David Cook: Horselords

Yamun clapped his hands, taking care not to strike his bandage. "Bring hot wine and kumiss for me. It's a better drink than wine," he said, pointing a finger at Koja. "Kumiss reminds us of who we are. It is our blood. But," he concluded with a grin, "it is an acquired taste."

The servants appeared and poured the drink into silver goblets. As they did so, Koja carefully unwrapped the bandage on Yamun's hand. The skin around the edge of the wound was black and crusty, but there was no sign of swelling. Already it had started to knit properly. "Let the wound air," Koja advised the khahan.

"Very well. Now, for the sake of formality, read me your prince's words," Yamun requested. Reaching into his robe, the khahan produced the letters and tossed them to Koja. He leaned forward, intent on Koja's words.

The priest unfolded the sheet and squinted, trying to make out the words in the dim light.

" 'To the gracious lord of the steppe from Prince Ogandi, ruler of Khazari, son of Tulwakan the Mighty:

" 'Long have we heard of your people, and great are they in their lands! Mighty is your valor. Greatly it pleases us to have so stalwart a neighbor-' "

"What does it say?" Yamun interrupted impatiently, tapping his fingertips together.

"Great Lord?"

"What does your prince say? Tell me. Don't read anymore. Just tell me."

"Well…" Koja paused as he scanned the rest of the letter. "Prince Ogandi offers his hand in friendship, hoping that you will enter into peaceful trade with him. And then, later on, he proposes a treaty of friendship and defense."

"And the other letter, what does it say?"

Koja unfolded it and scanned through the lines. "My prince has outlined this proposed treaty for you to consider. It calls for recognizing the borders of the Khazari and Tuigan lands. He says that, 'Your enemies shall be our enemies' " Koja stopped to see if the khahan had understood. "It's a promise to assist each other against attackers."

"He does not threaten war?" Yamun asked sternly.

Koja looked at the letter again. "No, Great Lord!"

"Does he state that assassins will be sent to slay me?" Yamun fingered at the baubles in his mustache.

Koja wonder just what Yamun was getting at. "Not at all."

"Hmmm.." Yamun stroked his mustache. "Then why would someone tell me these things?" he wondered out loud as his gaze settled on the old scribe. The man went pale, sweat beading out on his forehead. "Why would someone tell me lies?"

"I did not lie, Lord! I only read what was there!" the scribe babbled as he frantically pressed his face into the carpets. His voice muffled, he continued to plead. "I swear by the lightning, by the might of Teylas, I only read what was written! I am your faithful scribe!"

"One of you has lied and will forfeit his life for it," Yamun rumbled, looking from the priest to the scribe. The prostrate servant began heaving with muffled sobs. Koja looked at the letters again, baffled by this strange accusation. Yamun looked at the two men over his folded hands, his mind deep in thought.

Suddenly the khahan stood, knocking the stool over, and strode to the doorway of the tent. "Captain!" he shouted into the darkness. The officer appeared within a second. "Take this dog out and execute him. Now!" Yamun thrust his finger at the scribe. With a shrieking wail the man clutched at the carpets for safety.

The scribe's pathetic screams grew louder as the black-robed guards approached. Koja slid back, out of the way of the grim-faced warriors. Yamun's visage was fixed with anger and hatred.

"Shut up, dog!" the khahan shouted. "Guards, take him!"

Three soldiers picked up the scribe and carried him from the tent. His muffled cries could be heard through the tent walls. Yamun waited expectantly. The screaming grew frantic and hoarse, then there was a dull thud and the screaming stopped. Yamun nodded in satisfaction and took his seat.

Koja realized that he was trembling. Lowering his eyes, the priest practiced his meditation to regain his composure.

The captain of the guard pulled the tent flap aside. In his hands was a bloodstained bundle-a simple leather bag. Wordlessly he entered and knelt before the khahan. "As you ordered, so is it done," the captain said as he unwrapped the package. There, in the middle of the cloth, was the head of the scribe.

"Well done, Captain. Take his body and feed it to the dogs. Set that," he sneered, pointing to the head, "on a lance where everyone can see it."

"It will be done." The captain looked at Koja in curiosity, then took the head and left.

Yamun let out a great sigh and looked at the floor. Finally, he turned to Koja. "Now, priest, bandage my hand."

Still trembling slightly, Koja took out his herbs and began to work.

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?"