Horselords

by David Cook

  “If Teylas wanted life to be easy he wouldn’t have given us the steppe for a home. And he would have given me an easier people to rule,” commented Yamun as he finished off another goblet of wine. “Enough of this. Was the council impressed when General Chanar told them my demands? Will they pay a tax for the caravans? Do they recognize me as ruler of the whole world?”

  Koja thought carefully about the answer. “They were outraged by your … boldness, Lord Khahan. Many of them took exception to your claims. As the king of Cormyr pointed out, ‘You do not rule the entire world.’ ” Koja heard a soft, irritated snort from Chanar.

  The khahan slowly stood, stretching his legs. He was not a tall man, but was still imposing. His chest was broad and his neck was thick with corded muscles. He slowly walked with a bowlegged swagger toward the door of the tent. All the while he kept his eyes on the seated priest, the same way a desert cat watches its prey. “Cor-meer? I’ve never heard of such a place.”

  Koja, still seated on the woolen rugs that covered the floor, scuttled around to keep facing the khahan. Although the evening was chill, the lama was sweating in the stuffy tent. His orange robes were damp and clammy. Slightly frosty breezes slipped in through the minute gaps in the felt walls of the yurt.

  “Is it far?” quizzed Yamun, tugging at his mustache.

  “Great Lord?” asked Koja, confused by the sudden shift of the conversation.

  “This place, Cor-meer—is it far away?”

  “I don’t know. It is a land far to the west, even far from Semphar. I have never been there.”

  “But this king, he talks bravely. What is he like?”

  “The king is named Azoun. He is a strange-looking man, with pale skin and thick hair on his face—”

  “Pah! I asked what he is like, not what he looks like,” the khahan snapped.

  “He was a … king, Khahan,” Koja said, unable to think of a better word. “He was bold and seemed brave. The others listened to him and seemed to respect his words.”

  “He sounds like a man to meet. I will go to Cor-meer someday, and then we will see how brave Azoun is,” Yamun decided, slapping his thigh. “So this king was not impressed. My words were not enough.”

  Koja tried to slowly and calmly explain what had happened at the council, at least the way he saw it. “The leaders came to the council to talk. They did not bring armies, only their wizards, priests, and guards. They were … not pleased, upset. After all, there was a huge army of Tuigan soldiers camped outside the city. Soldiers make very poor diplomats.”

  “Diplomats! Old men from tents that have no warriors—those are diplomats. Your diplomats meet because they are worried about their caravans.” Yamun tapped one of the center posts of the yurt. “You think I didn’t hear these things, envoy. Your khans and emperors thought they could fix everything without me, but I rule this land. I rule all the tribes of the land, and nothing is decided without my word,” declared Yamun. “So I sent my own envoys—warriors with fat horses and bundles of arrows.”

  “With all due respect, Khahan, all the ambassadors saw was a great army of men and a brazen general,” Koja replied, respectfully bowing his head to the floor. There was a sharp hissing of breath and a muttered curse from General Chanar. Koja bit his lip as he realized he’d just slighted the warlord.

  “A brazen general?” Yamun said softly as he turned away from Koja, twisting his mustache between his fingers. “What do you mean ‘brazen?’ ”

  “General Chanar is a warrior,” Koja answered carefully, hoping that would be sufficient. The khahan tilted his head and waited for more. Nervous, Koja rubbed his neck. “Well, those at the council expected soft words. General Chanar was … insulting.”

  “These are lies, my khahan,” Prince Chanar asserted as he shifted in his seat. “This foreigner has insulted me.”

  Chanar’s hand slid to the hilt of his saber. Glowering, he stood and stepped toward Koja. “I say you’re a liar and you will pay.” There was a scraping sound as he started to draw his sword from its scabbard.

  “Chanar Ong Kho, sit down,” rumbled Yamun, his calm voice carrying easily over the general’s mumbled threats. There was a quality of iron in the deeply resonant words. “Will you dishonor my tent with bloodshed? Stay your sword. This priest is my guest.”

  “He has insulted me!” Chanar insisted. “Didn’t I say the council trembled in fear? That they were awed by our might? Is a foreigner allowed to mock me in your yurt?” Sword half-drawn, he turned to face Yamun. Chanar’s body was tense, his back arched, his arms stiff.

  Yamun strode directly up to Chanar, unflinching in the steady gaze of the general. Looking up into Chanar’s eyes, he spoke slowly and softly, but with a hard edge. “Chanar, you are my anda, my blood-friend. We’ve fought together. There is no one I trust more than you. I have never doubted your word, but this is my tent and he is my guest. Now, sit and think no more of this.” Yamun closed his hand over Chanar’s on the sword hilt.

  “Yamun, I petition you. He’s lied about me. I will not let him stain my honor. I will not have this.” Chanar tried to pull his hand free, but Yamun’s grip kept it in place.

  “General Chanar, you will sit down!” the khahan replied. His voice thundered as he spit out the words in tightly clipped fury. “I listen to this man,” he said, flinging his finger toward Koja, “but do I believe? Perhaps I should if he angers you so.”

  Chanar trembled, caught between rage and loyalty. Finally, he slid the blade back into its scabbard and silently strode back to his seat. There he sat, staring darkly at the priest. All through the exchange, Koja stayed quiet, a slight shiver of nervousness and fear running through him. He marveled at the liberties the general had taken in the presence of his lord.

  Yamun casually returned to his cushions and waved for another cup of wine. “Chanar is my anda. It is a special friendship, like brothers to each other. Because he is my anda, Chanar Ong Kho has the right to speak freely before me.” Yamun paused to look closely at Koja. “You, however, are not my anda. It would be wise for you to remember this when you speak. The Tuigan do not take insults lightly. I should have you whipped for your words, but you are my guest so this time I only warn you,” the khahan calmly informed the surprised lama. Chanar’s black looks softened.

  “I plead for forgiveness for offending the valiant Chanar Ong Kho. I can see that he is a brave warrior,” Koja said, bowing to the general. Chanar coolly acknowledged the apology.

  Yamun drew a small knife from a scabbard that hung at his belt and held it between himself and Chanar. “Brother Chanar, this priest does not understand our bond. This, Koja of Khazari, is what it means to be anda.” Yamun drew the knife across his hand, making a small gash in the palm. As the blood started to well out of the cut, he handed the knife over to Chanar.

  Chanar took the knife, turning it back and forth so the light sparked off the blade. Without saying a thing, the general pulled the tip of the blade across his hand. He bit down on his lip at the sudden pain.

  As the first drops trickled out of the wound, Yamun pressed his bleeding hand to Chanar’s, clasping it tight. Blood seeped from between their fingers, splattering in droplets on the rugs. The two men locked eyes: the khahan confident, the general smiling through the sting.

  “See, priest, we are anda,” Yamun said. The khahan still showed no sign of pain. He squeezed Chanar’s hand even harder, drawing a faint wince from the general. They gripped hands for a few minutes more, then released each other, the bond broken by unspoken communication.

  “I am your anda, Yamun,” Chanar announced loudly, if somewhat breathless for pain, so Koja could hear. The warrior held his hand in a fist. Yamun settled back into the cushions, paying little attention to his own wound. A servant came forward with thick strips of felt and a bowl of hot water and set these between the two men. Chanar began binding his own hand while the servant tried to fuss over the khahan.

  “Bring drinks—black kumiss—for my anda and this visitor,” Yam
un ordered. “I’ll tend to myself.”

  The man disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a leather bag. Setting out silver cups, the servant ladled the drinks and placed them before the men. Koja looked at the kumiss, a curdled white color, and sniffed at it gingerly. The priest recognized it as fermented mare’s milk, a drink popular among the Tuigan. This was “black” kumiss, drawn from the khahan’s own mares and considered the finest of all. Koja took a sip of the bitter drink and then discreetly set the cup aside while the other men gulped the contents of their chalices.

  “My lord—,” the lama eventually began, but the khahan waved him off.

  “This audience is over,” Yamun announced. “Tomorrow we’ll hold council to hear the message of this envoy.” He picked up his cup of kumiss and turned partially away from Chanar and the priest, the signal for them to leave. Reluctantly, Chanar stood, bowed to Yamun, and strode out the door. A blast of cold spring air blew through the doorway, making the lamps flicker. Koja took care not to turn his back on the khahan, which would be considered an insult in the priest’s own country.

  Yamun raised his hand to recognize the envoy’s leaving. The hastily wrapped bandage across his palm slipped loose, letting blood flow once again from the wound. Seeing this, Koja took the opportunity to be of aid.

  “Great Lord, I have a little skill in healing wounds. If I could be of some small service to my illustrious host it would bring great honor to my temple.” Koja knelt down, touching his head to the floor.

  Yamun turned back toward Koja, one eyebrow arched as he studied the kowtowing priest. “If you have some skill with spells, it will do you little good here. Remember, the power of magic is gone from this area.”

  “I know, Khahan of the Tuigan, but at our temple we are taught the secrets of herbs. It is something all of the chosen must learn,” Koja explained, still kneeling.

  “What if you plan to poison me?”

  “I would not do this, great khahan. I have come a long way to speak for my prince,” Koja explained, looking up from the floor. “You have not even heard his words.”

  Yamun tilted his head and studied the priest. Finally, his lips twisted into a wry grin. “I think your words have merit. Well then, envoy of the Khazari, let’s see what your skills can do for my hand.”

  Koja sat himself at the feet of the khahan. Reaching into his robes, the priest brought out a small pouch he always carried. From it he took a small strip of yellow paper covered in script, a lump of incense, and three dried leaves. Taking Yamun’s wounded hand, Koja carefully began unwrapping the loose bandages.

  “The herbs are very cleansing but cause some pain, Lord Yamun,” Koja warned, crumbling the leaves into the Yamun’s kumiss.

  “What of it? Tell me about Semphar.”

  “I only saw a little of it, Khahan,” Koja began as he soaked a strip of cloth in the kumiss. “But it seemed like a powerful land.” The lama handed the wine-soaked cloth to the khahan. “Squeeze on this, Khahan.”

  “If they are so powerful, then why did the Sempharans call this council?” Yamun queried, ignoring any pain as Koja washed out the wound.

  Koja finished dabbing at the cut. “Caravans from east and west begin and end in Semphar, so they become worried when the merchants are attacked and no longer travel the routes to Shou Lung. Hold your hand flat, please.” Koja pressed the yellow paper into the wound and carefully placed the incense on it. The yellow was immediately tinged with red. Standing, Koja reached up and unhooked one of the lamps.

  “Still, if they are mighty warriors, why don’t they send soldiers to protect their caravans?” Yamun asked as he poked at the paper on his hand.

  “Semphar is powerful, but they are not horsemen. The steppe is far from their homeland. They did not know who ruled the lands of the steppe. There have been many tribes here and many chieftains, khans as you call them.” Koja fumbled in his pouch.

  “I am the khahan, the khan of khans. I rule the steppe,” Yamun declared.

  Koja only nodded and lit another scrap of paper from his pouch off the lamp beside him. Twice he passed the burning paper over the khahan’s hand, muttering prayers. Then he touched the flame to the incense. Yamun twitched his hand to pull it away from the fire, more in surprise than pain. “Keep your hand still, Khahan. The ash must be rubbed into the wound.”

  Yamun grunted in understanding. For a time he watched the little ropes of sweet smoke coil upward from his hand. Finally, he spoke. “Since they do not attack me, perhaps I must go to them.”

  Koja started at the suggestion. “Khahan, Semphar is a mighty nation with great cities of stone with walls around them. You could not capture these with horsemen. They have many soldiers.” The khahan didn’t seem to understand the greatness of the caliph. “Semphar does not want war, but they will fight.”

  “But they refused my demands, didn’t they?”

  “Only because they seek more time to consider them,” Koja explained as he blew on the smoldering incense.

  “They’re stalling. They have no intention of obeying me and you know that, priest,” Yamun pointed out. The last wisps of smoke from the incense wafted over his palm.

  “Noble khahan, it takes men time to decide. My own prince, Ogandi, must hear what has happened at Semphar and then discuss it with the elders of Khazari.” Koja gently rubbed the warm ashes into the blood-soaked paper. That finished, he began rewrapping the bandage around the khahan’s hand.

  “Then, your people should know that I will destroy them if they refuse me,” the khahan promised in grim tones. His face was emotionless, and he watched Koja in silence, letting his words sink in. Koja shifted uneasily, uncertain how to react to such a threat. Then, breaking the tension, Yamun leaned forward and slapped the priest on the knee. “Now, envoy, tell me of the people and places you have seen.”

  It was almost dawn before the khahan permitted Koja to leave. Exhausted from the strain of the meeting and thickheaded from the wine, the priest stumbled out of the tent. The icy wind snatched at his robes, whipping and cracking them about his legs. Shivering, Koja wrapped a heavy sheepskin coat, taken from the belongings still packed on his horse, tightly about him, but it did little good for his slipper-shod feet. Stamping, he worked to get the blood circulating through cold toes once again.

  The khahan’s bodyguards watched the priest from where they huddled by a small fire. In the three weeks that Koja had been traveling with the Tuigan, men like these had watched over him. For the most part they had eyed him silently, but a few had been talkative. It was from these men that Koja had learned the most about the Tuigan.

  Not that it was much. The Tuigan were nomads, raising sheep, cattle, and camels. But horses were their lives. They ate horsemeat and brewed kumiss from the curdled mare’s milk. They tanned horsehides and made plumes from horsetails. They rode horses better than anyone Koja had ever seen. It seemed as if every man was a warrior, trained to use bow, sword, and lance.

  The finest of these warriors were handpicked for the khahan’s bodyguard, the Kashik. These were the men who were now watching him from around their fire. Each man was a proven warrior and killer. One of them stood and announced himself as the priest’s escort.

  “The khahan invites you to stay at one of his yurts,” the squat guard said. It wasn’t phrased like an invitation, but Koja didn’t care. The command would mean a tent, and a tent would be warm.

  Willingly following the guard, Koja walked slowly, sometimes stumbling over clumps of grass that broke the thin crust of snow. His tired body barely noticed. A servant followed, leading the priest’s horse. Finally, the guard stopped and pulled aside a felt rug door. Koja entered and the servant unloaded his belongings. Fatigue settling on him, the priest tottered over to the pile of rugs and gently collapsed on top of them, dropping away into blissful slumber.

  The sun was high over the eastern horizon when Koja awoke to someone shouting outside his tent. “Koja the Lama, envoy of the Khazari, come out.”

  Koj
a straightened his sleep-rumpled robes and stepped through the tent door. Four guardsmen stood outside, dressed in the black robes of the khahan’s bodyguard. They wore tall caps of sable, the pelts turned inside-out so the hide was on the outside. The men’s braids were bound with silver disks and tassels of blue yarn. Long straight swords hung from their belts, the silver fittings gleaming in the sunlight. Koja squinted and shielded his eyes from the bright glare.

  “Yamun Khahan, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, orders you to appear before him,” said one, stepping forward from the rest.

  Koja sighed and held up his hand for the man to wait, then ducked back into the tent. Inside, he hastily pulled off his dirty robes and rummaged through the wooden chests of clothes, flinging shirts and sashes over his shoulder. Finally, Koja pulled out an orange-red silk robe. It was the color worn by lamas of his temple, the Red Mountain sect. He had bought the silk from a Shou trader and had the robe specially made after learning he was going to the council at Semphar.

  In a few moments Koja left his tent and set out for the khahan’s yurt. As he walked along, Koja noticed the tents were arranged in rough rows, each positioned the same way. “Why do all the doors face the southeast?” he asked his escort.

  One of the guards grunted, “That is the direction where Teylas lives.”

  “Teylas is your god?” Koja asked, stepping around a patch of mud. The guard nodded. “You have no other gods?”

  “Teylas is the god of everything. There are cham to help him.” The fellow was far more talkative than others Koja had met.

  “Cham?”

  “Guardians, like our mother, the Blue Wolf. They keep the evil spirits away from a man’s yurt. See—there they are.” The guard pointed to the band of stick-like figures that circled the top of each yurt.

  After that the guard fell silent. There was nothing left for Koja to do but trudge along, watching in silence. They passed through the gate and marched up the hill to the khahan’s yurt. This time no one challenged the priest when he reached the horsetail banner, although his escort bowed. At the khahan’s yurt, Koja waited outside.