Horselords (8 page)

The dim form of a man standing all alone was barely visible to Koja. The mares and stallions had all moved as far from him as possible, pressing their bodies against the fence. They stamped and kicked, their eyes wild with fear,

“Take my offering of thanks, Teylas. I have united my people, but with or without you, I must conquer,” Yamun shouted. Koja heard the words clearly as the wind dropped away to nothing. The rain pelted down in straight sheets, the thick drops deprived of their driving force.

Koja could see Yamun more clearly now. The khahan stood with his feet planted widely apart, arms akimbo, head tilted to the sky. He paid no mind to the rain as it pounded against his face. His clothes were plastered wetly to his body, but the khahan didn’t care. He stood still, waiting.

There was a dazzling burst of light as the storm renewed its fury. Before the glare had died away, there was another stroke of lightning, closer and brighter than the first. It was followed by another, then another, and another. The explosions of light became continuous, first from the east, then west, north, and south. The rumble of thunder grew louder and more shattering, until it was a continuous barrage. The whinnies of the horses became screams of terror, piercing over the bass rolls of thunder.

Koja, trembling in fear, clapped his hands over his ears and sank down as close to the ground as he could. The posts of the corral thudded and shook as the panicked horses reared and lashed out with their hooves. Even though the sky was bright, Koja could barely see the khahan through the flailing hooves, but the man was unmoved by the pandemonium around him.

Just as Koja felt the storm was at its height, a luminous ball of sparkling blue swirled around Yamun, illuminating him clearly. It crackled and sizzled, a leaping electrical fire. Miniature bolts arced from the center, scorching and snapping as they hit the ground. At its heart, Yamun stood, unaffected by the charged flame.

Koja sat, dumbfounded. Then it dawned on him that the khahan might be in danger. “Great Lord!” he shouted over the roaring storm.

“Yamun Khahan!” the priest shouted again, cupping his hands to add more volume to his voice.

In response a spark arced from the khahan and hurtled toward Koja. Flinching, Koja threw himself aside as the charge lazily flew past him. It hit the ground behind him and exploded in a shower of muck. The force of the blast knocked him forward into the fence, driving the air from his lungs. Koja sagged against the corral, stunned.

More sparks began flying from Yamun, drifting out over the corral. As each ball of lightning detached itself, the radiance enclosing the khahan diminished slightly. The horses went into a frenzy, galloping and wheeling to avoid the drifting sparks. The fence, too high to jump, penned them in.

There was a sizzling pop and a scream of equine pain. The steeds redoubled their efforts. The fence wobbled and banged. Koja slid back in the mud as hooves flailed just in front of his face, but the fence held firm. There was another frenzied whinny and pop, followed by a third. With each, the cries of the horses grew a little less.

Terror took hold of Koja, driving him with uncontrollable energy. He had to get away, get to safety. Panting, the lama crawled away from the corral, dragging himself across the rain-drenched ground. Behind him, the brilliant glow spread from the corral, then began to fade. The wind and rain drowned out the noises behind him. Finally spent, he collapsed like a rag doll, unable to move any farther.

As Koja lay there, the wind began to drop away and the howling rage subsided. The rain changed from a hammerlike pelting to a slower downpour. The water was still icy, and rivers of muck ran into the folds of his robe. Koja’s body was chilled to its core. He clung to the ground, trembling, as the lightning and thunder diminished.

“Scribe? Where’d you go?” Yamun’s voice carried easily to Koja.

“Here,” Koja called weakly, raising his head from the mud. Panting, he got to his feet. “I am here, Great Khan. Wherever that is,” he added quietly. With the storm gone, it was too dark to see far.

“Come here, then,” ordered the khahan. He sounded unharmed by the storm.

Koja set off in direction of Yamun’s voice. He could only hope he was headed the right way. “Great Lord, where are you?”

“This way,” came the answer. Koja stumbled along until he found the corral. The fence was still standing, but the pen was silent. Following the fence around, the priest came to the gate. Waiting on the other side was Yamun Khahan, unhurt, although he wavered unsteadily. Spying Koja he said, “Let us go,” offering no explanation.

Koja nodded automatically, concentrating on the pen. It was empty; there were no horses, living or dead. The lama looked at Yamun, startled, and then back into the corral, trying to see any sign of the horses or any marks left by the glittering blue fire. There were no steeds, and the mud was so churned up that it was impossible to tell what had happened. The fence showed no scorching or damage from the sparks. It was as if nothing had occurred.

“What happened?” Koja asked in amazement.

“Come on. We go,” Yamun said as he stepped through the gate. He moved slowly, with exaggerated care. His stiffness could have been caused by the late hour or the lightning. It was impossible for Koja to tell.

Koja remained insistent. “What happened?”

Yamun guided the priest by the elbow, firmly squeezing it as they walked along. By now the wind was only a chilly spring breeze and the freezing drops of rain had given way to a fine drizzle.

“I talked with Teylas, my father, the Lord of the Sky.”

Koja stared at Yamun, believing him possessed or victim of some demented illusion. Perhaps Yamun meant it only figuratively, he decided. Many people, he knew, “talked” to various gods and never received an answer. Lamas and wandering priests were the only ones he knew of who could contact the fearsome powers of the outer planes and expect some kind of reply.

Yamun noticed Koja’s skeptical stare. “I talked with Teylas.” The khahan’s voice was filled with conviction.

Koja didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything he could say that wouldn’t sound patronizing or obsequious. He slogged up the muddy slope alongside Yamun in pained silence. “You were glowing,” he finally said.

“Was I? I can never see what happens.”

“You’ve done this before?” Koja sputtered.

“Of course. Teylas demands his offerings.” The khahan waded through a wide puddle.

“But you’re not hurt.”

Yamun stepped over a fallen cooking pot. “Why would Teylas hurt me? I’m the Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, and a son of the Blue Wolf.”

Koja cocked his head at that, trying to decide if Yamun was serious or playing some grotesque joke.

“Teylas will not strike down his own clan.” Yamun splashed through the mud, not breaking his stride.

“Then what happened to the horses?” the lama finally asked.

“Teylas took them.” As Yamun spoke, his breath fogged the air. The temperature was dropping quickly in the wake of the storm.

“What?”

Yamun stopped walking and turned to face Koja. The khahan’s shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his face, especially his eyes, were still vibrant. “The horses now serve Teylas in his realm. Don’t you make sacrifices to your god?”

“You sacrificed them?”

“Teylas took them. I didn’t touch them.” Yamun pointed out.

“Flaming blue sparks flew from your fingers,” Koja said, explaining what he saw.

“That was the power of Teylas,” Yamun replied. He turned and resumed walking toward the Great Yurt. They continued on in silence through Quaraband.

At last they returned to the door of the royal yurt. Yamun threw open the flap and was about to step inside when Koja stopped him.

“Please wait, Great Lord,” Koja blurted, barely observing proper courtesy. Yamun stopped in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder.

“What did Teylas tell you?” Koja asked, bowing slightly as he spoke.

Yamun looked at the priest. A small, sardonic smile crossed his face. “He—”

“He what, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan?” Koja prompted, unable to suppress his curiosity.

Yamun looked slowly at the sky, and saw the starlight visible through the thinning clouds. “He showed me the entire world, priest, from the great water in the east to lands of the west. I saw Shou Lung and this ‘Cor-meer’ you spoke of.” The khahan, eyes blazing, turned back to the priest, yet seemed to focus on something farther away. “Green lands and forests, wailing to be conquered—and all I have to do is reach out and take them.”

Koja stepped back as Yamun spoke. The khahan’s voice was slowly growing as the warlord saw his vision once again unfold before his eyes. “Teylas promised you these things?” Koja ventured fearfully.

“Teylas promises nothing. He only showed what I could have. It’s up to me to take it,” Yamun answered coldly. The priest’s question dimmed the fire in Yamun’s eyes. “I will be emperor of the world.”

“The world is large and has many emperors, Yamun Khahan,” Koja pointed out. The priest shivered in his wet robes.

“Then I’ll conquer them, and they’ll be the slaves of my khans.” Yamun leaned slightly against the doorframe of the yurt. “And you’ll tell the story of my life.”

“What?” Koja gasped in astonishment.

“You will write the history of my rule. I will be a great emperor. As my historian, you will be honored by many.” Yamun stepped inside the yurt, and Koja followed him, still arguing.

“But—but—I am just an envoy, Great Lord. Surely there must be someone better.”

The nightguard, the same man who was in the yurt when they left, ran up to the door and dropped to one knee alongside the khahan. “Great Khan!” he said in surprised relief. “You live! I will tell my brothers that you have safely returned.”

“You’ll stay until I dismiss you,” Yamun countered as he walked past. “Koja of Khazari, you will write the history of my life—starting from right now. No one else will do.”

“Great Lord, I serve Prince Ogandi. It would not be right.” Koja hurried across the yurt.

“I don’t care. You’ll write it because I need you—who else would write the truth? Mother Bayalun? Her wizards? I wouldn’t trust them. My generals? They’re like me—they don’t know this magic of writing. You—” He wagged his finger at Koja. “You, I trust. And that is why I choose you.”

“Lord Yamun, I am very flattered, but you barely know me. I have a responsibility to my prince. I cannot serve you.” Koja realized he was knotting his fingers.

“You’re in my tent, in my land. You will do what I say,” Yamun commanded. He began unwrapping the wet sash from around his waist.

“And if Prince Ogandi bids me otherwise?” asked Koja as he nervously squeezed the water from his cuffs.

“Then I will deal with your prince.” Yamun spoke in slow, measured words.

“I’m loyal to Khazari,” Koja pressed, his throat getting dry with tension.

“It doesn’t matter. I trust you. There’s no more discussion to be had of this.” Yamun tossed his wet sash aside and settled himself on his throne.

Koja rubbed his head in frustration. He was stymied. In desperation he tried another ploy. “Isn’t there a saying of your people about a man who tells the truth?”

Yamun looked about for his wine cup. ” ‘A man who tells the truth should have one foot in the stirrup,’” he quoted. “It’s good advice. You should remember it.”

Koja finally gave up and spoke his mind. “I do not want to be your chronicler, Yamun Khahan.”

“I know.”

“Then why do you make me do it? Why do you need a biographer?”

“Because Teylas revealed that I should,” Yamun said testily as he pulled at one of his sodden boots.

“But why? What good would I do you?”

“This is no longer amusing, scribe. There will be no more argument,” Yamun snapped, his voice rising in volume. “You will write the history of my great deeds because I am the khahan of the Tuigan and I say you will. Every king and every emperor has someone to make songs about them. You will write mine. Now leave until you are called for!” With a jerk Yamun pulled the boot off and threw it aside.

Stiffly, Koja walked out of the tent, giving only a slight bow and turning his back to the khahan upon leaving. The tent flap slapped shut with a wet flop.

After the priest left, Yamun sat brooding, staring into his glass. The wind whistled around through the small gaps in the smoke hole. Drips fell in the corners where the rainwater had soaked through the seams of the tent.

After the nightguard had laced up the flap of the tent, Yamun spoke. “What do you think?”

“Me, Great Lord?” the guard asked in surprise.

“What do you think of the Khazari priest?” Yamun said, pointing to the door.

“It’s not for me to say, Great Lord,” the guard deferred.

“I’m asking, so it is. Come closer and tell me.”

Intimidated by the khahan, the man hesitantly came forward. “Noble khahan, I apologize for speaking so boldly, but I speak because you have ordered it. The foreigner is disrespectful.”

“Oh,” Yamun commented as he began tugging at his other boot.

The guard became more confident. “He argues and does not heed your word. He is only a foreigner, yet he dares challenge you.”

“And what should I do?” Yamun asked, jerking on the stubborn shoe.

“He should be flogged. If a man in my tumen spoke as he did, our commander would have him beaten!”

“Your commander is a fool,” Yamun observed, adding a loud grunt as the boot came off with a thick pop.

The guard looked up, his eyes wide with astonishment.

Yamun continued. “What if everyone obeyed me and never questioned my word? Where would I get my wise advisors? They’d be no better than a worn boot.” The khahan held up his own mud-caked boot and then tossed it aside.

Humbled, the guard nodded automatically.

“Why do you think the truthful man has one foot in the stirrup? Truth is not always what people want to hear. Learn and someday I will make you a commander,” Yamun finished, suppressing a yawn. He struggled to his feet and began unfastening the toggles of his robes. “Now, I’m tired and will sleep alone tonight. See that my guards are in order and send someone to the women’s tent. Tell the ladies they won’t be needed. You will sleep at my doorstep.”