Horselords e-1 Page 12

  Koja nodded.

  That night, the lama returned to his own campfire. Hodj was already asleep. The nightguards sat at a small fire a little way off from Koja's. The lama dug into his bags, finally pulling out the small packet of letters he had written. He opened them and surveyed the sheets he had prepared for Prince Ogandi. Each page was covered with fine brushstrokes, column upon column of neatly arranged characters. The sheets represented hours of work in his tent, hours inking out pages of crabbed text. They were supposed to have been the sum and goal of his existence, at least while among the Tuigan.

  "The prince might find these useful," he said to himself. He looked over the yellow sheets of rice paper.

  "Or he may already know everything I've written," he countered. "In any case, he will know the intentions of the khahan soon enough."

  Koja stared at the pages. Yamun had treated him well, showing him kindnesses and trust far beyond what his position warranted. If he sent the letters, which might not even be useful, he would betray that trust. Koja sighed and paged through the letters again. If he didn't send the letters, would it matter to the prince anyway?

  "Yamun Khahan, you are wrong," Koja said clearly, as if there was anyone to hear. "I am a very bad diplomat." He touched a corner of the top sheet to the coals of the camp-fire in front of him. The flame eagerly devoured the flimsy paper. One by one he burned the sheets, watching their ashes rise into the night sky.

  In the morning, the letters were only a few crumbled wisps of ash. As Koja rolled awake, Hodj stirred the last of the ashes into the fire. Soon, the servant poured out cups of tea, one thick with milk and salt for himself and the other with butter and sugar for Koja. Apart from the tea, however, this morning's breakfast was different. Instead of boiling a porridge of millet and mare's milk or reheating last night's dinner, the servant spooned globs of a white paste into a leather bag. He filled the sack with water and sealed it tightly, then he hung one bag from the saddle of each horse. Next he took several strips of dried meat and slid them between the saddle and the blanket.

  "Later we eat," Hodj answered, patting the saddle. "Dried meat and mare's curd. See, the meat softens under the saddle, and the horse's bouncing will mix the curd for you." The servant proudly showed Koja how it was done. "And I made tea, master." Hodj held up another bag.

  After tea, Koja once again took to the saddle. Although the pace this day was no slower than yesterday's, perhaps even faster, it seemed less frenzied and chaotic. The scouts resumed their patrols. Operations began to function without the khahan's hand guiding every detail.

  By midafternoon, Koja found himself riding with the khahan, undisturbed by messengers and commanders.

  "Khahan, I am wondering," Koja began, his curiosity coming to the fore once again. "We are well beyond the deadlands of Quaraband. Why then do you ride and rely on scouts when simple magics could make everything much easier?"

  "Priest," Yamun answered, "count my army. How many could I move by simple magic? An arban? A jagun? Even a minghan? What would they do? Hold off the enemy until more arrived? We ride because there are so many of us."

  "But surely the scouting could be done by spells," Koja suggested.

  "You've got some sight?" Yamun asked. He reined back his horse to a slower pace, a concession to the saddle-sore priest.

  "A little, yes." As they slowed, riders began to pass them, churning up dust. Koja's eyes smarted as the air grew cloudy.

  "Then tell me what's ahead, beyond my eyesight."

  "Where?" Koja asked, peering through the haze thrown up by the army.

  "Ahead, priest-the way we're going." Yamun smirked, pointing with his knout.

  "But there's so much ahead of us. If you told me what I should look for-"

  Yamun broke into laughter. "If I knew what was there, I wouldn't need your sight!"

  Koja clapped his mouth shut. Embarrassed, he rubbed his head, keeping his eyes lowered.

  "See, priest," Yamun explained, still laughing at Koja's embarrassment. "That's why I use men and riders. I send them out with orders to look and see. They'll ride back and tell me what they have found. I learn more from soldiers than I ever will from wizards and priests."

  Koja nodded, pondering the lesson's wisdom.

  "Besides," Yamun concluded more darkly, "I'd have to rely on Mother Bayalun for magic."

  There was a silence between the two men, although the world around them was hardly quiet. A constant chorus of shouts, song, snorting whinnies, and the steady, droning thunder of horse hooves filled the air.

  "Why?" Koja finally asked, unwilling to phrase his question completely.

  "Why what?" Yamun asked without turning.

  "Why does Mother Bayalun … hate you?"

  "Ah, you noticed that," Yamun reflected. He snapped his mare's reins, urging the horse to go a little faster. Koja had little choice but to follow pace. The ride became rougher.

  "I killed her husband," Yamun said in even tones when Koja had caught up with him once again.

  "You killed your own father!" the lama gasped in astonishment. He fumbled with his reins, trying not to drop his knout.

  "Yes." There was no sign of remorse in the khahan's voice.

  "Why? There must be a reason."

  "I was meant to become the khahan. What other reason is there?"

  Koja dared not speculate aloud.

  "Bayalun was the first wife of my father, the yeke-noyan. Her son was to become the khan. I was older, but my mother was Borte, the second wife. In my sixteenth summer, the prince was twelve and he died. He fell from a horse while we were out hunting."

  Yamun stopped as a messenger from the scouts rode toward him. Yamun waved the man on to Goyuk.

  "You see, I was destined to be the khahan, even then. Mother Bayalun, though, she accused me of killing the prince." Yamun turned in his saddle to talk to the priest.

  "Did y-" Koja stopped himself, realizing the question he was about to ask was hardly diplomatic.

  Yamun eyed the lama sharply, his gaze stabbing like ice.

  "She used her seers to convince the yeke-noyan I did. Even when the Hoekun were a small people, she had great power with the wizards." Yamun paused and scowled.

  "Anyway, my father turned against me. I escaped from his ordu, taking only my horse and weapons. I went to Chanar's father-Taidju Khan-and he took me in and fed me. He treated me like a son."

  "That's when you and Chanar became anda?" Koja ventured.

  "No, that was later. Chanar didn't like me then. He was afraid his father loved me more. He was right." Yamun stopped talking and spat out a mouthful of dust. Unfastening a golden flask that hung on his saddle, he swallowed a mouthful of mare's milk.

  Koja realized that his own mouth was thick and dry. Still, he didn't care to try the milk brew Hodj had prepared, and the tea was all gone. Taking the long cowl of his robe, he wrapped it over his mouth and nose, screening out some of the thick dust.

  "Taidju swore to help and gave me warriors from his own people. We went back to the tents of my father. One day he was riding with some of his men and I found him. He wouldn't listen to me, so we fought. I couldn't shed his blood."

  "Why not?" Koja's voice was muffled.

  "The yeke-noyan was royal blood. Shedding his blood would be a bad omen," Yamun explained as if he was talking to a child.

  "What happened?" Koja scratched at the top of his head, paying close attention to the words.

  "I seized my father as he galloped by, and we fell to the ground and wrestled. I had to break his neck so I wouldn't spill his blood. After he was dead, I went to the Hoekun ordu with Taidju's people and declared myself the khan." Yamun unconsciously mimed the actions as he spoke.

  "If Mother Bayalun created all the trouble, why did you marry her?" Koja asked. His horse became restless, so he gripped the reins tighter.

  "Politics. Custom. She was powerful." Yamun shrugged his shoulders. "Mother Bayalun has the respect of the wizards and shamans. Through her they are prot
ected. I could not have her turning them against me. Besides, she realized that I was meant to be khahan."

  "So why does she stay in your ordu?"

  Exasperated, Yamun snapped, "Why, why, why. You ask too many questions. Which snake is better, the one in your talons or the one in the grass?" With that, the warlord wheeled his horse toward Goyuk and called out, "What've the scouts seen?"

  Koja rode the rest of the day without seeing the khahan. He worried that he had offended Yamun, so he tried to occupy his mind by watching the surroundings. The land was slowly changing. The gently broken steppe was giving way to steeper, harsher hills. Small gorges cut through the dry and rocky ground. Outcroppings of sandstone jutted through the surface in heavily eroded heaps. Snow drifted into the hollows. There were fewer patches of grass and more scrubby brush, but it was probably only the result of twenty thousand horses passing through the countryside.

  That night, the army divided into a number of smaller camps. Koja left Hodj to set out the rugs for another night under the stars. The priest walked toward Yamun's oxcart, brushing the dust from his clothes.

  "Greetings, Khahan," the priest hesitantly called to Yamun. Sweat-caked dust clung to the ruler's silken clothes. Grime coated his face. Yamun unceremoniously scooped a ladle of kumiss from a leather bucket and guzzled it down.

  "Food!" he ordered, wiping the kumiss from his mustache with his sleeve. He scooped up another ladle of the drink. "You don't sleep, priest?"

  "No, Lord Yamun," Koja said softly. "I waited to speak with you."

  "Then get on with it," Yamun said gruffly. "I want to sleep." He filled the ladle once more.

  "I ask to be your envoy to the prince of Khazari." He spoke in a quick monotone, trying to keep himself from panicking.

  "Eh?" Yamun stopped in midswallow, looking sharply at Koja over the top of the ladle.

  The priest straightened his robes and stood up a little straighten "I want to be your envoy to the Khazari."

  "You? You are Khazari," he sputtered in surprise.

  "Khahan, I know it is unusual," Koja hurriedly continued, shifting uneasily on his toes. "But I know my people, and I have learned much about the Tuigan. I am sure I can make them-"

  "Yes, yes, that's fine," Yamun said. "Still, these are your people. How do I know you won't betray me?"

  "I owe you a life," Koja answered simply.

  "What is the truth?" The khahan probed. "Not your rationale-the truth."

  Koja sucked in his breath. "Because I want to save Khazari," he blurted. "If you conquer, what will you do with the country? You have not made plans. You know how to conquer, but can you rule?" Koja clamped his jaws tight, waiting for Yamun's outburst.

  The khahan slowly returned the ladle to its bag. He paused by the kumiss sack, staring past Koja. Finally, he slapped his knout against the leather bag.

  "I'll think about it," he announced at last, his voice cold and unfriendly. "Now I am going to sleep. We ride early in the morning."

  "By your word, it shall be done," Koja said with a trembling voice as he made a low bow. The khahan had already turned away, his heavy coat flapping around his bowed legs.

  The next day's ride was uneventful, even tedious for the priest. It seemed like a constant battle against minor irritations-biting flies, hunger, and thirst. Dust, churned up by thousands of horses, settled into everything. To Koja it seemed that his robes crackled with the stuff. Dust coated his scalp, which now bristled and itched with a stubby growth of hair; it caked on his eyelids and lined his throat. The hot afternoon sun raised tiny drops of sweat that ran like mud down his arms. All afternoon his horse thudded along in a monotonous, pounding rhythm.

  With the evening came a welcome relief from the jolting, bone-breaking ride. Koja gladly turned his horse, a gray and yellow pony with an unmanageable urge to bite, over to Hodj for the night. The lama had taken to calling the horse Cham Loc, after an evil spirit who fought the mighty Furo. Relieved of his mount, the priest decided to walk out the cramps in his muscles.

  The army had camped in a bowl-shaped depression, where several streams flowed in together. Koja climbed to the top of a small sandstone promontory on the edge of a steep hill. His guards scrambled along behind him.

  On the overlook, the lama sat watching the sunset, a brilliant band of red-orange topped by a sapphire-blue sky. Koja was reminded of another time, when, as a child, he sat at the edge of a towering cliff and watched the long shadows of the mountains fill his valley below.

  From his vantage, Koja could see the entire campsite spread out before him. The fires clustered into small knots spaced almost evenly across the floor. In between them were occasional clumps of moving darkness, only a small part of the thousands of horses set out to graze for the night.

  "Each fire is a jagun," explained one of the guards, pointing toward the shimmering lights.

  Koja looked out over the plain with a greater appreciation for the size of the army. He guessed there were a thousand, perhaps several thousand fires dotting the entire valley floor. Absentmindedly he began counting the lights of the jaguns.

  "We must go now," interrupted one of his guards, "before it gets too dark."

  The sun had slid almost out of sight. It cast so little light that Koja could barely see his black-robed guards.

  The priest climbed down from the rock, heeding the suggestion. Quietly, he made for the fires of Yamun's camp. The guards hurried after him, carefully staying as close as was their duty but no closer. As they approached Yamun's fire, the guards stopped as they always did. Koja went the rest of the way alone.

  Tonight, there was a small group around Yamun's fire, just the khahan and a few of the noyans. A kaychi, a singer of stories, was sitting cross-legged near the fire. He was a young man, smooth-faced with rounded features and a carefully groomed mustache and goatee. Across his lap lay a small two-stringed violin, his khuur.

  "Are you at peace?" asked Yamun when Koja was within easy speaking distance. It was a standard greeting that needed no answer. "Sit."

  Koja took the seat offered him and accepted a cup of wine a quiverbearer poured. The storyteller struck the first note on his instrument and then put his bow to it, beginning his tale. He sawed at his khuur madly as he sang. His voice leaped from high, quavering notes to hoarse growlings.

  In a moment between the kaychi's songs, Koja turned to Yamun. "Khahan, although I spoke rashly yesterday, I ask you to consider my request." The priest spoke softly, so only the khahan could hear.

  Yamun grunted. "In time, priest, in time. I need to think about it. You'll know in time." The khahan pointed to the kaychi, commanding the man to wait.

  The singer set aside his instrument. Yamun stood and raised his kumiss ladle to the other khans. "Our friendship has been raised."

  The khans around the fire raised their ladles and repeated the toast. That finished, they got to their feet, stopping long enough to kneel to the khahan.

  Koja rose and, after a moment's hesitation, knelt too. Before the khahan could call him back, he hurried away. Returning to his own camp, Koja crawled into the rugs and furs Hodj had laid out. Within seconds of lying down, the priest was sound asleep.

  When he opened his eyes, Koja was once again on the hilltop overlooking the valley, watching the sun set over the army. The colors were splendid, more intense than he had ever seen them before. The troops formed a black, seething mass, arching and humping over the ground. The men fused and joined into a single being, a freakish thousand-legged centipede, then a dragon that coiled around and bit at itself. The fires flared up, becoming the pinpoints of its eyes. Soundlessly, it writhed and shuddered toward him. Arms, hands, and horses' heads heaved out of the mass and fell back. Koja looked down at his hands, held out in front of him. They were covered with huge droplets of sweat. He suddenly felt fear, a fear that locked every joint in his body.

  "It is good to see you, clever Koja," said an emotionless voice behind him. The fear was suddenly gone, and the priest automatically tur
ned toward the speaker. His guards stood at the base of the rock, upright and unmoving. Beyond them, standing on the slope, was his old master. Wrinkles lined the high lama's eyes but his face was bright and clear, not ravaged by age. He was dressed in the formal vestments used on the festival days-yellow, flowing robes with a red sash over one shoulder, a white pointed cone with flaring earpieces for a hat.

  "It has been some time since I saw you, Koja," the old man said. "Greetings."

  "Why, master-"

  "Quiet, Koja," the old master said softly, cutting the younger man off. "Soon you must face the walls you have built, walls stronger than stone. There are secrets in walls, buried deep beneath them. Learn the secrets of your walls."

  Koja came forward to grasp his teacher's hand, but the distance between them never closed. The young priest opened his mouth to speak, but the older lama droned on in a curious monotone, now suddenly a voice not his own.

  "Your lord is called by one more powerful than he. This spirit that calls him seeks aid. Before you can do your part, your lord will fear you are against him. Be ready to prove yourself." The figure turned to go.

  "What? Which lord? Who? Which lord? Wait! Do not leave! Tell me what I should do!" Koja shouted toward the fading figure.

  The old lama didn't answer. He only disappeared into the distance of the steppe. Just as quickly as Koja's old master came, he was gone. "The one who calls waits behind you." The master's voice came drifting out of the darkness.

  Koja sat alone, staring into the ebbing light. Behind him, he could sense the creature, clawing and scrabbling its way up the hill. Its grasping hands were getting nearer, reaching for him. He wanted to turn but knew he couldn't. The fear that locked his joints had returned.

  The thing had reached the top of the rock. Koja could not hear it or see it, but it was there, reaching for him. Sweat poured down his face, dripped off his fingers. Something cold and reptilian lightly brushed his shoulder.

  Koja jerked awake and sat bolt upright. Hodj leaped back, terrified at the effect his simple touch had had on his master. The priest was wild-eyed and panting, his robes soaked in sweat.