Forgotten Realms - Empires 01 - Horselords

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Quaraband

Quaraband was a city of tents. There were no permanent buildings, only

domelike yurts of white and black spread out in the shallow bowl of a valley.

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 glisten 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

under 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, honorable

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 khahan, 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 little 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 precious

little else to burn on the treeless steppe.

A cloud of dust swirled up in front of Koja, partially obscuring 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 forward, 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 survey 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," Chanar 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 doorway 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 ambassador 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 Chanar announced

formally to the black-robed guard at the entrance. 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 allowed the riders to

pass through. Gray-robed servants ran forward and held the horses while

Chanar and Koja dismounted. The general carefully straightened his armor,

tugging at the hems of his grease-and sweat-soaked silk undershirt. Satisfied,

Chanar turned to the priest and declared flatly, "You'll stay here until I send for

you." Sharply he turned and strode up the small hill toward the large central

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 hospitality an ambassador was

properly due. Koja was hardly surprised, 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 impossible 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 banner 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 significance.

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 examination 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 relish. "He attempted

to slay the khahan by luring him into a trap. The Oigurs were the first people

Yamun Khahan conquered, 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

accidentally 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. Occasionally 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, apparently

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, surprised." Koja shifted

his legs, trying to find a comfortable position.

Yamun Khahan snorted with laughter and drained his silver 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 khahan's. In the dim light, the ruler's eyes were black

and riveting. Flustered, Koja could feel his blood reddening his face, even

making his bald scalp tingle. The priest suddenly wondered if the khahan was

some type of sorcerer. Unconsciously, his fingers fumbled with one of the

small scripture lockets that hung around his neck.

Chanar cocked an eyebrow, noticing what the envoy was doing. "Your

charms and spells won't help you here, Khazari. No magic functions within

this valley."

Koja stopped in surprise, slightly embarrassed when he realized what he

was doing. "No magic? How is that possible?" He looked to Chanar for an

answer, but it was Yamun who replied.

"Teylas, the Sky God, banished the magic—or that's what the Second

Empress Bayalun Khadun tells me. I don't care how it happened. No magic

makes this a good place for my capital, a safe place," answered Yamun

Khahan between swallows of wine.

"Isn't life difficult without magic?" Koja asked softly.

"If Teylas wanted life to be easy he wouldn't have given us the steppe for a

home. And he would have given me an easier people to rule," commented

Yamun as he finished off another goblet of wine. "Enough of this. Was the

council impressed when General Chanar told them my demands? Will they

pay a tax for the caravans? Do they recognize me as ruler of the whole

world?"

Koja thought carefully about the answer. "They were outraged by your ...

boldness, Lord Khahan. Many of them took exception to your claims. As the

king of Cormyr pointed out, 'You do not rule the entire world.' " Koja heard a

soft, irritated snort from Chanar.

The khahan slowly stood, stretching his legs. He was not a tall man, but

was still imposing. His chest was broad and his neck was thick with corded

muscles. He slowly walked with a bowlegged swagger toward the door of the

tent. All the while he kept his eyes on the seated priest, the same way a

desert cat watches its prey. "Cor-meer? I've never heard of such a place."

Koja, still seated on the woolen rugs that covered the floor, scuttled around

to keep facing the khahan. Although the evening was chill, the lama was

sweating in the stuffy tent. His orange robes were damp and clammy. Slightly

frosty breezes slipped in through the minute gaps in the felt walls of the yurt.

"Is it far?" quizzed Yamun, tugging at his mustache.

"Great Lord?" asked Koja, confused by the sudden shift of the

conversation.

"This place, Cor-meer—is it far away?"

"I don't know. It is a land far to the west, even far from Semphar. I have

never been there."

"But this king, he talks bravely. What is he like?"

"The king is named Azoun. He is a strange-looking man, with pale skin and

thick hair on his face—"

"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. Reluc-

tantly, 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 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?"

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