David Cook - Horselords

The priest straightened his robes and stood up a little straighten "I want to be your envoy to the Khazari."

"You? You are Khazari," he sputtered in surprise.

"Khahan, I know it is unusual," Koja hurriedly continued, shifting uneasily on his toes. "But I know my people, and I have learned much about the Tuigan. I am sure I can make them-"

"Yes, yes, that's fine," Yamun said. "Still, these are your people. How do I know you won't betray me?"

"I owe you a life," Koja answered simply.

"What is the truth?" The khahan probed. "Not your rationale-the truth."

Koja sucked in his breath. "Because I want to save Khazari," he blurted. "If you conquer, what will you do with the country? You have not made plans. You know how to conquer, but can you rule?" Koja clamped his jaws tight, waiting for Yamun's outburst.

The khahan slowly returned the ladle to its bag. He paused by the kumiss sack, staring past Koja. Finally, he slapped his knout against the leather bag.

"I'll think about it," he announced at last, his voice cold and unfriendly. "Now I am going to sleep. We ride early in the morning."

"By your word, it shall be done," Koja said with a trembling voice as he made a low bow. The khahan had already turned away, his heavy coat flapping around his bowed legs.

The next day's ride was uneventful, even tedious for the priest. It seemed like a constant battle against minor irritations-biting flies, hunger, and thirst. Dust, churned up by thousands of horses, settled into everything. To Koja it seemed that his robes crackled with the stuff. Dust coated his scalp, which now bristled and itched with a stubby growth of hair; it caked on his eyelids and lined his throat. The hot afternoon sun raised tiny drops of sweat that ran like mud down his arms. All afternoon his horse thudded along in a monotonous, pounding rhythm.

With the evening came a welcome relief from the jolting, bone-breaking ride. Koja gladly turned his horse, a gray and yellow pony with an unmanageable urge to bite, over to Hodj for the night. The lama had taken to calling the horse Cham Loc, after an evil spirit who fought the mighty Furo. Relieved of his mount, the priest decided to walk out the cramps in his muscles.

The army had camped in a bowl-shaped depression, where several streams flowed in together. Koja climbed to the top of a small sandstone promontory on the edge of a steep hill. His guards scrambled along behind him.

On the overlook, the lama sat watching the sunset, a brilliant band of red-orange topped by a sapphire-blue sky. Koja was reminded of another time, when, as a child, he sat at the edge of a towering cliff and watched the long shadows of the mountains fill his valley below.

From his vantage, Koja could see the entire campsite spread out before him. The fires clustered into small knots spaced almost evenly across the floor. In between them were occasional clumps of moving darkness, only a small part of the thousands of horses set out to graze for the night.

"Each fire is a jagun," explained one of the guards, pointing toward the shimmering lights.

Koja looked out over the plain with a greater appreciation for the size of the army. He guessed there were a thousand, perhaps several thousand fires dotting the entire valley floor. Absentmindedly he began counting the lights of the jaguns.

"We must go now," interrupted one of his guards, "before it gets too dark."

The sun had slid almost out of sight. It cast so little light that Koja could barely see his black-robed guards.

The priest climbed down from the rock, heeding the suggestion. Quietly, he made for the fires of Yamun's camp. The guards hurried after him, carefully staying as close as was their duty but no closer. As they approached Yamun's fire, the guards stopped as they always did. Koja went the rest of the way alone.

Tonight, there was a small group around Yamun's fire, just the khahan and a few of the noyans. A kaychi, a singer of stories, was sitting cross-legged near the fire. He was a young man, smooth-faced with rounded features and a carefully groomed mustache and goatee. Across his lap lay a small two-stringed violin, his khuur.

"Are you at peace?" asked Yamun when Koja was within easy speaking distance. It was a standard greeting that needed no answer. "Sit."

Koja took the seat offered him and accepted a cup of wine a quiverbearer poured. The storyteller struck the first note on his instrument and then put his bow to it, beginning his tale. He sawed at his khuur madly as he sang. His voice leaped from high, quavering notes to hoarse growlings.

In a moment between the kaychi's songs, Koja turned to Yamun. "Khahan, although I spoke rashly yesterday, I ask you to consider my request." The priest spoke softly, so only the khahan could hear.

Yamun grunted. "In time, priest, in time. I need to think about it. You'll know in time." The khahan pointed to the kaychi, commanding the man to wait.

The singer set aside his instrument. Yamun stood and raised his kumiss ladle to the other khans. "Our friendship has been raised."

The khans around the fire raised their ladles and repeated the toast. That finished, they got to their feet, stopping long enough to kneel to the khahan.

Koja rose and, after a moment's hesitation, knelt too. Before the khahan could call him back, he hurried away. Returning to his own camp, Koja crawled into the rugs and furs Hodj had laid out. Within seconds of lying down, the priest was sound asleep.

When he opened his eyes, Koja was once again on the hilltop overlooking the valley, watching the sun set over the army. The colors were splendid, more intense than he had ever seen them before. The troops formed a black, seething mass, arching and humping over the ground. The men fused and joined into a single being, a freakish thousand-legged centipede, then a dragon that coiled around and bit at itself. The fires flared up, becoming the pinpoints of its eyes. Soundlessly, it writhed and shuddered toward him. Arms, hands, and horses' heads heaved out of the mass and fell back. Koja looked down at his hands, held out in front of him. They were covered with huge droplets of sweat. He suddenly felt fear, a fear that locked every joint in his body.

"It is good to see you, clever Koja," said an emotionless voice behind him. The fear was suddenly gone, and the priest automatically turned toward the speaker. His guards stood at the base of the rock, upright and unmoving. Beyond them, standing on the slope, was his old master. Wrinkles lined the high lama's eyes but his face was bright and clear, not ravaged by age. He was dressed in the formal vestments used on the festival days-yellow, flowing robes with a red sash over one shoulder, a white pointed cone with flaring earpieces for a hat.

"It has been some time since I saw you, Koja," the old man said. "Greetings."

"Why, master-"

"Quiet, Koja," the old master said softly, cutting the younger man off. "Soon you must face the walls you have built, walls stronger than stone. There are secrets in walls, buried deep beneath them. Learn the secrets of your walls."

Koja came forward to grasp his teacher's hand, but the distance between them never closed. The young priest opened his mouth to speak, but the older lama droned on in a curious monotone, now suddenly a voice not his own.

"Your lord is called by one more powerful than he. This spirit that calls him seeks aid. Before you can do your part, your lord will fear you are against him. Be ready to prove yourself." The figure turned to go.

"What? Which lord? Who? Which lord? Wait! Do not leave! Tell me what I should do!" Koja shouted toward the fading figure.

The old lama didn't answer. He only disappeared into the distance of the steppe. Just as quickly as Koja's old master came, he was gone. "The one who calls waits behind you." The master's voice came drifting out of the darkness.