated with the brilliant green plume of some strange bird or beast.

At the far end of the line stood their commander. He was easily identified by the gleaming suit of metal scales he wore. Each scale had been polished to a sheen, so that the officer sparkled wherever he went. In the noonday glare, his armor was almost blinding. “Welcome, lama of the Red Mountain,” he said, bowing slightly.

“I am honored to be welcome,” Koja replied, using his best diplomatic skills.

Koja cautiously urged his horse through the gate, not wanting to venture too far into the city. He was still very uncertain about the reception he might receive.

“You and your men will leave your horses here,” instructed the gleaming commander. “Then you will accompany me to the governor.”

Koja translated the officer’s words. There was some grumbling from the men about leaving their horses. Koja pointed out that if they did not, they could not go any farther. Reluctantly, the troopers dismounted and handed their steeds over to grooms, who appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

“Follow me,” ordered the commander with little ceremony. “Watch, fall in.” The archers slung their bows, drew heavy curved knives called krisnas—a favorite weapon of Khazari warriors—and took positions on either side of Koja and his escort. The swarthy, robed Khazari eyed the shorter Tuigan suspiciously and kept their weapons ready.

As he marched through the streets, Koja studied the city.

Although he’d never been to Manass, its houses were much like the ones of the small village he grew up in. They were larger here. Most had one or two stories and were built from carefully stacked rocks. The narrow side streets were clogged with goods left outside—jars too large to put anywhere else, half-finished baskets, even outdoor looms. Doors and windows lined the street and curious eyes watched him from the shadows.

The streets remained empty as they marched through the town, but the rickety wooden balconies that thrust out from many buildings did not. Curious children and veiled women crowded on these, threatening to bring the precarious structures crashing down with their weight. Koja saw few men until the procession rounded a corner and entered a large plaza.

This was obviously the heart of Manass. At the plaza’s far side was a broad, low building, whitewashed and brightly painted with bands of sutras done in vermillion, cobalt, yellow, and green. Koja recognized the writing and the style. The scriptures were from a sect of the Yellow Temple, rivals to the Red Mountain in power. He read them to himself. “Bohda of the brilliant, five-flame heaven, master of the thirteen secret words, brought to the mountain by the King-Who-Destroyed-Bambalan, so bow to the east…” The rest of the verse continued around the building, out of sight. Koja guessed that the inscription was a charm used to ward off evil magic and the evil spirits of the mountains.

The front of the building was dominated by a low portico that ran its entire length. Men, dressed in armor—heavily padded coats of yellow and red that reached to the ankle—and carrying wicked looking staff-swords, formed a wall at its base. More men, equally armed and armored, stood in the narrow streets that entered the plaza, blocking the other routes into the city. Sitting on the portico, near the center, was a group of five men.

Koja bowed to the officials. Foremost of the five was a tall, slender man. A banner behind him portrayed a multi-armed, sword-wielding warrior—the King-Who-Destroyed-Bambalan. This ancient hero was the founder of Prince Ogandi’s line and was now revered as a a savior by the people. The figure was the official seal of Khazari. Koja assumed the slender man was the town’s governor.

Just behind the governor was a man in loose, draping robes of red and blue. Stains and holes marred the brilliant colors of his clothing. His hair was thick, long, black, and unwashed. In his hand he held a thin iron rod, four feet long, hung with chains and metal figurines. Koja guessed he was a dong chang, a wizard-hermit from the high mountains. Most of these men led reclusive lives, seeking only to perfect their magical craft, but sometimes they ventured out of their cold caves and returned to the civilized world. Koja shuddered slightly when he looked at the man. There were many stories about the dong chang, few of them pleasant. It was rumored they were actually dead creatures, kept alive by their own meditations and practices.

The third man was clearly a scribe, as indicated by the writing materials spread around him. Koja quickly passed over him to study the remaining men on the stand.

The last two on the porch were a surprise to Koja, even more than the dong chang had been. It was obvious to Koja that neither man was Khazari. They wore the long, tight-fitting silk robes of Shou Lung mandarins, the bureaucrats of that great empire. One seemed quite aged, while the other was more youthful, just verging on middle age. The elder had a thin mustache and a fine, wispy goatee, both carefully groomed. His hair was balding and faded, and his eyes drooped in heavy wrinkles. Age spots marked his cheeks and hands.

The younger man’s features more clearly showed bis Shou heritage. His face was not swarthy like those Khazari around him. His hair was black and straight, bound in a long queue. He wore a small round hat with a long yellow tassel. His face was serious and hard.

As Koja studied these men, the guards that accompanied him from the gate slowly fell back, forming up in two lines to block the street they had all just come up. His own men moved to form a horseshoe around him, open at the front. Their hands went instinctively to their weapons.

“No fighting!” hissed Koja when he noticed their movement. “Keep your weapons sheathed.”

“We shouldn’t die like the staked goat before the tiger,” urged one of the men under his breath. “Better we fight.”

“If you do not touch your weapons, the tiger will not strike,” Koja whispered back. “You will fail the khahan if we die. Wait.” The troopers stood still, but not a man lowered his hand.

“You claim you are Koja of the Khazari,” said the governor from his seat. “You must be willing and able to prove this…”

“I am,” Koja assured the man, standing as straight as he could.

“It will cost you your life if you’re deceiving me. Manjusri, make the test,” the governor ordered, signaling his wizard to the front.

The dong chang stepped forward and raised his hands, presenting the iron rod toward Koja. The priest’s guards went for their swords. Koja grabbed the wrist of the nearest man. “Wait,” he ordered. The wizard waved the rod in circles and murmured a deep chant. His eyes were closed. There was a sudden puff of wind that fluttered the magician’s robes and tossed his hair about. Suddenly, it stopped. The hermit opened his eyes.

“He speaks the truth, Lord,” the wild-haired wizard pronounced. The gaunt fellow returned to his place behind the governor.

“Well then, Koja of the Red Mountain, I am Sanjar al-Mulk, commander of this city in the name of Prince Ogandi. State your message to me as if it were to him.” There was no tone of warmth or friendliness in the man’s voice, only a faint trace of sneering contempt and disgust for the priest in front of him.

Koja swallowed nervously and crossed his hands in front of himself. “I am a Khazari—”

“Come forward. I cannot hear you,” ordered Sanjar. Koja walked closer to the porch and began again, shouting a little louder.

“I am a Khazari, like those of you here. I bear you greetings from Hoekun Yamun, khahan of the Tuigan, who styles himself Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples. He has sent me to you, my people and my prince, to deliver a message. The words of the khahan of the Tuigan are this: ‘Submit to me and recognize my authority over your people or I shall raze your city and destroy all those who refuse me.’”

As Koja finished those words, there was a murmur of shock and surprise from the men in the plaza. Many eyes turned to Sanjar. The governor’s face was purpled with rage and indignation. “Is that all this barbarian has to say?” he shouted in fury at Koja.

The priest wiped his sweaty palms on his robe. “No, Lord Commander. He also bids you to look over your walls from your highest tower.”

“I’ve seen the reports from the sentries. Your khahan has gathered himself a sizable force of bandits. And now he wants to style himself Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples. He’s got a lot to do before he can claim that title,” Sanjar sneered. “Does he really think he can capture Manass with that puny force?”

“Yes, he does, Lord Commander.”

Sanjar snorted in derisive, insulting laughter. The old Shou gentleman at his side joined in, though he veiled his smile behind a fan. Koja bit his lip to refrain from speaking. Sanjar was treating the whole thing like some great joke, as if the khahan were some thieving buffoon or a common raider. Although he knew the commander was making a grave error, Koja found himself unwilling to speak up. He didn’t like Sanjar al-Mulk very much and trusted the Shou mandarin even less.

“It is to be assumed that the brave khahan has chosen a time by which this insignificant city must reply?” asked the old Shou mandarin suddenly. He spoke fluent Khazari, but with a thick Shou accent.

“The khahan of the Tuigan requests his answer by sundown today,” explained Koja. The old man nodded.

“Perhaps sometime tomorrow? After all, there is much to consider here,” the mandarin offered. He made no effort to conceal his contempt.

“The khahan is adamant. The answer must be given today.” Koja waited to see what the governor would say.

The mandarin leaned over and whispered in Sanjar’s ear. The governor’s smile was replaced by a grim scowl. He stood up from his chair.

“You will not have to wait so long. This is my answer: Kill them all except the lama. Leave him alive to tell his impudent bandit-lord that Prince Ogandi finds the company of civilized men more to his taste. Tell him injury to Khazari is injury to Shou Lung. Let him think on that!”

Koja was thunderstruck by Sanjar’s words.

“What did he say, priest?” demanded one of the Tuigan, sensing the threat in the governor’s words.

The lama roused to action. “Quickly,” Koja shouted in Tuigan to his guards. “Defend yourselves!”

His words were almost unnecessary, for the Tuigan were already in motion. They sprang back, leaping on the guards who blocked the way back to the gate. The sergeant of the arban shouted out commands to his men, driving them like a wedge toward the wall of guards in their path. The lead warrior feinted a high cut and then suddenly shifted it, thrusting his sword under the Khazari’s guard. The sharp steel slashed through the soft armor and sliced into the man’s arm, shearing down to the bone. The Khazari screamed as his sword dropped, his arm now useless. The other Tuigan hurled themselves into the attack, hoping that sheer fury and surprise would carry them through.

Koja stood flat-footed as the warriors swept past him. He had never been in a real fight before. The speed of the battle stunned him.

The Tuigan slashed deeper into the ranks of the guards. Several Khazari were already down. One lay clutching at his throat, his blood soaking the ground. Another had crawled out of reach, clutching at his belly, trying to keep the gaping gash across his abdomen closed. Two others lay unmoving. Steel rang against steel; harsh gasps and pants punctuated the battle. Already the guards were starting to waver as the small band of Tuigan drove forward.

“Stop them!” shouted Sanjar, his voice screeching with rage. “Don’t let them get away!”

Suddenly Koja heard a droning murmur behind him. He wheeled about just in time to see the dong chang shake his iron rod in the direction of the battle. As the wizard finished the spell, a paralyzing force settled over the lama. He tried to fight it, calling on the inner strength his master had taught him to use. In his mind he chanted sutras of power, focusing his thoughts to a single point.

Then, just as suddenly, the paralysis was gone—and so was the noise of battle. Looking cautiously behind him, Koja saw his Tuigan escort and some of the Khazari guards frozen like statues. Each man had been caught in the grip of a magical rigor, locking him in place. Some were lunging, others parried. A few had fallen over, their weight off-balance when the spell struck. Not one of them twitched, blinked, or moved in any way. Around their feet was the blood of their opponents, still flowing. Koja felt his knees go weak.

“Excellently done, Manjusri,” the governor said, rising from his seat. “Let the lama take the soldiers’ heads back as our answer. Then hang the bodies from the gate.”

Several men ran forward with their krisnas to carry out the grisly task.

The screech of wood on wood signaled the closing of the main gate behind Koja. The Khazari had seated the lama backward on the horse and, with a slap on the rump, sent the beast galloping out the gate. The priest’s hands were tied behind him, fastened to the pommel, and bags hanging from the saddle squished and thudded softly against his legs. In these sacks were the heads of his Tuigan escort. The blood soaked through the fabric and onto the hem of his robe.

As he watched Manass recede, Koja heard horses coming his way. There was a jerk at the reins, and the horse stopped. A knife cut away Koja’s bonds. Freed, he practically leaped from the saddle, animated by fear and anger. While he stood there, the troopers remounted, leading his horse with them. Before Koja could protest, one man leaned down and hauled the priest up behind him. Then, wheeling their horses, the troopers galloped back toward the Tuigan lines.