Horselords

Dragonwall will be threatened by his might. There is a chance its magic may not be able to hold him back. You assured my master that there would be peace between Shou Lung and the Tuigan.'

'There has been no change,' she answered defensively. 'Once I have control, I will see that the peace between the Tuigan and Shou Lung remains unbroken. But, your master has certain obligations to fulfill, too.'

'Of course,' assured the fox between draws on its pipe. 'That's why he sent me.'

'What?'

'You needed an assassin, an expert in disguise. Am I not,' the fox said as it stood and took a little bow, 'brilliant at disguise?'

'Not if that's the best you can do,' Bayalun shot back. She was furious with the hu hsien, this inhuman trickster of the spirit realm. She was equally furious with the Shou mandarin who sent it. The mighty of Shou Lung think they can toy with me, she cursed silently, but I'll show them just how dangerous that can be. 'Go back to your master and tell him to send me a real assassin, not a clowning animal.'

The fox bit down hard on the stem of its pipe. 'You will take whomever my master sends,' it snarled, baring its fangs as its animal side boiled to the surface. 'Now, old woman, I'm tired of this. Tell me what I am to do.'

Bayalun relented. 'There is a post you can fill-assuming you can look human-among the khahan's dayguards. Then you will be close to him. You must take it and wait.' Bayalun twisted the staff between her hands as she explained things.

'That's all? How will I know when to act?' the beast asked.

'I will send you a message,' Bayalun answered.

'How?'

'That's all you need know,' she snapped, frowning at the beast's curiosity. 'Too much knowledge and you become a danger to everything. Tomorrow, present yourself to Dayir Bahadur-in human form. He commands a jagun of the dayguard and will see to your position. Then, wait for my word.' She narrowed her eyes, waiting for any more questions. None came. 'Now, you may leave.'

The fox blew a puff of sweet smoke. 'I haven't finished my pipe,' it declared.

'Leave now,' Bayalun hissed, 'lest I complain to your master.'

The fox pricked up its ears. 'Careful, or I will complain to your lord.' The hu hsien watched the empress's reaction. 'I find you interesting, half-Maraloi. Your husband might be strong enough to seize the riches of Shou Lung, but you want him dead. Your ambitions are strange.'

'Yamun Khahan killed the yeke-noyan-my husband, his father-so he could rule the Hoekun. I will never forgive him for that.' Besides, Bayalun thought, with the khahan dead, I will control the Tuigan. Chanar will be khahan, but I will have the power. 'Now, no more questions.'

'Very well, I will take my leave,' the fox-thing said pompously. It closed the lid on the pipe and stuffed it back into the pouch. Dropping to all fours, it smiled a foxish smile at Bayalun and lightly leaped away into the darkness.

After the creature had left, Bayalun waited patiently for some time. She was in no hurry. Haste ruined careful plans. She had learned that from experience.

It was impossible to keep secret the fact that the khahan was on the move toward Khazari, and by the afternoon the news had spread through all of Quaraband. Yamun's women had emptied out the Great Yurt and had started to take it down. Within an hour, the yurt was stripped of its felt walls, the frame standing like a skeleton atop the hill.

The dismantling of the royal yurt was a signal to the rest of the city. Men rode from their tents, extra horses in tow, to assembly areas outside Quaraband. Each arban of ten men gathered to form the jaguns of one hundred and in turn the minghans of one thousand. For every unit there was a specific meeting place, so that the men could be organized quickly. Throughout the day, yurts disappeared from the valley as preparations were made to move out.

Men loaded Yamun's throne onto the back of a huge cart, which was roofed with a smaller version of the royal yurt. The cart, pulled by a team of eight oxen, was Yamun's capital while on campaign. During the work, the khahan set up his headquarters in the sunshine. He sat on his bed, a small wooden-framed thing with stubby legs. Koja sat on a stool nearby, along with several other scribes, mostly Bayalun's wizards and holy men. All of them furiously scribbled down orders, rolling up the sheets as they were done and thrusting them into the hands of waiting messengers.

Koja had just finished writing out a sheet of orders meant for Hubadai at Fergana Pass. 'It is to be there in no less than five days,' insisted Yamun as the priest handed the scroll to a rider.

'By your word, it shall be done!' the rider shouted, sprinting to his horse before he had even finished speaking.

Koja leaned to the scribe next to him, a young man with a thin, black goatee and shaven head. 'How can that be?' Koja asked, pointing his writing brush at the departing rider. 'How can he deliver a message so quickly? Do they use magic?'

The young priest shook his head, barely looking up from his work. 'He is an imperial messenger, so he can use the posthouses. He will ride all day, changing horses at special stations. Then another man will take the message at night.' The priest bent back to his work.

Yamun dictated orders for hours, going into minute details for the impending march. By his orders, the army was divided into three wings, with Yamun in command of the center. Troops were assigned, and tumens and minghans dispatched to the different wings. Commanders received orders concerning the amount of food to carry, the number and types of weapons they were to employ, and how many horses each man was to have. The khahan appointed yurtchis, the army's purveyors, to supervise the camps and find supplies as they marched. Many of the orders concerned the condition of the horses, setting penalties for galloping them unnecessarily or working them too hard.

Koja wrote until his fingers were numb. The nightguard came to relieve the dayguard as the sun set. Lamps were brought, and the scribes continued to work by the dim glow.

Finally, Koja walked back toward his tent, the nightguards in his wake. His legs moved mechanically as his mind slowly dozed off. All he could think of was the pile of cushions that waited for him at the yurt-soft cushions and warm blankets that would cradle him while he slept.

When the priest got to his tent, he stopped. A barren circle of crushed grass filled the space where his yurt had stood. In its place were two horses and a camel, hobbled to keep them from wandering, a small mound of sacks and baggage, and the curled-up shape of his servant, sleeping on the ground.

Koja moaned. It was to be another night sleeping under the stars. Searching through the baggage, he found a set of rugs. Resigned to his situation, Koja lay down, using his leather bag for a pillow, and pulled the rugs tight around him. Within a few minutes, lulled by the snoring of his servant, the priest was sound asleep.

In the morning, Koja awoke to find that Quaraband was gone. All that remained was a field of waste-fire scars, muddy tracks, and garbage. A line of creaking carts drawn by lowing oxen lumbered across the green steppe, carrying the households deeper into the trackless plain. Many miles away, in a more secluded spot, the city would be rebuilt by the women and children. There the families would wait until their men returned from war.

File after file of soldiers moved out, leading their mounts across the river and away to the east. The water, normally clear, was a turgid, brown flow. The banks had been turned into quagmires by the churning tread of man and horse. There were shouted good-byes to wives and children, assuring them of their safe return. Horses whinnied; oxen lowed.

An arban of dayguards rode to Koja's camp. 'Come with us, grand historian. The khahan commands you to ride with him.'

'Wait until I have eaten,' Koja requested, refusing to be rushed.

'No,' insisted the chief of the arban. 'The khahan leaves now.'

'But my food-'

'Learn to eat in the saddle,' the experienced old campaigner said helpfully. He signaled his men that it was time to go.

Back aching from a night on the ground, Koja gingerly climbed into his horse's saddle and rode to join the khahan's train. Behind him, his servant led a small string of pack animals.

The journey quickly fell into a pattern that would become routine over the coming days. The army moved at a