David Cook - Horselords

A cloud of confusion swirled in Koja's eyes, only in part from dizziness. "Why have you done this?" Remembering his manners, he rephrased the question. "Why has the khahan, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, come here to see to the health of this insignificant one? You have bestowed great favor on me."

Yamun scratched his neck, thinking of how to explain it. The reasons for his actions seemed obvious to Yamun, so he assumed that those same reasons were clear to everyone. "Why? You're a guest in my yurt. It wouldn't be good if you died while you were here. People would say my tents were plagued by evil spirits."

The khahan paused and smiled. "Besides, what would your prince think if I sent him a message saying 'Please send another priest, the first one died'? I don't think he would be pleased." Yamun picked up a pebble and rolled it between his fingers.

"And now," Yamun said softly, "I've saved your life." The warlord tossed the rock aside.

Koja was at a loss for words. "I am unable to repay you for this, Great Lord," he whispered at last. A shiver ran through his body. His chest felt tight and restricted.

Yamun smiled broadly, the scar on his lip giving it a leering quality. His eyes remained squinted and hard. "Envoy of the Khazari, I need a new scribe. The last one proved unreliable."

Koja gulped painfully. "Unreliable?"

"He forgot his loyalties."

Koja remembered the bloody head and Yamun's quick justice. "You mean—"

"He told me what others wanted me to hear," Yamun interrupted. "So, who do you serve?"

Koja hesitated in fear, then swallowed and answered. "Prince Ogandi of the Khazari, Great Lord." He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow.

"Hah! Good!" Yamun bellowed. "If you'd betray your proper lord to serve me, what kind of loyalty could I expect?" He slapped his thigh in satisfaction. "But now, you will do your prince service by serving me."

"Great Khan, I—"

Yamun cut off his protests. "Your prince ordered you to learn more about me and my people, didn't he?"

"Yes, but how did you know?" Fearful that his letters had been found, Koja struggled and finally managed to sit up.

"Because that's what I'd have you do. Now, as my scribe, you'll be very close to me and have the chance to learn many things, won't you?" Yamun scratched at his chest.

"Yes," Koja answered hesitantly.

"Good. It's decided." Yamun stood once again, rubbing the soreness out of his back. The khahan turned and looked toward the tents of Quaraband. "You've met the second empress. What do you think of her?"

"She is ... strong-willed," responded Koja, picking his words carefully.

Yamun snorted. "She tried to get something from you, I see. Remember, she will never give up, and she is powerful. Most of the wizards and shamans heed her words."

"I will remember."

"As my scribe," Yamun continued, still looking away, "she may seek your favor. Look over there." He turned and pointed across the small circle.

Koja looked where Yamun pointed and saw the bound prisoner. Up to now the man had been mostly silent, except for slight whimpers of pain. Koja was barely able to recognize him as the rider from his escort. Yamun raised his hand, signaling to his guard. Two men stepped from the ranks. Each carried a large, flat stone. Seeing them, the prisoner began to scream and beg for mercy. Impassive to his cries, the men set to work.

With a quick cut of the knife, the guards slashed the bindings that held one leg. One man quickly grabbed the victim's leg, twisting the ankle upward, while the other Kashik slid one stone underneath. The prisoner, still screaming, tried to kick free, but he was held fast. The second guard raised his stone high over his head.

"Stop them, Khahan!" Koja cried out as he realized the guard was about to smash the stone down. The effort it took to shout caused him to fall into a wracking fit of coughing.

"Hold!" Yamun commanded. The Kashik lowered the stone he held over his head.

"Why should they stop?" Yamun demanded of Koja once the coughing passed.

"This man has done nothing. You cannot blame him for my accident," Koja protested.

"Why not?" Yamun countered. "He failed to protect you. Therefore, he must be punished. At least he will live. His comrades were drowned."

His mind already weak from shock, Koja was amazed at Yamun's words. "It is not his fault that I was hurt. I will not have him harmed," the priest finally said with conviction. Exhausted, he fell back on the pallet.

Yamun sucked on his cheek as he listened to the priest. "Do you request his life?" the burly warlord asked.

"His life? Yes, I do," Koja answered as he lay on his back.

Yamun looked over to the prisoner. The man was watching them, his eyes filled with fear and expectation. "Very well, priest. According to custom, I give him to you; he's your slave. His name is Hodj. If he commits any crime you'll be punished. That too is our custom."

"I understand this," Koja assured Yamun, closing his eyes.

"Good. Now, as for Bayalun, she'll assume that you're loyal to me. She hates me," he said matter-of-factly, "and so she'll hate you. Always remember that I'm all that stands between her wrath and you." Yamun signaled the guards to release Hodj and then left to find his horse.

Koja watched the khahan ride off as the bearers came and hoisted his pallet onto their shoulders. All the way back to Quaraband the priest silently said his prayers, calling on Furo to protect him until he saw his home again.

3

Lightning

For four days, Koja lived in a special white yurt raised on the outskirts of Quaraband, just outside the boundary of the magic-dead lands. Here he stayed on his pallet, resting and regaining his strength. Once a day the shamans came and unfurled their white sheet and set out their offerings to Teylas. Beating their drums and howling out chants, they cast spells to heal and fortify him. Every day, after they left, Koja would sink into deep concentration, praying to Furo for strength and forgiveness. Though he told no one, the priest was mortified, fearful that Furo and the Enlightened One would shun him for having accepted the healing of another deity.

By the fourth day, the shamans were marveling at Koja's speedy recovery and priding themselves on the efficacy of their spells. To their minds, Teylas clearly favored them by accomplishing the healing of this foreign priest. The shamans told the khahan of this wondrous progress, explaining that the priest must somehow be special.

Four days also gave Koja time to learn his new servant's qualities. Although Hodj was a slave, Koja refused to treat him like one, and, instead, gave him the liberties and confidence of a trusted servant. Hodj responded to this and seemed to care for his new master. The first morning Hodj made tea in the Tuigan style—thick with milk and salt. Koja almost choked, and a tea-brewing lesson immediately followed. Thereafter, Hodj brewed tea Khazari-style—thick with butter—although he made an awful face as he set it out for his master.

While recovering; Koja had little to do with his days but listen. Hodj rarely spoke, but the shamans were another matter. Their lengthy conversations usually centered on beliefs, but ranged across a variety of subjects.

Soon, Koja had enough new information to add to his letters. He lit the oil lamp that sat on his small desk and unfolded a thin sheet of paper, the page softly crackling as he smoothed it out on the top of the desk. The white paper appeared straw yellow in the dim circle of light from the lamp. Taking up his brush, Koja began to write in tight, controlled strokes.

The khahan claims to command more than one hundred thousand men, in four different armies. I know too little to say if he is a boastful man. Three of his armies are led by his sons. The fourth commander is Chanar Ong Kho. He is a vain and proud man. There are also many lesser khans among the Tuigan. Most of these I have had no chance to meet.

The khahan has a wife, the Second Empress Eke Bayalun, his own stepmother. She surrounds herself with sorcerers and holy men, and seems to have sway over the shamans of the people. That she does not love her husband is clear, and her feelings may be even stronger. There is some chance that overtures to her would drive a wedge between the khahan and his wizards.

Having written everything he could, Koja was left with nothing to do but brood. In particular, he was worried how to get his letters to Prince Ogandi. In Semphar, trusted messengers carried them by the Silk Road to Khazari. Here, his only choice was the khahan's riders, and Koja certainly did not trust them with his messages. He wished he could send the letters safely back, but that was not possible. However, there was little Koja could do, since he had to stay until the khahan at least gave some answer to Ogandi's offer. Am I doing the right thing, he worried, in serving as Yamun's scribe in the meantime?

After four days of rest, Koja was fit enough to get about. He was still weak, but Yamun pressed him to return to the royal compound. The khahan needed his scribe. So, reluctantly, Koja returned to Quaraband and assumed his duties as the khahan's court scribe.

There was not much to these duties, mostly sitting quietly to the side during the khahan's audiences, noting any orders or proclamations Yamun made. It was quiet work, indeed so much so that Koja learned little more about the khahan than he already knew. Two weeks of that drudgery passed before anything of note happened.

It was very late at night, almost midnight, and the three men remaining in the royal yurt were almost exhausted. Yamun sat half-sprawled on his throne, drinking wine and resting. Koja, still only two weeks at his new duties, yawned as he patiently worked with a pile of papers. In the darkness at the side of the yurt was one of Yamun's nightguards. In his black kalat, the man almost disappeared into the gloom. He sat still, trying to remain bright and alert, knowing he would be beaten if he fell asleep.

His writing table pulled up in front of him, Koja sat transcribing the day's judgments and pronouncements. As he worked, the priest stopped to listen to the hammering roars of thunder and staccato pounding of rain against felt. The thunderstorm raging outside made him start each time a new crash shook the yurt. Such storms were the distant battles of the god Furo against the evil spirits of the earth—at least that was what he had been taught. Still, this storm, the first since Koja had arrived in Quaraband, was greater than any the priest had ever heard before.

All day the sky had been gray, promising a storm of swelling power. While the khans had watched the sky fearfully, the khahan had been edgy, waiting for the rain to come. In the early evening, the storm broke. Abruptly, Yamun dismissed the khans and the servants, sending them out into the downpour. Since then, Yamun had been sitting, drinking wine and occasionally issuing orders, but his tension had not subsided. By this hour, the khahan moved wearily and his temper was short.

Yamun swallowed a gulp of wine from a chased silver cup. "Write out this order, scribe," he said brusquely.

Koja neatly set aside the notes he had been working on and laid out a fresh sheet of paper. His vision was blurred by the long hours he worked. His tired fingers dropped the writing brush, splattering the drops of black ink over the clean white page.

"You'll have to be stronger than that, scribe," Yamun growled, irritated with the delay. "Make yourself tougher. You'll have days and nights with no sleep when we begin to march."

"March, Great Khan?" In two weeks of taking down proclamations, Koja had yet to hear any mention of the armies of the khahan going on campaign.