Horselords

'Pah! I asked what he is like, not what he looks like,' the khahan snapped.

'He was a… king, Khahan,' Koja said, unable to think of a better word. 'He was bold and seemed brave. The others listened to him and seemed to respect his words.'

'He sounds like a man to meet. I will go to Cor-meer someday, and then we will see how brave Azoun is,' Yamun decided, slapping his thigh. 'So this king was not impressed. My words were not enough.'

Koja tried to slowly and calmly explain what had happened at the council, at least the way he saw it. 'The leaders came to the council to talk. They did not bring armies, only their wizards, priests, and guards. They were … not pleased, upset. After all, there was a huge army of Tuigan soldiers camped outside the city. Soldiers make very poor diplomats.'

'Diplomats! Old men from tents that have no warriors-those are diplomats. Your diplomats meet because they are worried about their caravans.' Yamun tapped one of the center posts of the yurt. 'You think I didn't hear these things, envoy. Your khans and emperors thought they could fix everything without me, but I rule this land. I rule all the tribes of the land, and nothing is decided without my word,' declared Yamun. 'So I sent my own envoys-warriors with fat horses and bundles of arrows.'

'With all due respect, Khahan, all the ambassadors saw was a great army of men and a brazen general,' Koja replied, respectfully bowing his head to the floor. There was a sharp hissing of breath and a muttered curse from General Chanar. Koja bit his lip as he realized he'd just slighted the warlord.

'A brazen general?' Yamun said softly as he turned away from Koja, twisting his mustache between his fingers. 'What do you mean 'brazen?' '

'General Chanar is a warrior,' Koja answered carefully, hoping that would be sufficient. The khahan tilted his head and waited for more. Nervous, Koja rubbed his neck. 'Well, those at the council expected soft words. General Chanar was … insulting.'

'These are lies, my khahan,' Prince Chanar asserted as he shifted in his seat. 'This foreigner has insulted me.'

Chanar's hand slid to the hilt of his saber. Glowering, he stood and stepped toward Koja. 'I say you're a liar and you will pay.' There was a scraping sound as he started to draw his sword from its scabbard.

'Chanar Ong Kho, sit down,' rumbled Yamun, his calm voice carrying easily over the general's mumbled threats. There was a quality of iron in the deeply resonant words. 'Will you dishonor my tent with bloodshed? Stay your sword. This priest is my guest.'

'He has insulted me!' Chanar insisted. 'Didn't I say the council trembled in fear? That they were awed by our might? Is a foreigner allowed to mock me in your yurt?' Sword half-drawn, he turned to face Yamun. Chanar's body was tense, his back arched, his arms stiff.

Yamun strode directly up to Chanar, unflinching in the steady gaze of the general. Looking up into Chanar's eyes, he spoke slowly and softly, but with a hard edge. 'Chanar, you are my anda, my blood-friend. We've fought together. There is no one I trust more than you. I have never doubted your word, but this is my tent and he is my guest. Now, sit and think no more of this.' Yamun closed his hand over Chanar's on the sword hilt.

'Yamun, I petition you. He's lied about me. I will not let him stain my honor. I will not have this.' Chanar tried to pull his hand free, but Yamun's grip kept it in place.

'General Chanar, you will sit down!' the khahan replied. His voice thundered as he spit out the words in tightly clipped fury. 'I listen to this man,' he said, flinging his finger toward Koja, 'but do I believe? Perhaps I should if he angers you so.'

Chanar trembled, caught between rage and loyalty. Finally, he slid the blade back into its scabbard and silently strode back to his seat. There he sat, staring darkly at the priest. All through the exchange, Koja stayed quiet, a slight shiver of nervousness and fear running through him. He marveled at the liberties the general had taken in the presence of his lord.

Yamun casually returned to his cushions and waved for another cup of wine. 'Chanar is my anda. It is a special friendship, like brothers to each other. Because he is my anda, Chanar Ong Kho has the right to speak freely before me.' Yamun paused to look closely at Koja. 'You, however, are not my anda. It would be wise for you to remember this when you speak. The Tuigan do not take insults lightly. I should have you whipped for your words, but you are my guest so this time I only warn you,' the khahan calmly informed the surprised lama. Chanar's black looks softened.

'I plead for forgiveness for offending the valiant Chanar Ong Kho. I can see that he is a brave warrior,' Koja said, bowing to the general. Chanar coolly acknowledged the apology.

Yamun drew a small knife from a scabbard that hung at his belt and held it between himself and Chanar. 'Brother Chanar, this priest does not understand our bond. This, Koja of Khazari, is what it means to be anda.' Yamun drew the knife across his hand, making a small gash in the palm. As the blood started to well out of the cut, he handed the knife over to Chanar.

Chanar took the knife, turning it back and forth so the light sparked off the blade. Without saying a thing, the general pulled the tip of the blade across his hand. He bit down on his lip at the sudden pain.

As the first drops trickled out of the wound, Yamun pressed his bleeding hand to Chanar's, clasping it tight. Blood seeped from between their fingers, splattering in droplets on the rugs. The two men locked eyes: the khahan confident, the general smiling through the sting.

'See, priest, we are anda,' Yamun said. The khahan still showed no sign of pain. He squeezed Chanar's hand even harder, drawing a faint wince from the general. They gripped hands for a few minutes more, then released each other, the bond broken by unspoken communication.

'I am your anda, Yamun,' Chanar announced loudly, if somewhat breathless for pain, so Koja could hear. The warrior held his hand in a fist. Yamun settled back into the cushions, paying little attention to his own wound. A servant came forward with thick strips of felt and a bowl of hot water and set these between the two men. Chanar began binding his own hand while the servant tried to fuss over the khahan.

'Bring drinks-black kumiss-for my anda and this visitor,' Yamun ordered. 'I'll tend to myself.'

The man disappeared for a moment, then reappeared with a leather bag. Setting out silver cups, the servant ladled the drinks and placed them before the men. Koja looked at the kumiss, a curdled white color, and sniffed at it gingerly. The priest recognized it as fermented mare's milk, a drink popular among the Tuigan. This was 'black' kumiss, drawn from the khahan's own mares and considered the finest of all. Koja took a sip of the bitter drink and then discreetly set the cup aside while the other men gulped the contents of their chalices.

'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