David Cook: Horselords

"My lord-," the lama eventually began, but the khahan waved him off.

"This audience is over," Yamun announced. "Tomorrow we'll hold council to hear the message of this envoy." He picked up his cup of kumiss and turned partially away from Chanar and the priest, the signal for them to leave. Reluctantly, Chanar stood, bowed to Yamun, and strode out the door. A blast of cold spring air blew through the doorway, making the lamps flicker. Koja took care not to turn his back on the khahan, which would be considered an insult in the priest's own country.

Yamun raised his hand to recognize the envoy's leaving. The hastily wrapped bandage across his palm slipped loose, letting blood flow once again from the wound. Seeing this, Koja took the opportunity to be of aid.

"Great Lord, I have a little skill in healing wounds. If I could be of some small service to my illustrious host it would bring great honor to my temple." Koja knelt down, touching his head to the floor.

Yamun turned back toward Koja, one eyebrow arched as he studied the kowtowing priest. "If you have some skill with spells, it will do you little good here. Remember, the power of magic is gone from this area."

"I know, Khahan of the Tuigan, but at our temple we are taught the secrets of herbs. It is something all of the chosen must learn," Koja explained, still kneeling.

"What if you plan to poison me?"

"I would not do this, great khahan. I have come a long way to speak for my prince," Koja explained, looking up from the floor. "You have not even heard his words."

Yamun tilted his head and studied the priest. Finally, his lips twisted into a wry grin. "I think your words have merit. Well then, envoy of the Khazari, let's see what your skills can do for my hand."

Koja sat himself at the feet of the khahan. Reaching into his robes, the priest brought out a small pouch he always carried. From it he took a small strip of yellow paper covered in script, a lump of incense, and three dried leaves. Taking Yamun's wounded hand, Koja carefully began unwrapping the loose bandages.

"The herbs are very cleansing but cause some pain, Lord Yamun," Koja warned, crumbling the leaves into the Yamun's kumiss.

"What of it? Tell me about Semphar."

"I only saw a little of it, Khahan," Koja began as he soaked a strip of cloth in the kumiss. "But it seemed like a powerful land." The lama handed the wine-soaked cloth to the khahan. "Squeeze on this, Khahan."

"If they are so powerful, then why did the Sempharans call this council?" Yamun queried, ignoring any pain as Koja washed out the wound.

Koja finished dabbing at the cut. "Caravans from east and west begin and end in Semphar, so they become worried when the merchants are attacked and no longer travel the routes to Shou Lung. Hold your hand flat, please." Koja pressed the yellow paper into the wound and carefully placed the incense on it. The yellow was immediately tinged with red. Standing, Koja reached up and unhooked one of the lamps.

"Still, if they are mighty warriors, why don't they send soldiers to protect their caravans?" Yamun asked as he poked at the paper on his hand.

"Semphar is powerful, but they are not horsemen. The steppe is far from their homeland. They did not know who ruled the lands of the steppe. There have been many tribes here and many chieftains, khans as you call them." Koja fumbled in his pouch.

"I am the khahan, the khan of khans. I rule the steppe," Yamun declared.

Koja only nodded and lit another scrap of paper from his pouch off the lamp beside him. Twice he passed the burning paper over the khahan's hand, muttering prayers. Then he touched the flame to the incense. Yamun twitched his hand to pull it away from the fire, more in surprise than pain. "Keep your hand still, Khahan. The ash must be rubbed into the wound."

Yamun grunted in understanding. For a time he watched the little ropes of sweet smoke coil upward from his hand. Finally, he spoke. "Since they do not attack me, perhaps I must go to them."

Koja started at the suggestion. "Khahan, Semphar is a mighty nation with great cities of stone with walls around them. You could not capture these with horsemen. They have many soldiers." The khahan didn't seem to understand the greatness of the caliph. "Semphar does not want war, but they will fight."

"But they refused my demands, didn't they?"

"Only because they seek more time to consider them," Koja explained as he blew on the smoldering incense.

"They're stalling. They have no intention of obeying me and you know that, priest," Yamun pointed out. The last wisps of smoke from the incense wafted over his palm.

"Noble khahan, it takes men time to decide. My own prince, Ogandi, must hear what has happened at Semphar and then discuss it with the elders of Khazari." Koja gently rubbed the warm ashes into the blood-soaked paper. That finished, he began rewrapping the bandage around the khahan's hand.

"Then, your people should know that I will destroy them if they refuse me," the khahan promised in grim tones. His face was emotionless, and he watched Koja in silence, letting his words sink in. Koja shifted uneasily, uncertain how to react to such a threat. Then, breaking the tension, Yamun leaned forward and slapped the priest on the knee. "Now, envoy, tell me of the people and places you have seen."

It was almost dawn before the khahan permitted Koja to leave. Exhausted from the strain of the meeting and thickheaded from the wine, the priest stumbled out of the tent. The icy wind snatched at his robes, whipping and cracking them about his legs. Shivering, Koja wrapped a heavy sheepskin coat, taken from the belongings still packed on his horse, tightly about him, but it did little good for his slipper-shod feet. Stamping, he worked to get the blood circulating through cold toes once again.

The khahan's bodyguards watched the priest from where they huddled by a small fire. In the three weeks that Koja had been traveling with the Tuigan, men like these had watched over him. For the most part they had eyed him silently, but a few had been talkative. It was from these men that Koja had learned the most about the Tuigan.

Not that it was much. The Tuigan were nomads, raising sheep, cattle, and camels. But horses were their lives. They ate horsemeat and brewed kumiss from the curdled mare's milk. They tanned horsehides and made plumes from horsetails. They rode horses better than anyone Koja had ever seen. It seemed as if every man was a warrior, trained to use bow, sword, and lance.

The finest of these warriors were handpicked for the khahan's bodyguard, the Kashik. These were the men who were now watching him from around their fire. Each man was a proven warrior and killer. One of them stood and announced himself as the priest's escort.

"The khahan invites you to stay at one of his yurts," the squat guard said. It wasn't phrased like an invitation, but Koja didn't care. The command would mean a tent, and a tent would be warm.

Willingly following the guard, Koja walked slowly, sometimes stumbling over clumps of grass that broke the thin crust of snow. His tired body barely noticed. A servant followed, leading the priest's horse. Finally, the guard stopped and pulled aside a felt rug door. Koja entered and the servant unloaded his belongings. Fatigue settling on him, the priest tottered over to the pile of rugs and gently collapsed on top of them, dropping away into blissful slumber.

The sun was high over the eastern horizon when Koja awoke to someone shouting outside his tent. "Koja the Lama, envoy of the Khazari, come out."

Koja straightened his sleep-rumpled robes and stepped through the tent door. Four guardsmen stood outside, dressed in the black robes of the khahan's bodyguard. They wore tall caps of sable, the pelts turned inside-out so the hide was on the outside. The men's braids were bound with silver disks and tassels of blue yarn. Long straight swords hung from their belts, the silver fittings gleaming in the sunlight. Koja squinted and shielded his eyes from the bright glare.