Horselords (21 page)

Koja waited for Yamun to dismiss him. Finally, the khahan turned to other details. Koja went back to his tree and tried to settle in for a nap. Although the lama was tired, sleep wouldn’t come.

Flies buzzed lazily overhead. Another hour went by without Shahin’s arrival. The morning was slowly becoming a hot spring day. There was nothing for the priest to do but wait and pray.

“They come, Yamun Khahan,” panted a messenger who ran up and knelt at the great lord’s feet. “The scouts signal that Shahin is coming.”

Yamun turned from the man, waving forward another messenger. “Go to Prince Jad. Tell the prince his father reminds him not to move until the signal is given.” The messenger hurried to his task.

At the announcement, Koja scrambled to his feet. “Things are almost ready,” Yamun eagerly explained. “Shahin’s done it. Now all we need to do is close the trap.” The khahan strode up the gully’s side and watched the pass.

“Khahan, will this be dangerous?” the priest asked, joining Yamun. So far, Koja had only seen battles, never been in one.

“Of course,” Yamun replied. “All battles are dangerous.” The khahan shaded his eyes and continued to watch, ignoring his historian.

“May I cast some spells—purely for protection? I am not a warrior—”

“No!” Sechen growled, stepping forward to guard Yamun. “No spells.” The muscular wrestler glowered down at the priest. Koja lurched back in surprise.

Realizing what he had done, Sechen suddenly stepped back and knelt at Yamun’s feet. “Forgive my anger, Great Lord. I was only trying to guard you.”

Yamun studied the man carefully. “You mean well, Sechen,” he said, reassuring the fretting giant. Turning to Koja, Yamun said, “You’ll take your chances with the rest of us. No spells.”

The decision made, Yamun climbed a small rise of crumbling rock, Koja and his guards in tow, to get a better view. Koja reached the top with sweat running down the sides of his glistening, stubbly scalp.

“There’s Shahin,” Yamun abruptly said. He pointed to the far ridge. Shielding his eyes, Koja could barely make out a thin sliver of moving gray. The khahan scrambled down the slope and headed for his standard, waving his arm to bring the army to attention. Koja, panting and sweating even more, stumbled down behind him.

By the time the khahan reached his standard, messengers were already starting to arrive. Yamun pushed his way through the crowded gully, past the expectant troopers. As he did so, a messenger ran forward and dropped to one knee. “Jad reports that his men are in position,” the man called out.

“Good. Standard-bearer, use the white banner for the right,” Yamun commanded without breaking his stride. The trooper bowed quickly to show his understanding.

“Scouts say Goyuk is ready,” added one of the khahan’s aides. He was little more than a boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. His face was still round with baby fat.

“Why hasn’t Goyuk reported this?” Yamun snapped, the aide falling in beside him. They squeezed past a knot of horses eagerly pawing at the ground. The troopers stroked the animal’s muzzles, trying to calm them.

“I don’t know, Lord,” answered the aide apologetically.

“Then find out!” the gruff warlord growled.

“Shahin has reached the valley floor, Great Lord,” yelped a messenger who galloped up to the top of the gully. Yamun stopped and scrutinized the man as the courier swung from the saddle.

“Who’s your commander?” the khahan queried.

“Buzun. One of Shahin Khan’s men, Great Lord,” the man hastily answered, falling to one knee. Streaks of sweat colored the dust on his clothes. One braid of the man’s hair had come undone, and the other was caked with grease and dirt. His eyes were staring and hollow from lack of rest.

“What of the enemy?” the khahan demanded as he walked up the slope to question the man. “Does Shahin have anything else to report?”

“The garrison is chasing him, half a mile behind, maybe a little more, Great Lord. No more than a mile,” the messenger said. Koja climbed up to where the warlord stood.

“How many men chase Shahin?” pressed Yamun.

“Three minghans of riders. Two of men on foot—but they are farther behind.”

“Damn!” Yamun grumbled. “They can’t be allowed to escape.” He wheeled to his aides. “Send riders to Jad and Goyuk. Tell them not to attack until after the footmen pass by. They’re to give a signal, the war drums, when the infantry is in the trap. We’ll hold our attack until they signal. You—” Yamun turned back to the messenger. “Go back to Shahin and tell him to harry the riders, slow them up. I want the enemy pushed tight together. Tell Shahin his losses are not important.”

The messenger bowed quickly, fired by the khahan’s urgency. “Get this man a fresh horse!” Yamun bellowed down to his aides in the gully. “You—give him your horse!” He jabbed his finger at the nearest trooper. Startled and flustered, the man dropped to his knee.

“By your word it so—um—so shall it be!” he shouted. The man led the horse out of the gully, bowing to the khahan at every step.

Yamun turned back to the messenger. “Go! I want those Khazari chasing Shahin in full pursuit! Understand?”

“Yes, Khahan,” the man shouted, scrambling to his feet.

Yamun didn’t even wait for the courier to leave before he turned his attention to the lines of troops filling the gully.

“Give the word,” he told the aide still at his side. “It’s time to prepare.”

Those simple words had an electrifying effect on the army. There was a murmur of voices as the order was passed along, then a chorus of creaking leather and metal. Men hustled up off the ground, where they had been lounging. Saddle cinches got a final tug. Honing stones were dragged in one last scrape along already sharp swords. Heavy, stifling armor was pulled on. Kumiss bags gurgled as veterans poured themselves a drink; there was no telling when they would have another chance. Horses pawed at the ground, shifting unsteadily under the sudden load of metal-clad men. A whisper of chanted prayers drifted on the wind. Like a wave on the ocean, men mounted their horses, the action flowing outward from the khahan’s word.

Then they waited, waited for the nine-tailed banner of the khahan to be raised high and the war drum to be sounded. These were their signals, and not a man would move until they were given. Those that rode forward too early would be beaten. Those that fled, beheaded.

Koja climbed into the saddle of his own horse, a cumbersome task in the oversized armor that he wore. The scale mail bagged out around his chest giving him the appearance of a large metal-plated balloon, or, with his pointed helmet, an upside-down top. The helmet promptly slid forward and smacked against the bridge of Koja’s nose. The weight of the armor on his shoulders was crushing. Koja uncomfortably shifted in the saddle. He knew a warrior’s life was not for him.

Yamun rode to Koja’s side, unable to suppress a devilish grin at the priest’s comical appearance. “There’s going to be a battle—more than I planned. Shahin will need help in holding the cavalry long enough for the infantry to be caught in our trap,” the khahan explained. “You’re to ride with me, where the guards can protect you. Even so, you may have to fight.”

Koja pushed the helmet off his face. “I’m no warrior,” he protested. “It is against the teachings my temple to harm another. I cannot risk offending my god. Khahan, I cannot fight.”

“Then you can get your head smashed in. The enemy’s not going to be so fussy,” the warlord pointed out. “Here, take this.” He held out a heavy metal-studded club. “It doesn’t take much to use. Just don’t bash your horse in the head.” The scowling warlord grabbed Koja’s wrist and slipped the weapon’s thong over his hand. “Keep that on, so the mace doesn’t go flying the first time you swing it.”

The weight of the mace pulled Koja to one side. A hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back into the saddle. A sharp snicker came from behind him. Koja turned in time to see a dayguard laughing at him. There was something about the look of the man that disturbed him, something not quite correct. The man’s face didn’t seem quite human. Koja blinked and wondered if exhaustion and sunlight were playing tricks on his eyes. Noticing the priest’s stare, the dayguard quickly slipped behind a horse and disappeared from sight.

Mounted, Yamun’s soldiers sat as silently as they could, trying to catch the first sight of Shahin and his men. Warriors stood in their saddles, shading their eyes to break the glare from the sunny plain.

It was a sound that first warned of Shahin’s coming: the steady reverberation of galloping horses. Alerted, men strained to see their approaching companions. A plume of dust rose from the valley floor, driving fast in their direction. New sounds reached the army: garbled but piercing screams, resounding metallic rings, even an occasional shouted command.

“Up!” Yamun yelled to the standard-bearer. The nine-tailed banner rose over the gully. A ragged shout spontaneously erupted from the line as men urged their horses forward. The steeds scrambled up the bank, tearing at the soft dirt with their hooves.

“Hold!” shouted Yamun as the double line reached the edge of the trees, still hidden from sight. The standard-bearer waved the banner from side to side. The standards of the three tumens did the same. The lines drew up and came to a halt. Koja could hear the commanders of the jaguns shouting at their men to dress out their lines, evening out the ranks.

Koja swallowed what tasted like a mouthful of dust. He quickly recited sutras to Furo, trying to remember any that told of success in battle.

With growing speed the dust cloud whirled toward Yamun’s position. Shapes formed out of the murk, becoming wild horsemen who whipped furiously at their mounts. The distant drone of hooves grew to a deep, rolling thunder; the cries and shouts became more distinct. As the priest sat watching, Shahin Khan’s golden banner flew past. The riders continued down the valley, following the narrow angle of the dry wash. The dust of their passing roiled up and swept over Yamun’s men in the tree line, hiding them from sight.

“Excellent,” shouted Yamun over the fading din. “Shahin’s men kicked up enough dust to cover us. Keep the men back until the signal’s given.”

The drumming hooves and whoops of the riders gradually died away, though the dust still hung thick in the air. Koja wrapped a scarf over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. Around him he could hear men coughing and horses prancing with excitement.

The noise of Shahin’s men was replaced by sounds of the Khazari cavalry’s galloping pursuit. The dust clouds had barely opened up when another wave of riders burst out of the gloom. The pounding hooves, the jingling of metal, and the shouts were all the same, but the riders charging past were wearing the yellow and blue of Manass.

Koja nervously glanced down the line of warriors to his right, a line that faded into the haze. The mounted men were grim-faced, hands tight on their reins. They, too, watched the passing riders nervously, waiting for the khahan’s signal. The priest looked back to Yamun and saw him sitting, grave and impassive, only the slightest look of concern on his face. Koja pulled the scarf from his mouth and leaned sideways to ask the khahan a question.

Then, a different rumble, fainter and lower in pitch, added to the noise. It was the deep boom of war drums, rolling from the distance. Yamun suddenly sat straight and raised his hand to the signalmen beside him. “Bows and drums,” the khahan commanded.

The aide next to the khahan quickly took his own bow and nocked a strange arrow with a carved, bulbous head. Instead of aiming at the enemy, the man pointed the shaft upward, as if he were shooting at the clouds. The rank of signalmen prepared similar arrows.

At a slight nod from the khahan, the archers shot their arrows skyward. A chorus of howling shrieks pierced the din. Koja, startled, yanked on the reins of his horse, almost charging his mount into the chaotic fray. Sechen seized the bridle and held the horse in. “Whistling arrows,” the big guard shouted, nodding upward where the shafts still flew, mournfully wailing over the galloping riders.

The whistling signal electrified the waiting troops. Koja watched as each man eagerly pulled a bow from his case and, with precision, nocked one arrow while gripping a bundle of others in his hand.

The khahan dropped his hand. Another flight of whistling arrows flew, followed immediately by a loud twang, like a badly tuned instrument, as the ranks fired their bows. The shafts hissed through the air, stabbing into the gloom. From the plain came a ragged chorus of startled cries. Through small gaps in the swirling dust, Koja saw a field dotted with a few dead and wounded. Other horsemen milled in confusion, panicked, as they tried to find the source of the attack.

Before the enemy could recover, Yamun’s warriors shot again and again, sending their arrows into the slowly lifting murk. The cries of the wounded mixed with commands shouted in lilting Khazari that only Koja could understand. Officers were desperately trying to regain control of the confused mass. Men screamed of their injuries or called for their friends and horses. The dust began to settle, revealing a battlefield filled with confusion and fear.

“Now, before they recover, charge!” the khahan ordered. The nine-tailed banner waved forward, and the war drums were sounded. Down the line Koja could see the three banners of the tumens take up the signal. Three thousand men leaped from their positions.

Koja pulled back on his reins, holding his horse from the rush. The mare pranced and bucked, champing to join the tide that rushed outward. Even with Sechen holding the bit of Koja’s horse, it was hard to restrain the skittish steed.

Only after the ranks had swept past did Yamun move forward. Steadily, the khahan and those with him gained speed to keep up with the galloping warriors strung out in front of them. Soon they were abreast of the stragglers—lamed horses, fallen riders hurriedly remounting, and nags that couldn’t keep up. Koja clung to the pommel as he plunged forward, straight for the thin wavering line of enemy riders.

For Koja, the battle dissolved into a chaotic collection of scenes. There was no sense of order or place. It was not like the battles Koja had imagined: organized, proper, almost stately. Instead, the charge was like opening the doorway to the realm of Li Pei, the great judge of the underworld.