by David Cook
“Ai!” Chanar cried, the signal to drink. He tipped his head back and drank from the skin.
“Ai,” echoed Yamun and the khans. They raised their cups and took long swallows.
Koja looked at the skull cup in his hands. The eyes were still staring at him, and the brain recess was filled with a milky pool of kumiss. He turned the cup so it wasn’t facing him.
“Drink, little priest,” urged Chanar, wiping his mustache on his sleeve, “or do you think the khahan has no honor?”
Yamun looked at Koja, noting that the lama had not joined in the toast. His brow furrowed in vexation with his newly chosen historian. “You don’t drink?”
Koja took a great breath and hoisted the skull up to his lips. He closed his eyes and gulped a draught of the wretched drink. Quickly, before they could urge him to take another swallow, the priest held the skull out to Chanar.
“Drink to the khahan’s might,” Koja gasped.
“Ai,” called out the khans, refilling their cups.
Chanar grinned at the look of distress that flickered over the priest’s face. He took the offered cup and drained it in a single gulp. Taking the skull with one hand, he filled it again with kumiss and handed it back to Koja. “Drink to the khahan’s health,” he said with a wicked smile.
Koja choked.
“Ai,” slurred out the khans. The toasts were starting to take their toll.
“Enough,” interrupted Yamun, pushing the drinking skull away from Koja. “My health doesn’t need toasting. I’ve told a story, now it’s someone else’s turn.” He looked pointedly at Koja.
“I’ve a story to tell,” Chanar snapped, before Koja could speak up. “It’s a good story, and it’s all true.” He stepped back to give himself more space, kicking up the ashes at the edge of the fire.
Yamun turned to Chanar. “Well, what is it?” he asked, barely keeping his irritation under control.
“Great khahan, the priest knows how you beat the Commani with the help of the Naican and your seven valiant men. Now I’ll tell of what happened to one of those seven valiant men.” Chanar dropped the skin of kumiss and stepped away from the fire.
“Yes, tell us,” urged the toothless Goyuk Khan.
Koja looked at Yamun before he voiced his own opinion. The khahan was impassive. Koja couldn’t tell if he was displeased or bored, so he kept his own mouth shut.
“After the khan—the khahan—,” began Chanar in a loud voice, “defeated the Commani, he gave them to his companions, like he told us. He told his seven valiant men to gather the remaining men, young and old, of the Commani. ‘Measure all the men by the tongue of a cart, and kill all those who can’t walk under it,’ the khahan ordered.”
“Measure all the men by a cart,” Koja asked meekly. “What does that mean?”
“Any male who cannot walk under the hitch of an oxcart is killed. Only the little boys are spared,” Chanar answered curtly. “We killed all the men of the Commani, like the khan ordered. He wasn’t the khahan yet, you understand.” Chanar circled around the fire, pacing as he spoke. “So, we killed the men.
“Then the khan gave out the women and children to us, because he was pleased with his warriors. He went to the seven valiant men and said, ‘You and I are brothers of the liver. We’ve been anda since we were young. Continue to serve me faithfully and I’ll give you great rewards.’ He said this. I heard it said.” Chanar kicked an ember at the edge of the fire back into the flames.
“The valiant men were pleased by these words.” Chanar paused, looking at Yamun. “There’s more to the story, but perhaps the khahan doesn’t want to hear it.”
“Tell your story,” insisted Yamun.
Chanar nodded to the khahan. “There isn’t much more to tell. Perhaps you know the tale. One of the valiant men told the khan, ‘We are anda, brothers of the liver. I will stand at your side.’ And I heard the khahan promise, saying, ‘You are of my liver and will be my right hand forever.’ When the khan went to war, this valiant man was his right hand. With his right hand, the khan conquered the Quirish and gathered the scattered people of the Tuigan—the Basymats and the Jamaqua. His right hand was strong.”
Chanar’s story became more impassioned. He stomped about the fire, slapping his chest to emphasize his points. “I never failed or retreated. I went with the khan against the Zamogedi when only nine returned. I fought as his rear guard, protecting him from the Zamogedi. I took the khan to the ordu of my family and sheltered him. I strengthened the khan when he returned to the Zamogedi to take his revenge. Together we beat them—killing their men and enslaving their women and children.
“All this because I was his anda. When the Khassidi surrendered to me, offering gifts of gold and silk, weren’t those gifts sent to the khahan? ‘These things that are given are the khahan’s to give.’ Isn’t that the law?” Chanar faced the other khans at the fire, directing his questions to them, not Yamun or the priest.
“Is true, Great Prince,” mumbled Goyuk to Yamun, his toothless speech made worse by drink. “He sent it all to you.”
Satisfied with Goyuk’s answer, the general turned to face the lama.
“But now,” Chanar growled, narrowing his eyes at Koja, “the valiant man no longer has gifts to send and another sits at his anda’s right hand. And that’s how the story ends.” The general turned from the priest, stalked back to his stool, and sprawled there, satisfied that his point had been made.
With a sharp hiss, Yamun stood and took a step toward Chanar, who watched him like a cat. The khahan’s fists were clenched tightly, and his body swayed with tension.
“This is no good,” Goyuk said softly, laying his hand on Yamun’s arm. “Chanar is your guest.”
Yamun stopped, listening to the truth in Goyuk’s words. Koja quietly slid his stool away from the khahan, fearful of what might happen next. The singing from the other fires started up again.
“Nightguards!” snarled Yamun. “Come with me. I’m going to visit the other fires.” With that he wheeled and strode off into the darkness. The guards streamed past, and the quiverbearers followed after, carrying food and drink for the khahan no matter where he stopped.
Those around the fire watched the entourage wend down the hillside. Koja sat quietly, suddenly feeling himself among enemies.
“This is a dangerous game you play, Prince Chanar,” observed Goyuk, leaning over to speak softly in Chanar’s ear.
“He can’t kill me,” Chanar confidently replied as he watched Yamun march down the hill. “The Khassidi and many others would go back to their ordus if he did.”
“Is true, you are well loved, but Yamun is the khahan,” the old man cautioned.
Chanar dismissed Goyuk’s comments with a gulp of kumiss. As he drank down the cup, he once again saw Koja on the other side of the fire.
“Priest!” he hissed at the lama. “Yamun trusts you. Well, I am his anda! You are a foreigner, an outsider.” The general leaned forward until his face was almost in the flames. “And if you betray the Tuigan, I’ll have great fun hunting you down. Do you know how a traitor is killed? We crush the breath out of him under a plank piled with heavy stones. It’s a slow and painful death.”
Koja paled.
“Remember it and remember me,” Chanar warned. With those words, he threw the rest of the kumiss on the fire and stood. “I must go to my men,” he told Goyuk Khan, ignoring Koja’s presence. The old khan nodded, and Chanar walked off into the darkness.
The rest of the evening seemed to pass quickly and slowly all at once. At first Koja was content to sit near the fire, keeping away the increasing chill of the frosty night air. The servants kept refilling his golden goblet, having long since taken the skull away. The old khan, Goyuk, seeing that the priest wasn’t going anywhere, began to talk incessantly. Koja only understood about half of what the codger said, but smiled and nodded politely nonetheless. The khan talked about his ordu, his horses, the great battles he had fought in, and how a horse had kicked out his teeth. At
least, that is what Koja thought he was discussing. As the night went on, Goyuk’s speech became increasingly unintelligible.
Several times, Koja tried to get up and leave. Each effort brought a storm of protest from Goyuk. “This story is just getting good,” he would insist and then demand more wine for the priest. Eventually, Koja wasn’t even sure his legs would work if he did manage to get away.
At last, the kumiss and wine had their effect. The old man nodded off in midsentence, then snapped back awake and rambled on for a while longer. Finally, Goyuk bedded down, moving the stool out of the way and wrapping the rug around himself. Koja, too tired to walk back to his yurt, followed custom, rolling the thick felt rug tightly around himself. Within a few minutes he was sound asleep.
Down the slope, a hooded servant slipped among the fires, seeking out one man. At each circle he stopped, standing in the shadows, staring at the faces. Finally, at one fire, where the drinking was the most riotous, the servant found the man whom he sought. Moving through the darkness, he sidled up closer to his goal. The revelers were too involved with their drink to notice him. Softly, he leaned up and whispered in the ear of his man.
“The khadun, Lady Bayalun, hears that you have been wronged this night,” he hissed. “ ‘Is Chanar to let himself be usurped by a stranger?’ she asks.”
“Eh? What do you say?” the drunken General Chanar blurted in surprise.
“Shhh. Quietly! She fears you fall from Yamun’s favor—”
Chanar moved to speak, but the messenger quickly pressed his hand on the general’s shoulder. “This is not the place to talk. The khadun opens her tent to you, if you will come.”
“Hmm … when?” Chanar asked, trying to look at the man without turning his head.
“Tonight, while the eyes of others are occupied.” The messenger waited, letting Chanar make his decision.
“Tell her I’ll come,” Chanar finally whispered. Without another word, the messenger faded back into the darkness.
The campfires had burned down to lifeless ashes, and only thick plumes of smoke rose up into the blackness of night. Koja found himself sitting up, shivering in the cold, rugs and robes fallen off his back. It didn’t strike him as odd that he could see the sleeping forms of men, the empty yurts flapping in the breeze, even in perfect darkness. They were just grayer forms against the black plain.
There was a clink of rock against rock behind him and then a soft wet scrape of mud on stone. Wheeling around, he was confronted by a man in yellow and orange robes, hunched over so his face could not be seen. The man’s hands were doing something, something that matched the sounds of stone against stone.
“Who—,” Koja started to blurt out.
The man looked up and stopped Koja in midsentence. It was his old master from the temple, his bald head lined with age. The master smiled and nodded to the priest and then went back to his work, building a wall. With a scrape, the master dragged a trowel across the stone’s top, spreading a thick layer of mortar.
Koja slowly turned around. The men, fires, and yurts were gone. A low wall encircled him, trapping him beside the campfire. Turning back, Koja watched his master lift a square block and set it in place atop the fresh mortar.
“Master, what are you doing!” Koja could feel a growing panic inside himself.
“All our lives we struggle to be free of walls,” intoned the master, never once stopping his work. “All our lives we build stronger walls.” With a scrape and heavy thud, another stone was set in place. “Know, young student, of the walls you build—and who they belong to.”
Suddenly the wall was finished, towering over Koja. The master was gone. Koja heaved to his feet and whirled about, looking for his mentor. There, in front of him, was a banner set in the ground. From its top hung nine black horsetails—the khahan’s banner. He turned the other way. There was another, with nine white yak tails—the khadun’s banner. Stumbling backward, he tripped and fell against another—a golden disk hung with silken streamers of yellow and red-Prince Ogandi’s banner. Panicked, Koja fell to the ground and closed his eyes.
A sound of heavy breathing, and a blast of steam across Koja’s face forced him to look again. The banners were gone, and the wall that circled him shivered and moved. It became a great beast, black and shimmering. A pair of eyes, inhuman and cold, stared down at him.
“Are you the khahan of the barbarians?” the beast boomed.
“No,” answered Koja in a weak whisper.
The eyes blinked. “Ah. Then you are with him,” it decided. “That is good. Finally, it is time.” The eyes glowed brighter. Fearful, Koja looked away from the baleful gleam. There was a rushing of wind and then the shape was gone.
Looking up, the priest saw his master again. “Be careful, Koja, of the walls you build,” the old lama called out. The master faded, growing dimmer to Koja’s sight, until there was nothing but the dull gray horizon. Then there was nothing at all.
The priest woke slowly, dimly remembering the voices from his sleep. A sharp tang welled up at the base of his skull, tingling the stubble of his neck hair. Involuntarily, the thin priest inhaled deeply. Suddenly, he was wide awake, sneezing and gagging, his nostrils filled with the smoke of burning manure. He flailed about, then opened his eyes. Thick wads of stinging smoke assailed him. Koja crawled out of his rug and into clear air.
“It is a good day,” a wavering voice somewhere to Koja’s left said.
Still blinking, the priest looked toward the voice. He could hardly see the speaker because the dawn sun blazed behind the man’s shoulder. Koja shielded his eyes from the orange-red glow with one hand and rubbed away the last of his tears with the other. Sitting next to the thickly smoking campfire was the ancient Goyuk Khan, poking at the coals with a stick. He looked back at Koja and smiled one of his broad, toothless grins.
Koja weakly smiled back. His head felt thick from drink and pained from his sudden awakening. His mouth was gummy. The years among the lamas had not prepared him for a night of feasting with the Tuigan.
“Is time to eat,” Goyuk said. He didn’t look the least bit haggard from the celebration. Poking the fire again, Goyuk fished out an ash-covered lump, bits of burning coals still clinging to it. Picking it up carefully, he brushed the embers away with his dirty fingers and held it out to Koja.
Koja looked at it dubiously, knowing full well that he had to take it or offend the old khan. It looked like a scrap of the horsemeat sausage, roasted in the fire. He gingerly took it, juggling it between his hands to avoid burning his fingers.
“Eat,” urged the khan, “is good.”
“Thank you,” said Koja with a forced smile. He ate it down quickly, doing his best not to taste the meat. Breakfast finished, Koja struggled to his feet to look for water. The sun had barely risen over the horizon, but already men were about. The guards were changing, the dayguards replacing the nightguards. Quiverbearers and household slaves were going from yurt to yurt, preparing for the morning.
Not everyone was awake, however. Koja weaved through the sleepers clustered around the feast-fires. Most of the revelers were still snoring blissfully, unusual for the Tuigan camp, which was normally bustling by this hour. Some were wrapped in their blankets and rugs, curled closely around small mounds of smoldering embers. However, more than a few were sprawled haphazardly over the ground, their kalats pulled up tight around them. Koja guessed many of them slept on the same spots where they had passed out the night before.
After much futile searching, Koja finally collared a servant carrying a bucket of water. Scooping it up with his hands, he gulped down a mouthful. Though cold enough to numb his fingers, the priest splashed the water over his face and head, vigorously rubbing his skin to clear his brain.
One of Yamun’s quiverbearers presented himself to Koja. “The Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, Yamun Khahan, sends me to ask why his historian is not in attendance at the yurt of his lord.” The servant remained kneeling before the lama.
Koja lo
oked at the man in surprise. He hadn’t expected the khahan to conduct business so early this morning. Furthermore, the priest didn’t realize his presence would be needed so constantly. “Take me to his yurt,” he ordered.
Obediently, the servant led Koja through the clutter around the feast-fires. Reaching the tent, the man announced Koja’s arrival. The priest was quickly ushered inside.
This morning the yurt was arranged differently. Yamun’s throne was gone, and the braziers had been moved to the sides of the tent. The flap covering the smoke hole was opened wide, as was the door, allowing rays of sunlight to dazzle the normally gloomy interior. In the center of the yurt, in a shaft of sunlight, sat a circle of men. Yamun was bareheaded, his conical hat set aside. The light gleamed off his tonsure and brought out the red color of his hair. He still wore the heavy sable coat he had worm the night before, though now it was mud-stained and smudged with soot. The other men had likewise removed their hats, making a ring of shining bald domes in the center of the yurt. Koja was reminded of the masters of his temple, although they didn’t sport the long side braids favored by these warriors.
“Historian, you’ll sit here,” called out Yamun as the lama entered. He slapped his hand on the rug just behind himself.
Koja walked around the circle and took his seat. Chanar, bleary-eyed from the night’s festivities, sat on one side of Yamun. Goyuk sat on the other. There were three others wearing golden cloths and embroidered silks, signs that they were powerful khans, but Koja did not recognize them. Their rich clothes were travel-stained and rumpled. At the farthest end of the circle, sitting slightly away from the rest, was a common trooper. His clothes, a simple blue kalat and brown trousers, were filthy with mud and grime. He stank powerfully, Koja noticed as he walked by.
The khans glanced toward Koja as he sat. Goyuk smiled another of his gaping smiles. A look of displeasure sparked in Chanar’s eyes. Yamun leaned forward, drawing their attention to the sheet spread out in front of them.
