Horselords

by David Cook

  “Tell me, Koja of the Khazari, are you here to teach me the secrets of the Red Mountain?”

  Koja paused for a bit, trying to think of an appropriate response. Finally, he answered, “I was never the best student of my masters, and so I only learned a little from them. These were only small things in the teachings of Furo. I have traveled instead, hoping to aid others through the services of the Enlightened One.” Koja didn’t lie; he wasn’t the best disciple, but his skills were more than he allowed.

  “I thought all of you sat in your temple and meditated,” Bayalun commented, brushing a wisp of hair from her eyes. The shaman to Koja’s right broke into a fit of coughing. Bayalun pursed her lips and waited until he was done. “If you are a teacher, you must stay and instruct me in the ways of your temple.”

  Koja swallowed uncomfortably, unwilling to offend the second empress with a direct refusal. He was not here, however, to teach, even if it might spread the belief of Furo to these nonbelievers. “I will certainly be happy to teach you of our ways while I am here, illustrious empress, but I must carry messages back to my prince in Khazari.” He bowed slightly as he spoke.

  “I understand,” Bayalun said, relenting. She leaned back with a sigh, stroking her eyebrows carefully. Koja detected a note of disappointment in her voice. “So when you summon him, does Furo lay waste to your enemies?”

  Koja started at the boldness of the question. “It is said, Mother Bayalun, that he is both wondrous and terrible, but we do not summon him. We live to serve our god, not to have him come at our beck and call.” A tone of chastisement unavoidably crept into the lama’s voice.

  “I see,” said Mother Bayalun, turning away from Koja. “At this time the interview is over. It is our misfortune that you are unable to stay and instruct us. But I am sure your pressing duties need your attention. You may leave.” Koja bit at the inside of his lip, frustrated by his own indiscretion.

  The chamberlain came forward and touched Koja on the shoulder, motioning the priest to rise. Koja hoisted himself to his feet and backed out of the tent, bowing as he went. The priest, bewildered by the strange meeting, was led back to his waiting horse. Only one man from his original escort remained. The two of them rode back toward his tent, once again following the roundabout way they had taken earlier.

  “Why do we go this way? It is shorter that way,” Koja said, pointing along a route that would lead them past the front of the royal enclosure and Yamun’s bodyguard.

  “Orders.”

  “Oh,” the lama answered. The white-kalated guard trotted his shaggy-maned horse forward, expecting the priest to follow along.

  Koja, inattentive to his riding, urged his horse forward, giving it what he thought was a gentle kick. The mare set off at a full gallop. Koja was slammed forward into his saddle and then toppled backward, barely keeping his hold, as the horse leaped over a cooking fire. The lama only had time to glimpse a flash of startled faces. Panicked, he dropped the reins and used both hands to cling to the saddle arch. There was another hard jolt, and his feet flew from the stirrups.

  “Haii!” shouted the guard, wheeling his horse around to pursue. The man leaned forward onto the neck of his pony, slashing its haunches with his three-thonged knout. “Haii! Haii!” he cried, trying to warn everyone out of his path. The guard could see Koja bouncing and tumbling about on his saddle, feet flying in the air.

  “Stop! Stop!” Koja screamed to his horse as it took a tight turn past an oxcart. He managed to knot one hand into the pony’s mane while his other arm flailed about. The horse’s hooves clattered and thundered, pounding over the icy ground and meager grass. Koja tossed to the right, lurched forward, cracked his spine in a hard jolt against the saddle, then felt his legs fly backward, almost up over his head. The wind whipped at his robes as the pony galloped onward.

  From behind Koja there was a chorus of shouts, cries, and yells. Suddenly, a man’s scream came from in front of him. The horse answered the scream and reared, almost throwing Koja off its back. The mare’s breath was labored, coming in snorting pants. There was a sharp crack as its hooves hit the ground.

  The jolt snapped the priest forward, flipping his body over the front of the saddle, one hand still tangled in the mare’s mane. In an instant, Koja slammed to the ground, thrown completely over the head of the panting steed, a hank of mane in his hand. As he hit, Koja’s head struck a stone.

  “Haii-haii-hai,” the breathless guard hoarsely shouted as he leaped from the saddle of his still-moving steed. He sprinted over to where the runaway horse pranced. Under its hooves was the priest, a huddled form of tangled robes. From the nearby tents ran the black-garbed men of the khahan’s guard.

  Yamun paced back and forth along the dusty streambed; it was the only action that could contain his frustration and anger. Several times he stopped to slash an offending tuft of grass with his bloodstained knout. At one end of his pace was the guardsman of the second empress, Koja’s escort, spread-eagled on the ground. The man lay staked out on his back, his head pressed into the dirt by a cangue, a heavy, Y-shaped yoke that was lashed to his neck by twisted thongs. The guardsman had been stripped naked and was bleeding from several lash marks.

  At the other end of Yamun’s stride was a pallet bearing the unconscious priest. Huddled around him were three shamans, wearing their ritual masks. A piece of white cloth, set with a silver bowl of milk and bloody sheep bones, was spread at the head of the pallet. Encircling everyone was a wall of Kashik dayguards, their backs turned so that they faced away from Yamun and the shamans, forming a living wall. A strong wind whipped their kalats about their legs. In the distance, the smoke of Quaraband curled over the dim shapes of the tents.

  Yamun stopped at the prisoner. “Why did old Bayalun summon the Khazari?” he demanded, towering over the bound man.

  The prisoner, choking from a parched throat, barely gurgled a reply. Infuriated, Yamun whipped him with the knout, leaving more bloody wounds.

  “Why did she summon him?”

  “I—I—don’t know,” the guardsman rasped out.

  “What did they talk about?”

  The guard gasped as Yamun struck him again. “I did not hear!”

  Disgusted, Yamun strode to the other end of the little compound, where the shamans worked. “Will he live?”

  “It is very difficult, Great Prince,” spoke one of the three. He wore a crow mask, and his thin, creaky voice echoed hollowly from it. Horse-mask and Bear-mask kept to their work.

  “I don’t care. Give me an answer,” Yamun snapped.

  “His gods are different from ours, Khahan. It is hard to know if our healing spells will have power over him. We can only try.”

  Yamun grunted. “Then you’d better try very hard.” He turned to resume his pacing.

  The wall of Kashik parted to allow a mounted rider to enter. The man, a commander of a minghan in the Kashik, slid quickly off his horse, ran to Yamun, and knelt before the khahan.

  “Get up and report,” Yamun ordered.

  “I come from the tents of the Mother Bayalun, as you ordered, Great Lord.”

  “And what did she have to say?”

  “Mother Bayalun says she only wanted to learn more of the world,” the officer quickly answered as he looked toward the prisoner on the ground.

  Yamun gripped his knout with both hands. “And what’s her excuse for the guards?”

  “According to her, the orders she gave were not followed. She commanded the guards to escort the priest to and from his tent, and to make sure that he was not hurt,” the commander explained. “She ordered an arban of men to go as escort, but they did not obey her orders.”

  “Then you must ride back and tell her to choose a punishment for the nine that deserted their posts,” Yamun ordered. He impatiently scuffed at the ground with his toe.

  “She has anticipated your desire and has already given her judgment. They are to be sewn into the skins of oxen and sunk into the river, as is by custom.”

 
; “She’s clever and quick. She hopes this will appease me.” Yamun pulled at his mustache as he thought it over. “Her judgment will do. Still, I want you to go back and tell her I’m not satisfied. For letting this happen, she must reduce the size of her bodyguard. I’ll set the numbers when I return.”

  “Yes, Khahan. Surely the second empress will be angry, Lord. Might she do something dangerous?” The officer had heard much of Bayalun’s powers.

  “I don’t need to please her. She’ll accept it because I’m the khahan,” Yamun said confidently. He turned and walked over to his captive. “And did she say anything about him?” Yamun asked, pointing at the man on the ground.

  “Seeing as he is within your grip, she allows you to deal with him as you want.”

  Yamun looked down on the man. The fellow’s eyes were wide, waiting for word from the khahan.

  “He did not desert, Khahan,” the officer noted.

  “True. He can live, but …” The khahan paused, thinking. “He failed in his duties. Fetch men and stones. Crush one ankle so he cannot ride again. Let all who disobey you know that this is by the word of the khahan.”

  “By your word, it shall be done,” answered the commander. Taking his horse, he left the circle to see to the arrangements.

  The sound of the drum and flute brought Yamun’s attention back to the shamans. The droning melody of their chant was just ending when he came back to them. Taking their horsetail wands, the shamans sprinkled the still body of the priest with milk and then stepped away from the pallet.

  “Well?” demanded Yamun, only to be hushed by Crow-mask.

  “Wait, we will know in a little while.” The shaman’s voice echoed from inside the mask. The three squatted down on their haunches. Yamun stood behind them, fiddling with his knout. Finally his patience could take no more and he resumed his pacing.

  After several minutes Yamun heard a cough. He turned and strode back to the pallet. Koja was struggling to prop himself up on one elbow. The shamans clustered around, their masks pushed up from their faces. They fussed over the priest, pushing him back down each time he weakly tried to sit up. Crow-mask turned to Yamun. “He lives, Illustrious Khahan. The spirits of the Sky God, Teylas, have favored him with their blessing.”

  “Good,” commented Yamun, stepping past the man. He looked down into Koja’s wan face. Dried blood still caked the back of his skull, although the wound, magically healed, had already knit. “Well, envoy of the Khazari, want to go riding?” He laughed at his own joke while Koja winced in pain at the thought.

  One of the shamans tugged at the khahan’s sleeve. “Gently, Great Lord. He is still very weak.”

  Yamun grunted in acknowledgment and squatted down beside the sickbed. He waved the shamans back so he could be alone. “You live.”

  Koja nodded weakly, tried to raise his head, and fell back in pain. “What—where …?” His questions drifted off.

  “You’re outside Quaraband. I had you brought here so the shamans could work their spells on you.”

  Koja took a deep breath and composed his thoughts. “What happened to me?”

  “You were thrown from your horse. My guard brought you in, almost dead. It took a little time, but the shamans healed your wounds.” Yamun’s legs were getting stiff, so he rocked gently from side to side to stretch. “The men who failed you have been punished,” he added, assuming the priest would demand justice without delay.

  A cloud of confusion swirled in Koja’s eyes, only in part from dizziness. “Why have you done this?” Remembering his manners, he rephrased the question. “Why has the khahan, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, come here to see to the health of this insignificant one? You have bestowed great favor on me.”

  Yamun scratched his neck, thinking of how to explain it. The reasons for his actions seemed obvious to Yamun, so he assumed that those same reasons were clear to everyone. “Why? You’re a guest in my yurt. It wouldn’t be good if you died while you were here. People would say my tents were plagued by evil spirits.”

  The khahan paused and smiled. “Besides, what would your prince think if I sent him a message saying ‘Please send another priest, the first one died? I don’t think he would be pleased.” Yamun picked up a pebble and rolled it between his fingers.

  “And now,” Yamun said softly, “I’ve saved your life.” The warlord tossed the rock aside.

  Koja was at a loss for words. “I am unable to repay you for this, Great Lord,” he whispered at last. A shiver ran through his body. His chest felt tight and restricted.

  Yamun smiled broadly, the scar on his lip giving it a leering quality. His eyes remained squinted and hard. “Envoy of the Khazari, I need a new scribe. The last one proved unreliable.”

  Koja gulped painfully. “Unreliable?”

  “He forgot his loyalties.”

  Koja remembered the bloody head and Yamun’s quick justice. “You mean—”

  “He told me what others wanted me to hear” Yamun interrupted. “So, who do you serve?”

  Koja hesitated in fear, then swallowed and answered. “Prince Ogandi of the Khazari, Great Lord.” He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow.

  “Hah! Good!” Yamun bellowed. “If you’d betray your proper lord to serve me, what kind of loyalty could I expect?” He slapped his thigh in satisfaction. “But now, you will do your prince service by serving me.”

  “Great Khan, I—”

  Yamun cut off his protests. “Your prince ordered you to learn more about me and my people, didn’t he?”

  “Yes, but how did you know?” Fearful that his letters had been found, Koja struggled and finally managed to sit up.

  “Because that’s what I’d have you do. Now, as my scribe, you’ll be very close to me and have the chance to learn many things, won’t you?” Yamun scratched at his chest.

  “Yes,” Koja answered hesitantly.

  “Good. It’s decided.” Yamun stood once again, rubbing the soreness out of his back. The khahan turned and looked toward the tents of Quaraband. “You’ve met the second empress. What do you think of her?”

  “She is … strong-willed,” responded Koja, picking his words carefully.

  Yamun snorted. “She tried to get something from you, I see. Remember, she will never give up, and she is powerful. Most of the wizards and shamans heed her words.”

  “I will remember.”

  “As my scribe,” Yamun continued, still looking away, “she may seek your favor. Look over there.” He turned and pointed across the small circle.

  Koja looked where Yamun pointed and saw the bound prisoner. Up to now the man had been mostly silent, except for slight whimpers of pain. Koja was barely able to recognize him as the rider from his escort. Yamun raised his hand, signaling to his guard. Two men stepped from the ranks. Each carried a large, flat stone. Seeing them, the prisoner began to scream and beg for mercy. Impassive to his cries, the men set to work.

  With a quick cut of the knife, the guards slashed the bindings that held one leg. One man quickly grabbed the victim’s leg, twisting the ankle upward, while the other Kashik slid one stone underneath. The prisoner, still screaming, tried to kick free, but he was held fast. The second guard raised his stone high over his head.

  “Stop them, Khahan!” Koja cried out as he realized the guard was about to smash the stone down. The effort it took to shout caused him to fall into a wracking fit of coughing.

  “Hold!” Yamun commanded. The Kashik lowered the stone he held over his head.

  “Why should they stop?” Yamun demanded of Koja once the coughing passed.

  “This man has done nothing. You cannot blame him for my accident,” Koja protested.

  “Why not?” Yamun countered. “He failed to protect you. Therefore, he must be punished. At least he will live. His comrades were drowned.”

  His mind already weak from shock, Koja was amazed at Yamun’s words. “It is not his fault that I was hurt. I will not have him harmed,” the priest finally said with conviction. Exhau
sted, he fell back on the pallet.

  Yamun sucked on his cheek as he listened to the priest. “Do you request his life?” the burly warlord asked.

  “His life? Yes, I do,” Koja answered as he lay on his back.

  Yamun looked over to the prisoner. The man was watching them, his eyes filled with fear and expectation. “Very well, priest. According to custom, I give him to you; he’s your slave. His name is Hodj. If he commits any crime you’ll be punished. That too is our custom.”

  “I understand this,” Koja assured Yamun, closing his eyes.

  “Good. Now, as for Bayalun, she’ll assume that you’re loyal to me. She hates me,” he said matter-of-factly, “and so she’ll hate you. Always remember that I’m all that stands between her wrath and you.” Yamun signaled the guards to release Hodj and then left to find his horse.

  Koja watched the khahan ride off as the bearers came and hoisted his pallet onto their shoulders. All the way back to Quaraband the priest silently said his prayers, calling on Furo to protect him until he saw his home again.

  3

  Lightning

  For four days, Koja lived in a special white yurt raised on the outskirts of Quaraband, just outside the boundary of the magic-dead lands. Here he stayed on his pallet, resting and regaining his strength. Once a day the shamans came and unfurled their white sheet and set out their offerings to Teylas. Beating their drums and howling out chants, they cast spells to heal and fortify him. Every day, after they left, Koja would sink into deep concentration, praying to Furo for strength and forgiveness. Though he told no one, the priest was mortified, fearful that Furo and the Enlightened One would shun him for having accepted the healing of another deity.