Horselords

7

"Master" Hodj said softly in his nasal voice. "Master, the khahan wishes to see you."

Koja opened his eyes and discovered that he was looking at a broad field of night stars. He blinked and scanned the sky. In one direction the scintillating points swept as far as he could see. Looking the other way, the lights were blocked by a silver-black range of peaks, mountains outlined by the light of the waning moon.

"Lord Yamun summons you, master," Hodj repeated.

"I hear, Hodj," Koja answered. With his arms, he slowly pushed himself up. His shoulders and back were stiff and pained, but not anything like the agony he had felt earlier. Still, he didn't think he'd be leaping and dancing about for a while. In fact, moving with as little bending as possible seemed like a good idea.

"Help me up."

Hodj slid an arm around the priest and pulled the thin lama to his feet. Koja wavered there unsteadily, lightly testing his weight on each leg before releasing the servant. Satisfied that his knees were not going to buckle underneath him, Koja took a few steps to gently stretch his cramped muscles. While he did so, Hodj hurried into the yurt to fetch clean clothes.

It took Koja a little while to realize this camp was different. His yurt was raised. He turned in a circle, looking over the camp. All around were shadowy, moonlit domes, the rounded shapes of the felt tents. Small welcoming fires blazed on the dusty prairie among the tents. Short, squat, Tuigan men wandered among the fires.

Drifting through the night came the wail of a band of musicians, the scraping notes of the khuur and the rhythmic rattle of a yak-hide drum. A singer suddenly added to the cacophony, wailing in the two-voice style peculiar to the steppe. Somehow the man produced both a low, nasal drone and a high-pitched chant at the same time. Koja was glad the musicians were some distance away, as he had not yet learned to appreciate the finer points of Tuigan music. It all sounded like the screeching of evil spirits, or at least what Koja thought evil spirits sounded like, since he had never really heard any screech.

Hodj came out of the tent with Koja's bright orange silk robe, which the priest had packed away for the journey. Although he found his master's insistence on clean clothing odd, Hodj tried to do his best to fulfill the priest's wishes. He helped Koja pull the robe on over his travel-stained garments. It was too cold to take them off, even though the clothes were caked in dried sweat, dust, and grease. Finally somewhat presentable, the priest set out for Yamun's tent.

On his way there, Koja noticed that the soldiers seemed in a very different mood this night. On the surface they were happy and cheerful, but the priest sensed a grim and resolute mood underneath. Around many of the fires, men sprawled against their saddles, drinking ladles of kumiss and swapping stories. At one fire, a thick-mustached trooper held his sword between his legs and scraped along its length with his honing stone. A bright glint of metal caught the priest's eye at another fire. There, another soldier sat cross-legged, a suit of armor stretched out in front of him. It was a fine piece of workmanship, with the same cut as the man's kalat but made of overlapping scales of polished steel. He was carefully checking it over, testing the strength of the stitching that held each metal scale to the thick leather backing.

Yamun's camp was larger and more elaborate than the previous night's. The tent-wagon was gone and, instead, Yamun's white-chalked yurt had been raised. The khahan's standard stood next to it. Nearby was another tent, almost as large, patterned with black and white stripes. A smaller standard, unfamiliar to Koja-a pole topped with a silver crescent and a human skull-stood outside its door. There were more nightguards present than usual, all in full Tuigan-style armor and tensely alert.

Koja was hastily ushered into the khahan's tent. Yamun and another younger man sat at the yurt's center, leaning over a low table that had been set in front of them. Trays at their side held cups of Tuigan tea and piles of gnawed bones.

The younger man stopped talking when Koja stepped through the threshold. He turned and stared at the priest. His face, although similar to Yamun's, was more pinched and less heavily lined. His right cheek was badly pitted by the pox, and a half-moon-shaped scar made a pale mark on his forehead. Like Yamun, the stranger had a red tint to his hair. The man's locks were tied in two thick braids that dangled below his shoulders. Silver and shell ornaments capped the ends of his braids.

The stranger wore a long, tight-fitting robe of black silk, imported from Shou Lung and cut in the style of a trooper's kalat. Raised patterns woven into it gave the robe a shimmering texture. Beaded red cords, fixed in place with hammered silver bosses, hung from his shoulders. Embroidered across the front of the robe, in red and gold, was a serpentine and leaping dragon against a sea of brilliant blue and silver clouds. A saber, the scabbard covered with deep blue lapis lazuli, hung from his broad golden belt. Koja was surprised by this, for few visitors were allowed to bear weapons within the khahan's yurt.

Yamun didn't glance up as the lama entered, instead continuing the discussion with the newcomer. "Your men are too close to the river. Move your forward tumens back. Set their camps between the two hills to the south. You'll keep your own tent here. Have your commanders report to me in the morning." The younger man sat quietly, noting all of Yamun's commands.

"You summoned me, Khahan," Koja said, kneeling on one knee with his head bowed.

"Sit," grunted the warlord, pointing to a space alongside the table. The younger man said nothing, but watched Koja carefully as he took the place indicated.

"Join us in tea, historian," Yamun said, setting his own cup on the table. "This is Jadaran Khan, commander of the great left wing. He's been here for a day, waiting for us to arrive."

Koja realized the man sitting next to him, the commander of the great left wing, was Yamun's second son, Prince Jad. He turned and, still seated, bowed respectfully to the royal prince. "I am honored by the brilliance of the commander of the great left wing," Koja lauded, being as polite as he possibly could.

"Enough of that," interrupted Yamun. "We've been talking while you slept. Tomorrow my army rides to Manass. You know this place?"

Koja grew pale. He nodded. "Manass is in Khazari."

"Is it strong?" Prince Jad asked. His voice was similar to Yamun's, but with a nasal twang.

Yamun raised his hand in admonition to his son. The prince instantly fell silent. "Is Manass your home?" the khahan asked casually, as if making small talk.

"No, Lord Yamun," Koja answered guardedly.

"Then none of your clan is there," Yamun said with finality. "That's good."

Jad looked to Yamun to be sure he had permission to speak. "Who rules Manass?" he asked timidly.

"Prince Ogandi, of course," answered Koja. "But he does not live there," he quickly corrected.

Jad nodded. "Who, then, is the khan of this ordu? How many tents does he have?"

"I do not know," Koja said apologetically. From Jad's words, he grasped that neither the prince nor Yamun really knew what Manass was. They thought of it as a camp, a collection of tents.

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 multi-armed, 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 actually 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 bis 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.

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 Khazari 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.