David Cook - Horselords

"The khahan lives. The creature you sent failed." Although the assassination attempt had been a near disaster, she relished telling the Shou minister of state the news. The image's eyes widened in surprise, then quickly became blank.

"Is it alive or dead?" His words were quick and clipped.

"Dead."

"Do they suspect?"

"Me?" Eke Bayalun asked, knowing full well that was not what the mandarin meant. He couldn't care less about her troubles. "Of course they suspect."

The vaporous brows furrowed. "By that you mean your khahan suspects Shou Lung."

"He does not just suspect," Bayalun gloated. "He blames the emperor of the Jade Throne himself. Your little assassin was too obvious and easy to identify—once he was dead. A priest of the Khazari knew quite a bit about your hu hsien."

"A Khazari priest?" the image ruminated, the words echoing around the small yurt. "Who—"

"An envoy of Prince Ogandi. But that does not matter." Bayalun knew perfectly well the mandarin was eager to know more. She relished goading the Shou bureaucrat with these petty secrets. It kept him off-balance.

"Know this," she continued before the mandarin could protest or probe further. "The khahan blames your Son of Heaven and is marching with his army to conquer all of Shou."

The face smiled, parts of its cheeks drifting away. The smoky shape was slowly becoming smaller, leaner. "He is more foolish than we thought. We will easily brush him away like a small insect. He cannot break the Dragonwall." The trace of panic and puzzlement that had been in the voice was gone, replaced by confidence.

"Perhaps," countered Bayalun. "By the time he reaches the Dragonwall, he will have two hundred thousand warriors."

The cloud snorted a puff of smoke in contempt.

"He might also have magical aid," Mother Bayalun stated slowly. She deliberately picked up the fan and gently waved it to cool her face. The image wavered and spread, pushed back by the gentle breeze.

A smoky eyebrow raised. "Unless?" it hissed, picking up the beat of her words.

"I have kept you too long from your duties," the crafty woman said. "Perhaps you should return to your emperor."

The face barely repressed a grimace of frustration. "Perhaps I should have the Gorath come speak with you!" Bayalun blanched slightly at the mention of the Gorath, a creature of great power rumored to be the emperor's personal assassin. The smoke of the mandarin's face swirled and distorted, breaking up in several different directions.

"Threaten me, Ju-Hai Chou, and I will end this alliance in blood!" Bayalun spat.

"Threaten us," the mandarin answered in a cooler, but no more friendly tone, "and we will expose you. There will always be another willing to aid us." The image restored itself to form and glared down from the top of the tent. Bayalun matched stare for stare, stiffly getting to her feet so she didn't have to look so far upward. One hand still clutched the fan.

"Then we must work together," she finally said. Although a powerful sorceress, Bayalun knew that the mandarin's threat was real, just as he knew her threat was no idle boast.

"Indeed," agreed the voice. "What is it you now seek?"

"Your feeble assassin is what brought us to this disaster. Now, you must be ready to give more. Yamun's throne you have already promised—but now he goes to war with you. You'll have to buy your peace. First, you'll have to pay a tribute to get the khans to go home."

"A bribe, you mean."

"Call it what you will."

"And how do we get rid of your troublesome son?" the face asked. Bayalun's magic was fading; the back of the smoke-formed head was trailing off into a cloud of winding tendrils. Suddenly form's eyes rolled back again as the mandarin's concentration weakened.

Bayalun spoke quickly, before she lost contact entirely. "The khahan marches toward the Dragonwall. There you will have to destroy him and his bodyguards. I cannot do this now. They are too suspicious of me. It must be done by the armies of Shou Lung. You can trap and destroy him with my aid. There are those in his army who will help us."

"A trap ..." the mandarin's voice echoed, the face completely gone from sight. "... meet again . . . Xanghi River." The spell was broken. The vapor swirled out through the yurt's smoke hole.

Vexed by her conversation, Bayalun waited until all the trailing wisps faded away. The heavy scent of incense still hung in the air. Satisfied that all traces of her work had dissipated, Bayalun gathered up her pouch of incense and set the brazier back in its proper spot. Shuffling slowly to the door, for these days she moved stiffer when no one was around, she undid the ties and pulled the flap back. Thrusting her head out into the afternoon sun, she startled the guards, who were standing at ease on either side of the door.

"Send a runner for General Chanar. Tell him the khadun would be most honored if he would attend her." She coughed a bit and realized how raspy her voice was from the smoke-filled tent.

While one guard went off to see that her orders were carried out, Bayalun had the other bring out one of the small chests so she could sit in the sun. Settling in comfortably, she planted her staff between her feet and wrapped her hands around its gnarled wooden shaft. The sunshine cut through the cool spring air and heated her tired, aching body. In a short time, she closed her eyes and relaxed.

To passersby who might not know better, Bayalun was just another matron, dozing in the warm afternoon sun. But she was not asleep. A corner of her mind was still alert and attentive, listening to the outside world. But the rest of her mind wandered, thinking back to other times, more youthful days among her mother's people, the Maraloi.

A series of footfalls brought Bayalun out of her dark reverie. She stretched her neck, struggling to clear her head. Opening her eyes, she saw Chanar waiting impatiently for her word.

"I have come to do you honor," he said pompously. He did not kneel to the khadun, but stood waiting for her to acknowledge his presence.

Bayalun looked up at him over the golden finial of her staff. The general's arrogance was almost palpable, but he still cut a handsome figure. His braids were long and full, and his mustache carefully trimmed. Dressed in armor, he looked the powerful warrior that he truly was, one of the seven valiant men. "Help me up," she said, although it sounded more like a command. Chanar easily hoisted Bayalun to her feet.

The general followed her into the yurt and reached for her waist as soon as the flap closed. Gently she slid out of his grasp and blocked him with her staff. "Do you still have the desire—" Chanar's eyes gleamed lustfully. "To take the power that should be yours?" the khadun concluded.

He stopped where he was, somewhat taken aback by her question. "To become khahan, you mean?"

"Of course." Her light smile mocked him. "What else?"

Chanar turned away, hands clasped behind his back, arrogance and desire rising up to face what remained of his loyalty. "Before—when we spoke—it was 'Who could save the empire if the khahan died?' You spoke of things that could happen, might happen, even hinted that you saw something with your arts. I believed you." Chanar turned back toward her, his face graven with a look of betrayal.

"But then, the khahan shows this ... thing that attacked him. I knew you weren't speculating then. You did that. You sent a beast, not even man! Not even Yamun should die like that. You wanted to kill Yamun, but you failed. And now you want to try again—and drag me into it."

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.