Horselords

by David Cook

  It was a crude map, something which surprised Koja. He hadn’t seen any maps since arriving, and he had assumed the Tuigan had no knowledge of cartography. Here was another surprise about his hosts. The lama craned his neck, trying to get a view of the sheet.

  “Semphar is here,” Yamun said, continuing a conversation begun before the priest entered. He thrust a stubby finger at one corner of the sheet. “Hubadai waits with his army at foot of Fergana Pass.” He traced his finger across the map to a point closer to the center. “We’re here.”

  “And where is Jad?” asked one of the khans Koja didn’t know.

  “At the Orkhon Oasis—there.” Yamun pointed to the far side of the map.

  The priest strained even harder to see where Yamun was indicating. All he could make out was a blurry area of lines and scribbles.

  “And Tomke?” the same khan asked. He was a wolf-faced man with high, sharp cheekbones, a narrow nose, and pointed chin. His graying hair was well greased and bound in three braids, one on each side of his head and a third at the back.

  “He stays in the north to gather his men. I’m going to hold him in reserve,” Yamun explained. There was a grunt of general understanding from the men listening. They studied the map for a few minutes, learning the dispositions of the armies.

  “What will you do?” Goyuk finally asked, his nose practically touching the map as he screwed up his eyes to see the lines. “Semphar? Or Khazari?” At the mention of Khazari, Koja scooted sideways a little, trying to find a better angle to see the map. By leaning to the left, he could see it clearer.

  “Semphar must fall. They’ve refused my demands. Hubadai will march against them.” The khahan traced a line on the map. Again there was a murmur of approval. Chanar glanced at the wolf-faced khan, giving him the tiniest of nods.

  “Great Yamun,” the man said, “I must speak because it is my duty under heaven. Your son Hubadai is a brave and valiant warrior, but he is young and has not gone to war often. The caliph of Semphar is a mighty ruler. Our spies tell us he has many soldiers protected by great stone walls. It would be wisdom to send a wise and experienced warrior to instruct and aid your son.”

  “My son is my son. He must fight,” Yamun snapped.

  “Of course, Great Khan,” Chanar noted. “He must command. Perhaps Chagadai does not mean you should send a new commander. Send someone you can trust to advise Hubadai. Make this advisor commander of the right wing.”

  “Hubadai is young and his temper is quick,” pressed Chagadai, the wolfish khan. “Send him someone to cool his rashness, someone who knows the traps of war. Send someone your son can learn from.”

  “ ‘A wise man has a wise tutor,’ ” Chanar offered.

  “They speak wisely, Yamun,” wheezed out Goyuk.

  The khahan looked at the khans around the circle, pondering the advice. “Chagadai’s advice is good,” Yamun finally said. “But who should I send? You, Chagadai?”

  “Great Lord, my wisdom is the wisdom of the tent,” the khan demurred. “I do not have the cunning for war. Send a warrior who has served you well.”

  “I am too old,” said Goyuk, before Yamun could even ask him. “Send a young man.”

  “What about you Chanar?” Yamun asked.

  “I hoped to visit the yurts of my people,” the general began, “but by your word, it shall be done.”

  “Then it is done,” Yamun concluded. “I hoped you would ride by my side, but you must serve my son now. He’ll listen to you.”

  “You have my word, Semphar will fall.” Chanar bowed, smiling as he did so.

  “But what about Khazari?” inquired Goyuk, pointing at the map. Koja, peering over their shoulders, could see that Chagadai pointed to the same general area of the map as the Orkhon Oasis. So Prince Jad was camped near Khazari, he thought.

  “Before we talk, we must hear the reports of the scouts,” Yamun said. “Come forward, trooper.”

  The soldier at the back slid forward and prostrated himself.

  “This man led the scouts I sent to Khazari. We will hear his report. But first,” Yamun said, turning to Koja behind him, “you must go. Wait outside. You will be called when you are needed.”

  “Yes, Khahan,” Koja said softly, concealing his bitter disappointment. Yamun’s face was impassive, unconcerned, but Chanar looked at the priest with smug satisfaction. As quickly as he could, Koja hurried out of the yurt.

  Outside, the revelers were waking up. Koja, with nothing else to do, sat down on his haunches beside the doorway. He strained to hear anything of the conversation inside, but the thick felt of the yurt swallowed up the words.

  Koja sat there, disconsolate, watching hung-over khans wander away from the scene of last night’s feast. The dayguards walked among the circles, kicking awake their brothers who had passed out the night before. A few halfhearted fights broke out, more loud arguments than real brawls.

  One did turn into a serious battle as two men wrestled across the ground. Their fight quickly attracted others, and soon there was a shouting crowd around the battlers. Yamun and the khans came out of the yurt shortly after the fight started, but no one seemed very interested in stopping the conflict. Yamun and the others stood by as the two brawlers rolled around, trying to get each other in a deadly hold. Within minutes, though, one man screamed, and the fight ended as quickly as it had started.

  Ignoring Koja, who sat expectantly by the door, the khahan called down to the big wrestler. “You are a good fighter.”

  The man knelt where he was. “Teylas has given his strength to me,” he answered.

  Yamun raised an eyebrow at the man’s words. “What’s your ordu?”

  “I am Sechen of the Naican,” the wrestler answered. “I have killed five men with my bare hands, Khahan.” Behind him the dayguards dragged his dead opponent away.

  “Sechen, you’re proud and shameless. I like you,” Yamun said impulsively. “From now on you will serve at my side.”

  Sechen fell into the dirt, humbling himself before the khahan. Inarticulate cries of thanks poured from the man’s lips.

  Koja looked in horror at the big wrestler. The khahan had just honored an admitted killer, praising the man for what he had done. Astonished, the priest looked at the emperor of the Tuigan. The man showed no shame or conscience for what he had just done. Koja had almost forgotten just what the Tuigan were. For all their cunning craftsmanship and military skill, the Tuigan were still uncivilized barbarians. Koja wondered if they could ever be anything more.

  Yamun finally finished speaking with the wrestler, but the grateful man was still kneeling at his feet. Looking at Koja standing beside him, the khahan gave no notice of the priest’s horrified expression.

  “We have reached a decision, lama,” Yamun said. “I have an answer for your prince.”

  “What is the message I am to take to Prince Ogandi?” Koja finally, hesitantly asked, his voice trembling with rage and fear.

  “You don’t. The Tuigan ride to Khazari with their own answer. No one speaks for us,” Yamun pronounced. “And your prince will hear from me very soon.”

  6

  On The March

  Elsewhere in the royal compound, another meeting was just beginning. It was a furtive liaison in one of the yurts used as a storehouse. The tent’s felt walls were black, darkened by powdered charcoal. The smoke hole was sealed shut, and the door flap was tightly closed. It was an isolated yurt, seldom visited or disturbed.

  Outside, a few soldiers, wearing the blue kalat of common troopers, leaned on their lances. Their eyes were far from idle, though. Under a guise of nonchalance, the men constantly scanned the area, ready to warn of any intruders.

  Inside, the black yurt was barely lit by one small lamp. It burned fitfully, the little circle of light it cast growing and shrinking with each flicker. The dim glow revealed rolls of fabric, sealed baskets, rugs, and stacks of metal pots. Nestled in all this, within the circle of light, were General Chanar and Mother Bayalun. She was dressed i
n a simple robe, hardly fitting to her station. Around her head she had wrapped several coils of a shawl, until her face was hidden in shadows. Her staff leaned against a bale beside her.

  “Did you do as I instructed?” she demanded, leaning forward to look the general in the eye.

  “Everything,” answered Chanar with cocky self-assurance.

  “And Chagadai?”

  “He played his part,” Chanar said with a smile. “What did you promise him?”

  “More than nothing,” she answered, avoiding his question. “What is the result?”

  “He rides to the Sindhe River to meet with Jad. Then they go to Khazari.” The general warmed his hands over the lamp.

  “Excellent. Soon, Chanar, you will become the true khahan,” Mother Bayalun said coldly. “And where are you to be?”

  “I am to ride to Fergana Pass to advise Hubadai.” Chanar heard something and stopped speaking. He sat up straight, looking about him to see the source of the noise. The dark walls of the tent quivered in a faint breeze.

  “Relax, my general,” Bayalun said soothingly. “We are alone. My guards outside will make sure of that. Now, take this—” She handed him a small leather bag. “Mix it with some wine tonight, then drink it. It will make you sick, but don’t worry, it won’t kill you. Yamun will see that you are too sick to travel.”

  “Why do this?” he questioned, eyeing the bag dubiously.

  Bayalun grabbed his hand and stuffed the bag into his fingers. “Don’t be a fool,” she said sharply. “We need each other alive. And you need to be here, in Quaraband—not with Hubadai. When the khahan is dealt with, you must be ready to move, so that means you must stay here with me. How are you going to do that? Tell Yamun you don’t feel like riding out today? That it’s an unlucky day?” She gently squeezed his fingers. “Use the powder or he will become suspicious.”

  “Oh,” Chanar said, slowly coming to understand. “What if he orders a cart to take me to Hubadai?”

  “He won’t,” she contended. The khadun’s patience was starting to wear thin. “He has too much to do. Tell him you will take care of your arrangements. He’ll believe you.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then you wait. Things will work just as we’ve planned. And then—” Bayalun reached out and laid her hand gently on his arm. “We will lead the Tuigan to their true glory.”

  “Yes.” Chanar savored the thought. “When I’m khahan, I’ll get rid of these foreigners.”

  “Of course,” Mother Bayalun said, stroking his arm. “That is the whole reason we’re doing this, isn’t it?”

  Chanar grinned wolfishly, openly admiring the older woman. She was not passive, a mere ornament like Yamun’s Shou princesses. She was bold, a woman for a true warrior.

  “But quickly,” she urged, breaking the mood, “you must go before anyone becomes suspicious by your absence. Leave now. My men will make sure the way is clear.” She pressed on his arm, sending him on his way.

  Chanar moved to go with only a little reluctance. Her words reminded him of the plan’s dangers. Going to the door, he peered out through a tiny gap. After what seemed an interminable minute of watching, he slipped out through the doorway. There was a brief flash of sunlight, and then the tent fell dark again.

  Bayalun sat on the pile of rugs, leaning on her staff, her eyes closed as she thought. Her plans were going well. Nothing had gone wrong, but that worried her. She was certain that by now there would have been some mistake. “Perfect plans are made by fools,” or so went the old proverb.

  “Does he suspect?” said a soft, yipping voice from the darkness.

  Mother Bayalun looked up slowly, not showing any surprise at the new speaker. “No, but that’s through no help from you. Your clumsiness almost gave you away,” she snapped. “What are you doing here?”

  A large fox, honey brown in color, walked into the light. Moving opposite Bayalun, it settled back on its haunches. With its front paws, it produced a long pipe from the leather bag it carried slung around its neck. “I wish you people would move your tents. It would make things a lot easier. I’d change out of this form, but these damned magic-dead lands prevent me.”

  “Why are you here, you insolent creature?” Bayalun demanded, thumping the rolled-up rug beside the fox-thing.

  “My master sent me,” it explained as it stuffed tobacco into the pipe and tamped it down with a paw more human than foxlike. “Are we stuck with that dolt?”

  “Who?”

  “The buffoon who was just here,” the fox explained. He dug into his bag and pulled out a smoldering ember, casually holding the burning coal in his paws. “Stole it from a fire outside,” the fox offered before she could ask. He set the coal to the pipe.

  “Don’t light that in here!” Bayalun snapped. The fox looked up at her in surprise. “The smoke will give us away.”

  “To whom? Your guards? They’re the only ones outside.” The fox drew a long puff on the pipe, blowing out sweet smoke from the combination of tobacco and strange herbs. “This shape lets me get around easily, but it is so tiring. Especially when everyone wants to chase you.” It puffed on the pipe again, watching Bayalun’s increasing irritation with an unconcealed glee.

  “You take too many risks! Someone saw you?” Bayalun asked with alarm.

  “Some saw a fox, nothing more,” the creature replied confidently.

  “Carrying a bag!”

  “I was careful. Stop worrying like an old woman. I’ve done this all my life, which is longer than yours—even if you are one of those half-spirit Maraloi.” The fox-thing blew smoke up toward the ceiling.

  Bayalun started at the mention of the Maraloi. “How did you know?” she demanded. “No one knows of that.”

  “The emperor of Shou Lung knows. Your father was one of the Maraloi, spirits of the great northern wood. Humans think the Maraloi don’t exist. You and I know better.” The fox tapped its pipe, shaking out the excess ash. “But, the man you were talking to—”

  “Will present no problems,” Bayalun said, a little subdued. “He thinks we only plan to get Yamun out of Quaraband so he can seize power. He has no idea of my true intentions.”

  “Our true intentions,” corrected the fox, rubbing its back against a rough-sided basket. “Ahh,” it sighed.

  “Our intentions,” Bayalun noted. “And just what does your master intend?”

  “He is concerned. He wants to be sure that everything is as he agreed.” The fox-thing suddenly dropped its casual air. “Yamun Khahan continues to unite the tribes, and his army grows larger. Soon even the unbreachable Dragonwall will be threatened by his might. There is a chance its magic may not be able to hold him back. You assured my master that there would be peace between Shou Lung and the Tuigan.”

  “There has been no change,” she answered defensively. “Once I have control, I will see that the peace between the Tuigan and Shou Lung remains unbroken. But, your master has certain obligations to fulfill, too.”

  “Of course,” assured the fox between draws on its pipe. “That’s why he sent me.”

  “What?”

  “You needed an assassin, an expert in disguise. Am I not,” the fox said as it stood and took a little bow, “brilliant at disguise?”

  “Not if that’s the best you can do,” Bayalun shot back. She was furious with the hu hsien, this inhuman trickster of the spirit realm. She was equally furious with the Shou mandarin who sent it. The mighty of Shou Lung think they can toy with me, she cursed silently, but I’ll show them just how dangerous that can be. “Go back to your master and tell him to send me a real assassin, not a clowning animal.”

  The fox bit down hard on the stem of its pipe. “You will take whomever my master sends,” it snarled, baring its fangs as its animal side boiled to the surface. “Now, old woman, I’m tired of this. Tell me what I am to do.”

  Bayalun relented. “There is a post you can fill—assuming you can look human—among the khahan’s dayguards. Then you will be close to hi
m. You must take it and wait.” Bayalun twisted the staff between her hands as she explained things.

  “That’s all? How will I know when to act?” the beast asked.

  “I will send you a message,” Bayalun answered.

  “How?”

  “That’s all you need know,” she snapped, frowning at the beast’s curiosity. “Too much knowledge and you become a danger to everything. Tomorrow, present yourself to Dayir Bahadur—in human form. He commands a jagun of the dayguard and will see to your position. Then, wait for my word.” She narrowed her eyes, waiting for any more questions. None came. “Now, you may leave.”

  The fox blew a puff of sweet smoke. “I haven’t finished my pipe,” it declared.

  “Leave now,” Bayalun hissed, “lest I complain to your master.”

  The fox pricked up its ears. “Careful, or I will complain to your lord.” The hu hsien watched the empress’s reaction. “I find you interesting, half-Maraloi. Your husband might be strong enough to seize the riches of Shou Lung, but you want him dead. Your ambitions are strange.”

  “Yamun Khahan killed the yeke-noyan—my husband, his father—so he could rule the Hoekun. I will never forgive him for that.” Besides, Bayalun thought, with the khahan dead, I will control the Tuigan. Chanar will be khahan, but I will have the power. “Now, no more questions.”

  “Very well, I will take my leave,” the fox-thing said pompously. It closed the lid on the pipe and stuffed it back into the pouch. Dropping to all fours, it smiled a foxish smile at Bayalun and lightly leaped away into the darkness.

  After the creature had left, Bayalun waited patiently for some time. She was in no hurry. Haste ruined careful plans. She had learned that from experience.

  It was impossible to keep secret the fact that the khahan was on the move toward Khazari, and by the afternoon the news had spread through all of Quaraband. Yamun’s women had emptied out the Great Yurt and had started to take it down. Within an hour, the yurt was stripped of its felt walls, the frame standing like a skeleton atop the hill.