Horselords

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.

'Yamun Khahan, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, orders you to appear before him,' said one, stepping forward from the rest.

Koja sighed and held up his hand for the man to wait, then ducked back into the tent. Inside, he hastily pulled off his dirty robes and rummaged through the wooden chests of clothes, flinging shirts and sashes over his shoulder. Finally, Koja pulled out an orange-red silk robe. It was the color worn by lamas of his temple, the Red Mountain sect. He had bought the silk from a Shou trader and had the robe specially made after learning he was going to the council at Semphar.

In a few moments Koja left his tent and set out for the khahan's yurt. As he walked along, Koja noticed the tents were arranged in rough rows, each positioned the same way. 'Why do all the doors face the southeast?' he asked his escort.

One of the guards grunted, 'That is the direction where Teylas lives.'

'Teylas is your god?' Koja asked, stepping around a patch of mud. The guard nodded. 'You have no other gods?'

'Teylas is the god of everything. There are cham to help him.' The fellow was far more talkative than others Koja had met.

'Cham?'

'Guardians, like our mother, the Blue Wolf. They keep the evil spirits away from a man's yurt. See-there they are.' The guard pointed to the band of stick-like figures that circled the top of each yurt.

After that the guard fell silent. There was nothing left for Koja to do but trudge along, watching in silence. They passed through the gate and marched up the hill to the khahan's yurt. This time no one challenged the priest when he reached the horsetail banner, although his escort bowed. At the khahan's yurt, Koja waited outside.

It did not take long for the priest to be announced. A servant pulled up the tent flap and tied the door open, letting a little light into the dim interior. At the far end of the tent was a raised platform, covered with rugs. Sitting there, on a small stool, was Yamun Khahan. Below the platform, sitting to the side, was an older man, his mustache wispy with graying hairs.

The khahan was dressed in formal clothing-leather boots dyed red and black, a pair of yellow woolen trousers, a blue silk jacket embroidered with dragons, and a leather coat-robe with broad cuffs and collar of white ermine. His cap was low and only slightly pointed, the brow a thick band of sable fur. From under it hung his braids, bound in coils of silver wire. Glass beads dangled from the long ends of his mustache.

For all the grandeur and might Yamun Khahan claimed, his yurt was furnished simply. The felt rugs that formed the walls were brightly dyed in geometric patterns, as was the custom, but aside from the dias there was little else in the tent. A stack of cushions rested along one wall, and an incense burner sat in the middle of the