Horselords

by David Cook

  “It is true a warrior should ride into battle,” Yamun agreed. “I’m pleased to see that you’re feeling much better. Now that you are well, why have you come here?”

  Wary of the khahan’s maneuvering, the general picked his words carefully. He looked at the floor in mock humility.

  “The khadun suspected an evil fate had struck you and came to learn the truth. I could not allow the khadun to travel without a proper guard.”

  Metal scraped wood as the khahan shifted in his seat. “So, you came for the sake of my mother. Learn this, khans,” Yamun said louder, addressing Goyuk and Jad. “General Chanar has shown us the proper thing to do. It is true I have chosen two worthy andas, the warrior and the lama. Let us drink to their health.”

  The kumiss was drunk and the toasts were made. Throughout the salutes, Koja tried to stay quiet and avoid Chanar’s attention. There could be no misreading the angry looks the general gave him over each ladleful of fermented milk. Koja could also see that Yamun was weakening, the ladle shaking a little more each time the khahan raised it to his lips.

  “Yamun,” the priest finally called out, “Chanar is surely tired from today’s traveling. However, he is too noble to complain, so let me speak for him and ask that this audience end.”

  The khahan turned toward Koja, about to lash out at the priest for such impudence, when he suddenly saw the wisdom of the lama’s words. Turning back to Chanar, he held one hand up to send the servants back to their places. “My anda, Koja, is wise. I’ve kept you too long, Chanar Ong Kho. This audience is over now, and you may leave.”

  The warlord sat gaping, then, with a crash, hurled the ladle across the yurt, spraying kumiss over the rugs. “He does not speak for me! I need no one to speak for me. I am your anda!” he shouted. Not waiting for a reply, Chanar stormed out of the yurt, savagely shoving the guards at the door out of his way.

  The door flap had barely been tied shut when Yamun toppled off the throne. Arms weakly flailing, he grabbed at the screen only to succeed in pulling it over with him. The khahan tumbled from the dais in a crash of metal and cracking wood. The gleaming brass helmet popped off his head and bounced across the floor. Koja sprang to his feet, hastening to the side of the stricken khahan. Quickly, he examined the fallen leader.

  “He lives, thankfulness be to Furo, but he needs rest,” the priest announced as he tugged off Yamun’s armor. “Help me get him to bed.”

  “You shouldn’t have put him in that heavy armor,” the prince snapped as he hoisted the khahan to his feet, half-dragging him to his bed.

  “The khahan insisted on it. I did not want it,” Koja shot back, trying to keep his temper under control.

  Jad, too, bit back his words. “That would be like father” he conceded.

  “He is strong-willed,” Koja noted as they laid Yamun’s unconscious body on the bed. Goyuk stood near the door, making sure they were not interrupted.

  “More than you know, lama,” Jad agreed. He looked Koja in the eye. “I was wrong to accuse you.” Together, the pair finished making the khahan comfortable. When they were done, Jad called Goyuk from the door.

  “Wise advisors,” he began, nodding to both Goyuk and Koja, “Bayalun knows our tricks. What do we do now?”

  “He knows about you!” Chanar snapped hysterically, his composure completely shattered. He looked at Mother Bayalun, sitting opposite him, his eyes flashing with panic and rage.

  “He suspects, dear Chanar. If he could prove anything, we would be dead by now,” the matronly Bayalun corrected. Her voice was low and ripplingly musical. She took the general’s hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

  They sat alone in a small yurt she had appropriated from one of the commanders of Yamun’s bodyguard. Influential and important though the Kashik khans might be, not even they dared refuse the illustrious second empress. It was a simple matter for her to find a tent to her liking and then persuade its owner to vacate. Indeed, the khan had been most willing; he believed the khahan dead, making this a good time to be friendly and helpful to the khadun.

  Still, the usurped accommodations were far from lavish. The tent was small and cramped, divided into two sections. Bayalun and Chanar sat in a small reception area. A pair of small wooden chests covered with rugs served as chairs. The khadun had disdained these, choosing instead to sit on the floor next to the oil lamp, which provided a feeble glow. A fine bow of antler horn and lacquered wood, and a quiver of red leather hung on the wall behind one seat, marking it as the master’s spot. A suit of iridescent armor, carefully tended and decorated—perhaps the khan’s finest possession—hung on a stand nearby. Weapons, helmets, shields, buckets, and utensils decorated the rest of the wall space.

  A folding wooden screen separated the other half of the yurt from the reception area. On the other side of the screen was the private area—a small collapsible bed with a carved and inlaid headboard, and chests of clothing and war booty.

  “How long before his suspicion gives way to certainty?” the general countered, slowly pulling his hand free from Bayalun’s. He closed his eyes and rubbed hard at his temples, struggling to regain control of his emotions. Blood throbbed through the veins of his forehead and the shaven top of his head. His shoulders ached from the tension. “Why can’t we just raise our standard and attack him now—just get it over with? We should defeat him in battle, not with a game of words.”

  “Patience, my bold warrior,” Bayalun gently urged. She smiled warmly. His sudden display of temper threatened all her plans and yet fascinated her. “Forgive me. You are a man of deeds, and I have forgotten this. Blood and the sword are meat for you, not politics and words. Patience. There will be battles, I’m sure, but not yet.” Chanar could not help but notice the change in her tone. The khadun moved closer to Chanar. It was important now, more than ever, that the general do nothing rash, that he be placated. She needed to control him, but let him think he was in command.

  “Let Yamun suspect,” Bayalun continued, her voice dropping to soft murmur. “We will find a way to distract the khahan.” She took Chanar’s hands again and gently pulled the general to her. He gave a slight resistance at first, then took her in his arms. She stroked his tanned scalp and the thick brown braids that gathered over his ears. Caressingly, she tugged at his tunic, slowly undoing its clasps.

  The sun only weakly warmed the layer of frosty dew that covered the ground the next morning. On the plain where the dead lay, the day’s chorus of jackals and vultures was beginning. Listening to their cries, an almost comforting sound, Chanar stretched grandly in the doorway of Bayalun’s yurt. There was a rustling noise behind him as the khadun stepped into the small reception area, adjusting her headdress.

  “Yamun’s death standard still stands, Bayalun,” Chanar commented. He did not turn from the doorway. Coming up behind the general, she peered over his shoulder.

  “Good. It gives us more time. There are many things we must plan. Now, come and eat.” A small tray set with cups of salted tea, soured mare’s milk curds, and chunks of sugar had been prepared by her guards. The second empress motioned Chanar to sit as she sipped at her tea.

  Chanar could tell by the set of Bayalun’s jawline that she had already been thinking of the distraction they needed. Taking up a cup, he settled back to listen, leaning comfortably against one of the chests.

  “Did you see the khahan’s face yesterday?” The khadun didn’t wait for an answer. “It was pale, and his voice was weaker than I have ever heard. He did not escape my assassin. He’s been hurt.” She stared into her salted tea. “He wants to be dead so he can heal. We must force him into the open before he is ready.”

  Chanar nodded. “Easily said, but everyone believes him dead.”

  “I have a plan. Which khans are friendly to you?”

  Chanar began to rebraid his hair. He thought for a few seconds while he worked. “Several—Tanjin, Secen, Geser, Chagadai—”

  “Enough. Talk to them. If the khahan is dead, then there m
ust be a couralitai to select a new khahan,” the sharp-witted Bayalun explained.

  “A couralitai?” Chanar exclaimed with a contemptuous laugh. “It’ll take months to gather all the khans for a council. By then Yamun will be healed and there won’t be a need to pick a new khahan. Bayalun, you’ve lost your cunning.”

  The khadun ignored his slight. “No, your khans must insist on it now.” She touched his chest with her staff. “Think about it. The Tuigan are fighting two wars—one with Semphar and one here. Things could go badly without a khahan. Yamun’s sons might fight each other for the throne. A decision must be made immediately.” She lowered her staff. “These are the things you must tell your khans to make them worry. Then they will insist on the couralitai. They will even believe it is the right thing to do. Now, do you see?”

  Chanar stopped braiding and pondered her words. “That’s true. I could speak to the khans. But Yamun might let the couralitai happen. Jad might take command,” the general said, trying to see all the strategies, all the complications.

  “The khahan will not let it happen. He will appear,” the second empress replied confidently.

  “True. After all, Prince Jad might lose,” Chanar mused, thinking of his own supporters.

  “That’s not why Yamun will appear. It’s his pride that will force him into the open. He won’t let another be khahan, not even his own son.” Bayalun returned to her breakfast. “That is why I know he will appear.”

  “So, you force him to come out,” Chanar conceded. “What good is that?”

  Bayalun smiled, not the tender smile of the night before, but the scheming look Chanar had come to know. It drove a shiver of fear through him, the feeling he sometimes got on the verge of battle.

  “When Yamun is weak and in the open, we will find a way to strike at him,” she promised.

  Their plans decided, the two plotters set to work. All morning Chanar made calls on his fellow khans, dropping suggestions, hints, and ominous predictions. At first skeptical of Bayalun’s scheme, Chanar was surprised at how receptive the khans were to his words. The couralitai gave them a course of action, more so even than Jad’s funeral plan. The khans began to clamor for the couralitai, threatening to leave if their demands were not met.

  It was late in the afternoon of the same day when Jad insisted upon a council of war. Koja tried to prevent it, arguing that the khahan was still too weak, but the prince would hear none of it.

  “I want a meeting with my father,” he demanded. “The army’s breaking up and there’s a new problem. Envoys from Manass have arrived to negotiate a peace. I don’t know what to do. Goyuk should be there, too; he knows what’s going on. And you, too, priest.”

  No amount of debate was going to sway Jad, so Koja resigned himself to the meeting. Perhaps the prince was right, he thought. Things were getting out of control. He had heard the rumors among the guards. There was already talk of choosing a new khahan. They needed a plan.

  In a short time, Jad, Goyuk, and Koja presented themselves to the khahan. Yamun looked stronger and there was more color in his cheek, but his voice was still shaky and weak. He was sitting up in his bed when they entered, wearing an ermine-trimmed robe lined with yellow silk. Koja had insisted that he put on clean clothes as part of the healing process. In truth, the priest only wanted to get rid of the smell.

  Jad wasted little time with ceremony. “Father, your death’s gone on long enough,” he began, almost as soon as everyone was seated. “The khans are talking, demanding a couralitai. They’re stirring up the men. I cannot hold the army together any longer.”

  Yamun looked surprised by the news. “A couralitai takes many months to prepare. My time of mourning isn’t even over.”

  “They want one now,” Goyuk explained, his wrinkled face lined even more deeply with concern. “They say the army needs a leader.” His gums smacked together as if to accentuate the point.

  “It’s worse, Father,” added Jad, bowing his head. “The envoys from Manass have come and are impatient to begin negotiations. That’s given the khans more to complain about. Already Chagadai and Tanjin have threatened to return to their pastures. That’s four minghans, four thousand men, Father.”

  Yamun considered the situation, absentmindedly twisting the sheets. “Anda, is my mother still in camp?”

  “Yes, Yamun,” answered Koja.

  “Could this be Bayalun’s doing?” the khahan feebly growled as he slapped the bed with a resounding thud. “Or is it spies from Shou Lung?”

  There was silence from the group as they mulled over the possibilities. No one offered any answers.

  “Yamun, you cannot sit here waiting for something to happen. You should make a plan,” Koja suggested, speaking hesitantly.

  “My anda is right. Tell them to call a couralitai,” the khahan announced. He choked back a small cough.

  “What?” sputtered Jad. “Why not just appear? Show you’re alive?”

  “Someone is manipulating all this,” Yamun declared with certainty. “I’ll show myself, but only after they make their move. Let’s give our mysterious enemy what he wants, then see what happens. Call it for tomorrow.”

  “Lord Yamun, if there is a couralitai, you must appear—to prove you are not dead. Otherwise they will pick a new khahan,” Koja pointed out.

  “I know this. Don’t worry, anda. I’ll rest. Now go.” With a tired wave, Koja and the others were dismissed from the khahan’s presence.

  As he stepped into the afternoon sunlight, Koja realized that it had been days since he’d last made any notes for Yamun’s chronicle. He wondered how much he could remember. As a historian, he was doing a poor job. Wearily, the lama wandered to his tent to fulfill his duty as grand historian.

  12

  The Couralitai

  By the earliest light of the next dawn, word of the couralitai had spread throughout the camp. Already the khans were gathering for the meeting, moving from yurt to yurt to share the rumors and gossip that would affect the day’s business.

  Standing near the Great Yurt, Koja could almost hear the chorus of speculation and rumors. With keen, patient interest, the priest watched the ebb and flow of the khans. General Chanar emerged from the yurt of Tanjin Khan and exchanged friendly banter with the minghan commander. Koja watched him next cross the camp to another tent, that of Unyaid, a minor commander in the Kashik. Even earlier, Bayalun had been moving about, her staff echoing with its distinctive thunk on the hard ground. The priest had not seen her for some time.

  As Koja watched, Jad and Goyuk came his way. They had been out that morning, probing the khans and listening to the rumors. The three shared their information. Koja described Bayalun’s movements and noted Chanar’s with curiosity. Goyuk and Jad outlined the mood of the khans, who would side with them and who would not. After making new plans, Jad and Goyuk returned to their rounds, sounding out the khans. Koja maintained his watch of Bayalun’s movements.

  As the lama waited, the quiverbearers began preparing for the grand meeting. The gathering was to take place inside Yamun’s compound, about one hundred feet from the khahan’s yurt, in a large open area surrounded by the tents of the Kashik khans. A bonfire, mounded with valuable pieces of wood, was built at the far side of the clearing. The khahan’s death banner was moved from Yamun’s yurt and staked on the side of the circle opposite the bonfire. Young boys carefully swept the ground with broad brushes, and others rolled out rugs in two arcs to provide seating. Beyond the circle of the couralitai, servants were brewing tea at small fires, preparing for the arrival of the khans. Leather bags, fashioned from the skins of horses’ heads, were filled with kumiss and set out along with ladles. Special seats for Bayalun and Jad were put up beneath the black yak-tail standard. Between these was a special, vacant seat for the departed khahan.

  A horn blew a wheezing, off-key note. It sounded easily over the subdued clatter of the quiverbearers. They quickly finished their tasks and faded to the edges of the circle. The khans began to arrive a
nd take seats. Those khans friendly to Bayalun sat on the left of the banner, near her seat, while Jad’s supporters filled the places to the right. Most of the khans took places far from both the prince and the khadun, declaring their current neutrality.

  The spaces on the rugs began to get crowded. Deciding there was no more he could do where he was, Koja hurried to find a spot with a good view of the action, before it was too late. The priest squeezed in, finding a space among the densely packed Tuigan. As a foreigner, he had no vote in the the proceedings, but even being allowed to watch was a great privilege.

  The horn blew again. From the far side of the assembly entered Mother Bayalun, Chanar following a few paces behind. The khadun was dressed in white robes, her long, loose hair half-hidden by a white shawl. A broad sash, woven with stripes of blue and red, hung around her neck. She walked slowly but firmly across the circle to take her seat at the head of the assembly. Chanar took a position among the khans sitting on the left.

  The horn blew for a third time. Koja, sitting between a stiff-backed, black-robed commander of the Kashik and a belching, greasy-haired khan whose name he did not know, tensed in anticipation. Instead of the surprise he expected, however, Koja was disappointed to see only Jad and Goyuk venture out to join the couralitai. The prince took his seat, barely acknowledging his stepmother. Goyuk stood quietly behind him, ready to advise the khahan’s son.

  The khans fell silent, expecting the first words of the session. By tradition, these were spoken by the son of the departed. Jad raised his hand and waited for the last murmuring khans to fall quiet. Satisfied that he had their attention, the prince stood up before the assembled nobles.

  “Jadaran of the Hoekun welcomes you. As khan of the Tuigan, he welcomes you. Let this council begin.”

  With these words, the council was open. Custom gave the honor of the next speech to the commander of the Kashik.

  A strong, clear voice suddenly rang out. “Illustrious youth, son of our beloved khahan, commander of forty thousand, this one requests that he may be heard.” There was a buzz of excitement at these words. The speaker had made the request in most respectful language, using all the proper forms and inflections—but it was not the commander of the Kashik. At the far side of the council, the wolf-faced Chagadai, dressed in a ragged and filthy kalat, stood to address the prince. He wore a dirty white turban in the style of the western clans. Without waiting to be recognized, he pushed his way to the center of the circle.