Horselords

by David Cook

  “Do you have their bodies?” the priest suddenly asked, turning to Jad and Goyuk.

  The prince was taken aback by the lama’s question. “Yes. Yes, we do,” he answered, flustered.

  “Perhaps you can have your answer,” Koja offered mysteriously. “See that their bodies are not burned. If mighty Furo is willing, I will speak to them.” Confused, the prince looked into the gloom at the priest.

  “Afrasib is Bayalun’s man. Then she’s suspect, unless the wizard acted on his own. Bayalun. The emperor of Shou. Perhaps one, perhaps none,” the khahan murmured feebly from his bed. “I do have many enemies.” Yamun paused, his strength temporarily exhausted. The others sat silently, considering his words.

  “How long can I be dead?” the khahan asked suddenly.

  “What?” Jad blurted out.

  “I want everyone to think I’m dead. How long can you keep the army together?” Yamun turned toward Jad.

  The prince thought for a little bit. “Without you, two, maybe three days. There are already rumors.”

  “I say four or five days. The men are good men. They listen to your son,” contradicted Goyuk, punctuating his comment by sucking on his lip.

  “Jad, you’ll keep them together as long as you must. No one must know what’s happened me,” Yamun said in the best commanding tone his weak voice could manage.

  “But, why?” Koja asked. “Don’t you want to reassure your men?”

  “Someone—Bayalun, the Shou emperor, or someone else—wants me dead. They’re sure to have more plans in mind. If I’m dead they’ll reveal themselves by their actions,” Yamun explained as if he were talking to a child. His speech was stopped by a fit of coughing. Jad and Goyuk looked away, politely ignoring the khahan’s weakness.

  The priest helped Yamun sit up to clear his throat. “You need rest.” Yamun, still wheezing, tried to wave Koja off, but the priest refused to take his seat. He pulled the blankets up to wrap them over the khahan’s shoulders. “You need rest now, unless you want to die.”

  Yamun was wracked by another fit of coughing. “All right,” he gasped out. “Go to your tents, all of you. Jad, I’m depending on you. Listen to Goyuk and the priest. Now, leave me.” He sank back onto the cushions, breathing noisily between the intermittent coughing fits.

  Jad and Goyuk exchanged worried glances and then bowed to the floor. Silently the two took their leave. As they went out the door, Koja took a blanket from a pile at the foot of Yamun’s bed and wrapped himself up in it. He curled up on the floor beside the Illustrious Emperor of All People and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible. Tonight he would stay in Yamun’s yurt, to watch over his patient—his anda.

  10

  Dead Voices

  The only glow that lit the darkness came from a rough crystal, the size of a large egg, nested on a tripod of wrought iron. The stand’s small legs ended in finely chiselled rams’ heads covered in gilt. Small, facetted garnets decorated the curling horns of the beasts, tapering back into the black iron of the supports.

  The crystal shown dimly with the warm colors of sunlight. Chanar marveled at it. Staring into the stone was like looking out on a sunny morning through a small hole in the tent wall. Warmth and light danced in front of his eyes, just beyond his reach. When he stared into the stone closely, he thought he saw shapes flicker and fade deep in its heart. He wondered what Bayalun, sitting across from him, saw as she hunched over the orb.

  The khadun chanted. Her nose was practically pressed against the crystal, and her hands were carefully cupped around the base of the tripod.

  Chanar squirmed. His legs were going to sleep, but he didn’t want to move for fear of disturbing Bayalun. She had been sitting in the same position for the last half-hour, repeating the same chant over and over again. Chanar wondered how she managed it. The chant was mind-numbing. At first he thought it was Tuigan, badly distorted, but that quickly proved to be wrong. Whatever she was saying, it was in no language Chanar had ever heard. The general was sure of that. He’d had thirty minutes to listen and be certain.

  Abruptly Mother Bayalun ended the chant with a huffing sigh of exhaustion. She sat up straight, arching her back, and rubbed her temples hard with her fingertips. The crystal still glowed between them.

  “Look,” she commanded as she lightly touched the stone. The stone’s glow shimmered and then expanded, filling the air between them. Bayalun spread her hands open and the light spread, too.

  A scene formed and grew within the light. It was a yurt in the bright morning sun. Guards stood rigidly outside, ringing it. A tall standard set near the doorway flapped in the breeze.

  “That’s Yamun’s yurt!” Chanar exclaimed.

  Mother Bayalun laughed. “General Chanar, you are so charming,” she said. “Yes, that is the khahan’s tent.” She stood up, leaning heavily on her staff, and stiffly walked to his side. “Look,” she commanded again.

  Chanar peered closely at the scene. “There’s old Goyuk … and Jad,” he whispered, pointing at the image.

  “There is no need to be quiet,” Bayalun croaked out. She stopped to clear her throat. “They cannot hear us.”

  Chanar nodded, still watching the scene. He stepped back to give the image space. The general wasn’t about to let it touch him.

  “Look!” Bayalun suddenly hissed. “Look at the banner! It’s just as they said.” She pointed at the pole standing in front of the yurt. From it, gently swinging in the breeze they couldn’t feel, were nine black yak tails.

  “The sign of death,” Chanar said softly. He stared for a time at the slowly waving tails. “Yamun’s dead?” He turned to Mother Bayalun, not really accepting what he saw.

  “Of course,” she assured him confidently. “Why else would they fly the banner?”

  Chanar bit back the desire to scold Bayalun for her callous words. The dead deserved respect. “I want to see Yamun’s body,” he suddenly demanded. His green silk robe glittered and shone in the light from the crystal.

  The sorceress shook her head. The hood fell from her face, allowing her rich gray and black hair to hang free. “It cannot be done. There are protections on the royal yurt, placed there by Burekai—my husband. The crystal cannot see inside it.”

  “Then how do you know he’s dead?” Chanar countered. He eyed the image suspiciously.

  “Because he must be. They would not fly the banner if he was not dead.” Bayalun’s face showed her absolute conviction.

  The general considered her reasoning, pulling at his knuckles while he stood there. Chanar agreed after a moment. “But why don’t they keep his death a secret? Without the khahan, the army will fall apart.”

  “The men must already know,” Bayalun offered as she circled the glowing image. “Otherwise, you are right, Goyuk and Jad would keep the death a secret.”

  Chanar nodded, agreeing with her conclusions. “That would be Goyuk’s way—until he could get Jad safely in control of the khans.”

  Bayalun looked at Chanar through the image. “Of course, we will dash any plans Goyuk has formulated.”

  Chanar smiled cruelly and then watched the scene, absorbed in his own thoughts. Figures came and went—Jad, Goyuk, Sechen, and Koja. As the bald-headed lama stepped out of the royal yurt, Chanar spit on the floor in disgust. “That one dies,” he snarled, jabbing a finger at the priest.

  Bayalun snorted to herself. “As you wish.” She had no intention of giving the priest to Chanar just to satisfy his pride. The lama might be useful. After all, he was an emissary of the Khazari and an avenue to the Red Mountain Temple. If nothing else, she would keep the lama just to remind Chanar of her power. However, for now she was not going to tell him of her plans.

  “Before you can execute anyone, Chanar, you must be khahan. We still have that to do,” she reminded him in regal tones.

  Chanar grunted in irritation. “Well, what now?”

  “First, we wait while the army bickers and grows restless. Those two cannot hold the army together for l
ong,” Bayalun pointed toward the khahan’s tent. Goyuk and Jad stood outside it. “Then, you will arrive and give them order.”

  “What if Jad keeps the army together? He’s Yamun’s blood, after all,” Chanar pointed out as he stepped closer to Bayalun.

  “Then we will deal with him, too. The army has khans who will listen to you. It will just take a word here and there to keep them unhappy.” She smiled reassuringly. “With my magic, you can appear to them in a dream.”

  Chanar frowned at her suggestion. This, he thought, was not the proper way to become the khahan—using dark arts to sway the minds of warriors. “Why don’t I just go there and speak for myself?”

  “Don’t be in such a hurry. Let the young prince stumble and fall.” Bayalun stepped into the image; Koja and the others swirled like ghosts around her. She bent over slowly, supporting herself with her gold-topped staff. With one long, sharp finger she tapped the crystal and muttered a word under her breath. The image suddenly withered away.

  “Strike a light,” she ordered. While Chanar blew on the small pile of coals that smoldered in a metal bowl, she carefully lifted the crystal off the tripod and wrapped it in a leather bag. “General, you must be ready to leave at any time. Timing is everything in this. Too early and the khans will suspect you. Too late, and Jad will have rallied the ordus to his banner. Either way you will lose your chance.” She looked up from her work and stared sharply at him. “The men will serve under you, will they not?”

  “They love me,” he answered. “They trust me.”

  “You had better be right.” The khadun crossed the tent and undid the door flap, a clear signal for Chanar to leave. He bowed slightly to her and stepped out through the door.

  After Chanar left, Bayalun sealed the tent flap and knelt down near the brazier. After taking one last look around, she was satisfied that she was alone. Quickly the sorceress whispered a few mystic words and sprinkled a handful of incense into the coals. The powder burned quickly, billowing into a heady puff of white smoke. The smoke rose, twisting and massing. Gradually, it formed into a face, a man of Shou features, handsome, with steady, dark eyes.

  “Greetings to the khadun of the Tuigan people,” said the face in a whispery, hollow voice. The words were spoken in perfect Tuigan, though colored with a distinct Shou accent.

  “Greetings to the Minister of State,” Bayalun replied. “May he live forever.”

  The face smiled, the smoke drifting away at the corners of the mouth. “All is well?” it asked, puffs of smoke swirling from its mouth with each word.

  “The khahan has been struck down,” Bayalun answered gloatingly. “It happened in battle. Soon there will be a new khahan.” She tapped the floor decisively with her staff.

  “None suspect our involvement?” the form asked in soft words.

  “Do not worry, mandarin. No one knows your empire sent an assassin.” Bayalun mocked the mandarin’s fearful caution.

  The smoky face ignored her tone. “It is sad for your people. Surely none chosen as the new khahan can hope to match the illustrious glory of Yamun Khahan. The new khahan will need many advisors and learned men to help him through these difficult times.” The face was growing indistinct, as smoke trailed from its nostrils and ears.

  “And, of course, Shou Lung will offer them,” Bayalun noted. “Remember too, the new khahan will also need friendly, helpful neighbors—and assurances of their goodwill.”

  “We have already decided the gifts that will be sent, Khadun,” the minister said sternly. “Are you trying to renegotiate? Many of your people would be angry if they learned what you have done.”

  Bayalun’s face purpled slightly. “They might blame Shou Lung instead,” she snapped back. “A khahan, any khahan, is dangerous to you if all the tribes follow him alone.”

  “This is true. Then we understand each other perfectly,” the face said faintly. “Now it is time for me …” The last words trailed off into silence, and the smoky face became nothing but a shapeless mass.

  Standing, Bayalun waved her staff through the vapors to break up the cloud. There was no particular reason for it, but she felt powerful doing it. Moving stiffly, her arthritis flaring up again, she crossed the tent and undid the door flap to let in the cool morning air. A beam of sunlight illuminated the room. With little else to do but wait, she sat in its pleasant warmth and rested.

  Today has been a good day, she reflected. Everything seemed to be working as she had planned. There was only one minor concern. Neither the hu hsien nor her wizard had reported. Afrasib had strict orders to keep her informed. It wasn’t like him to forget her commands. He was normally so diligent and attentive.

  Still, Afrasib’s failure was only a minor problem. Most likely, the wizard had not had a chance to contact her with his spells. Besides, all that really mattered was that Yamun, her stepson, was dead. Now, the khadun had to place Chanar on the throne before any rivals could challenge him. Once Chanar was khahan, she would rule the Tuigan through him.

  In Yamun’s tent, the three conspirators, Koja, Jad, and Goyuk, hovered around the khahan’s sickbed. The warlord was barely awake. His face was pale gray, tinged with a hint of blue. His breath came in labored sighs, wheezing in and out. A damp film of perspiration trickled across his shaven tonsure. His braids, which normally hung from his temples, were undone, spilling the graying red hair over his embroidered pillow. His eyelids wavered between almost closed and not quite open.

  Jad pulled the priest aside, away from Yamun’s hearing. “You said he would get better,” the prince whispered. There was a touch of danger in Jad’s words, perhaps fueled by desperation.

  Koja swallowed nervously. “He has lived through the night, Lord Jadaran. That was the first struggle.”

  “Then why hasn’t he gotten better?” Jad demanded, pressing the priest back toward the wall.

  “I—I don’t know,” Koja feebly protested. He suppressed a tremor that started to come over him, brought on by fear and exhaustion. For two days the priest had slept no more than an hour. Judging from Jad’s appearance—hollow-eyed and haggard—the prince had rested no better.

  “You don’t know!” Jad snapped in frustration, slamming his fist into the carpeted wall beside Koja. “What do you know?”

  “Lord Jadaran,” Koja said firmly, his patience gone, “I am no expert in poisons. I have closed the khahan’s wounds and lessened the poison’s fire. I did what I could, thank the almighty Furo. There is nothing more I can do. His life rests on the scales of Li Pei.”

  “Li Pei?” Goyuk asked, just catching the end of the conversation.

  “The Strict Judge, the master of the dead who weighs the karma of men.”

  “This no sound good” Goyuk commented, shaking his head.

  “So you say there’s nothing you can do, priest?” Jad asked, slowly realizing that events were out of their control.

  “There is nothing I can do for the khahan,” Koja said carefully, “but there is still something I can do.”

  “What’s that?” old Goyuk asked.

  “Speak with the dead. It is difficult and maybe a little dangerous,” Koja explained, “but Furo has blessed me with this ability.”

  “Wonderful. You propose to wait for my father to die and then talk to him!” Jad growled. He spun away from the priest and strode to the khahan’s sickbed.

  “Not the khahan.” Koja followed after Jad, trying to explain. “I meant—”

  A sigh suddenly escaped from Yamun’s lips, and his eyes fluttered. “A plan?” the khahan breathed out softly. Weakly looking toward the others, he tried to speak again, only to falter and fall back upon his pillow.

  Koja wasted no time with more speech. Quickly he pulled back the covers and listened to the khahan’s chest. His heart was still beating, and his breathing was slightly stronger. Still, his color was pale blue-gray, and his sweat was cold. The priest squeezed at the khahan’s tough and weather-beaten hands, checking the firmness of the muscles.

  The l
ama waved to a servant to bring a pot of simmering herbs. It was placed carefully at his side, along with a colorful strip of woven cloth. The lama dipped the cloth in the pot and gingerly lifted the steaming fabric out, holding it up to cool. Finally, Koja laid the herb-infused cloth across Yamun’s chest, folding it back and forth several times. With shaking fingers, the priest pressed it into position and then carefully covered the khahan once again with the blankets.

  The lama finally got up from his examination. “He heard us. It is a sign he is getting better.” Jad’s face broke into a shaky smile of relief. “But only a little better,” cautioned Koja.

  “But what is this plan, lama?” Goyuk asked, breaking the tension.

  Thankful for the excuse to change the subject, Koja hurriedly launched into an explanation. “Khans, Furo has seen fit to answer my prayers and grant me the power to speak with the dead. Not with the illustrious khahan,” he hastily added, “but to talk to one of his assassins.”

  “What good is this?” Jad asked, looking away from his father.

  Koja shook his head. “I may learn something about the poison used on the khahan. You may learn who is to blame for the attack.”

  “I know who is to blame—didn’t you yourself say the creature was an agent of the Shou? And didn’t you say the governor of Manass had a Shou advisor at his side? What more is there to know?” Jad said, dismissing Koja’s last suggestion with a wave.

  “There was Afrasib, too,” Goyuk pointed out. “How does he fit in?”

  “He was a wizard,” Jad snapped, as if that explained it all.

  “The khahan, he would find out. Try what the lama say,” Goyuk urged.

  Jad took a deep breath. He was young and unused to making such important decisions. “Goyuk,” he said slowly, “because you advise this, I’ll try the priest’s ideas.” He pivoted to face Koja. “What do we do?”

  “Have the bodies brought to the tent, and we will perform the rite to summon their spirits. Then you can ask your questions through me.”

  “You mean to bring the bodies here, to the royal yurt? I won’t allow it,” Jad said defiantly, his young eyes flashing. “Since my father is stricken, I’m in command. The dead bodies will pollute the yurt. That cannot be allowed.”