Horselords

2

Yamun trotted his horse, a sturdy little piebald mare, through the camps of his soldiers. Alongside him rode Chanar on a pure white stallion. From behind came the jingling clatter of reins and hooves as five bodyguards, black-robed men of the elite Kashik, followed closely behind.

It had been days since the audience with the priest from Khazari, and Yamun was still reflecting on the events. He scowled as he pondered the contents of the envoy's letters. The prince of the Khazari wanted a treaty between their two nations. Yamun didn't know if that was desirable, and, before deciding, he needed to know more about the Khazari-their numbers, strengths, and weaknesses. "The sleeping rabbit is caught by the fox," or so went the old saying. Yamun had no intention of being lulled to sleep by mere paper.

Dismissing the topic in his mind, Yamun slowed his horse and looked with pride on the endless sea of soldiers' tents and campfires. This was his army. He had organized the tribesmen into arbans of ten men, then jaguns of one hundred, further still to minghans of one thousand, ending finally in the tumen, the great divisions of ten thousand men. Every soldier had a rank and a place in the army, just as Yamun planned. Under his command the men of the steppe were transformed from raiding bands into a tightly disciplined army.

The khahan reined in his horse, bringing it to a stop just in front of a small group of soldiers gathered around their fire. The entourage with him clattered to a stop, too. The squad of ten men who sat around the fire leaped to their feet.

"Who is the leader of this arban?" Yamun demanded, tapping his horsewhip on his thigh. The khahan's horse pranced uneasily, agitated by Yamun's energy.

One man hurriedly ran forward and flung himself to the ground at the mare's hooves. In the warm spring day, the man wore only his woolen trousers and kalat, a stained blue tunic trimmed with red. A conical bearskin cap, decorated with goat-hide tassels, identified the man as a common trooper of Chanar's tumen.

Satisfied with the trooper's response, the khahan waited for his horse to quiet down. "Rise, brother soldier," he said, trying to put the nervous trooper at ease.

"Yes, Great Lord," mumbled the man, pushing himself up from the dirt. Even sitting upright, the man kept his eyes downcast. Yamun could tell the man was a tough and seasoned soldier by the large scars on his cheeks.

"Fear not, warrior," Yamun spoke soothingly. "You're not to be punished. I've some questions, that's all. The commander of your jagun recommended your bravery and skill. What's your father's ordu?" Yamun whisked away the flies from his mare's mane.

"Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, my father was born into the Jebe clan." The trooper bowed again on completing his words.

"Jebe's ordu has many tents, and he's served me well in the past. What's your name?"

"Hulagu, Khahan," the trooper answered, bowing again. "Very well, Hulagu. Stop bobbing up and down and be a soldier." The man sat up straighter, obedient to the words of his khahan. "Jebe Khan keeps his ordu to the east, near the Katakoro Mountains, doesn't he?"

"Yes, Great Lord, in the summertime when the pastures are rich there."

"Have you heard of the Khazari? I'm told they live in those mountains." He stroked the neck of his horse, keeping it calm.

"This is true, khahan. We sometimes take their sheep and cattle," the trooper answered with pride.

Yamun smiled. Raiding and rustling were old and honorable traditions among the Tuigan. As khahan, he could barely keep the different ordus of the Tuigan from stealing each other's horses. Any Tuigan caught stealing from another was executed on the spot, but the law did not apply to non-Tuigan. Yamun tucked his horsewhip into his boot-top. "Are they easy to raid?"

"My father says it was not as hard as raiding the ordus of Arik-Boke and Berku-or so he was told; my father never did this," Trooper Hulagu added hastily, remembering the penalties Yamun had set. "The Khazari aren't horsemen and don't chase us very well, so it is easy to get away. But they live in tents of stone and keep their sheep in pens at night, so we could only raid them when they took their flocks out to pasture."

"Are they a brave people?" Yamun asked, dropping his horse's reins to let it graze.

"Not as brave as the Jebe," the man answered with a trace of boastfulness. "They would fight, but were easy to trick. Many times they did not send out scouts, and we could fool them by driving horses ahead of us to make our numbers seem much larger." The trooper wriggled a little, trying to keep his toes warm in the cold mud.

Yamun stroked the fine beard on his chin. "Are there many of them?"

The man thought for a bit. His eyes glazed as he started imagining numbers larger than twenty.

Finally, the trooper spoke. "They are not so numerous as the tumens of the khahan nor do they fight as well," he said, breaking into a big smile at what he thought was his own cleverness.

Yamun laughed at the man's answer. What he really needed, as he had known from the start, was solid information on who and what the Khazari were like. Trooper Hulagu's memory was certainly not going to be enough. "What's the distance to Khazari?" he asked. Again the man thought, although this time Yamun suspected he knew the answer.

"Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, when I left my ordu to join the magnificent Son of Teylas's armies, I rode for three weeks, but I did not hurry and stopped many days in the yurts of my cousins along the way. The trip could be made faster."

"Undoubtedly," Yamun said, half to himself. The squat warlord paused, although he already knew what needed to be done. Leaning on the pommel of his saddle, Yamun turned to General Chanar beside him. "Chanar Ong Kho, this man and his arban are to ride with all haste to the Katakoro Mountains with as many men as you think wise to send. I want to know the numbers, strengths, and weaknesses of the Khazari. See that the scouts have fresh horses and passes. They must return in five weeks, no later." Chanar nodded in understanding.

Just as he was about to go, Yamun turned back. "And send someone from my Kashik who can count. Make him their commander. Let all who disobey you know this is by the word of the khahan." Yamun added the last automatically, a formula that signified his orders.

"By your word, it shall be done," responded Chanar mechanically, according to the formula of etiquette. "Is that all my men are to do?" the general asked.

Yamun stopped his horse and stared back at Chanar. "You, General Chanar, will ride to the ordu of my son, Tomke, and observe his camp. I want to know if his men are ready. Take the men you need and go immediately. Teylas will protect you."

"By your word, it shall be done" Chanar responded. The discussion finished, Yamun tugged his mount's reins and galloped off.

The trooper still cowered at the feet of Chanar's horse.

"Get going!" the general bellowed. The terrified Hulagu leaped to his feet and scrambled back toward his camp. With his boot, the trooper roused the men of his arban, sending them tumbling after their gear.

"See to the details," Chanar ordered an aide nearby. With his own preparations to make, General Chanar wheeled his horse around and galloped away, headed toward his own yurt.

In his tent, Koja brought out his papers and began to make notes of the day's events and sights. He had only added a few pages since his arrival in Quaraband. Looking at the meager letters only reminded him of how little he knew of the khahan. Undiscouraged, he took up the writing brush and with quick practiced strokes started another letter.

My lord, Prince Ogandi of the Khazari. Greetings from your most humble servant, Koja, envoy to the Tuigan court.

For two days I have awaited the word of the khahan of the Tuigan. There has been no communication from him. He has received your offers, but gives no sign of his opinion toward a treaty. I can do little but wait.

During this time, I have ridden about Quaraband, as the Tuigan call this city of tents, attempting to learn more about their numbers and their way of life. Using the paitza given me by the khahan, I have been able to go where I wish, with one exception-the royal yurt.

Koja stopped to ink his brush and lay out another sheet of paper. He paused before touching the brush to paper again. That morning he had gone to Yamun's tent. There he was stopped by the Kashik dayguard stationed by the gates. Showing his paitza had had no effect on the man and all his protests had been in vain. The guard, in his black kalat, made it clear that Koja was not to be admitted, since the priest's pass bore only the tiger seal. This was apparently the pass used by low-ranking officials. Koja thought about penning the story down, then decided against it.

Perhaps no one was allowed within the royal palace except by invitation.

Traveling elsewhere in the camp, I had no such difficulty, though I have been in the constant company of an armed escort, a precaution of the khahan. I carefully counted tents, making a knot in a string for every ten. By now the cord is short, twisted with little knots. There are more than one hundred knots on the cord, and I still have not ridden the extent of the camp. The Tuigan are a numerous people, O Prince.

In crafts and arts, the people are more than mere barbaric savages. They have men skilled in working gold and silver, and from the wool of sheep make a wondrously warm and soft fabric called felt. At the same time, they are among the smelliest and most abhorrent people for their personal habits.

Koja set aside his brush and pondered what he knew of the Tuigan so far. What seemed like ages ago, when he had first learned he was to visit the Tuigan, Koja had assumed that they were all uncultured savages. Chanar's appearance at the Council of Semphar-dirty, foul-smelling, rude, and arrogant-certainly confirmed that impression.

The ride to Quaraband had been no better. The entire force had traveled at a killing pace, sometimes covering sixty to eighty miles in a single day. He had joined this rank, unwashed group at their meals of near-indigestible dried meat and powdered milk curds mixed with water. For three weeks the men never changed their clothes. It was not a pleasant journey.

The Tuigan, Lord, will eat anything, nor does this give them indigestion. They are great eaters of mutton and horsemeat. They eat much game, for they are most excellent shots with the bow. Mare's milk is used at every meal, made plain, curdled, fermented, and dried. A powder made from the curds is mixed with water or, I am told, mare's blood, to make a drink the soldiers use while they travel.

Koja stopped writing when he realized that his description was incomplete. In Quaraband, he had finally been exposed to another facet of his hosts. To be sure, they still seemed to be barbarians-cruel, dangerous, and impulsive-but Koja could no longer say they were simply uneducated and unskilled. There was a surprising variety to Tuigan life.

The first thing he noticed was that not everyone traveled by horseback and lived in yurts. Mixed among the tents were households who used great, heavy carts to haul their belongings. Some families owned carts but still used yurts; others had abandoned the dome-shaped tents and lived in houses built on their wagons. Other carts carried portable forges for the blacksmiths who set up shop along the water's edge.

These smiths were skilled craftsmen. Working with silver, they made decorated cups, bowls, saddle arches, buckles, pins, and an amazing assortment of other ornaments. Others worked leather, tanning and dying horse-hide for all uses. The women wove bright-colored cloth of wool and camel hair. Armorers were especially prized, and the priest had seen many fine examples of their art since he arrived.

Koja was just about to set these thoughts down when the guard outside summoned him to the door. Hurriedly putting the writing instruments away, Koja folded the slim sheets and put them in a letter pouch. Pouring water from a leather bag, the priest rinsed his inking stone and fingers, leaving a blue stain on his fingertips. At last, with what seemed proper dignity and decorum, he threw aside the tent flap to see who was there.

Outside were five soldiers wearing white kalats trimmed with blue, the personal guard of the empress of the Tuigan, Eke Bayalun. Koja noted their presence with a slight nod.

"Empress Eke Bayalun of the royal household requests you come to an audience with her," stated the officer of the group, identified by the red silk tassels that hung from his cap.

"I am honored by the empress's invitation," Koja answered with a bow. Judging from the man's tone, Koja decided the request was actually an order, so there was little to do but accept graciously. Gathering his things, the priest mounted the horse the guards had brought for him.

Koja was curious to meet the empress of the Tuigan. Eke Bayalun was, from what he had learned, the only surviving wife of Yamun Khahan. She was also his stepmother. Apparently, Tuigan custom required a son to marry his father's widow-or widows-mostly to ensure the women would be cared for. Her full title was Second Empress Eke Bayalun Khadun, denoting her status as Yamun's second wife. It seemed she took an active interest in the khahan's affairs.

Koja studied the guards she had sent. As empress, she was allowed her own bodyguards, much like Yamun's Kashik troopers. Koja noted, too, that Bayalun's troops must not like the khahan's bodyguard; they were widely skirting the tents of the Kashik. Finally, they came to a gate in the stockade, one Koja had not seen before. They rode through without stopping, waved on by the white-robed guards that stood to either side.

Inside the palace grounds, the escort dismounted and helped Koja from his horse. Leaving the horses behind with the soldiers, the officer in charge led him through the grounds to a large, white yurt. Before it stood a banner of white yak tails. The officer knelt quickly before this and then led Koja to the door.

The man pulled the door flap aside and informed the chamberlain that they had arrived. There was a delay, then the chamberlain returned to usher Koja into the empress's yurt. As he entered, the priest noticed two rag idols hung over the doorway. Near the one on the left was a leather drinking bag; by the one on the right, a bundle of grain. Offerings to protective spirits, he guessed.

This yurt was far more lavish than the khahan's spartan tent. The chalk-white walls were hung with patterned silks of red, blue, yellow, and white. One section of the yurt was blocked off by a carved wooden screen. The rugs on the floor were bright red, embroidered in gold and silver with leaflike curls. The two tent posts that supported the central frame were carved and painted to resemble what Koja thought were twining dragons and horses.

At the yurt's far side was a square platform, no more than a few inches high, covered with rugs. On the platform was a couchlike bed of carved wood inlaid with seashells. Blankets were draped over the curved ends. Perched on its edge was a woman, Eke Bayalun.

The second empress was a striking woman, far more graceful and attractive than Koja had imagined. Knowing her to be Yamun's stepmother, Koja thought she would be an old crone, her face bound up in wrinkles with blotchy age spots. Instead, Eke Bayalun was remarkably poised and youthful. Her face was only lightly wrinkled at the corners of the eyes and mouth, the skin stretched tight over her high cheekbones. There it was smooth and flowed with a rich buttery color. Unlike the other Tuigan women Koja had seen, with their soft, round cheeks and broad noses, Bayalun had a sharp, angular nose and chin, both straight and narrow. Her eyes, too, were different, more like those of the westerners he had seen at Semphar-lacking the fold of eyelid at the outer corner. The woman's eyes were sharp, bright, and clear. Her lips were thin and tinted with natural color.

Bayalun's hair was covered with a cowl of white silk, gathered high in the back and fanned out to drape behind her shoulders. The front of the silk wrapped loosely around the neck, and wisps of black and silver hair peeked out from under the cloth. Silver earrings, set with blue and red stones, barely showed behind the fabric. Her dress, in the style of the Tuigan, was high-necked with broad lapels and collar. The dress was black silk, while the collar was a bright red velvet. Over the dress Bayalun wore a long, sleeveless felt jacket, a jupon, decorated with silver coins and silken tassels. Rough woolen trousers and hard leather boots peeked out from underneath the layers of clothing. A wooden staff, topped with a golden, fanged face, lay across her lap. At Bayalun's feet were several neat stacks of paper scrolls, each carefully tied with a cord of red or gold.

Koja, startled as he realized that he was rudely staring at the second empress, turned his gaze to the other people in the yurt. The men sat to the left and the women to the right. There were three men on the left side. The first, sitting slightly out of the way, was clearly Bayalun's scribe: an old man, perhaps ancient, who hunched over his little writing table. To the scribe's left was another old man, dressed in robes of faded yellow silk. The robes were completely covered with Shou characters. This man looked quickly and sharply at Koja as the priest advanced to take his seat.

Taking his place between the two rows, Koja walked past the third man. His hair hung in loose, greasy hanks, and his teeth were crooked and rotten. The man was garbed in ratty-looking pelts, thickly layered over each other. Iron hooks, bars, plates, chain-links, and figurines were stitched all across the breast of his robes. In his lap he held a large skin drum and a curved drumstick. Koja was fairly certain the man was some type of shaman, calling on primitive spirits for his powers.

On the right side of the yurt were ten women. Two sat in the front row, facing the men, and seemed important. At the head of the row was an old crone, dressed in a warm del, the leather garment that served as both coat and robe to the Tuigan. Beside and slightly behind the crone was a younger woman dressed in similar clothing. She wore the headdress of an unmarried woman, a towering cone of wrapped red cloth held in place with tortoiseshell combs and silver pins. Long dangling strings of silver coins draped down over her shoulders.

Koja bowed low as he stood between the two rows of attendants. Head lowered, he waited for some word from the second empress. "Welcome, Koja of the Khazari," she said in a warm and friendly tone. "You may sit." Koja sat, making himself as comfortable as possible.

"The second empress does me great honor, more than I deserve," he said.

Bayalun smiled in recognition. " 'Second empress' is not a title I am accustomed to. Among my people I am better known as Mother Bayalun or," she informed him with a wry smile, "Widow Bayalun, even Bayalun the Hard. I prefer Mother Bayalun, if only because through me the House of Hoekun is traced."

"Please pardon my ignorance, but I have only been here a short time. What is the House of Hoekun? Is it the same as the Tuigan, or is it something different?" queried Koja. He waited attentively for her answer.

"A quick mind. You ask questions," commented Mother Bayalun as she leaned forward, setting the point of her staff on the rugs. She studied the priest's face intently with her dark, deep eyes. Raising the tip of her staff, she drew a large circle in the thick nap of the felt. "This is the Tuigan empire." Her staff tapped at the circle.

"Are the Hoekun part of the Tuigan?" Koja asked.

Mother Bayalun ignored the question. Instead she drew several smaller circles inside the first. The circles more or less filled the space. "These are the people of the Tuigan empire. These," she said, stabbing at one of the circles with her staff, "are the Naican, conquered by Burekai, my husband before the khahan." Bayalun went on to tap four other circles. "These are the Dalats, Quirish, Gur, and the Commani. They were all defeated by the current khahan. And this circle," she pointed at the last, in the center of all, "is the Tuigan. There are many families among the Tuigan." Using her staff, the empress poked the rug, leaving little dents. "These are the people of the Tuigan. There are the Hoekun, the Basymats, the Jamaqua, and many more. Each house is named for its founder. Ours was Hoekun the Clever, son of his mother, the Blue Wolf."

Koja nodded politely, though he wasn't sure he understood completely. "The Blue Wolf?"

"A wise spirit. She whelped our ancestor in the middle of winter and caused our people to be born." Bayalun leaned back and shrugged her shoulders. "The children of the House of Hoekun are all the sons and daughters of the Blue Wolf. This makes the Hoekun the royal family of all the Tuigan. I am the oldest of the house, so I am called Eke-or Mother-Bayalun."

"Then your husband before Yamun Khahan was also the khahan?" Koja noted, trying to make sure he grasped everything clearly.

A scowl knitted Bayalun's brow, but she quickly assumed a blank look. "Burekei was khan of the Hoekun ordu, no more. It was his son, Yamun, who was chosen to be the khahan."

"Yamun Khahan was elected? He wasn't born to become the khahan?" Koja asked in surprise. He had assumed the khahan was a hereditary rank, like that of king or prince.

"All men are born to become what they will. Such is the will of Teylas, Lord of the Sky," she explained, playing her fingers up and down the staff. "When Burekei died, Yamun became khan of the Hoekun. It was only later, after he conquered the Dalats, that the families named him great prince of all the Tuigan." Bayalun crossed her feet and adjusted her seat.

"But, I did not invite you here to answer all your questions, envoy, although they have been amusing." She gave him a slight mocking smile and watched to see what kind of reaction her gentle barb would bring.

Koja became red-faced. "Accept my apologies, Second Empress," he meekly responded, bowing his head slightly.

"Please, call me Mother Bayalun," the empress chided. Sitting back in her seat, Bayalun carefully set the staff down by her feet. "You say you are a lama of the Red Mountain," she began casually. "What teachings do you follow?"

"The lamas of the Red Mountain live by the words of the Enlightened One, who taught us how to reach peace and perfect oblivion. We seek to banish our passions, so we can understand the teachings of the Enlightened One." He paused, waiting for some sign of understanding. Bayalun watched him closely but gave no indication that she understood.

Koja continued. "If I drink tea and I like tea, my life will be ruled every day by the desire for tea and I will not know anything else. Every day I will think about my cup of tea and will miss what is happening around me." The priest's hands mimed holding a cup of tea. "Only after we no longer savor life can we truly feel everything life has to offer." Koja tried to keep his explanation simple, not wanting to confuse his hostess with the complexities of Red Mountain theology. Judging from the shaman beside him, the Tuigan were not all that familiar with sophisticated philosophical teachings.

Mother Bayalun squinted at him. "I heard it said you followed Furo the Mighty. Isn't he the god of the Red Mountain Temple? But today you talk of the Enlightened One. Do you follow the teachings of one and worship the other?"

Koja scratched at the stubble on his skull. His simple explanation was getting more complex. "We know it is a truth that Furo the Mighty is a divine agent of the Enlightened One."

"So, you practice the teachings of the Enlightened One, but pray to Furo to intercede on your behalf?"

"Yes, Mother Bayalun." Koja marveled at the astuteness of her questions.

" 'He is like the wind all about us. Felt but not touched, heard but not spoken, moving but unmovable, always present, but always unseen,'" quoted Bayalun, her eyes closed in concentration.

Koja stared at her in amazement, too dumbfounded for words. "That is from the Yanitsava, the Book of Teachings," he whispered.

"And you're surprised that I know it," she chuckled. "I, too, have spent my life learning the teachings of wise men. These worthies have been my instructors." She waved a hand toward the men who sat down the row from Koja. "This is Aghul Balai of the Tsu-Tsu, a people close to the border of Shou Lung," she said, introducing the thin man in the mystical robes. "For many years he studied in Shou Lung, learning the secrets of Chung Tao, the Way." The wizened man pressed his palms together and bowed slightly to Koja.

While at the temple, Koja had heard a little about Chung Tao. It was powerful within the Shou empire, far to the east. It was said that the emperor of the Jade Throne himself followed its teachings. Koja had been taught its teachings were wrong and had heard many evil stories about its practices. To Koja, the mystic suddenly looked sinister and dangerous.

"This other," continued Bayalun, pointing to the fur-clad man, "is Fiyango. Through him, we are able to speak with the spirits of the land and our ancestors, and learn much good advice." The shaman, whose age Koja found impossible to place, smiled a toothless smile at him.

"And she," concluded the second empress, tapping her staff in front of the old crone, "is Boryquil, and this is her daughter Cimca. Boryquil has the gift to see things as they are and things as they should be. She knows the ways of the kaman kulda, the dark spirits that come from the north."

"With my eyes I can see them; with my nose I can smell them," cackled the hag, reciting an old, ritualistic formula. Her lungs labored from the exertion. With each gasping breath, her necklace clacked and rattled. Peering at it from across the aisle, Koja saw that it was a leather cord strung with broad, flat bones. Each bone was covered in red-inked script.

"So you can see, Koja of the Red Mountain, I have surrounded myself with people of useful skills. They advise me and they teach me." Bayalun stopped and quickly wet her lips. "Aghul hopes to convert me to Chung Tao. Fiyango worries that I will forget the spirits of earth, sky, and water, while Boryquil protects my tent from evil spirits. Of course," she added softly, "not that any spirit could enter this area." She touched the finial on her staff.

"Tell me, Koja of the Khazari, are you here to teach me the secrets of the Red Mountain?"

Koja paused for a bit, trying to think of an appropriate response. Finally, he answered, "I was never the best student of my masters, and so I only learned a little from them. These were only small things in the teachings of Furo. I have traveled instead, hoping to aid others through the services of the Enlightened One." Koja didn't lie; he wasn't the best disciple, but his skills were more than he allowed.

"I thought all of you sat in your temple and meditated," Bayalun commented, brushing a wisp of hair from her eyes. The shaman to Koja's right broke into a fit of coughing. Bayalun pursed her lips and waited until he was done. "If you are a teacher, you must stay and instruct me in the ways of your temple."

Koja swallowed uncomfortably, unwilling to offend the second empress with a direct refusal. He was not here, however, to teach, even if it might spread the belief of Furo to these nonbelievers. "I will certainly be happy to teach you of our ways while I am here, illustrious empress, but I must carry messages back to my prince in Khazari." He bowed slightly as he spoke.

"I understand," Bayalun said, relenting. She leaned back with a sigh, stroking her eyebrows carefully. Koja detected a note of disappointment in her voice. "So when you summon him, does Furo lay waste to your enemies?"

Koja started at the boldness of the question. "It is said, Mother Bayalun, that he is both wondrous and terrible, but we do not summon him. We live to serve our god, not to have him come at our beck and call." A tone of chastisement unavoidably crept into the lama's voice.

"I see," said Mother Bayalun, turning away from Koja. "At this time the interview is over. It is our misfortune that you are unable to stay and instruct us. But I am sure your pressing duties need your attention. You may leave." Koja bit at the inside of his lip, frustrated by his own indiscretion.

The chamberlain came forward and touched Koja on the shoulder, motioning the priest to rise. Koja hoisted himself to his feet and backed out of the tent, bowing as he went. The priest, bewildered by the strange meeting, was led back to his waiting horse. Only one man from his original escort remained. The two of them rode back toward his tent, once again following the roundabout way they had taken earlier.

"Why do we go this way? It is shorter that way," Koja said, pointing along a route that would lead them past the front of the royal enclosure and Yamun's bodyguard.

"Orders."

"Oh," the lama answered. The white-kalated guard trotted his shaggy-maned horse forward, expecting the priest to follow along.

Koja, inattentive to his riding, urged his horse forward, giving it what he thought was a gentle kick. The mare set off at a full gallop. Koja was slammed forward into his saddle and then toppled backward, barely keeping his hold, as the horse leaped over a cooking fire. The lama only had time to glimpse a flash of startled faces. Panicked, he dropped the reins and used both hands to cling to the saddle arch. There was another hard jolt, and his feet flew from the stirrups.

"Haii!" shouted the guard, wheeling his horse around to pursue. The man leaned forward onto the neck of his pony, slashing its haunches with his three-thonged knout. "Haii! Haii!" he cried, trying to warn everyone out of his path. The guard could see Koja bouncing and tumbling about on his saddle, feet flying in the air.

"Stop! Stop!" Koja screamed to his horse as it took a tight turn past an oxcart. He managed to knot one hand into the pony's mane while his other arm flailed about. The horse's hooves clattered and thundered, pounding over the icy ground and meager grass. Koja tossed to the right, lurched forward, cracked his spine in a hard jolt against the saddle, then felt his legs fly backward, almost up over his head. The wind whipped at his robes as the pony galloped onward.

From behind Koja there was a chorus of shouts, cries, and yells. Suddenly, a man's scream came from in front of him. The horse answered the scream and reared, almost throwing Koja off its back. The mare's breath was labored, coming in snorting pants. There was a sharp crack as its hooves hit the ground.

The jolt snapped the priest forward, flipping his body over the front of the saddle, one hand still tangled in the mare's mane. In an instant, Koja slammed to the ground, thrown completely over the head of the panting steed, a hank of mane in his hand. As he hit, Koja's head struck a stone.

"Haii-haii-hai," the breathless guard hoarsely shouted as he leaped from the saddle of his still-moving steed. He sprinted over to where the runaway horse pranced. Under its hooves was the priest, a huddled form of tangled robes. From the nearby tents ran the black-garbed men of the khahan's guard.

Yamun paced back and forth along the dusty streambed; it was the only action that could contain his frustration and anger. Several times he stopped to slash an offending tuft of grass with his bloodstained knout. At one end of his pace was the guardsman of the second empress, Koja's escort, spread-eagled on the ground. The man lay staked out on his back, his head pressed into the dirt by a cangue, a heavy, Y-shaped yoke that was lashed to his neck by twisted thongs. The guardsman had been stripped naked and was bleeding from several lash marks.

At the other end of Yamun's stride was a pallet bearing the unconscious priest. Huddled around him were three shamans, wearing their ritual masks. A piece of white cloth, set with a silver bowl of milk and bloody sheep bones, was spread at the head of the pallet. Encircling everyone was a wall of Kashik dayguards, their backs turned so that they faced away from Yamun and the shamans, forming a living wall. A strong wind whipped their kalats about their legs. In the distance, the smoke of Quaraband curled over the dim shapes of the tents.

Yamun stopped at the prisoner. "Why did old Bayalun summon the Khazari?" he demanded, towering over the bound man.

The prisoner, choking from a parched throat, barely gurgled a reply. Infuriated, Yamun whipped him with the knout, leaving more bloody wounds.

"Why did she summon him?"

"I–I-don't know," the guardsman rasped out.

"What did they talk about?"

The guard gasped as Yamun struck him again. "I did not hear!"

Disgusted, Yamun strode to the other end of the little compound, where the shamans worked. "Will he live?"

"It is very difficult, Great Prince," spoke one of the three. He wore a crow mask, and his thin, creaky voice echoed hollowly from it. Horse-mask and Bear-mask kept to their work.

"I don't care. Give me an answer," Yamun snapped.

"His gods are different from ours, Khahan. It is hard to know if our healing spells will have power over him. We can only try."

Yamun grunted. "Then you'd better try very hard." He turned to resume his pacing.

The wall of Kashik parted to allow a mounted rider to enter. The man, a commander of a minghan in the Kashik, slid quickly off his horse, ran to Yamun, and knelt before the khahan.

"Get up and report," Yamun ordered.

"I come from the tents of the Mother Bayalun, as you ordered, Great Lord."

"And what did she have to say?"

"Mother Bayalun says she only wanted to learn more of the world," the officer quickly answered as he looked toward the prisoner on the ground.

Yamun gripped his knout with both hands. "And what's her excuse for the guards?"

"According to her, the orders she gave were not followed. She commanded the guards to escort the priest to and from his tent, and to make sure that he was not hurt," the commander explained. "She ordered an arban of men to go as escort, but they did not obey her orders."

"Then you must ride back and tell her to choose a punishment for the nine that deserted their posts," Yamun ordered. He impatiently scuffed at the ground with his toe.

"She has anticipated your desire and has already given her judgment. They are to be sewn into the skins of oxen and sunk into the river, as is by custom."

"She's clever and quick. She hopes this will appease me." Yamun pulled at his mustache as he thought it over. "Her judgment will do. Still, I want you to go back and tell her I'm not satisfied. For letting this happen, she must reduce the size of her bodyguard. I'll set the numbers when I return."

"Yes, Khahan. Surely the second empress will be angry, Lord. Might she do something dangerous?" The officer had heard much of Bayalun's powers.

"I don't need to please her. She'll accept it because I'm the khahan," Yamun said confidently. He turned and walked over to his captive. "And did she say anything about him?" Yamun asked, pointing at the man on the ground.

"Seeing as he is within your grip, she allows you to deal with him as you want."

Yamun looked down on the man. The fellow's eyes were wide, waiting for word from the khahan.

"He did not desert, Khahan," the officer noted.

"True. He can live, but…" The khahan paused, thinking. "He failed in his duties. Fetch men and stones. Crush one ankle so he cannot ride again. Let all who disobey you know that this is by the word of the khahan."

"By your word, it shall be done," answered the commander. Taking his horse, he left the circle to see to the arrangements.

The sound of the drum and flute brought Yamun's attention back to the shamans. The droning melody of their chant was just ending when he came back to them. Taking their horsetail wands, the shamans sprinkled the still body of the priest with milk and then stepped away from the pallet.

"Well?" demanded Yamun, only to be hushed by Crow-mask.

"Wait, we will know in a little while." The shaman's voice echoed from inside the mask. The three squatted down on their haunches. Yamun stood behind them, fiddling with his knout. Finally his patience could take no more and he resumed his pacing.

After several minutes Yamun heard a cough. He turned and strode back to the pallet. Koja was struggling to prop himself up on one elbow. The shamans clustered around, their masks pushed up from their faces. They fussed over the priest, pushing him back down each time he weakly tried to sit up. Crow-mask turned to Yamun. "He lives, Illustrious Khahan. The spirits of the Sky God, Teylas, have favored him with their blessing."

"Good," commented Yamun, stepping past the man. He looked down into Koja's wan face. Dried blood still caked the back of his skull, although the wound, magically healed, had already knit. "Well, envoy of the Khazari, want to go riding?" He laughed at his own joke while Koja winced in pain at the thought.

One of the shamans tugged at the khahan's sleeve. "Gently, Great Lord. He is still very weak."

Yamun grunted in acknowledgment and squatted down beside the sickbed. He waved the shamans back so he could be alone. "You live."

Koja nodded weakly, tried to raise his head, and fell back in pain. "What-where …?" His questions drifted off.

"You're outside Quaraband. I had you brought here so the shamans could work their spells on you."

Koja took a deep breath and composed his thoughts. "What happened to me?"

"You were thrown from your horse. My guard brought you in, almost dead. It took a little time, but the shamans healed your wounds." Yamun's legs were getting stiff, so he rocked gently from side to side to stretch. "The men who failed you have been punished," he added, assuming the priest would demand justice without delay.

A cloud of confusion swirled in Koja's eyes, only in part from dizziness. "Why have you done this?" Remembering his manners, he rephrased the question. "Why has the khahan, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, come here to see to the health of this insignificant one? You have bestowed great favor on me."

Yamun scratched his neck, thinking of how to explain it. The reasons for his actions seemed obvious to Yamun, so he assumed that those same reasons were clear to everyone. "Why? You're a guest in my yurt. It wouldn't be good if you died while you were here. People would say my tents were plagued by evil spirits."

The khahan paused and smiled. "Besides, what would your prince think if I sent him a message saying 'Please send another priest, the first one died'? I don't think he would be pleased." Yamun picked up a pebble and rolled it between his fingers.

"And now," Yamun said softly, "I've saved your life." The warlord tossed the rock aside.

Koja was at a loss for words. "I am unable to repay you for this, Great Lord," he whispered at last. A shiver ran through his body. His chest felt tight and restricted.

Yamun smiled broadly, the scar on his lip giving it a leering quality. His eyes remained squinted and hard. "Envoy of the Khazari, I need a new scribe. The last one proved unreliable."

Koja gulped painfully. "Unreliable?"

"He forgot his loyalties."

Koja remembered the bloody head and Yamun's quick justice. "You mean-"

"He told me what others wanted me to hear," Yamun interrupted. "So, who do you serve?"

Koja hesitated in fear, then swallowed and answered. "Prince Ogandi of the Khazari, Great Lord." He closed his eyes, waiting for the blow.

"Hah! Good!" Yamun bellowed. "If you'd betray your proper lord to serve me, what kind of loyalty could I expect?" He slapped his thigh in satisfaction. "But now, you will do your prince service by serving me."

"Great Khan, I-"

Yamun cut off his protests. "Your prince ordered you to learn more about me and my people, didn't he?"

"Yes, but how did you know?" Fearful that his letters had been found, Koja struggled and finally managed to sit up.

"Because that's what I'd have you do. Now, as my scribe, you'll be very close to me and have the chance to learn many things, won't you?" Yamun scratched at his chest.

"Yes," Koja answered hesitantly.

"Good. It's decided." Yamun stood once again, rubbing the soreness out of his back. The khahan turned and looked toward the tents of Quaraband. "You've met the second empress. What do you think of her?"

"She is … strong-willed," responded Koja, picking his words carefully.

Yamun snorted. "She tried to get something from you, I see. Remember, she will never give up, and she is powerful. Most of the wizards and shamans heed her words."

"I will remember."

"As my scribe," Yamun continued, still looking away, "she may seek your favor. Look over there." He turned and pointed across the small circle.

Koja looked where Yamun pointed and saw the bound prisoner. Up to now the man had been mostly silent, except for slight whimpers of pain. Koja was barely able to recognize him as the rider from his escort. Yamun raised his hand, signaling to his guard. Two men stepped from the ranks. Each carried a large, flat stone. Seeing them, the prisoner began to scream and beg for mercy. Impassive to his cries, the men set to work.

With a quick cut of the knife, the guards slashed the bindings that held one leg. One man quickly grabbed the victim's leg, twisting the ankle upward, while the other Kashik slid one stone underneath. The prisoner, still screaming, tried to kick free, but he was held fast. The second guard raised his stone high over his head.

"Stop them, Khahan!" Koja cried out as he realized the guard was about to smash the stone down. The effort it took to shout caused him to fall into a wracking fit of coughing.

"Hold!" Yamun commanded. The Kashik lowered the stone he held over his head.

"Why should they stop?" Yamun demanded of Koja once the coughing passed.

"This man has done nothing. You cannot blame him for my accident," Koja protested.

"Why not?" Yamun countered. "He failed to protect you. Therefore, he must be punished. At least he will live. His comrades were drowned."

His mind already weak from shock, Koja was amazed at Yamun's words. "It is not his fault that I was hurt. I will not have him harmed," the priest finally said with conviction. Exhausted, he fell back on the pallet.

Yamun sucked on his cheek as he listened to the priest. "Do you request his life?" the burly warlord asked.

"His life? Yes, I do," Koja answered as he lay on his back.

Yamun looked over to the prisoner. The man was watching them, his eyes filled with fear and expectation. "Very well, priest. According to custom, I give him to you; he's your slave. His name is Hodj. If he commits any crime you'll be punished. That too is our custom."

"I understand this," Koja assured Yamun, closing his eyes.

"Good. Now, as for Bayalun, she'll assume that you're loyal to me. She hates me," he said matter-of-factly, "and so she'll hate you. Always remember that I'm all that stands between her wrath and you." Yamun signaled the guards to release Hodj and then left to find his horse.

Koja watched the khahan ride off as the bearers came and hoisted his pallet onto their shoulders. All the way back to Quaraband the priest silently said his prayers, calling on Furo to protect him until he saw his home again.