David Cook - Horselords Страница 16

"Eh? What do you say?" the drunken General Chanar blurted in surprise.

"Shhh. Quietly! She fears you fall from Yamun's favor—"

Chanar moved to speak, but the messenger quickly pressed his hand on the general's shoulder. "This is not the place to talk. The khadun opens her tent to you, if you will come."

"Hmm... when?" Chanar asked, trying to look at the man without turning his head.

"Tonight, while the eyes of others are occupied." The messenger waited, letting Chanar make his decision.

"Tell her I'll come," Chanar finally whispered. Without another word, the messenger faded back into the darkness.

The campfires had burned down to lifeless ashes, and only thick plumes of smoke rose up into the blackness of night. Koja found himself sitting up, shivering in the cold, rugs and robes fallen off his back. It didn't strike him as odd that he could see the sleeping forms of men, the empty yurts flapping in the breeze, even in perfect darkness. They were just grayer forms against the black plain.

There was a clink of rock against rock behind him and then a soft wet scrape of mud on stone. Wheeling around, he was confronted by a man in yellow and orange robes, hunched over so his face could not be seen. The man's hands were doing something, something that matched the sounds of stone against stone.

"Who—," Koja started to blurt out.

The man looked up and stopped Koja in midsentence. It was his old master from the temple, his bald head lined with age. The master smiled and nodded to the priest and then went back to his work, building a wall. With a scrape, the master dragged a trowel across the stone's top, spreading a thick layer of mortar.

Koja slowly turned around. The men, fires, and yurts were gone. A low wall encircled him, trapping him beside the campfire. Turning back, Koja watched his master lift a square block and set it in place atop the fresh mortar.

"Master, what are you doing!" Koja could feel a growing panic inside himself.

"All our lives we struggle to be free of walls," intoned the master, never once stopping his work. "All our lives we build stronger walls." With a scrape and heavy thud, another stone was set in place. "Know, young student, of the walls you build—and who they belong to."

Suddenly the wall was finished, towering over Koja. The master was gone. Koja heaved to his feet and whirled about, looking for his mentor. There, in front of him, was a banner set in the ground. From its top hung nine black horsetails—the khahan's banner. He turned the other way. There was another, with nine white yak tails—the khadun's banner. Stumbling backward, he tripped and fell against another—a golden disk hung with silken streamers of yellow and red-Prince Ogandi's banner. Panicked, Koja fell to the ground and closed his eyes.

A sound of heavy breathing, and a blast of steam across Koja's face forced him to look again. The banners were gone, and the wall that circled him shivered and moved. It became a great beast, black and shimmering. A pair of eyes, inhuman and cold, stared down at him.

"Are you the khahan of the barbarians?" the beast boomed.

"No," answered Koja in a weak whisper.

The eyes blinked. "Ah. Then you are with him," it decided. "That is good. Finally, it is time." The eyes glowed brighter. Fearful, Koja looked away from the baleful gleam. There was a rushing of wind and then the shape was gone.

Looking up, the priest saw his master again. "Be careful, Koja, of the walls you build," the old lama called out. The master faded, growing dimmer to Koja's sight, until there was nothing but the dull gray horizon. Then there was nothing at all.

The priest woke slowly, dimly remembering the voices from his sleep. A sharp tang welled up at the base of his skull, tingling the stubble of his neck hair. Involuntarily, the thin priest inhaled deeply. Suddenly, he was wide awake, sneezing and gagging, his nostrils filled with the smoke of burning manure. He flailed about, then opened his eyes. Thick wads of stinging smoke assailed him. Koja crawled out of his rug and into clear air.

"It is a good day," a wavering voice somewhere to Koja's left said.

Still blinking, the priest looked toward the voice. He could hardly see the speaker because the dawn sun blazed behind the man's shoulder. Koja shielded his eyes from the orange-red glow with one hand and rubbed away the last of his tears with the other. Sitting next to the thickly smoking campfire was the ancient Goyuk Khan, poking at the coals with a stick. He looked back at Koja and smiled one of his broad, toothless grins.

Koja weakly smiled back. His head felt thick from drink and pained from his sudden awakening. His mouth was gummy. The years among the lamas had not prepared him for a night of feasting with the Tuigan.

"Is time to eat," Goyuk said. He didn't look the least bit haggard from the celebration. Poking the fire again, Goyuk fished out an ash-covered lump, bits of burning coals still clinging to it. Picking it up carefully, he brushed the embers away with his dirty fingers and held it out to Koja.

Koja looked at it dubiously, knowing full well that he had to take it or offend the old khan. It looked like a scrap of the horsemeat sausage, roasted in the fire. He gingerly took it, juggling it between his hands to avoid burning his fingers.

"Eat," urged the khan, "is good."

"Thank you," said Koja with a forced smile. He ate it down quickly, doing his best not to taste the meat. Breakfast finished, Koja struggled to his feet to look for water. The sun had barely risen over the horizon, but already men were about. The guards were changing, the dayguards replacing the nightguards. Quiverbearers and household slaves were going from yurt to yurt, preparing for the morning.

Not everyone was awake, however. Koja weaved through the sleepers clustered around the feast-fires. Most of the revelers were still snoring blissfully, unusual for the Tuigan camp, which was normally bustling by this hour. Some were wrapped in their blankets and rugs, curled closely around small mounds of smoldering embers. However, more than a few were sprawled haphazardly over the ground, their kalats pulled up tight around them. Koja guessed many of them slept on the same spots where they had passed out the night before.

After much futile searching, Koja finally collared a servant carrying a bucket of water. Scooping it up with his hands, he gulped down a mouthful. Though cold enough to numb his fingers, the priest splashed the water over his face and head, vigorously rubbing his skin to clear his brain.

One of Yamun's quiverbearers presented himself to Koja. "The Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, Yamun Khahan, sends me to ask why his historian is not in attendance at the yurt of his lord." The servant remained kneeling before the lama.

Koja looked at the man in surprise. He hadn't expected the khahan to conduct business so early this morning. Furthermore, the priest didn't realize his presence would be needed so constantly. "Take me to his yurt," he ordered.

Obediently, the servant led Koja through the clutter around the feast-fires. Reaching the tent, the man announced Koja's arrival. The priest was quickly ushered inside.

This morning the yurt was arranged differently. Yamun's throne was gone, and the braziers had been moved to the sides of the tent. The flap covering the smoke hole was opened wide, as was the door, allowing rays of sunlight to dazzle the normally gloomy interior. In the center of the yurt, in a shaft of sunlight, sat a circle of men. Yamun was bareheaded, his conical hat set aside. The light gleamed off his tonsure and brought out the red color of his hair. He still wore the heavy sable coat he had worm the night before, though now it was mud-stained and smudged with soot. The other men had likewise removed their hats, making a ring of shining bald domes in the center of the yurt. Koja was reminded of the masters of his temple, although they didn't sport the long side braids favored by these warriors.

"Historian, you'll sit here," called out Yamun as the lama entered. He slapped his hand on the rug just behind himself.

Koja walked around the circle and took his seat. Chanar, bleary-eyed from the night's festivities, sat on one side of Yamun. Goyuk sat on the other. There were three others wearing golden cloths and embroidered silks, signs that they were powerful khans, but Koja did not recognize them. Their rich clothes were travel-stained and rumpled. At the farthest end of the circle, sitting slightly away from the rest, was a common trooper. His clothes, a simple blue kalat and brown trousers, were filthy with mud and grime. He stank powerfully, Koja noticed as he walked by.

The khans glanced toward Koja as he sat. Goyuk smiled another of his gaping smiles. A look of displeasure sparked in Chanar's eyes. Yamun leaned forward, drawing their attention to the sheet spread out in front of them.

It was a crude map, something which surprised Koja. He hadn't seen any maps since arriving, and he had assumed the Tuigan had no knowledge of cartography. Here was another surprise about his hosts. The lama craned his neck, trying to get a view of the sheet.

"Semphar is here," Yamun said, continuing a conversation begun before the priest entered. He thrust a stubby finger at one corner of the sheet. "Hubadai waits with his army at foot of Fergana Pass." He traced his finger across the map to a point closer to the center. "We're here."

"And where is Jad?" asked one of the khans Koja didn't know.

"At the Orkhon Oasis—there." Yamun pointed to the far side of the map.

The priest strained even harder to see where Yamun was indicating. All he could make out was a blurry area of lines and scribbles.

"And Tomke?" the same khan asked. He was a wolf-faced man with high, sharp cheekbones, a narrow nose, and pointed chin. His graying hair was well greased and bound in three braids, one on each side of his head and a third at the back.

"He stays in the north to gather his men. I'm going to hold him in reserve," Yamun explained. There was a grunt of general understanding from the men listening. They studied the map for a few minutes, learning the dispositions of the armies.

"What will you do?" Goyuk finally asked, his nose practically touching the map as he screwed up his eyes to see the lines. "Semphar? Or Khazari?" At the mention of Khazari, Koja scooted sideways a little, trying to find a better angle to see the map. By leaning to the left, he could see it clearer.

"Semphar must fall. They've refused my demands. Hubadai will march against them." The khahan traced a line on the map. Again there was a murmur of approval. Chanar glanced at the wolf-faced khan, giving him the tiniest of nods.

"Great Yamun," the man said, "I must speak because it is my duty under heaven. Your son Hubadai is a brave and valiant warrior, but he is young and has not gone to war often. The caliph of Semphar is a mighty ruler. Our spies tell us he has many soldiers protected by great stone walls. It would be wisdom to send a wise and experienced warrior to instruct and aid your son."

"My son is my son. He must fight," Yamun snapped.

"Of course, Great Khan," Chanar noted. "He must command. Perhaps Chagadai does not mean you should send a new commander. Send someone you can trust to advise Hubadai. Make this advisor commander of the right wing."

"Hubadai is young and his temper is quick," pressed Chagadai, the wolfish khan. "Send him someone to cool his rashness, someone who knows the traps of war. Send someone your son can learn from."