Horselords

by David Cook

  11

  Reunion

  Bayalun stood in front of her yurt with Chanar at her side. Surrounding both of them were Bayalun’s guards. The troopers stood tensely alert as the khadun read from an ancient scrap of yellow paper. Chanar peeked at it over her shoulder. He could read—a little anyway—and wasn’t about to miss a chance to show off his meager skill to Bayalun. To his dismay, what he saw was unintelligible, a strange and twisted script. Worse still for his pride, Bayalun read from the unrolled sheet with ease, her tongue tripping over the tortured phrases.

  As she spoke, a gloom settled over them and the colors leached away from everything. Chanar tensed with fear as the world went gray—the white robes of the guards, Bayalun’s black hair, the red silks of his own shirt, even the orange glow of the fire. Then, there was nothing.

  Abruptly, there was something. Solid ground slammed up under his feet, wiping away the brief feeling of floating. Chanar staggered, but several of the guards stumbled and fell. Bayalun managed to remain on her feet with ease. At any rate, they had arrived in Yamun’s camp.

  And apparently they were not welcome.

  The men of Yamun’s Kashik who surrounded them held drawn swords ready. The guards were a grizzled group, seasoned campaigners wearing dirty black kalats stained with blood. They watched the newcomers with hard stares. Black beards and braids were thick and foul with grease. Only their scarred cheeks were free of the filth. Chanar recognized many and knew their names from previous battles. Watching them, the general moved slowly and carefully. These guards were poised to strike. It was clear in the way they stood, the way they held their swords, and the friendless look in their eyes.

  Bayalun’s guards stood no less at the ready, their sword tips wavering in anticipation. Chanar slowly drew himself up. He was a khan, a prince of the Tuigan, not some thief. Looking his imposing best in a red robe and gold vest embroidered with blue dragons, Chanar glowered at the Kashik around him.

  “Let me pass! I bring the khadun of the Tuigan to see the body of her husband,” Chanar shouted. His face was clouded and dark, and his eyes narrowed to hard, unfriendly slits. The battle-hardened, bloodthirsty old brawler in him rose to the fore. “Clear the way or die!” he bellowed, drawing his sword with a menacing flourish. The general’s shoulders heaved as he pumped himself up with fury and courage.

  The Kashik shifted on the balls of their feet, preparing to meet his charge. They had their orders, and Chanar’s threats were not about to make them falter.

  “General Chanar, you cannot teach asses courtesy,” Bayalun said softly. The general glared at her for having the audacity to interfere at such a critical point. “Put away your sword. These ugly mules haven’t the wit to be frightened. You—” She pointed at the largest guard with a flick of her finger. “Go and ask Yamun’s son if the khadun must change his guards into the asses they truly are. Then he can bray out his orders to them.” She smiled wickedly, an easy feat for her.

  The fellow, whom Chanar recognized as an old, tough sergeant named Jali-bukha, went dead white at Bayalun’s words. Eyes wide open with fear, the sergeant nodded and quickly ran toward the khahan’s yurt. Bayalun looked at Chanar with a triumphant smile. “It will not be long,” she confidently predicted.

  With difficulty, Chanar swallowed his pride. He was one of Yamun’s seven valiant men. He didn’t need a woman to tell common warriors to get out of his way. Someday, he knew, there would come a time when her words and threats would no longer suffice. Then she would have to come to him for support.

  Behind his back, Mother Bayalun hid her contemptuous smile. The general believes he can do this alone, she thought. But, she reminded herself, the dear general is necessary. The wizards and some of the people might follow her, but the rest of the army would never accept Bayalun’s commands. She needed General Chanar to keep Yamun’s—her—empire intact.

  The sergeant reached the door of the khahan’s yurt, less than one hundred yards away. Barely waiting to be announced, he threw open the tent flap and breathlessly stood in the doorway. Seeing the prince glaring at him for the intrusion, the sergeant flung himself to the ground. “Prince Jadaran, I bring a message,” he declared while gasping for breath. “Eke Bayalun and General Chanar, they have just arrived!”

  “What?” the prince exclaimed. “Here?” He clenched his fists in frustration. With a curt wave, he dismissed the sergeant and then spun back to the others. “What are we going to do?” He whirled on Goyuk, expecting the advisor to instantly provide an answer.

  “Show them … in,” came a weak voice from the other side of the tent. Astonished, Jad turned slowly toward the source. There, on his sickbed, was Yamun. Somehow, he had struggled up onto one elbow, raising his head enough to look at them. His face was hollow and pale. A tic quivered his cheek, a small sign of the massive effort he was expending. “Get me up,” he whispered hoarsely. “I will meet with my … wife.” Koja hurried to his side, quickly mounding pillows for Yamun to lean on.

  “Father, you’re not strong enough!” Jad protested. “There must be something else we can do.”

  “No. Bayalun must know I live. Otherwise, she will make trouble. And Chanar deserves to know the truth.” His voice trailed off weakly. The khahan rested for a little before speaking again. “Go. Greet them. Give me some time, but don’t tell them I live.… I will be ready.”

  Jad stood still, uncertain if he should obey these orders. Koja looked up, firmly meeting Jad’s gaze. “We will make sure Yamun is ready.”

  “Let all who disobey you know this is by the word of the khahan,” Yamun mumbled, reciting the formula. Even in his weak voice, there was no uncertainty.

  Resigned, Jad bowed to his father and turned to go.

  “And order the Kashik to double their guard,” Yamun added as his son departed.

  Accompanied by the sergeant, Jad marched the short distance to where Bayalun and Chanar waited. The Kashik stepped aside to let the prince pass.

  “Greetings, Mother,” Jad said with forced civility. There was little warmth in his voice, although nothing in his expression noted anything less than filial love. “You should have warned of your coming. A proper reception could’ve—well—been prepared.” His smile was broad and utterly heartless.

  “I am sure your preparations would have been most complete,” Bayalun parried. She did not even bother to pretend friendship to her stepson. “We did not want to put you to such trouble.”

  Using her staff, Bayalun pushed her way past Jad and began marching toward the khahan’s tent, ignoring everyone around her. She continued to talk, unconcerned whether Jad was following her or not. “In Quaraband, there are rumors that Yamun is slain. I came to investigate these. Now I see the mourning banner in front of my husband’s tent. Why was I not informed?”

  The prince quick-stepped to fall in beside Bayalun, avoiding the backswing of her staff as he did so. “We had no one who could reach you quickly. We’ve sent a messenger.” It was a part lie; he and Goyuk had carefully avoided letting the news travel beyond the camp.

  “What about Afrasib, my wizard? He could have reached me,” the khadun asked warily.

  “I think not. He died in yesterday’s battle, slain by the Khazari,” Jad lied.

  The old sorceress stopped suddenly, taken aback by her stepson’s announcement. “Afrasib is dead?” she asked in sad disbelief. “It is not possible.”

  “Most certainly, he’s dead. His body was brought back from the field of battle.” Jad couched his words carefully this time.

  “I shall see his body later,” Bayalun decided, brushing an errant gray hair from her face.

  As Bayalun came to the doorway, two more Kashik stepped in front of her, blocking the way with crossed swords. Irritated, the khadun poked at them with the gold head of her staff. Although they flinched as she thrust it forward, neither man moved.

  “Unless you want me to hurt these men,” she snapped at the prince, “you should order them to move.” She squinted at the gu
ards with mock ferocity and wagged her staff under their noses.

  “They only want to protect you from evil spirits. There is death here,” the prince explained, reminding her of the old taboos. “The yurt is ill-omened. Yamun’s body lies inside.” Jad carefully avoided making eye contact with his stepmother.

  “I have seen enough death that this will do me no harm,” Bayalun informed her stepson. Taking up her staff, the khadun thrust it forward. The sleeve on her arm fell back, revealing the smooth, golden skin that belied her age. Bayalun pushed the guards aside and stooped through the doorframe.

  Jad waited for Chanar to enter, then brought up the rear, trying to suppress his panic. Had he stalled long enough? Was the khahan ready to receive them? He edged his hand to his sword, in case things went badly.

  Bayalun took only a single step through the door and stopped. Chanar, his head bowed to get through the door, bumped into the khadun and stepped back in surprise. Looking over Bayalun’s shoulder, he lurched back farther in greater astonishment. Jad easily slid to the side, out of the way, his eyes goggling at Yamun’s throne.

  Bayalun let out a sharp gasp of incredulity, and her staff almost slipped from her grasp. General Chanar simply gaped in shock. There, opposite them, was Yamun, alive and sitting on his throne. His legs were spread, his hands resting on his knees, his head held upright, chin jutting forward. He was dressed in his finest armor, a bribe the emperor of Shou Lung had sent a year ago. The metal gleamed in the dim light—a golden breastplate sculpted with muscles, a pair of flaring silver shoulder-guards, a skirt of the finest metal chain, and a helm of gem-encrusted brass and gold, tapered and fluted to a point. A pure white horsetail, braided with ribbons of red silk, hung down from the helmet’s tip.

  Under all the trappings it was difficult, almost impossible, to see Yamun’s face. The lamps were hung far and high from the khahan’s seat, casting his features into darkness. His hands were covered with thick gauntlets.

  At the head of the men’s seats, close to the khahan, sat Koja, cross-legged. The hollow-eyed priest studied the pair who had just entered with anxious curiosity. Beside him was Goyuk, still dressed in the filthy robes from yesterday’s battle. The old khan had dug out his pipe and was carefully tamping it full of tobacco. He glanced toward Bayalun and Chanar, and then returned his attention to his pipe, scarcely giving them any notice. Behind the khahan were the nightguards. At their head stood Sechen, his arms hidden in the folds of his kalat. The guards stood stiffly erect, their eyes boring in on the visitors. They made no attempt to hide their hatred.

  “Come forward,” the khahan said softly. His resonant voice carried clearly across the room. Cautiously, eyeing all those around her, Bayalun walked forward. Chanar strode beside her, though his gait was less swaggering than normal.

  Bayalun was the first to gather her wits. She cleverly composed in a simple refrain, chanting it in a droning melody.

  “Greetings, honorable son who rises again.

  Your grieving mother is pleased to see you.

  Your grieving wife is pleased to see you.

  Double blessings flow like water upon me.”

  Yamun bowed his head slightly toward his stepmother. “Sit,” he whispered, pointing to a seat about halfway up the women’s row. Bayalun obediently took the seat, accepting the slight insult the position implied without comment.

  “Sit,” the khahan said in a stronger voice, indicating a seat for Chanar beside Goyuk. Chanar hesitated, for the seat put him at a lower rank than the priest. He started to protest, then thought better of it.

  There was a strained silence and, for a moment, Yamun’s head sagged. The illustrious second wife watched the khahan with keen interest. Prince Jad, near the door of the yurt, silently drew his sword and caught the eyes of Sechen. The giant nodded slightly, indicating his readiness.

  “Have this pipe, Great Lord,” old Goyuk said brazenly, sliding forward to hand Yamun the bowl he had prepared. Abruptly the khahan’s head snapped up.

  “I’ll smoke,” Yamun answered, his voice sounding a little hollow. Taking the pipe, he lit it and took several long puffs, enjoying the sharp flavor of the exotic tobacco. Koja offered a silent prayer to the Ten-Thousand Protective Images of Furo. At the back of the yurt, the prince once again relaxed his stance.

  “You’ve heard evil rumors, no doubt,” Yamun finally said. “Rumors that assassins were sent to kill me. So, no doubt, you hurried here to prove to your own minds how wrong these rumors were.”

  Bayalun studied the khahan closely, trying to see if his image was some illusion created by the priest. At the same time, she quickly reviewed the spells she had ready, just in case there were more surprises.

  “Sadly, there was truth in the rumors. Have the guards bring the body,” Yamun commanded Sechen. The towering fellow left his position and exited the tent. Yamun continued, “Yesterday, during battle, a creature tried to kill me. It failed because my anda—” At this the khahan tipped his head toward the priest. “He fought to protect me. Let us drink to his fortune.” With a feeble wave, he had the servants bring ladles of black kumiss. Hands shaking, he raised his ladle to his lips and tipped his head back for a drink.

  As he drank his face came out of shadow. Bayalun clearly saw the deathly color of his cheeks, which were gleaming with cold sweat from the mere effort of sitting up.

  Chanar sat ramrod-straight, his hard, narrow eyes on the lama. The others raised their ladles and slurped the drink. The general, though, sat still, refusing to salute the priest.

  As the group finished the toast, Sechen coughed discreetly from the door. Yamun acknowledged his presence and everyone turned to watch as the huge Kashik pulled open the door flap. There, wrapped in a freshly butchered horsehide, was the body of the hu hsien. The guards kept it just outside the door, so that it wouldn’t pollute the khahan’s yurt. Even knowing who, or what, the body was, Koja found the creature hard to identify. It’s fur had already lost the luster it possessed in life. The gash in its chest was crudely closed, but the decay and corruption had not stopped.

  Bayalun looked at the body briefly, only long enough to satisfy herself that it was the Shou assassin the mandarin had provided. It only confirmed what she now expected, so she easily concealed the few emotions seeing the body evoked. Mother Bayalun was disappointed. She had expected much more from the great empire of Shou Lung. Their token of support, a lone assassin, had failed. Now, she would have to press them for greater commitment.

  Chanar, on the other hand, looked at the thing with disgust and fascination. He’d never seen such a creature. It didn’t surprise him that Bayalun would use beasts and not men. He could see now why her plans had failed, relying as they did on such creatures.

  “There are also rumors,” Yamun said thinly, interrupting the contemplation of the body, “that you, Mother, were somehow responsible for this.” He paused. Unconsciously, the khahan tugged gently at his mustache, his body sagging forward as he did so. “Of course, this isn’t true. Still, it would end these rumors if you swore an oath of loyalty to your khahan.”

  Bayalun glared coldly at her stepson. In icy, measured tones, she said, “You would make your mother and your wife swear to you? Men will say you are without morals for this perversion.”

  “Men will say worse of you if you refuse!” Yamun snapped, suddenly revealing surprising strength. “Will the khans hear how you are afraid of Teylas’s wrath?” Yamun braced himself once more against his knees.

  Bayalun realized that she stood alone. Chanar could not, would not, come to her aid without arousing suspicion. Bitterly the woman agreed. “Never before in our history has the khahan dared to demand this of his khadun. May Teylas find this offensive to his sight!” She turned and spat on the rugs.

  “Teylas can make of it what he wants. Now, say the oath,” Yamun commanded. By his tone it was clear he would brook no more argument.

  Bayalun stared at her husband, weighing her choices. She could hear his armor creak to his labore
d breathing. At last, she kowtowed before the khahan. With her face pressed into the rugs, she recited the ancient words.

  “Although your descendants have only a scrap of meat thrown on the grass, which not even the crows will eat; although your descendants have only a scrap of fat, which not even the dogs will eat; even then my family will serve you. Never will we raise the banner of another to sit upon the throne.”

  “As this is heard by the khahan, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, so it is heard by Teylas,” Yamun murmured in response. His body sank slightly as he recited the words. “Now, dear Bayalun, you’re tired. This audience is over.”

  Burning with humiliation, the khadun struggled from the floor, pushing herself up with her staff. Eschewing the traditional formalities of departing, she barged from the yurt, driving aside the guards with a few solid whacks of her stout wooden shaft.

  “Chanar, you will stay. I have questions for you,” the khahan ordered when the general stood to go. Chanar froze, briefly panicked, and then slowly sat back down. He looked around, wondering if the audience was about to turn into some sort of trap.

  Yamun deliberately let Chanar sit and wait. Just as Koja decided that the khahan had passed out inside his armor, Yamun spoke. “General Chanar, my anda, why aren’t you in Semphar advising Hubadai?” He let his voice trail away at the end.

  “I was ill and could not travel,” Chanar answered stiffly. He placed his hands very carefully in front of him. “I sent messengers telling you of my sickness.”

  “You could’ve ridden in a cart, or were you too sick to travel at all?” Yamun asked.

  “I am not an old man—” Chanar stopped suddenly and gave a quick glance to Goyuk. The khan’s normally pleasant smile was clouded and grim. “I am not a woman,” Chanar began again, “who cannot ride. Valiant men do not follow oxen to the battle. I could not fight from a wagon.”