Horselords

by David Cook

  The dong chang stepped forward and raised his hands, presenting the iron rod toward Koja. The priest’s guards went for their swords. Koja grabbed the wrist of the nearest man. “Wait,” he ordered. The wizard waved the rod in circles and murmured a deep chant. His eyes were closed. There was a sudden puff of wind that fluttered the magician’s robes and tossed his hair about. Suddenly, it stopped. The hermit opened his eyes.

  “He speaks the truth, Lord,” the wild-haired wizard pronounced. The gaunt fellow returned to his place behind the governor.

  “Well then, Koja of the Red Mountain, I am Sanjar al-Mulk, commander of this city in the name of Prince Ogandi. State your message to me as if it were to him.” There was no tone of warmth or friendliness in the man’s voice, only a faint trace of sneering contempt and disgust for the priest in front of him.

  Koja swallowed nervously and crossed his hands in front of himself. “I am a Khazari—”

  “Come forward. I cannot hear you,” ordered Sanjar. Koja walked closer to the porch and began again, shouting a little louder.

  “I am a Khazari, like those of you here. I bear you greetings from Hoekun Yamun, khahan of the Tuigan, who styles himself Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples. He has sent me to you, my people and my prince, to deliver a message. The words of the khahan of the Tuigan are this: ‘Submit to me and recognize my authority over your people or I shall raze your city and destroy all those who refuse me.’ ”

  As Koja finished those words, there was a murmur of shock and surprise from the men in the plaza. Many eyes turned to Sanjar. The governor’s face was purpled with rage and indignation. “Is that all this barbarian has to say?” he shouted in fury at Koja.

  The priest wiped his sweaty palms on his robe. “No, Lord Commander. He also bids you to look over your walls from your highest tower.”

  “I’ve seen the reports from the sentries. Your khahan has gathered himself a sizable force of bandits. And now he wants to style himself Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples. He’s got a lot to do before he can claim that title,” Sanjar sneered. “Does he really think he can capture Manass with that puny force?”

  “Yes, he does, Lord Commander.”

  Sanjar snorted in derisive, insulting laughter. The old Shou gentleman at his side joined in, though he veiled his smile behind a fan. Koja bit his lip to refrain from speaking. Sanjar was treating the whole thing like some great joke, as if the khahan were some thieving buffoon or a common raider. Although he knew the commander was making a grave error, Koja found himself unwilling to speak up. He didn’t like Sanjar al-Mulk very much and trusted the Shou mandarin even less.

  “It is to be assumed that the brave khahan has chosen a time by which this insignificant city must reply?” asked the old Shou mandarin suddenly. He spoke fluent Khazari, but with a thick Shou accent.

  “The khahan of the Tuigan requests his answer by sundown today,” explained Koja. The old man nodded.

  “Perhaps sometime tomorrow? After all, there is much to consider here,” the mandarin offered. He made no effort to conceal his contempt.

  “The khahan is adamant. The answer must be given today.” Koja waited to see what the governor would say.

  The mandarin leaned over and whispered in Sanjar’s ear. The governor’s smile was replaced by a grim scowl. He stood up from his chair.

  “You will not have to wait so long. This is my answer: Kill them all except the lama. Leave him alive to tell his impudent bandit-lord that Prince Ogandi finds the company of civilized men more to his taste. Tell him injury to Khazari is injury to Shou Lung. Let him think on that!”

  Koja was thunderstruck by Sanjar’s words.

  “What did he say, priest?” demanded one of the Tuigan, sensing the threat in the governor’s words.

  The lama roused to action. “Quickly,” Koja shouted in Tuigan to his guards. “Defend yourselves!”

  His words were almost unnecessary, for the Tuigan were already in motion. They sprang back, leaping on the guards who blocked the way back to the gate. The sergeant of the arban shouted out commands to his men, driving them like a wedge toward the wall of guards in their path. The lead warrior feinted a high cut and then suddenly shifted it, thrusting his sword under the Khazari’s guard. The sharp steel slashed through the soft armor and sliced into the man’s arm, shearing down to the bone. The Khazari screamed as his sword dropped, his arm now useless. The other Tuigan hurled themselves into the attack, hoping that sheer fury and surprise would carry them through.

  Koja stood flat-footed as the warriors swept past him. He had never been in a real fight before. The speed of the battle stunned him.

  The Tuigan slashed deeper into the ranks of the guards. Several Kharazi were already down. One lay clutching at his throat, his blood soaking the ground. Another had crawled out of reach, clutching at his belly, trying to keep the gaping gash across his abdomen closed. Two others lay unmoving. Steel rang against steel; harsh gasps and pants punctuated the battle. Already the guards were starting to waver as the small band of Tuigan drove forward.

  “Stop them!” shouted Sanjar, his voice screeching with rage. “Don’t let them get away!”

  Suddenly Koja heard a droning murmur behind him. He wheeled about just in time to see the dong chang shake his iron rod in the direction of the battle. As the wizard finished the spell, a paralyzing force settled over the lama. He tried to fight it, calling on the inner strength his master had taught him to use. In his mind he chanted sutras of power, focusing his thoughts to a single point.

  Then, just as suddenly, the paralysis was gone—and so was the noise of battle. Looking cautiously behind him, Koja saw his Tuigan escort and some of the Khazari guards frozen like statues. Each man had been caught in the grip of a magical rigor, locking him in place. Some were lunging, others parried. A few had fallen over, their weight off-balance when the spell struck. Not one of them twitched, blinked, or moved in any way. Around their feet was the blood of their opponents, still flowing. Koja felt his knees go weak.

  “Excellently done, Manjusri,” the governor said, rising from his seat. “Let the lama take the soldiers’ heads back as our answer. Then hang the bodies from the gate.”

  Several men ran forward with their krisnas to carry out the grisly task.

  8

  Retreat

  The screech of wood on wood signaled the closing of the main gate behind Koja. The Khazari had seated the lama backward on the horse and, with a slap on the rump, sent the beast galloping out the gate. The priest’s hands were tied behind him, fastened to the pommel, and bags hanging from the saddle squished and thudded softly against his legs. In these sacks were the heads of his Tuigan escort. The blood soaked through the fabric and onto the hem of his robe.

  As he watched Manass recede, Koja heard horses coming his way. There was a jerk at the reins, and the horse stopped. A knife cut away Koja’s bonds. Freed, he practically leaped from the saddle, animated by fear and anger. While he stood there, the troopers remounted, leading his horse with them. Before Koja could protest, one man leaned down and hauled the priest up behind him. Then, wheeling their horses, the troopers galloped back toward the Tuigan lines.

  In the time it took Koja to deliver the khahan’s message, Yamun had been busy. The ridge where the horsewarriors had entered was now a solid line of men and horses. The riders were packed three, sometimes four ranks deep. The different standards—poles with banners, tails, golden ornaments, and carved totems—thrust up throughout the lines. Each marked the position of a different commander.

  Koja’s rescuers quickly rode past the ranks of hard-bitten campaigners. The priest marveled at the nonchalance of the men who were likely to soon be in battle. Some slept at their mounts’ feet, while others drank and boasted of the great deeds they would do today. Most of the men simply watched and waited.

  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 mar
e 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 ca
mp. 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.