David Cook - Empires 1 - Horselords

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Horselords

Book 1 of the Empires Trilogy

By David Cook

A Proofpack Release

Ebook version 1.0

Release Date: December, 15th, 2003

The streets of Manass remained empty as the priest and his barbarian bodyguards marched through the

town. The procession saw few men until it rounded a corner and entered a large plaza. There, armored

soldiers carrying wicked-looking swords formed a wall.

The priest bowed to the governor, who stood foremost in the ranks. "I am a Koja of Khazari," he began,

a little ner-vous. "I bear you greetings from Hoekun Yamun, khahan of the Tuigan, who styles himself

Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples. He has sent me to deliver a message. The words of the khahan are

these: 'Submit to me and recognize my au-thority over your people or I shall raze your city and de-stroy all

those who refuse me.' "

As Koja finished the demands, there was a murmur of shock and surprise from the soldiers in the plaza.

Many eyes turned to the governor, whose face was purple with rage. "Is that all your barbarian friend has

to say?" he shouted.

The priest wiped his sweaty palms on his robe. "No, Lord Commander. He also bids you to look over

your walls from your highest tower."

"I've seen the reports from the sentries. Your khahan has gathered himself a sizable force of bandits.

And now he wants to style himself 'Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples?' He's got a lot to do before he can

claim that title," the gover-nor said with a sneer. "Does he really think he can capture Manass with that

puny force?"

Koja smiled slightly. "Yes, Lord Commander, he does."

THE EMPIRES TRILOGY

HORSELORDS

David Cook

DRAGONWALL

Troy Denning

CRUSADE

James Lowder

HORSELORDS

This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other

unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written

permission of TSR, Inc.

Distributed to the book trade in the United States by Random House, Inc., and in Canada by Random

House of Canada, Ltd.

Distributed in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.

Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors.

FORGOTTEN REALMS, PRODUCTS OF YOUR IMAGINATION, AD&D, and the TSR logo are

trademarks owned by TSR, Inc.

First Printing: April, 1990

Printed in the United States of America.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 8951888

987654321

ISBN: 0-88038-904-4

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

TSR, Inc. TSR Ltd.

P.O. Box 756 120 Church End, Cherry Hinton

Lake Geneva, Cambridge CB1 3LB

WI 53147 U.S.A. United Kingdom

To Sarah Elizabeth, who will be with us in our memories, and to Helen.

Quaraband

Quaraband was a city of tents. There were no per-manent buildings, only domelike yurts of white and

black spread out in the shallow bowl of a val-ley. The little round shelters were scattered in dense clumps,

large and small, radiating out from the river that meandered across the valley from the south. The space

between each yurt was cluttered with heavy, wooden-wheeled carts, ox yokes, racks of drying meat,

hobbled horses, and camels. Here and there were wicker corrals for horses and sheep. Thin trails of smoke

drifted from the cooking fires between the yurts. Farther out were herds of horses, cattle, and sheep

grazing on the greening grass of the spring steppe.

The stubby grass broke through the pitted crust of old snow that still dotted the plain. White snow, green

grass, and brown dirt covered the flat ground in broken patches, stretching as far as one could see. There

were no trees, only gently rolling hillocks that rippled to the horizon. Dark scars from old gullies made

jagged cuts across the barren land. Small clumps of bright blue and pink, the blooms of early crocus and

dwarf lily, struggled against the cold to bring the first signs of spring to the land.

Chanar Ong Kho, a general of the Tuigan, seemed to glis-ten as sunlight played off the burnished metal

scales of his armor. The light emphasized the luster of Chanar's thick braids and the thin sheen of sweat on

the shaven patch at the top of his head. The sword at his side, its scabbard set with sapphires and garnets,

swung in rhythm to his mare's swaying steps, scratching out a beat as it scraped against the general's metal

leggings.

Saddle leather creaked as Chanar looked back to see if his companion was impressed. The man, a gaunt

rider on a black mare, lurched along, parallel to a long, winding file of mounted soldiers—a small part of the

ten thousand men un-der General Chanar's command. The companion wore what were once bright orange

robes, though they were now travel-stained and worn. His head was shaven, and around his neck hung

several strings of beads, each ending in a small prayer case of silver filigree. The priest rode stiffly,

bouncing with every jolt, not with the natural grace of his fellow horseman. Chanar waited with bemused

distaste as the priest pulled alongside.

"Tonight, Koja of the Khazari, you'll sleep in the tents of the Tuigan," Chanar announced, as he leaned

forward to stroke his mare's neck. "Even though it's only been a few nights under the sky."

"Three weeks is more than a few nights," Koja observed. The priest spoke haltingly, with a musical

inflection, ill-suited to the guttural twists of the Tuigan tongue. It was a language clearly different from his

own. "Even you, hon-orable general, must welcome a night in warmer surroundings."

"Warm or cold, Khazari, it makes no difference to me. The Blue Wolf gave birth to our ancestors in the

bitter cold of winter. My home is where I stand. Learn that if you mean to stay with us," General Chanar

answered. Snapping the flank of the dapple mare with his knout, the general urged his horse into a gallop

toward Quaraband, leaving the foreign priest behind.

Koja let out an exasperated sigh as he watched the horse-warrior gallop ahead. Once again Koja had to

put up with the arrogance of the Tuigan general. The priest was saddle-stiff, dust-caked, and sun-scorched

after three weeks of constant riding. The Khazari had traveled with the general and ten thousand Tuigan

warriors through forests, over mountains, and finally across the dry and empty steppe to reach the great

capital of the Tuigan people. He had left the comforts of civilization far behind.

Now, the capital of these mysterious warriors, men who bedeviled the valuable caravan trade, lay

ahead. This kha-han, emperor of the Tuigan, could wait a few more minutes while he looked their city over.

It was primitive, rustic—and it took Koja's breath away. There wasn't a single stone building in

Quaraband. The lit-tle tents—yurts—were dirty felt mounds, but the sheer number of them was

awe-inspiring. There were thousands of the yurts set up upon the plain. Quaraband covered the valley floor,

a mile or more in each direction. A gray smudge of smoke hung over the tents, the residue from hundreds

of fires. It had an acrid tang that came from burning dung. This unpleasant fuel was a necessity, since there

was pre-cious little else to burn on the treeless steppe.

A cloud of dust swirled up in front of Koja, partially ob-scuring his view of the city. The line of troopers

snaked past; the sound of snorting horses, grumbled curses, and creaking leather suddenly reminded the

priest of where he was. General Chanar was well ahead, trotting toward Quaraband. Koja awkwardly

spurred his own horse for-ward, hurrying to catch up.

Just at the outskirts of the tent city, the priest rejoined General Chanar. The warlord barely noticed as

the dallying priest came apace. Instead, the general turned back to sur-vey the dispositions of his men. The

ten thousand riders were already breaking into smaller groups, directed by the yurtchis, the officers

responsible for laying out the camp. Satisfied that his men were being taken care of, Chanar turned back to

where Koja sat on his horse.

"Come with me. I must present you to Yamun Khahan," Cha-nar ordered. He spit on the ground,

clearing the dust from his throat, then tapped his horse forward. Koja followed.

As they passed through the yurts, Koja studied them closely. The round tents were made from thick felt

pounded into rugs and stretched over a wooden frame. Each door-way was covered with a loose rug that

could be pulled aside to let in fresh air and light. The roofs bulged at the very top, where a smoke hole

provided a little ventilation. Judging by the dirty exteriors, Koja doubted the yurts were bright and cheery

inside. As they passed one yurt whose door was open, Koja caught the thick odors of sweat, grease, and

smoke issuing from the inside.

A small troop of riders, rough-looking men with butter-colored skin, approached the priest and the

general. The riders wore identical black robes and pointed, fur-trimmed caps topped with long red tassels.

Each man carried a curved saber at his side. "Yamun Khahan sends these men to escort the valiant Chanar

Ong Kho to the khahan's home. He asks Chanar to share drinks with him," hailed the lead rider as the men

approached. As he spoke, the man eyed Koja curiously.

Chanar nodded in acceptance, then motioned toward the priest. "Tell the khahan that I've brought an

ambassa-dor of the Khazari along from Semphar." At the command of the lead rider, one of the escort

galloped away with the message.

The group continued in silence. As they rode, women peered shyly from behind tent flaps and dirty,

bare-legged children ventured out to see the stranger riding by. The riders skirted the cooking fires, where

pots bubbled, filling the air with the strong odor of boiled mutton.

Soon they reached a palisade of simple wooden stakes. The fence was five feet high, and ringed the

base of a low hill that stood alongside the river. Beyond the fence Koja saw five large yurts, bigger than

any he had passed. The largest yurt, dark black, occupied the top of the hill. The others, clustered around it,

were smaller and powdered white with chalk. Primitive figures formed a printed band around the top of

each yurt.

"I've come to see Yamun Khahan, my anda," General Cha-nar announced formally to the black-robed

guard at the en-trance. Koja noted the curious phrase Chanar used, which apparently denoted some close

bond between the general and the khahan.

The guard hurriedly pulled aside the simple gate and al-lowed the riders to pass through. Gray-robed

servants ran forward and held the horses while Chanar and Koja dis-mounted. The general carefully

straightened his armor, tug-ging at the hems of his grease-and sweat-soaked silk undershirt. Satisfied,

Chanar turned to the priest and de-clared flatly, "You'll stay here until I send for you." Sharply he turned

and strode up the small hill toward the large cen-tral yurt.

Suddenly stranded by his host, Koja stood awkwardly still. The men of the armed escort were nearby, in

small knots, talking among themselves. At intervals, perhaps prompted by a word or a thought, one of the

guards would suddenly look Koja's way, stare through narrowed eyelids for a little while, and then, just as

abruptly, return to the conversation.

The priest stood, then squatted, then stood again. No one made any attempt to speak to him or show him

the hospital-ity an ambassador was properly due. Koja was hardly sur-prised, given what he saw was the

barbarism of the Tuigan. Still, he had hoped for better.

For a time Koja was content to study the men in his escort. They might have been young men, but their

faces were so heavily weather-beaten that their actual ages were impos-sible to determine. Long, thin

mustaches were the favored style among these warriors. They had no beards and a few of the

older-looking men had long ago taken knives to their cheeks, scarring them so badly that their beards could

not grow. Most wore their hair in long braids that hung down in front of their ears. This was not unusual,

but the way they shaved the crowns of their heads was quite distinctive.

After the priest waited for an hour or more, dusk fell.

Koja roamed a little, slowly at first to see if the guards would notice. He walked a short way up the

slope, toward the ban-ner that stood halfway between the gate and the largest yurt. It was a pole, fifteen

feet tall with a crossbrace at the top. From the arms hung nine long black horsetail plumes. Affixed on the

very top was a human skull. Below the skull was a golden plaque, while small dolls made of red cloth stood

at the pole's base. Bits of hair and leather were stuck to these. Koja studied the standard, guessing at its

signifi-cance.

A man came down from the large yurt, dressed in a black robe with silk trim, clearly an officer. He

stopped directly in front of Koja. "Koja of Khazari—come. But first, you must kneel to the khahan's

standard."

Koja looked at the dolls. They were idols, he realized—some shaman's spirit guardians, probably the

powers of earth and sky. However, they were certainly not any of the gods he knew from his training at the

Red Mountain Temple.

"I cannot," Koja said softly. "I am a priest of Furo. These are not my gods."

The officer looked at him darkly, his hand sliding toward the sword at his side. "You must. It is the

khahan's standard."

"I mean no disrespect to your khahan, but I cannot kneel to these gods," Koja said flatly. He crossed his

arms and stood firm, gambling that the guard would not strike him.

"I cannot take you to the khahan's yurt until you kneel," protested the officer. "You must kneel."

"Then I shall not see the khahan," answered Koja. A strained look crossed the officer's face.

The black-garbed officer stood in indecision. The other guards came up to see what was happening. The

men and the officer fell into a heated, whispered conversation. Koja discreetly pretended not to notice,

returning to his exami-nation of the idols.

Finally, the officer gave in. Turning to Koja, he said, "You will come, but the khahan will be told."

"Your courage is great," Koja praised, allowing the officer to save face. The priest pointed to the skull at

the top of the pole. "What does that represent?"

"That is the khan of the Oigurs," the officer said with rel-ish. "He attempted to slay the khahan by luring

him into a trap. The Oigurs were the first people Yamun Khahan con-quered, so he honored them by

placing their khan there."

"Does he treat everyone in this way?" Koja asked as he eyed the dubious honor.

"No, only a fortunate few," said the officer. The other guards broke into laughter as they led the priest

up the hill.

When he reached the khahan's yurt, Koja looked down to the plain below. From the doorway the priest

had a clear view of the entire Tuigan encampment. It was clear why the khahan had chosen this hill as the

site for his yurt. The squat yurts of Quaraband stretched out below in a rough oval, following the course of

river.

The tent flap was pulled open as the officer beckoned Koja to enter. Ducking his head through the

opening, the priest carefully stepped inside. The khahan's chamberlain tugged at Koja, carefully making sure

the priest did not acci-dentally step on the jamb, a sure sign of evil luck. Inside, it was dark. Koja willingly

allowed himself to be led to a seat. As he padded across the heavily carpeted floor, the priest tried to focus

his eyes in the gloom.

The Illustrious Emperor to the Tuigan, Yamun Khahan, leaned forward on his seat of cushions at the

back of the yurt. His face was lit by the flickering flames of oil lamps hung from the roof poles of the Great

Yurt. The light barely revealed his reddish hair, bound into long braids. Occasion-ally light glinted off the

pale, jagged scar that ran across the bridge of his nose and over his cheek. A second old scar gave the

khahan's upper lip a slight curl.

Not far from the khahan, General Chanar sat on the rugs, only a single cushion beneath him. The

warrior sipped at the hot cup of tea he cradled in his hands. As Koja settled into his seat, Chanar leaned

over to the khahan and spoke softly. The khahan listened, then shook his head gently, ap-parently vetoing

the general's suggestion.

"So, envoy of the Khazari, what did you think of the grand council of Semphar?" boomed out Yamun

Khahan from the far side of the yurt. Koja was surprised by the khahan's directness, but quickly regained

his composure.

"Surely, Khahan of the Tuigan, General Chanar has told you about the conference. I am only an

ambassador of the Khazari," Koja protested.

"You're going to tell me about this great conference at Semphar," the khahan ordered bluntly, scratching

at his cheek. "I have already heard the general speak. What did the Sempharans have to say?"

"Well, Lord Yamun, the caliph of Semphar was, uh, sur-prised." Koja shifted his legs, trying to find a

comfortable position.

Yamun Khahan snorted with laughter and drained his sil-ver goblet, setting it down on the thick woolen

rugs with a muffled thump. "Surprised? I send my best general with ten thousand men, a complete tumen,

and the caliph is only 'surprised.' Do you hear this?" He leaned toward Chanar, who was sitting stone-faced

while Koja talked. A servant came out of the shadows to pour the khahan another goblet of heated wine

and dropped a pierced silver ball filled with herbs into it. Yamun, his face stern and unsmiling, turned back

to the envoy. "This caliph didn't tremble in fear at the sight of General Chanar?"

"Perhaps he did, Khahan of the Tuigan, but never that I saw." Koja found his gaze locked with the

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HorselordsBook1oftheEmpiresTrilogyByDavidCookAProofpackReleaseEbookversion1.0ReleaseDate:December,15th,2003ThestreetsofManassremainedemptyasthepriestandhisbarbarianbodyguardsmarchedthroughthetown.Theprocessionsawfewmenuntilitroundedacornerandenteredalargeplaza.There,armoredsoldierscarryingwicked-loo...

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