by David Cook
Galloping forward, the troopers delivered Koja to the khahan's banner, set in the center of the long line. Yamun sat on a pure white charger, his son on a white mare at his side.
The troopers opened the sacks and laid out the heads of Koja's escort for Yamun to see. Some of the dead faces stared at him, while others had their eyes closed. Yamun stared back at the heads, rage building inside him. "What happened?" the khahan demanded tersely.
Koja told of the meeting while Yamun strode up and down the line, looking carefully at each head. The priest could see the look of hatred twist Yamun's visage. The Tuigan turned to his scribe as the priest described the last moments of the battle.
"See that their widows and children are taken care of for the rest of their lives," the khahan ordered, speaking in a tight, controlled voice. The scribe took down the words and sent a runner to learn the dead men's names. "Cover them up," Yamun ordered, and then he wheeled back on Koja.
"Where are their bodies?" Yamun demanded of the lama.
"The governor ordered them hung from the gate." Koja spoke softly, out of respect for the dead.
"Then, this is his answer?" Yamun mused grimly. The question was rhetorical, and Koja made no effort to answer it. "We attack." He turned and strode back to his couriers. "Sound the horn! Send in Shahin's minghan!"
The standard-bearer ran to the front of the line. There he dipped Yamun's war banner, with its horsetails and gold, five times to the east. At the same time another messenger blew three sharp blasts on a ram's horn. On the east flank, one of the banners, a silver disk hung with blue silk streamers, dipped five times. A line of one thousand horsemen broke from the front and trotted down the slope into the valley.
Even with his limited battle experience, Koja knew a thousand men couldn't take the walls of Manass. The thick gate was soundly closed, so the riders would not be able to gallop in, and they carried no ladders to scale the walls. Their lances were useless against the hewed stone. In his mind, Koja could see the attack: the warriors would gallop forward, shooting their bows from horseback, aiming at the top of the wall. Few of their shots would find a target. Most would only shatter against the stone. The archers in the towers and the battlements would wait, allowing the riders to come closer, and finally draw back their bowstrings and let loose a flight of arrows. The sharp points would cut down the riders like barley under the scythe, just as the governor had promised. Koja rode over to where Yamun was hearing the latest reports from Quaraband.
"Lord Yamun, those men are certain to die!" the priest shouted, pointing to the attackers on the valley below. They were now riding at a gallop.
"I know," he answered without looking up. "This report says Chanar hasn't left Quaraband yet. How long ago did you ride?" he queried a pock-faced messenger.
"Two days, Great Lord," answered the messenger breathlessly.
"But your men!" Koja urged in alarm, pointing toward the valley. "They're all going to die!"
"Be ready to return faster than you came. Now go eat," the khahan warned. Yamun didn't react to Koja's words. The messenger bowed in his saddle and trotted his horse away. As he left, Yamun finally turned his attention to the lama.
"Priest, you may be wise but you have much to learn," Yamun said in irritation. "I ordered Shahin to go forward so we can count their arrows. You did very poorly at noting their strengths, so Shahin must go."
"Count their arrows? You mean he's supposed to learn the strength of Manass's garrison? How?"
"Watch," Yamun instructed. He walked his horse forward, urging Koja to come along. The pair rode to where the standard-bearer stood. From that spot they had a clear view of the valley floor. "Watch and learn how we fight."
Koja looked down on Manass. Shahin's riders had assembled just out of bowshot of the walls. The distant thumping of the minghan's war drum echoed up from the fields. The riders grouped themselves into wedge-shaped jaguns. Shahin, marked by his standard, sat toward the center of the line. The standard waved to the right and then dipped. There was a ragged shout, and the right wing of riders broke away, galloping madly toward the walls. Koja watched in fascinated horror. The Tuigan were riding to certain doom.
Before the charging men had covered even half the ground to the walls, victims of the Khazari archers started to fall. A man swayed and wobbled in his saddle; a horse's front legs buckled, somersaulting horse and rider under the hooves of another charging steed. The bass roar of the hooves was punctuated by the faint screams of beasts and men.
The khahan watched the battle intently, his face impassive to the death below. "This is suicide!" Koja cried angrily, his own frustration at the pointlessness of the deaths welling up in his chest.
"Of course," Yamun said, not even trying to defend his actions. "But now I learn the enemy's strength's and weaknesses. See, look how many have died in the charge."
"You sent them out so you could count the dead?" Koja gasped in disbelieving horror.
"Yes. From this I'll know the skill of Manass's archers. See how many times they fire? How they stand on the wall?" Yamun turned his horse and rode back to the main camp. Koja stayed forward, unable to tear himself away from the deadly farce below. He was stunned that Yamun Khahan, the great leader of the Tuigan, a man who had conquered so much of the steppe, would use his men so callously.
On the field below, the first wave of soldiers was returning from its charge. Dead men and horses marked the course of their attack. Wounded horses thrashed on the ground or hobbled back toward the line. Dismounted riders scrambled over the battlefield, such as is was, rounding up mounts and galloping back to their fellows. Even before the right wing had finished forming, the signal was given and the left wing charged.
The hideous cycle repeated itself. The riders galloped forward, falling as before. This time the priest watched them carry their attack to its conclusion. Suddenly, a little over half the distance covered, the horsemen pulled up, wheeling their horses about. As they spurred their mounts back toward their lines, each man fired an arrow over his back. There was a faint, singing hum as the volley flew on its way. A few of the men on the walls tumbled and fell, some flopping over the battlements, but far too few when compared to the losses of the riders. Still, Koja could only marvel at the foolish bravery and skill of the Tuigan.
Yamun returned as the last charge straggled back from Manass. A horn blared, sounding a recall of Shahin's men. Forming into ragged groups, the riders began to gather up the wounded and straggle back to the safety of the Tuigan lines. As they withdrew from the battlefield, the gates of Manass opened and a continuous stream of riders poured out. Amazingly the Khazari raced out from the safety of the walls, chasing small knots of exhausted Tuigan, thinking the riders were broken. Shahin's warriors kept their nerve, retreating just ahead of the fresh enemy. Here and there, Khazari knights overtook their prey and overwhelmed the Tuigan troopers, but the bulk of Yamun's men avoided death. Koja marveled at the discipline and control of the troopers. There were no signs of rout or panic.
"You said the lord of Manass promised to ride us down, didn't he?" Yamun suddenly asked Koja.
"Yes, Khahan," Koja answered, shading his eyes to make out what was happening below.
"Then this lord's a fool." Yamun stroked the neck of his mare. "I need a plan. If only General Chanar were here."
Koja was surprised at the mention of the khan. "How so, Lord?" he questioned.
"Chanar's a fox, historian. He's a clever one on the battlefield. Between us, I know we'd have a plan." The khahan studied the battlefield below, stroking at his mustache as he thought. The Khazari riders had ridden well beyond the range of their bowmen on the walls. They rode helter-skelter, apparently out of the control of their commanders.
Abruptly Yamun sat up straighter in the saddle and a cold smile came to his lips. "Signal the men off the ridge, out of sight!" he shouted to the standard-bearer. "Then signal Shahin to get back here." The khahan wheeled his horse about and trotted back to the khans waiting at his camp.
Koja followed, curious as to what the khahan was up to.
"Khans, I've a plan. We'll move the men off the ridge. Then we attack with three minghans." There was a gasp among the khans.
"Three thousand men cannot win," Goyuk said with a scowl across his wrinkled face. "It is not good, Yamun."
"Tomorrow is when we'll win. Remember the battle at Bitter Well?" Yamun hinted. Goyuk's face brightened. "Into the tent," the khahan ordered, bustling the surprised warriors into his yurt. Koja stepped to follow, but a pair of guards stepped into his path. Before Koja could call for the khahan to intercede, the door flap fell shut.
The meeting went on for almost an hour, during which time messengers came and went. While he waited, Koja saw the troops shift and move their lines, making a show of retreating from Manass. When the meeting finally ended, the khans hurried to their positions. Yamun and Jad were busy with reports and messages, making it impossible for Koja to question either man. The priest could only guess what would happen next. Finally, Yamun ordered a seat prepared on the ridge. Koja followed behind, waiting for events to unfold.
"Now," ordered Yamun as he looked over the valley. A signal blared behind Koja. The standard-bearers ran forward again and waved their poles. There was a rumble of shouted commands, jingling harnesses, and drumming hooves as more troops began to stream down the slope.
The late afternoon sun was falling low in the sky by the time the three minghans, three thousand men, reached the fields outside Manass. Koja was confused and curious. He still didn't see how without siege equipment-ladders, ropes, and the like-Yamun hoped to breach the walls of Manass. Perhaps there was something the lama didn't know about warfare. It looked to him like a foolish waste of lives. This attack would fail, leaving more dead and wounded. What could Yamun intend by these hopeless attacks? the lama wondered.
Koja could not contain his curiosity anymore. Perhaps in his role as historian the priest could learn Yamun's plans. He strode through the throng of messengers, seeking out the khahan for some type of explanation. As he came forward, he was surprised to be greeted by the hulking Sechen and another guard of the Kashik.
"You will come with us, Khazari," said the wrestler. The guard's voice was hard and tinged with an unpleasant threat. Koja decided not to argue. "The khahan has given orders for you to be confined to a yurt. You will come with us." Sechen drew a knife meaningfully.
"But I've done nothing!" protested Koja.
"You are Khazari. Come with us or die." The guards flanked him, each taking one arm. Resigned and more than a little fearful for his safety, Koja allowed himself to be whisked away.
The guards placed him in a small empty yurt. Koja had no idea where his servant or his belongings were. Sechen and the other man took position outside the door. Koja, with little else to do, sat near the door, trying to glimpse the activity outside and listen to whatever he could hear.
For a long time, nothing in particular happened. Then, as the sun was almost set, he heard a familiar thunder. Horses, a large number of them, were on the move. Soon the noise grew louder and louder. Koja could only imagine the scene on the other side of the ridge. The minghans were advancing with the setting sun at their backs, to blind the archers on the walls. The lama strained to hear more. Faintly, echoing through the dusk, were the blasts of horns and the deep, staccato roar of war drums. A ringing, higher note rose above the lower rumble. At first, Koja could not place it, then he realized that it was the sustained cries of screaming horses and men.
The battle for Manass had been joined, and all Koja could do was listen.
The noise continued for about an hour after sunset, gradually growing fainter and less insistent. Koja sat still, rapt by every crash, cry, and wail that reached him. The battle was a failure, the lives were wasted; he was convinced of this. He imagined the ground outside Manass was strewn with gutted horses and broken men. Koja choked back an involuntary sob at the thought of the suffering pointlessly inflicted.
This was Yamun's vision of conquest. It was a dream, filled with blood, valor, and death, but nothing more. Koja wondered if this, the futile attack on Manass, was really what Yamun's god had shown the khahan in that thunderstorm. Was this what Yamun wanted?
Before today, the priest thought Yamun would conquer Khazari. He also had been sure that Yamun could somehow be persuaded to leave it unharmed and safe. Koja had tried to hint and suggest the possibilities for peaceful rule. What hope was there of that now? If the khahan was willing to send his own men to certain death, Koja knew Khazari could expect no mercy from the Tuigan warlord.
Images of the dream came back to him as he began pacing around the yurt. His old master had talked of his lord, and the strange creature claimed Koja was with the khahan. Who was his lord? Prince Ogandi had sent him as ambassador to the Tuigan. The khahan had sent him as ambassador to the Khazari. Now he was a prisoner. Koja felt lost, the events of the day casting his own actions into doubt. There was no treaty between the Tuigan and Khazari as a result of his actions. Instead, there was an army on the border of his homeland. He, as envoy, had failed his prince.
Exhausted, the lama sat back down and prayed to Furo for guidance, silently whispering his sutras as he sat huddled near the door. Finally Koja realized what he must do. As a lama of the Enlightened One, Koja must guide the khahan to be a true ruler, more than just a warlord.
His decision made, Koja strained to hear any sounds of the struggle, but the tumult of battle had ceased. Koja sat patiently, until sleep finally settled over him.
The guards came and woke the lama during the night. It was dark and bitterly cold in the thin mountain air, and Koja was shivering from the instant he awoke.
"Quickly," ordered Sechen, "come with us." The lama groggily heard the words without really understanding them. The guard grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet. "It's time for you to go."
"Go where?" Koja managed to ask as the Kashik pushed him through the doorway. His bodyguards were being none too kind.
"Away. We're leaving," Sechen offered as explanation. It didn't tell Koja much. The guard pushed the priest toward a horse. Servants were already setting to the task of taking down the yurt. Indeed, the camp seemed to be astir, but in an oddly silent way. The normal sounds of breaking camp- the grunted shouts, clatter of cups, even the braying of camels-were all missing. The men, even his guards, spoke in hushed tones. The fires, normally blazing, were damped to the lowest coals.
"I would like to see the khahan," Koja declared as he became more aware of where he was.
"You will," answered a guard, much to Koja's surprise. A servant held the horse for Koja to mount.
"What is going on?" Koja demanded one more time. Somehow he suspected the question was futile.
"Be quiet," Sechen hissed. The other guard nodded in agreement, smiling with a mouthful of crumbling, decayed teeth. They roughly hoisted the priest into the saddle and then mounted their own horses. The big wrestler reached over and took Koja's reins, leading his horse along. There was no clopping of horse's hooves; the pace was marked instead by a soft plodding. Koja looked at the lead horse and saw that its hooves were wrapped in bindings of rags. Wherever the army was going, they were taking great efforts to do it quietly.
The group rode in the darkness for some time, going mostly downhill. All around, Koja could hear the quiet movements of other riders. Shapes moved in and out of his vision. The lama wondered if they were moving to Manass. Had it, against all possibilities, fallen to Yamun's attack, or was the khahan secretly reinforcing whatever remained of the three thousand men already encamped outside?
As the hours went by, the priest became confused. They traveled too long to be going to Manass, even though they went slowly.
With the dawn, Sechen and his fellow guard finally came to a halt. They were on the edge of a rocky bluff overlooking a flat valley floor. A line of birches marked the course of a small stream that cut through the valley. Behind Koja were more trees, making the tops of the low mountain
s dark blue-green in the morning light.
While Sechen watered the horses, another nightguard came with a message for the wrestler. "The khahan orders you to send the priest to him," was all the man had to say. In a very short time, Koja found himself in Yamun's camp.
The Khazari priest expected the camp to be like a furious beehive of activity, with Yamun hearing reports and issuing orders, couriers galloping in and out, and commanders plotting out strategies-just the way he imagined any great leader's camp must be during times of battle. When he got there, however, he was astonished. Yamun Khahan, his son Jad, and the old Goyuk were all sitting on stools, drinking hot cups of Tuigan tea.
Slightly off to the side was a wrinkled, old wizard. In the weak light of the dawn, the sorcerer looked drawn and lean, radiating an otherworldly feeling. Perhaps it was the effect of spending a life steeped in strange magics. Koja knew that the arcane arts took a toll on their masters, sometimes even draining them of vitality.
Like the others, the wizard was sipping a cup of tea, although he did not join in the muted conversation. Instead, the wizard sat close enough to their circle to listen, but looked the other way, watching the sun rising over the ice-frosted peaks of Khazari.
Yamun and his companions did not appear to be hurried or concerned, rather more like a group of men relaxing before a hunt. They looked up, noting Koja's presence. Jad made a show of watching the tree line while old Goyuk smiled his bland smile and noisily sucked up his tea.
Yamun stood as Koja came closer to the circle. "Welcome," he said evenly. Koja could not guess what Yamun's temperament was. "Sit. Have some tea."
Koja dutifully took his place, trying to decide how he was being treated. In just a day, he'd been a diplomat, a prisoner, and now-well, he just didn't know. So many things had been going on, and none of them seemed to make sense. "Khahan," he inquired, "am I your prisoner or your envoy?" Koja chose his words with care, trying not provoke the khahan into some rash action.
"In my land you are my historian," Yamun explained, rubbing at his chin. "In Khazari, you are Khazari. Some of my khans think you are a clever spy for your people. I do not want them worrying about you."
