Horselords (31 page)

Bayalun cocked her head as Chanar spoke, watching him through gradually narrowing slits. “So, that’s it,” she said in a soft monotone, “your courage leaves you when your hand must hold the reins. You are willing to let me do your work. No wonder you’re such a fine general—ordering others to their deaths.”

Chanar reddened in anger and embarrassment, and his voice rose to a snarling hiss. “That’s not true! I’m braver than any man. You’re changing my words. It’s just that now I see you want me to be your assassin.”

“Foolish man. If I wanted a killer, I could find one who would not have doubts,” Bayalun said as she lightly dismissed his rage. She put her hand on his chest. “I do not want a killer; I come to you because I see that you are a leader. And I thought I saw a man, but you are afraid to even hear what I have to say.”

Chanar gritted his teeth, biting back the rage. “Yamun is my anda,” he spat.

Bayalun sprang upon his words like a hawk striking the trainer’s lure. Her jaw trembled as she circled round him. “Has he treated you like his anda?” she goaded. “Do you drink his kumiss? No, a little, bald foreigner does that for you. The priest sits at his councils, not you. His wet-nosed sons lead his Kashik in battle. Others mock you behind your back.”

Eyes flashing as the huntress in her closed for the kill, the widow pressed close to Chanar’s side and continued, whispering in his ear. “I’ve heard them, when the khahan sits with the other khans. I’ve heard them talk of you. Fool, evil dog, lazy mule—those are things they say. Then they laugh around the fire and drink more kumiss. Perhaps they are right. I offer you the throne of the Tuigan and you will not take it.”

“Bayalun, you have your reasons to see him gone! If not me, you’d turn to another for help,” Chanar accused.

“Of course I have my reasons, and I will turn to anyone who can help me,” came the unhesitating reply. There was no shame in the widow’s voice, only a bitter undertone of hatred. “I think of my son. I think of my husband—my true husband, not this murderer I was forced to marry. I have not forgotten them. I have the right,” she snapped. “And don’t you have your reasons? Yamun will lead us all to destruction, battering our armies against the Dragonwall of Shou Lung. Perhaps the priest suggested this as a way to destroy us all. So, what will you do?”

The second empress took a step backward as she waited for Chanar’s answer. He stood there quietly, his chest heaving, fingers slowly unknotting behind his back. The color that had drained from his face was gradually returning. The wind blew against the yurt, creaking the wickerwork sides. The door flap snapped against its wooden frame.

Chanar tilted his head back, looking toward the smoke hole. His lips moved, saying a silent prayer. Finally, he lowered his head and looked the confident Bayalun straight in the eyes, almost as if he were trying to fathom the depths of her dark nature.

She didn’t flinch from his gaze, but met it straight on. Defiant, self-assured, savage—these qualities Chanar saw within the glistening blackness of her eyes.

The general blinked, breaking away from her hypnotic gaze. He had made his decision. Carefully Chanar pulled his long, curved saber from its scabbard, letting the weak sunlight that came through the smoke hole play over the blade. With a defiant thrust he jammed it into the carpeting between them. Bayalun gently touched the blade with her staff.

“Tell me what I have to do,” he demanded grimly.

“For now, come with me,” Bayalun answered gently, the coldness melting away from her now that she had triumphed. Bayalun took Chanar’s hand and gently pulled him toward the back half of the tent. “There will be time for talk later.”

Koja stumbled through the gloom, exhausted. He had been sitting all day in negotiations with the diplomats of his old lord, Prince Ogandi. He could only see it that way now—Prince Ogandi was the man he once served, what seemed to be centuries ago. This meeting had confirmed Koja’s separation from his own people. He could vividly see the look of outrage and fury on the faces of the Khazari diplomats when he was presented as the khahan’s representative. His title certainly hadn’t helped the negotiations any.

The priest desperately wanted to go to bed and forget this awful day. Emotionally, it had been hideous, perhaps worse in its own way than the terror he had experienced on the battlefield. During the mad charge across the plain, excitement and fear had kept him detached and allowed him to witness the blood and suffering without any emotional response. He wasn’t even aware during the battle of how scared he was. That realization only came later. In the tent with the Khazari, however, Koja felt every excruciating second. Their hatred for him seemed much stronger expressed in Khazari. He understood every nuance and connotation of their words. There was little he could do at the time but suffer through it, while demanding their acceptance of the khahan’s terms.

Now, he had to tell Yamun the day’s results. Reaching Yamun’s yurt, the lama leaned against the doorframe while a servant announced him. It was not proper or decorous, but Koja didn’t care. He was tired.

The servant came back and ushered the lama in. The khahan was alone, enjoying a late dinner of boiled horsemeat and curd porridge, chomping noisily on the simple food. He looked up from his meal and nodded for Koja to take a seat. Finishing the mouthful, Yamun wiped his face on the silken sleeve of his robe, leaving a greasy swipe on the fine blue fabric. “Welcome, priest. Will you eat?”

Koja nodded, although he wasn’t hungry, especially not for the unappetizing dishes set out in front of him. One small advantage of being in Khazari was that he had found some proper food: roasted barley and vegetables. Still, not wanting to insult the khahan, he gingerly took a scrap of meat and a small bowl of the porridge. Chewing broadly, he made a great show of eating. Neither man spoke during the meal.

Finally, Yamun slurped down the last drops of the porridge and then wiped the bowl clean with his fingers. He set it aside and waited for the priest to finish. Koja wasted no time in pushing away his own meal, barely touched.

“They’ve accepted my terms for peace,” Yamun predicted, scratching at the stubble of his thin beard.

“Mostly,” corrected Koja. “They still have some reservations.”

Yamun looked carefully at the priest. “Such as?” he asked, a steely edge in his voice.

“Of course, they agree to surrender,” Koja hurriedly explained, to avoid provoking the khahan. “They are only ambassadors and will have to go back and present your terms to Prince Ogandi. However, they find them generally acceptable.”

“What are their problems?” Yamun demanded, cutting through Koja’s stalling. He gulped a ladleful of kumiss and waited for Koja to get to the point.

“They want to negotiate the amount of tribute—”

“Haggling?” Yamun shouted in astonishment. “I offer them peace or destruction, and they want to haggle about the price?”

“I’m sure it’s only a formality, Yamun,” Koja interrupted, speaking as quickly as he could.

The Illustrious Emperor of All People snorted in disgust. “You said there were problems, not just one.”

“The governor and his men are a problem, too. The ambassadors want to know if you intend to keep these men as hostages. The demand for the Shou envoys has them concerned.” Koja rubbed his temples, trying to make his rising headache go away.

“My intentions are clear. I’m going to kill them. It is this or total destruction. Didn’t you make this clear?” Yamun looked away in vexation.

“Naturally. I stressed it to them,” Koja assured the squat warlord. “They are confused.”

“Why’s that?” Yamun scratched his head, picking for a louse that had crawled out of his hat.

Koja discreetly chose not to notice the khahan’s preening. “Taking Khazari hostages they understand, but they don’t see why you want the men from Shou Lung. They are afraid this will make the Shou emperor angry with them.”

Yamun ignored the comment. He set aside his kumiss and asked, “Does this governor have any use as a hostage?”

The priest thought for a minute. “I think he is a cousin of the prince.”

“Good. What about the other man, the wizard who killed my men?”

Koja hesitated. He knew the man was no relation to Prince Ogandi, but if he revealed that, Yamun would certainly condemn the dong chang to death. That would make him, a priest of Furo, responsible for the murder. Still, if he lied, the khahan would learn the truth sooner or later and would kill the man anyway—and Koja would be in trouble.

“He is not related to anyone I know of, Yamun,” Koja finally replied.

“Then he must die. The jagun of the men executed in Manass will want vengeance,” explained the khahan. “It is known the wizard still lives. This is a great shame for their jagun, and it will be worse if he is allowed to escape. Therefore, the wizard will be turned over to them for punishment.”

Koja cringed. He knew that the men of the jagun would not just kill the dong chang, they would make the wizard’s death prolonged and agonizing. The only argument to save the wizard’s life Koja could think of was that it was wrong, but it wasn’t wrong to Yamun. For him, it was the correct thing to do.

“What of the governor?” the lama asked weakly. “Can I promise the Khazari that he will live?”

“Only if they also turn over the wizard and the men of Shou,” Yamun stressed. “I’ll keep the prince’s cousin as hostage, but the others will die.”

Koja pondered the offer, judging whether the Khazari would be likely to accept it. It was clear from the meetings today that the Khazari were frightened by the power and savagery of the khahan’s men.

“I think they will accept that,” the priest decided sadly. He felt unclean. He had managed to save the life of one man, but only at the cost of the other three.

Yamun suddenly yawned. “I am tired now, Koja, and so are you. It is time to rest. Go now.” With a nod, he dismissed the priest.

The audience over, Koja returned to his yurt and quickly went to bed. Already tired, Yamun’s yawn had seemed to drain him of his last energy reserves. Ignoring the cold meal Hodj had laid out, Koja went straight to bed.

At first, exhausted though he was, the priest could not sleep. He kept thinking of the day’s events, particularly the wizard’s fate. Koja felt responsible for Yamun’s decision. Fretting and guilt-ridden, he fell into an uneasy slumber.

A noise penetrated the gray fog enclosing the priest. It was the grinding clink of stone against stone. He was outside, still dressed in his sleeping robes. The wind was blowing, but he did not feel the cold.

Looking around, Koja could see that it was still night, somewhere on a grassy plain—or what remained of it. The ground was a jumble of cracks and upheaved earth. Bodies of warriors and horses lay half-buried, half-crushed under the churned ground. Some were Tuigan bodies, clearly identified by the war banners flapping spectrally in the wind. Mingled among the troopers were the bodies of other warriors, dressed in antique armors. Koja could recognize only a few. A man here wore the garb of a Kalmyr chieftain, like one the priest had seen on an ancient scroll. Another wore the outlandish armor of a Susen warrior, easily identified by the flaring earpieces on the battered helm. The bodies encased by the armors were dried husks, their mummified skin stretched tight over the bone.

The odd noise came from up ahead. Koja clambered over the mounds of dirt, past the skeletal warriors and broken lances. Reaching the top of the largest mound, he could see a dark shape, a wall of immense size. To the left and right, it stretched beyond his vision. It stood higher than the five-storied palace of Prince Ogandi in Skardu. At the top was a line of battlements, jutting upward like broken teeth. The hammering sound came from its base.

As he drew closer, Koja saw a line of men, futilely battering the wall’s foundation with mauls. Like the dead of the broken land behind Koja, these men were dressed in a weird assortment of ancient clothes. There were soldiers from Kalmyr, Susen, Pazruki, and men from lands he could not identify from their garb.

Each man swung his maul at a single spot, a single stone, oblivious to those around him. The ground reverberated with their blows, but no swing left any mark on the fortification.

Fascinated, Koja walked down the line, invisible to the toilers. He passed by a Kalmyri, then stopped to study the man. It was Hun-kho, the great war chief of Kalmyr. Centuries ago, Hun-kho had driven the Shou out of the wasteland, back behind the Dragonwall, only to be stopped by the Shou construction. Koja recognized him from the history texts in the temple.

The dead warlord continued his monotonous task. Koja resumed his walk. Farther on was the infamous T’oyghla of the Susen, a conqueror in his own right. He, too, never faltered from his work on the wall.

Finally, Koja saw an end to the line and a lone, robed figure, apart from the others. This man held a hammer, but did not swing it at the Dragonwall. Compelled by curiosity, the lama ran forward. When he reached the man, Koja put a hand on the mason’s shoulder. The figure turned, revealing the face of his old master, horribly shriveled and gaunt. Smiling, the master handed Koja the hammer.

“This is the wall you have chosen. Break it and be free,” the old man intoned. Seizing the sledge, Koja watched as the old master faded before his eyes. Suddenly he was alone with a line of warlords.

Automatically, Koja swung the maul. The stone splintered, splitting the smooth surface of the wall. Koja looked at the crack. Something glittered and slid inside it. He swung again and the crack widened. A shape softly ground against the ragged edges of the stone. The line of warlords stopped, turning in dumb astonishment. The lama peered into the crack. Something moved inside the Dragonwall, something huge and scaled.

“Free me,” it whispered, the tones musically floating out through the hole. “Free me, Koja of Khazari.”

Koja swung the maul. A painful shock ran through his hands as the sledge hit stone. Chips flew, but the crack was no larger. He swung again and again, jolting with each blow. The priest’s breath came in ragged pants. His sweaty hands grasped the maul’s handle, trying to keep it from slipping away. He pounded frantically, desperate to widen the crack.