by David Cook
By the fourth day, the shamans were marveling at Koja’s speedy recovery and priding themselves on the efficacy of their spells. To their minds, Teylas clearly favored them by accomplishing the healing of this foreign priest. The shamans told the khahan of this wondrous progress, explaining that the priest must somehow be special.
Four days also gave Koja time to learn his new servant’s qualities. Although Hodj was a slave, Koja refused to treat him like one, and, instead, gave him the liberties and confidence of a trusted servant. Hodj responded to this and seemed to care for his new master. The first morning Hodj made tea in the Tuigan style—thick with milk and salt. Koja almost choked, and a tea-brewing lesson immediately followed. Thereafter, Hodj brewed tea Khazari-style—thick with butter—although he made an awful face as he set it out for his master.
While recovering, Koja had little to do with his days but listen. Hodj rarely spoke, but the shamans were another matter. Their lengthy conversations usually centered on beliefs, but ranged across a variety of subjects.
Soon, Koja had enough new information to add to his letters. He lit the oil lamp that sat on his small desk and unfolded a thin sheet of paper, the page softly crackling as he smoothed it out on the top of the desk. The white paper appeared straw yellow in the dim circle of light from the lamp. Taking up his brush, Koja began to write in tight, controlled strokes.
The khahan claims to command more than one hundred thousand men, in four different armies. I know too little to say if he is a boastful man. Three of his armies are led by his sons. The fourth commander is Chanar Ong Kho. He is a vain and proud man. There are also many lesser khans among the Tuigan. Most of these I have had no chance to meet.
The khahan has a wife, the Second Empress Eke Bayalun, his own stepmother. She surrounds herself with sorcerers and holy men, and seems to have sway over the shamans of the people. That she does not love her husband is clear, and her feelings may be even stronger. There is some chance that overtures to her would drive a wedge between the khahan and his wizards.
Having written everything he could, Koja was left with nothing to do but brood. In particular, he was worried how to get his letters to Prince Ogandi. In Semphar, trusted messengers carried them by the Silk Road to Khazari. Here, his only choice was the khahan’s riders, and Koja certainly did not trust them with his messages. He wished he could send the letters safely back, but that was not possible. However, there was little Koja could do, since he had to stay until the khahan at least gave some answer to Ogandi’s offer. Am I doing the right thing, he worried, in serving as Yamun’s scribe in the meantime?
After four days of rest, Koja was fit enough to get about. He was still weak, but Yamun pressed him to return to the royal compound. The khahan needed his scribe. So, reluctantly, Koja returned to Quaraband and assumed his duties as the khahan’s court scribe.
There was not much to these duties, mostly sitting quietly to the side during the khahan’s audiences, noting any orders or proclamations Yamun made. It was quiet work, indeed so much so that Koja learned little more about the khahan than he already knew. Two weeks of that drudgery passed before anything of note happened.
It was very late at night, almost midnight, and the three men remaining in the royal yurt were almost exhausted. Yamun sat half-sprawled on his throne, drinking wine and resting. Koja, still only two weeks at his new duties, yawned as he patiently worked with a pile of papers. In the darkness at the side of the yurt was one of Yamun’s nightguards. In his black kalat, the man almost disappeared into the gloom. He sat still, trying to remain bright and alert, knowing he would be beaten if he fell asleep.
His writing table pulled up in front of him, Koja sat transcribing the day’s judgments and pronouncements. As he worked, the priest stopped to listen to the hammering roars of thunder and staccato pounding of rain against felt. The thunderstorm raging outside made him start each time a new crash shook the yurt. Such storms were the distant battles of the god Furo against the evil spirits of the earth—at least that was what he had been taught. Still, this storm, the first since Koja had arrived in Quaraband, was greater than any the priest had ever heard before.
All day the sky had been gray, promising a storm of swelling power. While the khans had watched the sky fearfully, the khahan had been edgy, waiting for the rain to come. In the early evening, the storm broke. Abruptly, Yamun dismissed the khans and the servants, sending them out into the downpour. Since then, Yamun had been sitting, drinking wine and occasionally issuing orders, but his tension had not subsided. By this hour, the khahan moved wearily and his temper was short.
Yamun swallowed a gulp of wine from a chased silver cup. “Write out this order, scribe,” he said brusquely.
Koja neatly set aside the notes he had been working on and laid out a fresh sheet of paper. His vision was blurred by the long hours he worked. His tired fingers dropped the writing brush, splattering the drops of black ink over the clean white page.
“You’ll have to be stronger than that, scribe,” Yamun growled, irritated with the delay. “Make yourself tougher. You’ll have days and nights with no sleep when we begin to march.”
“March, Great Khan?” In two weeks of taking down proclamations, Koja had yet to hear any mention of the armies of the khahan going on campaign.
“Yes, march. You think I intend to sit here forever, waiting on the pleasure of others—like your Prince Ogandi? In time, I must march,” the stocky man snapped back. “Soon the pastures here will be gone, and then we must move.”
“Great Khahan,” Koja pleaded as he rearranged the papers, “would it not be easier for you to find another scribe? Surely one of your people, somebody stronger, could do the job.”
“What’s this? You don’t like being my scribe?” The khahan glowered over his cup at Koja, his foul mood getting worse.
“No, it’s not that,” Koja stuttered. “It’s … I am not brave. I am not a soldier,” he blurted out. Terrified, he turned his attention to the sheets in front of him, mumbling, “Besides, I never thought there was so much work. I mean—”
“You thought we were ignorant and didn’t know how to keep records,” Yamun interrupted in cold tones. Koja despaired. All his attempts to explain his weaknesses were only making things worse.
Yamun slid forward out of his seat, bringing himself close to Koja. “I can’t write and I can’t read, so you think I’m a fool. I know the value of these.” He grabbed up a handful of Koja’s papers from the little writing desk. “Great kings and princes all rule by these slips of paper. I’ve seen the papers sent out by the emperor of Shou Lung. I, too, am an emperor. I’m not some little prince who goes from tent to tent, talking to all his followers. I am the khahan of all the Tuigan and I will be more.”
Koja looked in silence at the khahan, startled by the outburst.
Still, the skepticism must have shown on the priest’s face. Yamun heaved to his feet, splashing wine over the carpets. “You doubt me? Teylas has promised it to me! Listen to him out there,” he shouted, pausing long enough for Koja to hear a particularly loud thunderclap. “That’s his voice. Those are his words. Most people live in fear of him. They pray and scream, afraid he’ll call them to the test. But I’m not afraid. He’s tested me and I still live.” Wobbling slightly from the drink, Yamun walked toward the door. “He’s calling to me now. Today.”
Koja stayed at his seat, trying to make sense of Yamun’s ranting. The nightguard, however, dashed over to the doorway and flung himself down on the carpet. “Great Prince,” he entreated, “do not go outside! I beg it of you. There has never been a storm like this. It is an evil omen. Teylas has released his spirits upon us. If you go out they will try to snatch you away. Teylas is angry!”
“See,” Yamun shouted across the yurt at Koja. “They all fear the storms, the might of Teylas. These are my soldiers—children! Move, guardsman,” he ordered, turning his attention back to the cowering man. “I don’t fear the wrath of Teylas. After all, I am the khahan. My ances
tor was born the child of Teylas and the Blue Wolf.”
Arrogantly, Yamun strode past the kneeling man and unfastened the door flap. The heavy cloth immediately flew open with a crack. Cold rain blasted through the open doorway, swept in by the powerful wind. Foul ashes swirled up in choking clouds from the braziers. The warm air suddenly drained away.
“There. That is the might of Teylas,” Yamun bellowed, motioning toward the storm. “Come, scribe, since you don’t believe he talks to me.”
“Please, Great Lord,” Koja begged, shouting over the wind, “stay inside.
“No! You’ll come and see because I’ve ordered it.” He strode over to Koja, grabbed him by the shoulder, and half-dragged him to the doorway. With an unceremonious push, Yamun shoved the priest into the blasting rain.
Koja stumbled and slipped, sliding down into the cold mud. Rain splashed into the slop and splattered thickly against him. A lance of lightning cut jaggedly through the night sky, illuminating the entire horizon. In the brief stab of light, Koja saw the dark form of Yamun standing over him, face to the sky, mouth wide open. The light lasted only an instant, and then the world was plunged back into darkness. Yamun’s strong hand grabbed the priest’s robes and hauled him out of the muck.
The two men set out, struggling and sliding their way down the slope. They walked through the icy mud, out the gate, and past yurts until they reached the horse pens outside the capital. Wind and rain lashed against their faces. Rivulets ran from Yamun’s hair into his mustache, dribbling into his mouth. Huge drops ran down all sides of Koja’s shaved head, washing away the gobs of mud.
“Teylas!” shouted Yamun, spitting water between each word. “Here I am! Listen to me!” A distant bolt of lightning dimly lit the steppe, casting weird shadows over the pair. The wind swept the rain away from their faces for a moment and then whipped it back again. The hollow rumble of the distant bolt barely carried over the wind.
“He listens,” Yamun said confidently, letting go of Koja’s shoulder. Suddenly unsupported, the priest stumbled backward and fell, floundering along an unexpectedly steep part of the bank. Oblivious to everything, Yamun strode forward until Koja could barely see the older man’s bulky silhouette. Splashing through pools of foul, muddy water, Koja did his best to catch up.
Finally, the priest fell back into the mud, exhausted from stumbling and slipping in pursuit of the khahan. Occasional flashes of lightning had guided Koja, but now he had lost sight of Yamun. Horses screamed and whinnied somewhere nearby, their shrill cries rising over the rattling rain. Koja pushed himself out of the mud and splashed off in the direction of the noise.
“Teylas!” Yamun’s voice came from somewhere off to the priest’s left.
“Khahan!” Koja shouted, hoping Yamun would hear him.
A stroke of lightning, almost overhead, flooded the sky with light and thunder. Though his eyes hurt from the light, Koja could see Yamun off to the left. Around him were the shadowy shapes of horses, rearing and prancing in panic.
“Yamun Khahan!” he shouted. There was no answer.
The lightning illuminated the ground again, as if in response to Koja’s shouts. In the moment of light, he saw Yamun, arms stretched to heaven, at the center of one of the horse corrals. The rain formed streaks of silver all around him.
Determined, Koja plunged forward into the darkness. His feet squished into the mud and threatened to slip out from under him at any second. Rainwater dripped down his eyebrows, blurring his sight. His robes, sodden and filthy, sagged and pulled on his frame.
Koja’s shin smashed against something hard and solid—a fence. Shocked by the pain, the lama tried to hop back on one foot, then lost his balance. Both feet shot out from under him, kicking into the air. He sat in the muck at the foot of the corral fence, rubbing away the shooting streaks of pain that started at his shin and ran up his leg.
“Teylas, listen … powerful … rule …” Yamun’s voice floated in snatches over the howling wind. Koja peered through the fence. He was close enough to see into the corral now, although he still could not make out anything clearly. Shielding his eyes from the rain, Koja peered through the horses’ legs, straining to see Yamun.
The dim form of a man standing all alone was barely visible to Koja. The mares and stallions had all moved as far from him as possible, pressing their bodies against the fence. They stamped and kicked, their eyes wild with fear.
“Take my offering of thanks, Teylas. I have united my people, but with or without you, I must conquer,” Yamun shouted. Koja heard the words clearly as the wind dropped away to nothing. The rain pelted down in straight sheets, the thick drops deprived of their driving force.
Koja could see Yamun more clearly now. The khahan stood with his feet planted widely apart, arms akimbo, head tilted to the sky. He paid no mind to the rain as it pounded against his face. His clothes were plastered wetly to his body, but the khahan didn’t care. He stood still, waiting.
There was a dazzling burst of light as the storm renewed its fury. Before the glare had died away, there was another stroke of lightning, closer and brighter than the first. It was followed by another, then another, and another. The explosions of light became continuous, first from the east, then west, north, and south. The rumble of thunder grew louder and more shattering, until it was a continuous barrage. The whinnies of the horses became screams of terror, piercing over the bass rolls of thunder.
Koja, trembling in fear, clapped his hands over his ears and sank down as close to the ground as he could. The posts of the corral thudded and shook as the panicked horses reared and lashed out with their hooves. Even though the sky was bright, Koja could barely see the khahan through the flailing hooves, but the man was unmoved by the pandemonium around him.
Just as Koja felt the storm was at its height, a luminous ball of sparkling blue swirled around Yamun, illuminating him clearly. It crackled and sizzled, a leaping electrical fire. Miniature bolts arced from the center, scorching and snapping as they hit the ground. At its heart, Yamun stood, unaffected by the charged flame.
Koja sat, dumbfounded. Then it dawned on him that the khahan might be in danger. “Great Lord!” he shouted over the roaring storm.
“Yamun Khahan!” the priest shouted again, cupping his hands to add more volume to his voice.
In response a spark arced from the khahan and hurtled toward Koja. Flinching, Koja threw himself aside as the charge lazily flew past him. It hit the ground behind him and exploded in a shower of muck. The force of the blast knocked him forward into the fence, driving the air from his lungs. Koja sagged against the corral, stunned.
More sparks began flying from Yamun, drifting out over the corral. As each ball of lightning detached itself, the radiance enclosing the khahan diminished slightly. The horses went into a frenzy, galloping and wheeling to avoid the drifting sparks. The fence, too high to jump, penned them in.
There was a sizzling pop and a scream of equine pain. The steeds redoubled their efforts. The fence wobbled and banged. Koja slid back in the mud as hooves flailed just in front of his face, but the fence held firm. There was another frenzied whinny and pop, followed by a third. With each, the cries of the horses grew a little less.
Terror took hold of Koja, driving him with uncontrollable energy. He had to get away, get to safety. Panting, the lama crawled away from the corral, dragging himself across the rain-drenched ground. Behind him, the brilliant glow spread from the corral, then began to fade. The wind and rain drowned out the noises behind him. Finally spent, he collapsed like a rag doll, unable to move any farther.
As Koja lay there, the wind began to drop away and the howling rage subsided. The rain changed from a hammerlike pelting to a slower downpour. The water was still icy, and rivers of muck ran into the folds of his robe. Koja’s body was chilled to its core. He clung to the ground, trembling, as the lightning and thunder diminished.
“Scribe? Where’d you go?” Yamun’s voice carried easily to Koja.
“Here,”
Koja called weakly, raising his head from the mud. Panting, he got to his feet. “I am here, Great Khan. Wherever that is,” he added quietly. With the storm gone, it was too dark to see far.
“Come here, then,” ordered the khahan. He sounded unharmed by the storm.
Koja set off in direction of Yamun’s voice. He could only hope he was headed the right way. “Great Lord, where are you?”
“This way,” came the answer. Koja stumbled along until he found the corral. The fence was still standing, but the pen was silent. Following the fence around, the priest came to the gate. Waiting on the other side was Yamun Khahan, unhurt, although he wavered unsteadily. Spying Koja he said, “Let us go,” offering no explanation.
Koja nodded automatically, concentrating on the pen. It was empty; there were no horses, living or dead. The lama looked at Yamun, startled, and then back into the corral, trying to see any sign of the horses or any marks left by the glittering blue fire. There were no steeds, and the mud was so churned up that it was impossible to tell what had happened. The fence showed no scorching or damage from the sparks. It was as if nothing had occurred.
“What happened?” Koja asked in amazement.
“Come on. We go,” Yamun said as he stepped through the gate. He moved slowly, with exaggerated care. His stiffness could have been caused by the late hour or the lightning. It was impossible for Koja to tell.
Koja remained insistent. “What happened?”
Yamun guided the priest by the elbow, firmly squeezing it as they walked along. By now the wind was only a chilly spring breeze and the freezing drops of rain had given way to a fine drizzle.
“I talked with Teylas, my father, the Lord of the Sky.”
Koja stared at Yamun, believing him possessed or victim of some demented illusion. Perhaps Yamun meant it only figuratively, he decided. Many people, he knew, “talked” to various gods and never received an answer. Lamas and wandering priests were the only ones he knew of who could contact the fearsome powers of the outer planes and expect some kind of reply.
