Horselords

by David Cook

  “Tell the yurtchis to bring the camp forward. We will be staying here.” With a wave, the khahan dismissed the remaining couriers. When they had withdrawn an appropriate distance, Yamun turned to the priest.

  “Now, anda, why did this happen?” The khahan’s voice was hard and measured.

  “I do not know. What you saw, if I’m right, was the work of a powerful spirit creature.” The priest spoke softly, not wanting to commit himself without knowing more.

  “You’re saying this … creature protects the Shou and won’t let us attack the Dragonwall?” Yamun asked incredulously, trying to understand the power he had just seen. His rage and frustration were growing.

  “Perhaps. I do not know.” Koja looked toward the carnage on the plain.

  “Can I defeat it, anda?”

  “I do not know,” Koja sighed. “I have never seen anything like this. I do not know what to do.”

  “Then think of something!” Yamun shouted, slashing his knout against the ground.

  Koja swallowed nervously. “I have had dreams. I think the spirit spoke to me. It called on you, and me, to free it from the wall. It seemed to think that we had some power.”

  “That’s all you know?” Yamun asked, disappointed when the lama stopped talking. “Your plan is to wait for it to visit you in your sleep?”

  “If I must, Yamun. Spirits are not easy things to command.” Koja was tired and almost lost his temper with the khahan. He took a long, slow breath, then added, “I must seek guidance from Furo.”

  “Talk to your god then. And when you are done, tell me how to defeat that thing.” Yamun thrust his finger toward the furrowed plain. “The servants will bring you anything you need. I must attend to other things.” Yamun stood to go. “Teylas’s blessing on you, anda,” he said just before he left.

  “And Furo’s on you, Yamun,” the lama offered. Koja watched the khahan descend once more onto the plain.

  “Paper and brush,” the priest ordered of a quiverbearer. The man hurriedly brought the material and set it before Koja. Taking up the brush, the priest carefully wrote an elegy for the dead on the field below. The poem was not composed out of artistic desire, however; the priest needed the verse for the spell he wished to cast. Finished with the poem, he read it through, then set it aside.

  “See that no one disturbs me,” Koja ordered the servant. The man nodded in understanding. The lama closed his eyes and began to recite prayers. For ten minutes he droned on, never raising his voice. Then he stopped, opened his eyes, and touched the paper to flame. The thin sheet quickly burned, the ashes drifting into the air. The lama closed his eyes again and waited.

  Abruptly he opened his eyes and stood up. The spell was over; he had communed with his god. With one foot, he scattered the remaining ashes. A small group of quiverbearers had gathered to watch his strange behavior. Now, they hurriedly went back to their tasks, afraid Koja would put a curse on them.

  “Where is Yamun?” the lama demanded. One of the servants nervously pointed toward the west. “At his yurt, great historian.” Not wasting any time, Koja found his horse and rode to Yamun’s tent.

  When the lama was announced, Yamun quickly cleared the yurt and had his anda ushered in. “Sit and tell me what you’ve learned,” the khahan said as soon as Koja stepped through the door.

  “Mighty Furo saw fit to hear my prayers,” Koja said as he took his seat. Yamun got off his throne and sat on the floor closer to his anda.

  “And?”

  “It was a spirit that attacked today, a spirit that is trapped in the Dragonwall,” Koja eagerly explained. “The same spirit spoke to me in dreams, although Furo did not say why it chose to.”

  “But can it be destroyed?” Yamun demanded, holding up a fist.

  Koja shook his head. “No, not destroyed. Furo said it craves release. There is some way to free it.”

  “How, anda, how?” Yamun stared at Koja, awaiting his answer.

  The lama took a deep breath. “For that, I must consult the spirit of the Dragonwall.”

  “Then do it,” Yamun said as he headed for the door.

  “I cannot,” said Koja, bringing the khahan to a stop. “I cannot until I rest. These spells are very tiring. I will be ready tonight, before the dawn. And I will need an offering, one suitable to something as powerful as this spirit must be. Is this possible, Yamun?”

  “It will be arranged,” Yamun assured the lama as he slowly walked back to his throne. “What happens after you talk to this spirit?”

  “I do not know,” Koja admitted. “I have never done this type of thing before.”

  A Kashik slowly appeared at the door, making sure that the khahan knew of his presence. Behind him came one of Yamun’s couriers. “A message from Sechen the Wrestler, Great Lord,” explained the Kashik, stepping aside to let the messenger speak.

  “Speak your message,” Yamun ordered.

  “Sechen sends me to report that Goyuk Khan is dead.” The messenger bowed his head and stood quietly.

  Yamun walked to the door and looked out over the plain, the pain clear in his face. Slowly and deliberately he spoke, “Shou Lung will pay.” His voice implied no threat, no promise, only a certainty that he would break the Dragonwall and gain his vengeance on the emperor who cowered behind it.

  16

  Traitors

  That night was a somber one in the Tuigan camp. The yurtchis, following Yamun’s instructions, had moved the tents forward so that by late evening the yurts were in position. Campfires covered the ridge and the near side of the plain before the Dragonwall. Yamun ordered the men to build extra fires to make the army seem even larger. Still, no fire was closer than what Koja, Bayalun, and her wizards determined was safe. The distant tumble of rocks served as a reminder of what could happen to any who ventured too close to the Shou fortification.

  The fires of the Tuigan were matched by sparks of flame along the length of the Dragonwall. The Shou troops had withdrawn behind the wall and now lined its ramparts. In the darkness between the two forces, jackals growled and fought over the carrion.

  In the royal yurt, Yamun sat, searching for a way to break the stalemate. The khahan had to be prepared, in case Koja failed. Sechen, his duties among the troops finished, stood at his usual place by the door. Bayalun and Chanar sat at the khahan’s feet. Though her mood was dark, Bayalun sat calmly. Chanar was openly agitated, distressed by the actions of the Shou. It was not according to the plan. Yamun assumed the general’s nervousness was caused by frustration at the day’s failure.

  From the corner, the scribe read aloud the reports from the scouts. The news was not encouraging. There was no hope of flanking the wall, nor had the riders been able to find any weak spots along its length. Some reported troop movements atop the wall, but the numbers given were not large enough to alarm the khahan. Other scouts screened the army’s flanks, watching for enemy repositioning. So far these riders had seen nothing.

  Other couriers carried dispatches from Prince Tomke. The khahan’s third son was marching with his army to join Yamun. Unlike his brothers, Jad and Hubadai, however, Tomke was cautious and advanced with care. The message claimed it would be several days before his men would arrive. This last piece of news prompted Yamun to send his son an angry rebuke about his troops’ slowness.

  Finally, the scribe reached a sheet that arrived only a few hours before, a scroll delivered from the Shou. Carefully and slowly, the ancient scholar read the crabbed characters, holding the sheet close to his eyes to see it clearly in the dim light.

  Khahan, the note began. The emperor of the Jade Throne is pleased to call you an equal to his sons.

  You have seen the futility of attacking the unbreakable Dragonwall. It is a truth that if you continue, your greatness will only be dimmed by failure. Let there be no quarrel between the Tuigan and the emperor of all Shou Lung. Depart and go in peace.

  As the scribe finished reading the note aloud, Yamun looked at both Chanar and Bayalun. “They want us to surre
nder.”

  “So it would seem, Khahan,” Bayalun said. Chanar only grunted in agreement.

  Yamun picked at his teeth. “Mother Bayalun, why did your wizards fail me today?” The accusation in the khahan’s voice was clear.

  Unfazed by her stepson’s obvious distrust, Bayalun sat proud and stiff-backed as she gave her explanation. “The wizards failed you no more than your own men. They were unprepared for what happened.”

  “And why did it happen?” Yamun pressed.

  “It is a mystery,” Bayalun admitted. She lowered her eyes to the floor, abashed at being forced to admit her ignorance.

  “When will your wizards know? Tomorrow? That is when they must be ready,” Yamun insisted, nodding to the scribe to write the order.

  “If my son, my husband, were to rescind his orders to have the wizards beaten, I am certain they will be able to help tomorrow.” Bayalun kept looking to the floor, seeking Yamun’s favor with mock humility.

  “They deserve to be beaten,” Yamun snapped.

  “Perhaps,” the second empress allowed. “But if they are beaten, they will be too weak to fight tomorrow.”

  “Then give me seven of them, to make an example to the others.”

  Bayalun stiffened. “No. Their numbers are few and you will need them all tomorrow.” She realized her defiance had backed Yamun into a corner with no way to save face. “Tomorrow, if they fail, you may do as you wish with all of them,” the khadun offered.

  Yamun bristled at her disobedience, knowing he could not force her to comply with the conflict looming before his army. “Very well,” he said, his voice tinged by his ill-temper. “Make certain they’re ready. There will be no more failures.” He pointed at her to accent his words. Her face a mask, Bayalun nodded in understanding.

  Finished with the question of wizards, Yamun turned his attention to Chanar. “My general, with Goyuk slain, I’m giving you command of the Ciejan, Ormusk, and Ulu tumens. I’ll take the rest.” Chanar bowed his head in gratitude. “Will your men be ready for battle tomorrow?” the khahan asked.

  “Of course, Yamun. But how will we cross the plain?” Chanar gestured in the general direction of the wall. “Their magic will destroy us.”

  Yamun smiled enigmatically. “Perhaps not. Now, Chanar, my valiant man, we must make a plan. Since we cannot get the Shou to chase us, how do we attack their wall?”

  Stepping down from his throne, Yamun sat on the rugs across from his general. The scribe quickly unrolled a long, narrow scroll between the two men. Along one edge was a diagram of the Dragonwall, showing the gates and the towers. Opposite the wall were little circles, denoting the camps of the Tuigan.

  Chanar risked a glance toward Bayalun, to see if she knew what the khahan intended. Noting the general’s perplexed look, she gave a small, quick shrug to show that she knew no more than he. Chanar looked back to the map, studying it briefly. “First, Yamun, we must find a way to reach the wall. The broken dirt blocks our horses.”

  “I agree. Mother Bayalun,” the khahan called out without looking up from the map, “your wizards must clear a path through the broken earth.”

  “Yes, my husband,” the khadun answered quietly as she looked over their shoulders. “But the men will fear being crushed if the earth moves again.”

  “Just do what you are ordered. I will worry about the men. How long will it take?” Yamun demanded impatiently.

  Bayalun looked to the ceiling, calculating the spells needed to do the task. “By morning, I think.”

  “Go then and see that it is done,” Yamun ordered. “Sechen, lead a guard to protect the khadun. Send me reports on her progress.”

  “By your word, it shall be done,” the soldier and the khadun both said at once. As the pair left, Bayalun eyed the big wrestler venomously. She knew that the man was being sent to spy on her.

  Yamun turned his attention back to the map. “If the paths were clear, Chanar, where would you make the attack?”

  Chanar studied the map, stalling to conceal his discomfort. The khahan did not suspect that tomorrow the general planned to overthrow him. The khahan was, in fact, giving the traitor an opportunity to personally plan his downfall. His intentions set, Chanar studied the map in earnest.

  “I would strike here and here,” the general answered, his hand sweeping over the map. He tackled the problem with enthusiasm. Things were almost like earlier times, in the days when he and Yamun made plans to conquer the Dalats and Quirish. Only now, the stakes were much higher and the game subtler.

  Quickly Chanar sketched out his ideas to Yamun. The khahan listened, then added these to his own plans, never realizing that Chanar was planning treachery. Together they argued and discussed, working well into the night. It was a slow process, but gradually the two warriors created a plan of battle for the morning.

  “I’ll have arbans sent into the mountains to cut trees for rams and ladders immediately,” Chanar promised. “The men will be ready to attack at dawn.”

  “Excellent, my anda,” Yamun said. “Tomorrow we will avenge Goyuk. Go and rest. There will be much to do when the sun rises.” With a wave he dismissed the general.

  As the warrior left the tent, Yamun settled back with satisfaction. Chanar at times might be ambitious, but Yamun thought that he could depend on the general. The plan they had worked out was dangerous, but sound.

  Outside the tent, Chanar sought out Bayalun at her yurt. Telling the guards Yamun had posted there that he carried orders from the khahan, the general was admitted with only the briefest announcement. Chanar was not surprised to find Bayalun still awake, meditating over her brazier. Once safely out of earshot of the guard, Chanar told her what had happened. “Why is he planning this? Does he expect your wizards to keep the ground from tearing open again?” Chanar asked in bewilderment.

  “I do not know,” Bayalun confessed. “I have sat here and pondered on it. The Shou have built some secret into their wall. Of that I am certain. But why Yamun is confident he can overcome their magic is another mystery.” She shrugged off these concerns. “Whatever he does, it will not matter. If the Shou kill him with their magic or we catch him in the trap, our plans will succeed.”

  “Then he will fall,” Chanar observed.

  “Of course—just as long as he makes the attack.” Bayalun glanced toward the vain general with a knowing smile. “Tomorrow, my stepson will be dead. Then we can see about making you the khahan of the Tuigan—as you should be.”

  Chanar returned the smile, though his heart was pained. Tonight, for a short time, he and Yamun were anda once more. Tomorrow that bond would be severed forever.

  While Chanar and Bayalun plotted in her yurt, Koja and a small group of guardsmen picked their way between the Tuigan camp and the Dragonwall. Quietly, the company moved through the ruins of the battlefield toward the line of tumbled dirt and stone that marked the limit of that day’s charge. Several times the men came across bands of jackals or viler creatures—gigantic centipedes and carrion worms—feasting on the bodies of the dead. The sight sickened the priest, but there was little he could do for the dead now. He said a few quick prayers for the fallen warriors.

  The corpses reminded Koja that he should attempt to speak to the dead guard discovered that morning, providing he ever got the chance. There was something about the way the bodies were found that nagged at his brain. It’s probably nothing, the lama assured himself so he could keep his mind on the business at hand. However, this was a war, and you can’t be too careful.

  The band finally reached the churned, rocky ground that marked the beginning of the destruction. “Here, priest?” asked the guide, a grizzled Kashik with long, gray braids.

  Koja shook his head and whispered with exaggerated caution. “On the other side, as close to the Dragonwall as possible.”

  The Kashik looked ahead apprehensively, then began carefully picking a path through the rubble. Strict orders were given down the line not to talk or make any unnecessary noise.

  S
lowly, the men walked over the top of the mound and started down the loose slope on the other side. Each time a stone skittered down the slope, the men froze, waiting for a challenge. It was a painful hour before they reached the bottom.

  The dark shadow of the Dragonwall stood out distinctly ahead of them. Koja and the men were close enough to make out individual soldiers at the top of the wall, outlined against the fires they had built to keep them warm. “Now?” hissed the Kashik at Koja. The lama only shook his head.

  Stealthily the group moved forward from shadow to shadow, toward a nearly deserted section of the wall. At last, they were at the base of the fortification. Now, no one spoke. The guards watched warily as Koja sat, preparing his spell.

  Alone, the priest carefully unwrapped the offering he brought—the khahan’s sword and jewel-encrusted scabbard. He hoped this would be sufficient to contact the spirit. Very softly, he began to murmur sutras similar to those he had used earlier in the day. The lama spoke with exaggerated clarity and care.

  At the closing words of the prayer, the priest fell into a trance. Quickly, something writhed out of the wall near Koja. At first it only seemed to be a small tendril of smoke, then it grew, expanding and swelling. Finally it coalesced into the transparent outline of a huge dragon. The long serpentine coils of its body lazily circled the priest. The flowing, fanged face stopped directly in front of him.

  The dragon’s body seemed to glimmer from reflected light, even though there was no light to reflect; The creature’s scales shone with iridescent colors. The spirit was massive and yet moved with an ethereal grace. It looked solid, yet floated lightly. It was a spirit, unreal, yet appeared real before Koja’s eyes.

  Why have you summoned me? the spirit bellowed inside the priest’s mind. Its voice was the voice of Koja’s old master, and it triggered the priest’s memories of lectures given in the great hall of the temple. The words made the stubble on the back of the lama’s shaven head prickle.