Horselords

by David Cook

  Koja’s first instinct was to inform them of their error. Just as he was about to speak he stopped, his mouth open, the words tumbling back down his throat. They would learn the truth soon enough, he decided.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Yamun assured the priest, pouring more tea. “We’ll see these things with our own eyes, hear them with our own ears. I won’t ask my historian to speak against his people.” He raised his cup to the priest. “Ai! I drink to my clever and wise friend.”

  “Ai!” toasted Prince Jad, his own cup raised. They both noisily slurped at their cups of tea.

  “Ai,” echoed Koja, a little less enthusiastic than the other two. He sipped slightly at his cup, drinking as little salted tea as possible.

  Yamun set his cup firmly down on the table and leaned forward toward Koja. His breath reeked with the smell of sour milk. “I ask my historian, though, to go to his people and give them a message. You’ve seen my people and how I rule them. Tell your people how I’m generous and kind to my friends. Describe to them the wonders and riches you’ve seen. Count out the size of my army for your leader.” A look of puzzlement crossed Koja’s face. “Don’t worry, you have my blessing. ‘A thief can’t steal what is already given.’ ”

  Yamun wiped a drop of tea off his chin with the sleeve of his robe, then continued. “And, when you are done, you must also tell this leader something. Say he must recognize me as the Illustrious Emperor of All People and submit his city to me.”

  Koja swallowed hard when he heard the new title Yamun was claiming for himself. “They’ll never do that.”

  “Tell the leader of Manass that if he doesn’t submit, I’ll have him and all the members of his family killed. Tell everyone that death is the punishment for those who defy me, but that I’ll spare those who do not resist. And then you must return to me with the answer.”

  “If you kill them, who will rule for you, Khahan? You can conquer Khazari, but what benefit will that be?” Koja steeled himself as he spoke. “Unless you have governors of your own, you will need the rulers of Manass to keep the peace. But—”

  “But nothing. The matter is decided,” Yamun snapped. He sat upright, his muscles tense. Koja noticed that Jad was also stiff and hard-faced.

  “Now,” Yamun pronounced as he rose to his feet, “it’s time for you to go and rest. This meeting is over. You may return to your tent, Koja of the Khazari.”

  The audience ended, the priest quietly slipped back outside and returned to his yurt. During the walk, Koja pondered the surprising outcome of the audience. Certainly the Tuigan warlord was wiser than it seemed. Still, now the khahan’s mind was set on Khazari. Koja wondered if Yamun had planned beyond the conquest. Perhaps, he finally decided, I can guide Yamun and protect Khazari at the same time.

  In his tent, Koja did not sleep well. All night he awoke in fits, wondering in the darkness what he should do. What should he tell his fellow Khazari? Recommend they surrender or urge them to fight? He was a Khazari, or at least he was when he started this trip, but now he was not so sure. If he told his people to surrender, was he betraying them?

  It was a puffy- and red-eyed priest who greeted the dawn the next day. Even the brilliant golden sky that lit the jagged mountains of Khazari could not raise his spirits. Seeing the peaks of his homeland only furthered his feeling of despair. Reluctantly, Koja joined the assembled company of Yamun, Prince Jad, guards, quiverbearers, and messengers. The group mounted their horses and rode along a rising, winding trail that led them up out of the valley and onto the high plain of Khazari.

  By the light of day, Koja looked down on Yamun’s army. With Jad’s arrival, it had swelled to almost twice its number, fifty or sixty thousand men. The yurts filled the narrow valley floor, and dotted among the tents were herds of horses. Rings of pickets surrounded the camp. At the head of the valley, in the direction they were going, a mass of men was forming up. Rank upon rank of mounted warriors, an entire tumen, were preparing to march on Manass.

  “I brought you up here to see this. These men come as proof of my word,” Yamun explained when he noticed Koja’s worried look. “I don’t think this ordu of Manass can withstand an entire tumen.” The khahan spurred his horse ahead, angling to join the front of the column.

  The troops assembled, the tumen set out on the route to Manass. They followed a road, little more than a rutted path, that had been used for centuries by the caravans from Shou Lung—caravans that could no longer cross through the great steppe. From what Koja was able to infer, the army was still a half-day’s ride from the city. The khahan was advancing on Manass with only a part of his army, while other tumens were to cross the border at other mountain passes.

  The small command group rode throughout the morning at the front of the tumen. Yamun was preoccupied with his messengers, and he gave a constant stream of orders. A scribe rode at his side, scribbling out the commands, his paper balanced precariously on a little board that, in turn, rested across his saddle. Koja wondered where the scribe came from or if the fellow knew the fate of his predecessors.

  Jad rode well away from the priest, surrounded by men of his own bodyguard. At times the prince would ride over to have a word with his father, but apparently had no desire to talk to the priest. Koja didn’t mind this. He was not in the mood for company. His own thoughts and concerns possessed him so much that he hardly even noticed the passage of time or the terrain they rode over.

  The priest was struck with some surprise when the riders around him suddenly reined up short. The party had just cleared the top of a small ridge. The scouts in the lead came circling back toward the khahan’s dayguards.

  “Priest, come forward!” Yamun shouted to Koja. This was a moment the lama dreaded. He lightly spurred his horse forward, trotting it up to Yamun. The guards moved away, eyeing the surrounding hills suspiciously.

  “There,” announced the khahan, standing in his stirrups. He pointed down the slope toward the other side of the valley they had just entered. A small river ran through the valley floor, winding in lazy oxbows through tiny, barren fields. On the near bank of the river was the city of Manass, its white limestone walls shining in the noontime sun.

  Koja was surprised by what he saw of Manass. It was much larger than he expected. In tales, the town was never as great as Hsiliang, which was close to the border with Shou Lung, or Skardu where Prince Ogandi lived. Still, Manass was described as one of the guardians against the raids of the mounted bandits who sometimes boiled out of the steppe.

  Apparently Prince Ogandi considered the threat of barbarian raids a serious matter, for Manass seemed well fortified. The city was enclosed entirely within a wall. Although it was difficult to be certain, Koja guessed the main wall stretched more than a quarter-mile on each side to roughly form a square. The fortifications were in good repair.

  The main gate was large and closed by heavy wooden doors. A gatehouse, several stories in height, was built over the entrance. Other towers rose at the corners. The walls of these were heavily plastered with whitewashed mud, and the roofs were fireproofed by yellow-brown clay tiles. A broad walk ran across the top of the wall and connected each tower to its neighbors.

  Within the wall, Koja could see a cluster of yellow-brown roofs broken by the gaps for streets. The city was laid out in a regular grid, the streets running in straight lines according to the advice of ancient geomancers, earth wizards who came long ago from the great cities of Shou Lung. Only occasionally was this orderly pattern broken, perhaps on the advice of these soothsayers or maybe just to accommodate the needs of the citizens.

  As Yamun and his party studied the city, a faint sound came to their ears. It was a long, droning blast with overtones of a higher-pitched whistle. Koja recognized the sound from his years at the temple. It was the wailing note of a gandan, a huge straight horn. It took a man with strong lungs to blow one of these instruments. Outside the walls, only a few farmers were in the field, it being too early in the spring to start planting. Those few, however
, began a hurried rush to the safety of the citadel.

  “Well, they’ve seen us,” Yamun declared. “Go, priest, and deliver my message. Take ten men from the dayguard as an escort.” Yamun didn’t wait to see his orders executed, but wheeled his horse about and set to the business of arraying his ten thousand.

  There was only a little delay as the ten guards were assembled for the escort duty. Koja sincerely wished the wait could have been longer, but before long he was riding through the fields, surrounded by the bodyguard. One of them bore the yak-tail standard of Yamun Khahan.

  When they reached the gate to Manass, it remained closed. A deep bass voice hailed them from the gatehouse overhead. “State your business for entering the White City of Manass.” The sentry spoke in Khazarish. Koja abruptly realized it had been weeks since he’d heard the clipped sounds of his native tongue.

  The bodyguard looked at Koja, waiting for him to speak. Unconsciously standing in the saddle in a futile attempt to get closer to the speaker in the gatehouse, Koja called out in his thin voice, “I am an envoy of the Brilliant Shining White Mountain, Prince Ogandi. I am Koja, lama of the Red Mountain Temple, son of Lord Biadul, son of Lord Koten. I bring a message from the one who calls himself the Illustrious Emperor of All People, the ruler of Tuigan, Hoekun Yamun Khahan. I come under a banner of truce. Open your gates so I can speak with the governor of your city.”

  Koja waited for the gate to swing open. The doors did not move.

  “Who are the men with you?” the voice shouted back.

  “They are my escort and bodyguard,” explained Koja. “Surely the mighty warriors of Manass are not afraid of ten men.” Koja didn’t know about those in the city, but he was certainly afraid of them. He was more afraid, however, of the reception he might receive inside if the bodyguards were not present.

  “Do they come in with you?” A new voice was shouting out questions now. Koja guessed a higher-ranking officer had taken over the negotiations.

  “The khahan of the Tuigan would consider it insulting if his men were made to wait outside,” Koja pointed out. “In fact, he might suspect us of plotting against him.” Koja looked to the guards on either side. They apparently had no understanding of what was being said—he hoped.

  “Your guards must not draw their weapons. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” Koja yelled back. His throat was getting sore from all the shouting.

  “And there are to be no spellcasters—understood?”

  “Only myself,” Koja responded, sitting back in his saddle, “and I am a simple lama of the Red Mountain.”

  There was a period of silence. Koja shifted uneasily in the saddle, looking to see how his guards were taking all this. They sat still in their saddles, waiting for something to happen.

  “Priest?” the voice called out.

  “Yes?”

  “Know this. Should you make the slightest sign to cast a spell, you will be killed before you can complete it. Is that understood?” The voice spoke the last with great emphasis.

  “It is understood,” Koja answered clearly.

  There was a drawn-out scraping noise as the gates were unbarred. It ended with a loud clunk, and then the massive wooden halves began to swing open. With grunting strain, a team of soldiers pushed the gate open wide enough for the riders to pass through.

  “Do not draw your weapons,” Koja charged his men, “or we will all surely die. Remember, your task is not to get me killed.”

  Inside the gate was a company of archers, their weapons nocked and ready. The men stood tensely, lined up on one side of the street instead of both, so their arrows wouldn’t accidentally kill their own men if there was a fight. The soldiers wore simple cotton robes, dyed in blues and reds. Koja suspected the robes covered armored suits of leather and mail. Each man wore a pointed cap decorated with the brilliant green plume of some strange bird or beast.

  At the far end of the line stood their commander. He was easily identified by the gleaming suit of metal scales he wore. Each scale had been polished to a sheen, so that the officer sparkled wherever he went. In the noonday glare, his armor was almost blinding. “Welcome, lama of the Red Mountain,” he said, bowing slightly.

  “I am honored to be welcome,” Koja replied, using his best diplomatic skills.

  Koja cautiously urged his horse through the gate, not wanting to venture too far into the city. He was still very uncertain about the reception he might receive.

  “You and your men will leave your horses here,” instructed the gleaming commander. “Then you will accompany me to the governor.”

  Koja translated the officer’s words. There was some grumbling from the men about leaving their horses. Koja pointed out that if they did not, they could not go any farther. Reluctantly, the troopers dismounted and handed their steeds over to grooms, who appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

  “Follow me,” ordered the commander with little ceremony. “Watch, fall in.” The archers slung their bows, drew heavy curved knives called krisnas—a favorite weapon of Khazari warriors—and took positions on either side of Koja and his escort. The swarthy, robed Khazari eyed the shorter Tuigan suspiciously and kept their weapons ready.

  As he marched through the streets, Koja studied the city. Although he’d never been to Manass, its houses were much like the ones of the small village he grew up in. They were larger here. Most had one or two stories and were built from carefully stacked rocks. The narrow side streets were clogged with goods left outside—jars too large to put anywhere else, half-finished baskets, even outdoor looms. Doors and windows lined the street and curious eyes watched him from the shadows.

  The streets remained empty as they marched through the town, but the rickety wooden balconies that thrust out from many buildings did not. Curious children and veiled women crowded on these, threatening to bring the precarious structures crashing down with their weight. Koja saw few men until the procession rounded a corner and entered a large plaza.

  This was obviously the heart of Manass. At the plaza’s far side was a broad, low building, whitewashed and brightly painted with bands of sutras done in vermillion, cobalt, yellow, and green. Koja recognized the writing and the style. The scriptures were from a sect of the Yellow Temple, rivals to the Red Mountain in power. He read them to himself. “Bohda of the brilliant, five-flame heaven, master of the thirteen secret words, brought to the mountain by the King-Who-Destroyed-Bambalan, so bow to the east …” The rest of the verse continued around the building, out of sight. Koja guessed that the inscription was a charm used to ward off evil magic and the evil spirits of the mountains.

  The front of the building was dominated by a low portico that ran its entire length. Men, dressed in armor—heavily padded coats of yellow and red that reached to the ankle—and carrying wicked looking staff-swords, formed a wall at its base. More men, equally armed and armored, stood in the narrow streets that entered the plaza, blocking the other routes into the city. Sitting on the portico, near the center, was a group of five men.

  Koja bowed to the officials. Foremost of the five was a tall, slender man. A banner behind him portrayed a multiarmed, sword-wielding warrior—the King-Who-Destroyed-Bambalan. This ancient hero was the founder of Prince Ogandi’s line and was now revered as a a savior by the people. The figure was the official seal of Khazari. Koja assumed the slender man was the town’s governor.

  Just behind the governor was a man in loose, draping robes of red and blue. Stains and holes marred the brilliant colors of his clothing. His hair was thick, long, black, and unwashed. In his hand he held a thin iron rod, four feet long, hung with chains and metal figurines. Koja guessed he was a dong chang, a wizard-hermit from the high mountains. Most of these men led reclusive lives, seeking only to perfect their magical craft, but sometimes they ventured out of their cold caves and returned to the civilized world. Koja shuddered slightly when he looked at the man. There were many stories about the dong chang, few of them pleasant. It was rumored they were actuall
y dead creatures, kept alive by their own meditations and practices.

  The third man was clearly a scribe, as indicated by the writing materials spread around him. Koja quickly passed over him to study the remaining men on the stand.

  The last two on the porch were a surprise to Koja, even more than the dong chang had been. It was obvious to Koja that neither man was Khazari. They wore the long, tight-fitting silk robes of Shou Lung mandarins, the bureaucrats of that great empire. One seemed quite aged, while the other was more youthful, just verging on middle age. The elder had a thin mustache and a fine, wispy goatee, both carefully groomed. His hair was balding and faded, and his eyes drooped in heavy wrinkles. Age spots marked his cheeks and hands.

  The younger man’s features more clearly showed his Shou heritage. His face was not swarthy like those Khazari around him. His hair was black and straight, bound in a long queue. He wore a small round hat with a long yellow tassel. His face was serious and hard.

  As Koja studied these men, the guards that accompanied him from the gate slowly fell back, forming up in two lines to block the street they had all just come up. His own men moved to form a horseshoe around him, open at the front. Their hands went instinctively to their weapons.

  “No fighting!” hissed Koja when he noticed their movement. “Keep your weapons sheathed.”

  “We shouldn’t die like the staked goat before the tiger,” urged one of the men under his breath. “Better we fight.”

  “If you do not touch your weapons, the tiger will not strike,” Koja whispered back. “You will fail the khahan if we die. Wait.” The troopers stood still, but not a man lowered his hand.

  “You claim you are Koja of the Khazari,” said the governor from his seat. “You must be willing and able to prove this …”

  “I am,” Koja assured the man, standing as straight as he could.

  “It will cost you your life if you’re deceiving me. Manjusri, make the test,” the governor ordered, signaling his wizard to the front.