"I would like to see the khahan," Koja declared as he became more aware of where he was.

"You will," answered a guard, much to Koja's surprise. A servant held the horse for Koja to mount.

"What is going on?" Koja demanded one more time. Somehow he suspected the question was futile.

"Be quiet," Sechen hissed. The other guard nodded in agreement, smiling with a mouthful of crumbling, decayed teeth. They roughly hoisted the priest into the saddle and then mounted their own horses. The big wrestler reached over and took Koja's reins, leading his horse along. There was no clopping of horse's hooves; the pace was marked instead by a soft plodding. Koja looked at the lead horse and saw that its hooves were wrapped in bindings of rags.

Wherever the army was going, they were taking great efforts to do it quietly.

The group rode in the darkness for some time, going mostly downhill. All around, Koja could hear the quiet movements of other riders. Shapes moved in and out of his vision. The lama wondered if they were moving to Manass.

Had it, against all possibilities, fallen to Yamun's attack, or was the khahan secretly reinforcing whatever remained of the three thousand men already encamped outside?

As the hours went by, the priest became confused. They traveled too long to be going to Manass, even though they went slowly.

With the dawn, Sechen and his fellow guard finally came to a halt. They were on the edge of a rocky bluff overlooking a flat valley floor. A line of birches marked the course of a small stream that cut through the valley.

Behind Koja were more trees, making the tops of the low mountains dark blue-green in the morning light.

While Sechen watered the horses, another nightguard came with a message for the wrestler. "The khahan orders you to send the priest to him,"

was all the man had to say. In a very short time, Koja found himself in Yamun's camp.

The Khazari priest expected the camp to be like a furious beehive of activity, with Yamun hearing reports and issuing orders, couriers galloping in and out, and commanders plotting out strategies—just the way he imagined any great leader's camp must be during times of battle. When he got there, however, he was astonished. Yamun Khahan, his son Jad, and the old Goyuk were all sitting on stools, drinking hot cups of Tuigan tea.

Slightly off to the side was a wrinkled, old wizard. In the weak light of the dawn, the sorcerer looked drawn and lean, radiating an otherworldly feeling.

Perhaps it was the effect of spending a life steeped in strange magics. Koja knew that the arcane arts took a toll on their masters, sometimes even draining them of vitality.

Like the others, the wizard was sipping a cup of tea, although he did not join in the muted conversation. Instead, the wizard sat close enough to their circle to listen, but looked the other way, watching the sun rising over the ice-frosted peaks of Khazari.

Yamun and his companions did not appear to be hurried or concerned, rather more like a group of men relaxing before a hunt. They looked up, noting Koja's presence. Jad made a show of watching the tree line while old Goyuk smiled his bland smile and noisily sucked up his tea.

Yamun stood as Koja came closer to the circle. "Welcome," he said evenly.

Koja could not guess what Yamun's temperament was. "Sit. Have some tea."

Koja dutifully took his place, trying to decide how he was being treated. In just a day, he'd been a diplomat, a prisoner, and now—well, he just didn't know. So many things had been going on, and none of them seemed to make sense. "Khahan," he inquired, "am I your prisoner or your envoy?" Koja chose his words with care, trying not provoke the khahan into some rash action.

"In my land you are my historian," Yamun explained, rubbing at his chin. "In Khazari, you are Khazari. Some of my khans think you are a clever spy for your people. I do not want them worrying about you."

Koja stammered, "But—but, Great Lord, you sent me to Manass to deliver your ultimatum just yesterday."

"Yes, but remember, you asked. I thought you could persuade them to be reasonable." The khahan took Koja by the arm and led him away from the others. "You didn't. And you came back with ten dead men. There have been questions."

"Questions?" Koja's voice hardened in unexpected anger.

"They are groundless and insulting" Yamun assured him.

"But there are questions ... so you have me confined," Koja said, a trace of bitterness in his tone.

"Yes," Yamun said simply. "It was for your own safety."

"My own safety, Yamun?" Koja asked skeptically, irritated at the suggestion.

"If you wander about before a battle, people think you are a spy. If you don't, no one kill you. Is good plan," chortled Goyuk, interrupting from the other side of the circle. The old man seemed to be in a particularly good mood this morning.

Koja mulled over the old general's words. There was some sense to them, but he still wondered if Yamun had some other reason for his confinement.

"What happened last night? I heard sounds of fighting," the priest questioned, trying a different subject.

"Are you the khahan's man or Prince Ogandi's man?" Jad interrupted. He stood, watching Koja carefully. The prince's eyes were dark and hard. Finally, the priest broke the stare, stealing a look toward Yamun.

The group fell silent, waiting for Koja to answer. Yamun settled back on his stool, fingering a small knife while he watched the priest carefully. Goyuk did a poor job of pretending to be interested only in his tea, but he, too, watched the nervous lama from the corner of his eye. Only the wizard looked away, seemingly unconcerned. Still, Koja could see the mage flexing his wrinkled hands, the long fingers practicing the motions needed to cast a spell.

Koja tried to consider his choices carefully, but his mind was filled with memories that tugged and pulled against each other. There were the oaths of loyalty he swore—to Ogandi, to the Red Mountain Temple, to the god Furo.

There was his father, sitting next to the fire in wintertime, then Yamun bending over his pallet and Chanar's hate-filled glare. Overriding all these images was the dream of his old master standing in the darkness, building walls.

"I have no lord," he whispered. The memories faded from his mind. Jad relaxed, but showed no pleasure in the priest's words.

Yamun stirred and stepped forward. He laid one hand on his son's shoulder and the other on Koja's. "My historian is an honest man. 'Liars never say no, fools never say yes,'" he quoted, looking at Jad.

"Ai!" agreed Goyuk. He raised his cup high and then took a long noisy slurp.

"Ai! To our success today," pronounced Yamun, letting the two go. Jad found his cup and raised it in a toast. Koja fumblingly found his own cup and raised it up.

The men sat and drank another cup of the hot tea. Even Koja was thankful for the salted brew. It soothed his tired, tense nerves. The priest had no idea what was to happen this day, but for now he was content to wait.

Finally, Yamun spoke. "It's time to get ready." Jad and Goyuk nodded in agreement and stood. "Goyuk, take command of the right. My son, you lead the left. I'll take the center. You, Afrasib," he commanded, pointing at the wizard, "will stay with me. As will you, Koja."

"Where are we going?" the lama asked hesitantly, hoping that he might now get an answer.

"It is time to put my plans in motion," was all that Yamun would say.

9

The Trap

Yamun Khahan paced along the bottom of the dusty gully, kicking at stones and scraping little patterns in the dirt with his toe. Occasionally he stopped and marched up the slope and stood at the edge of the tree line to gaze across the plain. To his left and right, sheltered in the gully, were two thousand horsemen, huddled below the level of the plain.

In preparation for the coming conflict, Yamun wore his battledress—a glittering steel breastplate engraved and chased with flowers, a leather skirt sewn with metal plates, and a golden pointed warhelm. A coif of chain mail hung from the back of the helmet, covering his neck. The metal draped on Yamun's body clinked as he walked.

For the last three hours or more, the khahan, Afrasib, Koja, and a host of troopers had waited, more or less patiently, in the gully. The dry wash ran a jagged course, coming down out of the hills to the north and then angling to the southwest, where the mouth of the valley opened into the broader fringes of steppe. A thin stand of willows and tamarisk lined the banks, giving shade to the weary men. Koja, tired of watching Yamun pace and tired of waiting, sat against the base of a tree. Sechen stood nearby, never letting the priest get far from him.

Even in the shade, Koja was sweating. The big wrestler had found a suit of armor for the priest, a heavy thing of metal plates stitched to leather, in the style common to the Tuigan. The armor was ill-fitting, with absurdly big shoulders and long, droopy sleeves, but Sechen had insisted that he wear it. "You might be hit by an arrow," the guard warned. The helmet Sechen had produced fit little better than the armor.

Koja watched as the khahan turned from the plain and came back down the embankment. Yamun fretted back and forth, impatient for something to happen.

"Why do we wait here, Khahan?" Koja asked as Yamun ventured close.

Yamun, stopped short by Koja's question, scowled at the priest and almost snapped a sharp reply. Then he relented. "We wait here to capture Manass, historian. At least that is the plan."

"Manass?" Koja asked, amazed. He struggled to his feet, the armor scraping against the tree trunk. "Here? But how?"

"They're going to enter the trap," Yamun answered, marching back to the gully's edge. Koja noticed that the khahan spoke with less than his usual absolute conviction. The warlord looked to where Koja stood. "Come here, priest."

Koja joined the khahan, walking awkwardly in the heavy armor. Yamun pointed toward the upper end of the valley, where the land rose to a low pass nestled between the mountains to the east. The trail to Manass crawled over the pass.

"Look there," Yamun instructed, pointing to a spur that ran down into the valley floor from the north. "See the dark line? That's Jad and his men." Koja squinted, barely able to see the line Yamun indicated. Years scanning the emptiness of the steppe had sharpened the khahan's eyesight far beyond Koja's.

"Goyuk's men are across the valley, near those trees," Yamun continued as he swept his hand across the plain, stopping on a wooded slope.

"If you say so, Khahan," Koja responded, unable to see any sign of troops there. "But, you are here and Manass is far away. I do not understand how you plan to conquer the city by fleeing from it."

"Manass will come here, if all goes as planned," the khahan murmured, his head sank to his chest. Lifting his chin, he continued in a stronger voice, "We will bring Manass here, historian."

"How?"

"You told me how the lord of Manass acted. He calls us bandits," Yamun answered, turning away from the plain. "So I act like a bandit." He looked at Koja. The lama's expression showed he was still confused.

"Yesterday I attacked and lost—on purpose." Yamun held up his hand, stopping the startled outburst Koja was about to make. "Not many men died.

Their orders were to make it look good and then flee. This morning I left one troop near Manass, to lure the garrison out, make them pursue. I just hope Shahin Khan can do the task. If Chanar were here, I know they'd follow.

There's nobody better for baiting the enemy." He gave the lama a wan smile.

"But why should the garrison leave the city walls?" Koja asked. He shrugged the oversized armor back into place.

"Their commander is foolish. Yesterday, when Shahin retreated, the Khazari left their walls and chased our men. They did not have to, so last night I made a feint. My 'bandits' attacked Manass and failed." Yamun pointed toward the ridge. "This morning the Khazari see a retreating enemy. They will chase Shahin, hoping to destroy him." Yamun stopped and look off his helmet. Sweat ran down the back of his neck. "If that's not enough, Shahin has orders to burn whatever he comes across near the city, "That will force the lord of Manass to come out. He must protect his herds and his people."

Yamun wiped the sweat from his forehead. "He would be disgraced if he hid behind walls of stone. From what I've seen, he'll want to fight. After all, we're only bandits." Yamun set his helmet firmly back in place.

"And then?" probed Koja.

"Then Shahin lures the Khazari here," Yamun stated calmly. "Shahin will ride past us, and we will stay hidden. On the signal, my men strike the Khazari on the flank while Jad and Goyuk close in from behind."

"And if no one chases Shahin?" Koja asked.

"Then I've guessed wrong about the lord of Manass," Yamun answered.

"He would be wise to stay home, but he will come." The khahan scanned the horizon as he spoke.

Koja waited for Yamun to dismiss him. Finally, the khahan turned to other details. Koja went back to his tree and tried to settle in for a nap. Although the lama was tired, sleep wouldn't come.

Flies buzzed lazily overhead. Another hour went by without Shahin's arrival.

The morning was slowly becoming a hot spring day. There was nothing for the priest to do but wait and pray.

"They come, Yamun Khahan," panted a messenger who ran up and knelt at the great lord's feet. "The scouts signal that Shahin is coming."

Yamun turned from the man, waving forward another messenger. "Go to Prince Jad. Tell the prince his father reminds him not to move until the signal is given." The messenger hurried to his task.

At the announcement, Koja scrambled to his feet. "Things are almost ready," Yamun eagerly explained. "Shahin's done it. Now all we need to do is close the trap." The khahan strode up the gully's side and watched the pass.

"Khahan, will this be dangerous?" the priest asked, joining Yamun. So far, Koja had only seen battles, never been in one.

"Of course," Yamun replied. "All battles are dangerous." The khahan shaded his eyes and continued to watch, ignoring his historian.

"May I cast some spells—purely for protection? I am not a warrior—"

"No!" Sechen growled, stepping forward to guard Yamun. "No spells." The muscular wrestler glowered down at the priest. Koja lurched back in surprise.

Realizing what he had done, Sechen suddenly stepped back and knelt at Yamun's feet. "Forgive my anger, Great Lord. I was only trying to guard you."

Yamun studied the man carefully. "You mean well, Sechen," he said, reassuring the fretting giant. Turning to Koja, Yamun said, "You'll take your chances with the rest of us. No spells."

The decision made, Yamun climbed a small rise of crumbling rock, Koja and his guards in tow, to get a better view. Koja reached the top with sweat running down the sides of his glistening, stubbly scalp.

"There's Shahin," Yamun abruptly said. He pointed to the far ridge.

Shielding his eyes, Koja could barely make out a thin sliver of moving gray.

The khahan scrambled down the slope and headed for his standard, waving his arm to bring the army to attention. Koja, panting and sweating even more, stumbled down behind him.

By the time the khahan reached his standard, messengers were already starting to arrive. Yamun pushed his way through the crowded gully, past the expectant troopers. As he did so, a messenger ran forward and dropped to one knee. "Jad reports that his men are in position," the man called out.

"Good. Standard-bearer, use the white banner for the right," Yamun commanded without breaking his stride. The trooper bowed quickly to show his understanding.

"Scouts say Goyuk is ready," added one of the khahan's aides. He was little more than a boy, perhaps fourteen or fifteen years old. His face was still round with baby fat.

"Why hasn't Goyuk reported this?" Yamun snapped, the aide falling in beside him. They squeezed past a knot of horses eagerly pawing at the ground. The troopers stroked the animal's muzzles, trying to calm them.

"I don't know, Lord," answered the aide apologetically.

"Then find out!" the gruff warlord growled.

"Shahin has reached the valley floor, Great Lord," yelped a messenger who galloped up to the top of the gully. Yamun stopped and scrutinized the man as the courier swung from the saddle.

"Who's your commander?" the khahan queried.

"Buzun. One of Shahin Khan's men, Great Lord," the man hastily answered, falling to one knee. Streaks of sweat colored the dust on his clothes. One braid of the man's hair had come undone, and the other was caked with grease and dirt. His eyes were staring and hollow from lack of rest.

"What of the enemy?" the khahan demanded as he walked up the slope to question the man. "Does Shahin have anything else to report?"

"The garrison is chasing him, half a mile behind, maybe a little more, Great Lord. No more than a mile," the messenger said. Koja climbed up to where the warlord stood.

"How many men chase Shahin?" pressed Yamun.

"Three minghans of riders. Two of men on foot—but they are farther behind."

"Damn!" Yamun grumbled. "They can't be allowed to escape." He wheeled to his aides. "Send riders to Jad and Goyuk. Tell them not to attack until after the footmen pass by. They're to give a signal, the war drums, when the infantry is in the trap. We'll hold our attack until they signal. You—" Yamun turned back to the messenger. "Go back to Shahin and tell him to harry the riders, slow them up. I want the enemy pushed tight together. Tell Shahin his losses are not important."

The messenger bowed quickly, fired by the khahan's urgency. "Get this man a fresh horse!" Yamun bellowed down to his aides in the gully. "You—

give him your horse!" He jabbed his finger at the nearest trooper. Startled and flustered, the man dropped to his knee.

"By your word it so—um—so shall it be!" he shouted. The man led the horse out of the gully, bowing to the khahan at every step.

Yamun turned back to the messenger. "Go! I want those Khazari chasing Shahin in full pursuit! Understand?"

"Yes, Khahan," the man shouted, scrambling to his feet.

Yamun didn't even wait for the courier to leave before he turned his attention to the lines of troops filling the gully.

"Give the word," he told the aide still at his side. "It's time to prepare."

Those simple words had an electrifying effect on the army. There was a murmur of voices as the order was passed along, then a chorus of creaking leather and metal. Men hustled up off the ground, where they had been loung-ing. Saddle cinches got a final tug. Honing stones were dragged in one last scrape along already sharp swords. Heavy, stifling armor was pulled on.

Kumiss bags gurgled as veterans poured themselves a drink; there was no telling when they would have another chance. Horses pawed at the ground, shifting unsteadily under the sudden load of metal-clad men. A whisper of chanted prayers drifted on the wind. Like a wave on the ocean, men mounted their horses, the action flowing outward from the khahan's word.

Then they waited, waited for the nine-tailed banner of the khahan to be raised high and the war drum to be sounded. These were their signals, and not a man would move until they were given. Those that rode forward too early would be beaten. Those that fled, beheaded.

Koja climbed into the saddle of his own horse, a cumbersome task in the oversized armor that he wore. The scale mail bagged out around his chest giving him the appearance of a large metal-plated balloon, or, with his pointed helmet, an upside-down top. The helmet promptly slid forward and smacked against the bridge of Koja's nose. The weight of the armor on his shoulders was crushing. Koja uncomfortably shifted in the saddle. He knew a warrior's life was not for him.

Yamun rode to Koja's side, unable to suppress a devilish grin at the priest's comical appearance. "There's going to be a battle—more than I planned.

Shahin will need help in holding the cavalry long enough for the infantry to be caught in our trap," the khahan explained. "You're to ride with me, where the guards can protect you. Even so, you may have to fight."

Koja pushed the helmet off his face. "I'm no warrior," he protested. "It is against the teachings my temple to harm another. I cannot risk offending my god. Khahan, I cannot fight."

"Then you can get your head smashed in. The enemy's not going to be so fussy," the warlord pointed out. "Here, take this." He held out a heavy metal-studded club. "It doesn't take much to use. Just don't bash your horse in the head." The scowling warlord grabbed Koja's wrist and slipped the weapon's thong over his hand. "Keep that on, so the mace doesn't go flying the first time you swing it."

The weight of the mace pulled Koja to one side. A hand grabbed his shoulder and pulled him back into the saddle. A sharp snicker came from behind him. Koja turned in time to see a dayguard laughing at him. There was something about the look of the man that disturbed him, something not quite correct. The man's face didn't seem quite human. Koja blinked and wondered if exhaustion and sunlight were playing tricks on his eyes. Noticing the priest's stare, the dayguard quickly slipped behind a horse and disappeared from sight.

Mounted, Yamun's soldiers sat as silently as they could, trying to catch the first sight of Shahin and his men. Warriors stood in their saddles, shading their eyes to break the glare from the sunny plain.

It was a sound that first warned of Shahin's coming: the steady reverberation of galloping horses. Alerted, men strained to see their approaching companions. A plume of dust rose from the valley floor, driving fast in their direction. New sounds reached the army: garbled but piercing screams, resounding metallic rings, even an occasional shouted command.

"Up!" Yamun yelled to the standard-bearer. The nine-tailed banner rose over the gully. A ragged shout spontaneously erupted from the line as men urged their horses forward. The steeds scrambled up the bank, tearing at the soft dirt with their hooves.

"Hold!" shouted Yamun as the double line reached the edge of the trees, still hidden from sight. The standard-bearer waved the banner from side to side. The standards of the three tumens did the same. The lines drew up and came to a halt. Koja could hear the commanders of the jaguns shouting at their men to dress out their lines, evening out the ranks.

Koja swallowed what tasted like a mouthful of dust. He quickly recited sutras to Furo, trying to remember any that told of success in battle.

With growing speed the dust cloud whirled toward Yamun's position.

Shapes formed out of the murk, becoming wild horsemen who whipped furiously at their mounts. The distant drone of hooves grew to a deep, rolling thunder; the cries and shouts became more distinct. As the priest sat watching, Shahin Khan's golden banner flew past. The riders continued down the valley, following the narrow angle of the dry wash. The dust of their passing roiled up and swept over Yamun's men in the tree line, hiding them from sight.

"Excellent," shouted Yamun over the fading din. "Shahin's men kicked up enough dust to cover us. Keep the men back until the signal's given."

The drumming hooves and whoops of the riders gradually died away, though the dust still hung thick in the air. Koja wrapped a scarf over his mouth and squeezed his eyes shut. Around him he could hear men coughing and horses prancing with excitement.

The noise of Shahin's men was replaced by sounds of the Khazari cavalry's galloping pursuit. The dust clouds had barely opened up when another wave of riders burst out of the gloom. The pounding hooves, the jingling of metal, and the shouts were all the same, but the riders charging past were wearing the yellow and blue of Manass.

Koja nervously glanced down the line of warriors to his right, a line that faded into the haze. The mounted men were grim-faced, hands tight on their reins. They, too, watched the passing riders nervously, waiting for the khahan's signal. The priest looked back to Yamun and saw him sitting, grave and impassive, only the slightest look of concern on his face. Koja pulled the scarf from his mouth and leaned sideways to ask the khahan a question.

Then, a different rumble, fainter and lower in pitch, added to the noise. It was the deep boom of war drums, rolling from the distance. Yamun suddenly sat straight and raised his hand to the signalmen beside him. "Bows and drums," the khahan commanded.

The aide next to the khahan quickly took his own bow and nocked a strange arrow with a carved, bulbous head. Instead of aiming at the enemy, the man pointed the shaft upward, as if he were shooting at the clouds. The rank of signalmen prepared similar arrows.

At a slight nod from the khahan, the archers shot their arrows skyward. A chorus of howling shrieks pierced the din. Koja, startled, yanked on the reins of his horse, almost charging his mount into the chaotic fray. Sechen seized the bridle and held the horse in. "Whistling arrows," the big guard shouted, nodding upward where the shafts still flew, mournfully wailing over the galloping riders.

The whistling signal electrified the waiting troops. Koja watched as each man eagerly pulled a bow from his case and, with precision, nocked one arrow while gripping a bundle of others in his hand.

The khahan dropped his hand. Another flight of whistling arrows flew, followed immediately by a loud twang, like a badly tuned instrument, as the ranks fired their bows. The shafts hissed through the air, stabbing into the gloom. From the plain came a ragged chorus of startled cries. Through small gaps in the swirling dust, Koja saw a field dotted with a few dead and wounded. Other horsemen milled in confusion, panicked, as they tried to find the source of the attack.

Before the enemy could recover, Yamun's warriors shot again and again, sending their arrows into the slowly lifting murk. The cries of the wounded mixed with commands shouted in lilting Khazari that only Koja could understand. Officers were desperately trying to regain control of the confused mass. Men screamed of their injuries or called for their friends and horses.

The dust began to settle, revealing a battlefield filled with confusion and fear.

"Now, before they recover, charge!" the khahan ordered. The nine-tailed banner waved forward, and the war drums were sounded. Down the line Koja could see the three banners of the tumens take up the signal. Three thousand men leaped from their positions.

Koja pulled back on his reins, holding his horse from the rush. The mare pranced and bucked, champing to join the tide that rushed outward. Even with Sechen holding the bit of Koja's horse, it was hard to restrain the skittish steed.

Only after the ranks had swept past did Yamun move forward. Steadily, the khahan and those with him gained speed to keep up with the galloping warriors strung out in front of them. Soon they were abreast of the stragglers—lamed horses, fallen riders hurriedly remounting, and nags that couldn't keep up. Koja clung to the pommel as he plunged forward, straight for the thin wavering line of enemy riders.

For Koja, the battle dissolved into a chaotic collection of scenes. There was no sense of order or place. It was not like the battles Koja had imagined: organized, proper, almost stately. Instead, the charge was like opening the doorway to the realm of Li Pei, the great judge of the underworld.

The first seconds of the attack were the clearest. As the leading men of the Tuigan tore into the flank of the Khazari cavalry, Koja could see the looks of utter astonishment and fear on the enemy's faces. The Khazari were still con-founded by the torrent of Tuigan arrows and didn't seem to expect a charge.

The two armies met. A sound, like a peal of thunder, tore through the milling crowd. Koja had never experienced that instant when two lines met.

The shock of first impact-horses, men, lances, and armor driving together—

staggered him.

Almost instantly the two forces swirled into a mass. The Tuigan rode straight into the enemy, using their momentum to cut deep into the heart of their foes. The Khazari wheeled in confusion, and they lashed out in all directions. Commanders shouted orders to their men, desperately trying to regroup their units.

Before Koja could fully grasp the situation, Yamun and his command were among the enemy. An unshaven warrior with a gaunt face, dressed in a dirty silk robe with gilt trim, thrust a lance at the priest. Instinctively, Koja swung his mace up, batting at the oncoming shaft. The lance head ricocheted off the mace's shaft and skittered past his arm, bouncing off the metal plates of his armor. As the man swept past, a big fist shot out from the right, cracking the Khazari on the chin. The warrior toppled and thudded off the flank of Koja's mare. Sechen pulled close to the lama and grinned, holding up his fist in pride. The priest twisted back, horrified at what was happening. The fallen Khazari was nowhere in sight; he had vanished beneath the surging horses'

hooves.

After that, Koja could no longer tell who was winning or even who was friend or foe. His horse leaped over a mortally wounded stallion that flailed madly on its back. Wild screams rattled around the terrified priest. A warrior stood, tottering. His body was braced against the end of a broken lance, which had been driven completely through his chest. Another soldier swayed weakly in his saddle, clutching the bloody stump of his wrist. His eyes were glazed and almost rolled completely back. He babbled prayers to some god.

Two troopers grappled with a third, trying to throw him from his saddle.

Abruptly the fighting seemed to stop. The charge had carried Yamun's men through the enemy. The effect was dramatic. The sudden appearance of the warriors had set the Khazari cavalry into panicked flight. The broken lines streamed back the way they had come, ignoring their officers, leaving their wounded behind.

"Signal the pursuit," Yamun bellowed to the standard-bearer. Already the commanders of the jaguns were gathering their men. The standard waved, and the war drums quickly picked up the signal. Not allowing the Khazari troops a moment to regroup, Yamun hurled his riders after them. The lines of Tuigan cavalry quickly fanned out.

A rider wearing the armor of a Tuigan dayguard furiously whipped his horse, overtaking Koja. Some headstrong young warrior out to impress his khahan, the lama thought. He looked to see who it was, on the faint chance he knew the man. To his amazement, it was the dayguard he had seen earlier, the man who had aroused his suspicion. Hard behind the man came Afrasib, the wizard. He held no weapon but a slender bone wand. A flashing spark shot from the end, then a sudden gout of flame exploded far to the right.

A wavering line of smoke hung for a second in the air. The wizard laughed aloud, deriving some maniacal pleasure from the destruction.

Suddenly, Yamun's group ran into another cluster Khazari, men who had no intention of turning their horses and running. There must have been twelve or more of them grouped under a commander. Sechen's momentum carried him through the defenders. His charge scattered the group. Some of the Khazari lancers veered off toward Yamun's standard-bearer, forcing the man away from the khahan. Two charged toward Koja, only to be met by the priest's guards. The suspicious-looking dayguard continued to whip his horse mercilessly, driving it toward the khahan. Koja wanted to call the man back, then realized the guard's job was to protect the khahan, not him.

Koja saw the dayguard, his foxlike face gloating, move close behind Yamun. The priest assumed the fellow was only coming to the support of his ruler, but he suddenly lunged forward, thrusting his lance into Yamun's back.

The khahan howled in rage and pain. Twisting in his saddle, he swung his saber in a blurring backhand swing. There was a brief, dull sound as Yamun's blade sheered through the man's collarbone and cut into his chest. The would-be assassin dropped his lance in surprise. Blood flowed freely from the rent in his armor. He fumblingly drew his sword and weakly jabbed at the khahan. The thrust missed, but pierced Yamun's white mare in the rump. At the same time, the Khazari lunged forward, sensing an opportunity to strike.

Yamun's mare squealed in pain from the dayguard's blow and lurched forward, crashing through the two enemy riders. One man's horse staggered, knocked sideways by the charging mare. The rider clutched at the mane to keep his balance, forgetting his attack. He quickly lost his balance and fell to the ground.

Still acting with fearful speed, Yamun recovered from his backswing and thrust his sword forward, sweeping the point up. The tip of his saber slid under the bottom of the other Khazari's breastplate. With a quick twist and pull, Yamun gutted the trooper. The man's eyes widened in surprise and pain, his hand automatically reaching to his belly. The lance dropped from his dead fingers, and his body slowly fell forward. The khahan's sword, still half-entangled in the body, was twisted from his grasp.

The khahan suddenly sagged back in his saddle, too exhausted to recover his weapon. Dark red blood, his blood, soaked the back of his armor and stained the silver fittings of his saddle.

Koja realized there was no one else around to aid Yamun. Instinctively, Koja jammed his heels into the belly of his horse, driving it forward. The dayguard assassin, clinging to his saddle, was about to strike the defenseless Yamun from the rear.

Urgency drove Koja to form a mystic shield of deflection around the khahan. With one hand wrapped in the reins and his legs clamped around the chest of his mount, the priest tried to trace the arcane symbols in the air and chant the necessary sutras. Only the grace of Furo could save Yamun now.

The assassin's sword lunged straight and true for Yamun's neck just as Koja's spell was completed. An unseen force seized the khahan and moved him away from the attack. It was not enough. The tip of the assassin's blade struck Yamun's shoulder, splintering through the armor and drawing new blood.

The swing pulled the assassin forward, toward the khahan. Just as the man reached the limit of his lunge, Yamun reached out and grabbed the assassin's arm. Fiercely the old warrior yanked, dragging the treacherous dayguard off his saddle. A long-bladed dagger appeared in Yamun's other hand. Without letting go, he punched the blade into the killer's side. The man gave out a horrible, inhuman scream, then writhed and twisted in the khahan's grip. Even injured, the warlord refused to let go.

At that instant, the dismounted Khazari ran forward, his blade swung high.

Yamun saw it coming out of the corner of his eye. An agonized grunt escaped his lips as he heaved the squirming assassin, still spitted on his dagger, into the air. The body crashed headfirst into the Khazari, and the two of them slammed to the ground.

A thunderous yet screeching roar reeled Koja's senses. Waves of sound hammered at his eardrums. Just in front of him, Yamun clutched at his skull, rocking in agony. The khahan crumpled and fell off his horse, hitting the ground like a slab of meat.

Tears of pain welled up in the holy man's eyes, blocking his vision. The howling scream ended as quickly as it had started. Gasping against the pain, Koja clutched at his horse's mane and wiped the tears from his eyes. Looking back, the priest saw Afrasib, a look of smug victory on his face. As the wizard rode forward, he pointed the bone rod, the wand of fire, at Yamun's motionless body. Koja could see the wizard's thin shoulders heave with laughter, even though all sound was blocked by the roaring pain in the priest's ears.

Koja knew he must do something, for the protection he'd already cast on Yamun was useless against the wizard's magical attack. Fortunately, Afrasib seemed to pay the lama no mind. Desperately, Koja looked around for someone to come to the khahan's aid. The Tuigan attack had done its job too well; Yamun's troopers were caught up in chasing the fleeing enemy. Ahead, the lama could see the big form of Sechen, but the man was too far away to do any good now.

Koja thought of the spells he knew. He needed one that would stop Afrasib completely, not just hurt him. So long as the wizard was alive and able to move, he was dangerous. The only chance, Koja realized, was to freeze the wizard in place. The lama fumbled through the small bag hanging from the pommel of his saddle, searching for the right ingredient to work the spell.

Under his breath he mumbled praises to Furo and the Enlightened One. Now, more than ever, he needed their assistance.

Quickly, Koja's fingers closed on the small iron ball he needed for the spell.

Tearing his hand from the sack, the lama flung the pellet at Afrasib, while shouting out the words of the spell. Still unable to hear, Koja could only assume that he said the words correctly.

Instinctively, Afrasib recoiled from Koja's throw. His body rocked back in the saddle and, as the iron ball struck, froze in an oddly tilted pose—one arm upraised to ward off the pellet and his body arched backward. His face was twisted with surprise and anger. The wizard stayed in the saddle for just a moment, and then tipped sideways, body still locked in his comical pose.

Afrasib hit the ground, still stiff and unbending.

Koja collapsed against his mare's neck, breathing the sweet saltiness of its sweat in relief. Then he remembered Yamun. Awkwardly, the lama slid off his horse and stumblingly ran to where the khahan lay, faceup in the dust.

Before examining the body, Koja was certain that Yamun was dead. Then, unexpectedly, Yamun's eyes fluttered. Koja stopped, disbelieving. Quickly he rolled Yamun over to examine his wounds. One sword stroke had laid open the back of the khahan's left shoulder. Blood still flowed from it, soaking into the khahan's armor.

Using a dagger, the priest slashed away the leather straps of the armor, peeling away the heavy shirt. The floppy sleeves of his own oversized suit of armor got in the way. Frustrated, he hurriedly struggled out of the heavy scale mail. Tearing away a piece of his own robe, Koja packed the cloth against Yamun's wound and continued his examination. Farther down Yamun's back was a hole where the lance had struck. Again Koja hacked with his knife to see the wound. It was small compared to the cut on the shoulder, but it had driven deeper. Blood and bile seeped out of it. The edges were purple and swollen. Koja pressed at the wound gently. Yellow-green pus oozed out under his fingertips.

"Poison," he said aloud. Koja went back to his examination, then suddenly realized that he could hear. The knowledge reminded him where he was and, fearfully, he looked around in case an enemy was creeping up on him. There were no Khazari nearby, but Koja saw Sechen and the standard-bearer headed his way.

"Over here!" he shouted as he leaped to his feet. "Here! Yamun is here!"

His words had an electrifying effect as the two Tuigan whipped their exhausted horses into motion. Sechen didn't even bother to slow down as he approached. The big warrior leaped from his saddle, sword drawn.

"Back, Khazari demon!" Sechen snarled as he sprang forward, pushing the little priest away. "You'll die for this!"

"He is dying! Look at them! Look at the wizard!" Koja shouted in frustrated anger. He pointed at Afrasib's frozen form. "I might keep him alive! Just let me work."

At that moment the standard-bearer shouted, "Sechen, come here! Look at this!" He was standing where the day-guard assassin and the Khazari had fallen. The trooper was underneath, apparently killed by the fall. The dayguard lay sprawled, facedown on top of him.

"Look," said the man. With the toe of his boot he gingerly rolled the dayguard over.

Sechen sucked in his breath in surprise. The man that lay there was not a man at all. His face had been replaced by that of a large fox. The soft brown fur of its muzzle was thick with blood. Its hands were long, slender paws, but with human fingers, not like an animal's.

"By mighty Furo," Koja breathed, looking up from Yamun's aide. "That's a hu hsien."

"What's that?" Sechen demanded.

"An evil spirit," Koja answered hastily. "It attacked the khahan. Now let me help!"

The Tuigan warriors looked at each other, each hoping the other had an answer.

"Very well," Sechen decided, "but if he dies, you die." He squatted near the lama to watch his every move.

Koja quickly set to work. "Get the bag off my horse," he ordered. The standard-bearer hurriedly fetched the bag, passing it to Sechen.

The first problem was the poison. Taking an herb from his bag, the lama pressed his hands on the lance wound and uttered a prayer. There was a heat beneath his palms as the spell began to take effect. "The khahan's been poisoned. I cannot stop the venom right now, but I have slowed the poison to keep it from killing him out here. This may give me time to pray for a cure."

Koja carefully explained everything he did to defuse Sechen's suspicions.

That finished, he examined the wounds again. They were bad, but probably not serious enough to kill the khahan. Still, if Furo allowed, it was best to heal them now. Bowing his head in prayer, the priest counted out a rosary on his beads. When he completed the plea to Furo, Koja's hands itched and trembled with the power coursing in them. Gently he placed a palm on each wound, then pressed them down firmly. Yamun stirred and groaned under the pain. Blood seeped through the lama's fingers. The heat once again grew under Koja's hands, this time stronger and lasting longer.

Sechen sucked in his breath through his teeth. "Look. His wounds are closing," he whispered. Pinkish-white skin grew before Sechen's eyes, knitting the wounds shut and leaving only a slight scar. At last, Koja took a deep breath of relief and took his hands away. He tore off another shred of his robe, spit into it, and daubed away the blood and fluid to check his handiwork. Koja watched the khahan's chest rise and fall until he was satisfied the man slept quietly.

"The khahan is better," Koja explained as he sat back in the dirt, shaking from exhaustion. "However, the poison is still in him, and he could still die.

Can you take him back to camp?"

Sechen nodded. He looked at the priest in wonder.

"Are you sure? What about the battle?" the lama asked.

"You saw. This battle is over. We won. Prince Jad and Goyuk Khan will finish things here." Gently, Sechen lifted the khahan in his arms.

"Then get him to his tent. He needs rest," Koja urged.

"By your word, it shall be done," answered Sechen. "But you will come with me." Sechen nodded to the standard-bearer. "He will tell the prince what has happened." Koja struggled to his feet and helped Sechen hoist the khahan into his saddle. Yamun barely opened his eyes.

"Oh, yes," Koja said, "the wizard, Afrasib, lies over there. He helped the hu hsien and would have killed Yamun. Right now, he cannot move, but he will recover soon. You might want to do something about him." The standard-bearer looked at the oddly frozen figure on the battlefield and grinned unpleasantly. Before Koja could stop the man, the trooper ran over and neatly slit the spellcaster's throat.

"I've always wanted to do that to one of Bayalun's lackeys," he coldly proclaimed. As Koja sat, stunned with horror, the standard-bearer mounted his horse and galloped away to inform Prince Jad of the khahan's condition.

"He should have kept the wizard alive to question him!" Koja shouted.

"Priest, the wizard got what all Bayalun's kind deserve. Just consider yourself lucky not to be among them," Sechen grimly explained as he led their horses back to camp.

That night there was a council in Yamun's tent. Outside, the finest and most trusted of the nightguards ringed the yurt. Each was dressed in full armor and heavily armed. They were nervous and jumpy. Already several rabbits had died from rapidly fired arrows when they made a little noise in the bushes. The guards eyed each other as well. The rumors were already circulating through the camp-stories of treachery among Yamun's bodyguards, whole cadres of wizards, and evil monsters rising out of the ground.

Those inside the yurt were no less tense. The spacious tent was almost completely dark. A small iron pot of glowing red coals provided the only illumination, barely lighting the grim faces of the men present. Yamun lay on his bed, conscious but very weak. There was very little color in his face.

Under Koja's supervision, he was covered with several layers of heavy felt blankets. Perspiration beaded on Yamun's brow as the priest tried to sweat the poison out of the khahan's system. Sitting on the rugs at the side of Yamun's bed were Jad and Goyuk, little more than dark shapes in the darker yurt.

Koja had spent the last hour carefully telling his version of the day's events.

Jad sat with his head bowed to the floor. Goyuk nodded as he considered the priest's words. Koja, now finished describing how he had treated the khahan's wounds, sat silently with his hands on his knees, waiting for the others to speak.

"It is good to have gods on your side, even if they are the gods of strangers," Goyuk said in a rambling tone. It was very late and the day had been long. Fatigue was showing on the old khan's face; his eyes drooped and he slumped as if he were some exhausted vulture.

From his bed, Yamun sighed and focused on the big guard at the back of the yurt. "Sechen, did it happen as the lama said?"

The guard shambled forward, nodding. "What I saw is as the priest said, Khahan," the wrestler answered, stiffly bowing.

"I remember the guard attacking and the wound," Yamun added. He pushed himself up onto one elbow. "Historian, you saved my life. Therefore, Koja of the Khazari, I ask you to be my anda." Yamun weakly extended a hand to the priest. There was a gasp from the group.

"Great Lord! I—I am not worthy of this," Koja stammered, his face reddening with embarrassment.

"That's not for you to say. I choose who will be my anda." Yamun pushed his shaking hand out toward Koja.

"Father!" protested Jad. "You are weak and need rest. Think on this later."

Yamun growled, "Be silent, my son. Koja saved my life and that has earned him the right."

"Yes, Khahan," Jad replied, cowed.

Yamun looked toward Goyuk to see if he had any objections. The old khan only sucked on his gums, keeping his counsel to himself. The khahan shifted his gaze back to the lama.

"Well, priest?"

Koja took a breath to steady himself. "I cannot argue with your wishes. I am greatly honored. I accept." He took the khahan's hand.

"Then we are anda. From this day, you are Koja, little brother of Yamun."

He gave the priest's hand a weak squeeze and then dropped his arm. "From now on you must call me Yamun."

Koja looked at the others. Goyuk was unreadable, his old, lined face barely betraying any emotions. Sechen looked stern as always, but there was a glimmer of respect in his eyes. The prince's brow was furrowed with concern, and he avoided the gaze of the priest. Koja was not sure if he was upset or merely confused.

"The men have fought well today," Yamun continued weakly. "Jad, report on the battle." He closed his eyes and let a ragged breath escape his lungs.

The prince roused himself, putting whatever thoughts he had to the back of his mind. "Father, your plan succeeded. The foot soldiers followed the riders into the trap, and Goyuk and I were able to surround them. The khans have taken many prisoners." Jad bowed slightly toward his father, who was not watching.

"What of losses? Shahin's men?" whispered the stricken khahan.

"Goyuk and I lost few men. The foot soldiers couldn't catch us, and we simply shot arrows at them until they surrendered. Your men did not fare badly, though they lost more because they were involved in the heaviest fighting. Shahin's tumen has lost many brave warriors, Great Lord. More than half of his men are killed or wounded." The youth waited for some word from his father.

"Not too bad," Yamun commented with a sigh. "Give the prisoners the choice of service or death. Those that join us are assigned to Shahin's command." He coughed a little and then wheezed out the rest. "What about Manass? The governor?"

"He was cowardly and did not come out, Father. Our messengers have already delivered the heads of his generals. I thought you would want this done," Jad answered, sliding closer to the bed. "He sends back messages of peace and friendship. Manass will be ours."

"And soon all of Khazari," added Goyuk, glancing at Koja to see how the priest reacted.

"Indeed, all of Khazari," agreed Yamun.

"Were the assassins from Manass?" Jad asked.

"It makes sense," Goyuk concurred.

"No, it doesn't," Yamun disagreed with a weak sigh. The two khans looked at him in surprise. "Why would the governor send his army if he had assassins? Besides, Afrasib is one of Bayalun's people." The khahan let the point sink in for a moment while he recovered his strength. "What was this creature called, the one that attacked me?"

"A hu hsien, Khahan," Koja explained as he fixed Yamun's covers. "They are evil spirits who often do men harm. I heard tales of them at my temple.

They appear as foxes normally, but can disguise themselves as people. It is said the emperor of Shou Lung uses them as spies because they can change their shape."

"It could have been this emperor," Jad offered.

"The emperor of Shou," Yamun mused. "Perhaps."

"You have many enemies, Yamun," Goyuk pointed out. "Why would this emperor attack you now?"

"Why, indeed?" Yamun slowly pulled one arm out from under the sheets and began to stroke his chin. "Perhaps he fears me. Perhaps he knows that I can conquer his land." Yamun's eyes glazed slightly. Koja quickly wiped the khahan's sweaty brow with a warm cloth. Yamun closed his eyes and then spoke again. "So, one of Bayalun's wizards was involved."

Koja nodded. "Yes, Khahan—er—Yamun."

"You shouldn't have let them die," Jad pointed out. "We could have made him talk."

"Your father's guards were most incensed and did not heed my suggestions," Koja answered defensively.

"Still, they should not have died," Jad snapped, his jaw stubbornly set.

"Perhaps we'd now know who was responsible for the attack on the khahan."

"Do you have their bodies?" the priest suddenly asked, turning to Jad and Goyuk.

The prince was taken aback by the lama's question. "Yes. Yes, we do," he answered, flustered.

"Perhaps you can have your answer," Koja offered mysteriously. "See that their bodies are not burned. If mighty Furo is willing, I will speak to them."

Confused, the prince looked into the gloom at the priest.

"Afrasib is Bayalun's man. Then she's suspect, unless the wizard acted on his own. Bayalun. The emperor of Shou. Perhaps one, perhaps none," the khahan murmured feebly from his bed. "I do have many enemies." Yamun paused, his strength temporarily exhausted. The others sat silently, considering his words.

"How long can I be dead?" the khahan asked suddenly.

"What?" Jad blurted out.

"I want everyone to think I'm dead. How long can you keep the army together?" Yamun turned toward Jad.

The prince thought for a little bit. "Without you, two, maybe three days.

There are already rumors."

"I say four or five days. The men are good men. They listen to your son,"

contradicted Goyuk, punctuating his comment by sucking on his lip.

"Jad, you'll keep them together as long as you must. No one must know what's happened me," Yamun said in the best commanding tone his weak voice could manage.

"But, why?" Koja asked. "Don't you want to reassure your men?"

"Someone—Bayalun, the Shou emperor, or someone else—wants me dead. They're sure to have more plans in mind. If I'm dead they'll reveal themselves by their actions," Yamun explained as if he were talking to a child.

His speech was stopped by a fit of coughing. Jad and Goyuk looked away, politely ignoring the khahan's weakness.

The priest helped Yamun sit up to clear his throat. "You need rest." Yamun, still wheezing, tried to wave Koja off, but the priest refused to take his seat.

He pulled the blankets up to wrap them over the khahan's shoulders. "You need rest now, unless you want to die."

Yamun was wracked by another fit of coughing. "All right," he gasped out.

"Go to your tents, all of you. Jad, I'm depending on you. Listen to Goyuk and the priest. Now, leave me." He sank back onto the cushions, breathing noisily between the intermittent coughing fits.

Jad and Goyuk exchanged worried glances and then bowed to the floor.

Silently the two took their leave. As they went out the door, Koja took a blanket from a pile at the foot of Yamun's bed and wrapped himself up in it.

He curled up on the floor beside the Illustrious Emperor of All People and tried to make himself as comfortable as possible. Tonight he would stay in Yamun's yurt, to watch over his patient—his anda.

10

Dead Voices

The only glow that lit the darkness came from a rough crystal, the size of a large egg, nested on a tripod of wrought iron. The stand's small legs ended in finely chiselled rams' heads covered in gilt. Small, facetted garnets decorated the curling horns of the beasts, tapering back into the black iron of the supports.

The crystal shown dimly with the warm colors of sunlight. Chanar marveled at it. Staring into the stone was like looking out on a sunny morning through a small hole in the tent wall. Warmth and light danced in front of his eyes, just beyond his reach. When he stared into the stone closely, he thought he saw shapes flicker and fade deep in its heart. He wondered what Bayalun, sitting across from him, saw as she hunched over the orb.

The khadun chanted. Her nose was practically pressed against the crystal, and her hands were carefully cupped around the base of the tripod.

Chanar squirmed. His legs were going to sleep, but he didn't want to move for fear of disturbing Bayalun. She had been sitting in the same position for the last half-hour, repeating the same chant over and over again. Chanar wondered how she managed it. The chant was mind-numbing. At first he thought it was Tuigan, badly distorted, but that quickly proved to be wrong.

Whatever she was saying, it was in no language Chanar had ever heard. The general was sure of that. He'd had thirty minutes to listen and be certain.

Abruptly Mother Bayalun ended the chant with a huffing sigh of exhaustion.

She sat up straight, arching her back, and rubbed her temples hard with her fingertips. The crystal still glowed between them.

"Look," she commanded as she lightly touched the stone. The stone's glow shimmered and then expanded, filling the air between them. Bayalun spread her hands open and the light spread, too.

A scene formed and grew within the light. It was a yurt in the bright morning sun. Guards stood rigidly outside, ringing it. A tall standard set near the doorway flapped in the breeze.

"That's Yamun's yurt!" Chanar exclaimed.

Mother Bayalun laughed. "General Chanar, you are so charming," she said.

"Yes, that is the khahan's tent." She stood up, leaning heavily on her staff, and stiffly walked to his side. "Look," she commanded again.

Chanar peered closely at the scene. "There's old Goyuk ... and Jad," he whispered, pointing at the image.

"There is no need to be quiet," Bayalun croaked out. She stopped to clear her throat. "They cannot hear us."

Chanar nodded, still watching the scene. He stepped back to give the image space. The general wasn't about to let it touch him.

"Look!" Bayalun suddenly hissed. "Look at the banner! It's just as they said." She pointed at the pole standing in front of the yurt. From it, gently swinging in the breeze they couldn't feel, were nine black yak tails.

"The sign of death," Chanar said softly. He stared for a time at the slowly waving tails. "Yamun's dead?" He turned to Mother Bayalun, not really accepting what he saw.

"Of course," she assured him confidently. "Why else would they fly the banner?"

Chanar bit back the desire to scold Bayalun for her callous words. The dead deserved respect. "I want to see Yamun's body," he suddenly demanded. His green silk robe glittered and shone in the light from the crystal.

The sorceress shook her head. The hood fell from her face, allowing her rich gray and black hair to hang free. "It cannot be done. There are protections on the royal yurt, placed there by Burekai—my husband. The crystal cannot see inside it."

"Then how do you know he's dead?" Chanar countered. He eyed the image suspiciously.

"Because he must be. They would not fly the banner if he was not dead."

Bayalun's face showed her absolute conviction.

The general considered her reasoning, pulling at his knuckles while he stood there. Chanar agreed after a moment. "But why don't they keep his death a secret? Without the khahan, the army will fall apart."

"The men must already know," Bayalun offered as she circled the glowing image. "Otherwise, you are right, Goyuk and Jad would keep the death a secret."

Chanar nodded, agreeing with her conclusions. "That would be Goyuk's way—until he could get Jad safely in control of the khans."

Bayalun looked at Chanar through the image. "Of course, we will dash any plans Goyuk has formulated."

Chanar smiled cruelly and then watched the scene, absorbed in his own thoughts. Figures came and went—Jad, Goyuk, Sechen, and Koja. As the bald-headed lama stepped out of the royal yurt, Chanar spit on the floor in disgust. "That one dies," he snarled, jabbing a finger at the priest.

Bayalun snorted to herself. "As you wish." She had no intention of giving the priest to Chanar just to satisfy his pride. The lama might be useful. After all, he was an emissary of the Khazari and an avenue to the Red Mountain Temple. If nothing else, she would keep the lama just to remind Chanar of her power. However, for now she was not going to tell him of her plans.

"Before you can execute anyone, Chanar, you must be khahan. We still have that to do," she reminded him in regal tones.

Chanar grunted in irritation. "Well, what now?"

"First, we wait while the army bickers and grows restless. Those two cannot hold the army together for long," Bayalun pointed toward the khahan's tent.

Goyuk and Jad stood outside it. "Then, you will arrive and give them order."

"What if Jad keeps the army together? He's Yamun's blood, after all,"

Chanar pointed out as he stepped closer to Bayalun.

"Then we will deal with him, too. The army has khans who will listen to you.

It will just take a word here and there to keep them unhappy." She smiled reassuringly. "With my magic, you can appear to them in a dream."

Chanar frowned at her suggestion. This, he thought, was not the proper way to become the khahan—using dark arts to sway the minds of warriors.

"Why don't I just go there and speak for myself?"

"Don't be in such a hurry. Let the young prince stumble and fall." Bayalun stepped into the image; Koja and the others swirled like ghosts around her.

She bent over slowly, supporting herself with her gold-topped staff. With one long, sharp finger she tapped the crystal and muttered a word under her breath. The image suddenly withered away.

"Strike a light," she ordered. While Chanar blew on the small pile of coals that smoldered in a metal bowl, she carefully lifted the crystal off the tripod and wrapped it in a leather bag. "General, you must be ready to leave at any time. Timing is everything in this. Too early and the khans will suspect you.

Too late, and Jad will have rallied the ordus to his banner. Either way you will lose your chance." She looked up from her work and stared sharply at him.

"The men will serve under you, will they not?"

"They love me," he answered. "They trust me."

"You had better be right." The khadun crossed the tent and undid the door flap, a clear signal for Chanar to leave. He bowed slightly to her and stepped out through the door.

After Chanar left, Bayalun sealed the tent flap and knelt down near the brazier. After taking one last look around, she was satisfied that she was alone. Quickly the sorceress whispered a few mystic words and sprinkled a handful of incense into the coals. The powder burned quickly, billowing into a heady puff of white smoke. The smoke rose, twisting and massing. Gradually, it formed into a face, a man of Shou features, handsome, with steady, dark eyes.

"Greetings to the khadun of the Tuigan people," said the face in a whispery, hollow voice. The words were spoken in perfect Tuigan, though colored with a distinct Shou accent.

"Greetings to the Minister of State," Bayalun replied. "May he live forever."

The face smiled, the smoke drifting away at the corners of the mouth. "All is well?" it asked, puffs of smoke swirling from its mouth with each word.

"The khahan has been struck down," Bayalun answered gloatingly. "It happened in battle. Soon there will be a new khahan." She tapped the floor decisively with her staff.

"None suspect our involvement?" the form asked in soft words.

"Do not worry, mandarin. No one knows your empire sent an assassin."

Bayalun mocked the mandarin's fearful caution.

The smoky face ignored her tone. "It is sad for your people. Surely none chosen as the new khahan can hope to match the illustrious glory of Yamun Khahan. The new khahan will need many advisors and learned men to help him through these difficult times." The face was growing indistinct, as smoke trailed from its nostrils and ears.

"And, of course, Shou Lung will offer them," Bayalun noted. "Remember too, the new khahan will also need friendly, helpful neighbors—and assurances of their goodwill."

"We have already decided the gifts that will be sent, Khadun," the minister said sternly. "Are you trying to renegotiate? Many of your people would be angry if they learned what you have done."

Bayalun's face purpled slightly. "They might blame Shou Lung instead," she snapped back. "A khahan, any khahan, is dangerous to you if all the tribes follow him alone."

"This is true. Then we understand each other perfectly," the face said faintly. "Now it is time for me ..." The last words trailed off into silence, and the smoky face became nothing but a shapeless mass.

Standing, Bayalun waved her staff through the vapors to break up the cloud. There was no particular reason for it, but she felt powerful doing it.

Moving stiffly, her arthritis flaring up again, she crossed the tent and undid the door flap to let in the cool morning air. A beam of sunlight illuminated the room. With little else to do but wait, she sat in its pleasant warmth and rested.

Today has been a good day, she reflected. Everything seemed to be working as she had planned. There was only one minor concern. Neither the hu hsien nor her wizard had reported. Afrasib had strict orders to keep her informed. It wasn't like him to forget her commands. He was normally so diligent and attentive.

Still, Afrasib's failure was only a minor problem. Most likely, the wizard had not had a chance to contact her with his spells. Besides, all that really mattered was that Yamun, her stepson, was dead. Now, the khadun had to place Chanar on the throne before any rivals could challenge him. Once Chanar was khahan, she would rule the Tuigan through him.

In Yamun's tent, the three conspirators, Koja, Jad, and Goyuk, hovered around the khahan's sickbed. The warlord was barely awake. His face was pale gray, tinged with a hint of blue. His breath came in labored sighs, wheezing in and out. A damp film of perspiration trickled across his shaven tonsure. His braids, which normally hung from his temples, were undone, spilling the graying red hair over his embroidered pillow. His eyelids wavered between almost closed and not quite open.

Jad pulled the priest aside, away from Yamun's hearing. "You said he would get better," the prince whispered. There was a touch of danger in Jad's words, perhaps fueled by desperation.

Koja swallowed nervously. "He has lived through the night, Lord Jadaran.

That was the first struggle."

"Then why hasn't he gotten better?" Jad demanded, pressing the priest back toward the wall.

"I—I don't know," Koja feebly protested. He suppressed a tremor that started to come over him, brought on by fear and exhaustion. For two days the priest had slept no more than an hour. Judging from Jad's appearance—

hollow-eyed and haggard—the prince had rested no better.

"You don't know!" Jad snapped in frustration, slamming his fist into the carpeted wall beside Koja. "What do you know?"

"Lord Jadaran," Koja said firmly, his patience gone, "I am no expert in poisons. I have closed the khahan's wounds and lessened the poison's fire. I did what I could, thank the almighty Furo. There is nothing more I can do. His life rests on the scales of Li Pei."

"Li Pei?" Goyuk asked, just catching the end of the conversation.

"The Strict Judge, the master of the dead who weighs the karma of men."

"This no sound good," Goyuk commented, shaking his head.

"So you say there's nothing you can do, priest?" Jad asked, slowly realizing that events were out of their control.

"There is nothing I can do for the khahan," Koja said carefully, "but there is still something I can do."

"What's that?" old Goyuk asked.

"Speak with the dead. It is difficult and maybe a little dangerous," Koja explained, "but Furo has blessed me with this ability."

"Wonderful. You propose to wait for my father to die and then talk to him!"

Jad growled. He spun away from the priest and strode to the khahan's sickbed.

"Not the khahan." Koja followed after Jad, trying to explain. "I meant—"

A sigh suddenly escaped from Yamun's lips, and his eyes fluttered. "A plan?" the khahan breathed out softly. Weakly looking toward the others, he tried to speak again, only to falter and fall back upon his pillow.

Koja wasted no time with more speech. Quickly he pulled back the covers and listened to the khahan's chest. His heart was still beating, and his breathing was slightly stronger. Still, his color was pale blue-gray, and his sweat was cold. The priest squeezed at the khahan's tough and weatherbeaten hands, checking the firmness of the muscles.

The lama waved to a servant to bring a pot of simmering herbs. It was placed carefully at his side, along with a colorful strip of woven cloth. The lama dipped the cloth in the pot and gingerly lifted the steaming fabric out, holding it up to cool. Finally, Koja laid the herb-infused cloth across Yamun's chest, folding it back and forth several times. With shaking fingers, the priest pressed it into position and then carefully covered the khahan once again with the blankets.

The lama finally got up from his examination. "He heard us. It is a sign he is getting better." Jad's face broke into a shaky smile of relief. "But only a little better," cautioned Koja.

"But what is this plan, lama?" Goyuk asked, breaking the tension.

Thankful for the excuse to change the subject, Koja hurriedly launched into an explanation. "Khans, Furo has seen fit to answer my prayers and grant me the power to speak with the dead. Not with the illustrious khahan," he hastily added, "but to talk to one of his assassins."

"What good is this?" Jad asked, looking away from his father.

Koja shook his head. "I may learn something about the poison used on the khahan. You may learn who is to blame for the attack."

"I know who is to blame—didn't you yourself say the creature was an agent of the Shou? And didn't you say the governor of Manass had a Shou advisor at his side? What more is there to know?" Jad said, dismissing Koja's last suggestion with a wave.

"There was Afrasib, too," Goyuk pointed out. "How does he fit in?"

"He was a wizard," Jad snapped, as if that explained it all.

"The khahan, he would find out. Try what the lama say," Goyuk urged.

Jad took a deep breath. He was young and unused to making such important decisions. "Goyuk," he said slowly, "because you advise this, I'll try the priest's ideas." He pivoted to face Koja. "What do we do?"

"Have the bodies brought to the tent, and we will perform the rite to summon their spirits. Then you can ask your questions through me."

"You mean to bring the bodies here, to the royal yurt? I won't allow it," Jad said defiantly, his young eyes flashing. "Since my father is stricken, I'm in command. The dead bodies will pollute the yurt. That cannot be allowed."

"But I must have the bodies. I must touch them," protested Koja.

Jad mulled over the lama's words. "Very well, but it must be done in secret, and it cannot be done here." The prince got to his feet and paced back and forth as he gave his commands. "Goyuk, have one of the nightguards—not the dayguards—go to Sechen the Wrestler's yurt and order him to come with us. Issue a proclamation: all khans are to assemble their men this evening for a review by their prince. That will keep the curious occupied and out of our way."

"By your will, it shall be done," Goyuk declared as he left.

"Thank you, wise counsellor," Jad replied as the tent flap fell closed.

Exhausted, the son turned back to his father. Spotting Koja, Jad stopped.

"And you, priest, go and get yourself ready."

Koja bowed and then left. There was little he needed to prepare, but he obeyed all the same. Yamun would manage without his care for a little while.

As he walked back to his yurt, Koja could feel the gloom that had settled on the camp. The warriors were tense, uncertain of the future.

Back in his tent, Koja quickly gathered the few things he would need. Hodj prepared him a hot meal, the priest's first in days. The food revived Koja, bringing him back from the edge of exhaustion. The meal finished, the priest opened his scrolls and once more reviewed the sutras he needed to know for the upcoming rite.

He was still reading when Sechen brought horses. Packing up a small pouch, Koja joined the others. They rode silently across yesterday's battlefield. Most of the dead men were gone, taken by relatives or friends to be properly buried. A few still lay where they had fallen, their bodies looted.

Still, the battlefield was far from clean. Littering the field were the bodies of horses. Nearly all the dead animals had been left to rot. The victors had taken what saddles, bridles, and tack they could carry, but the carcasses were left undisturbed. Only a few horses had been butchered for their meat. Most were puffy and bloated after many hours in the sun. Vermin were feasting on the carcasses. Vultures squawked at the riders as they went by. Jackals yipped when the men ventured too close.

Jad worried that they were being watched as the group rode along. The prince had forgone his fine white stallion with the black and red saddle for a plain black mare and a saddle borrowed from one of the dayguards. He did not want to attract undue attention. Several of the dayguards had asked to ride along, since the prince was almost certain to be their new khahan, but he had firmly refused them.

Ahead of the prince, Koja, too, rode quietly, thinking of what was to come.

He was worried. When he'd made the offer to summon up the spirits of the assassins, he hadn't considered the possible results. What if he were wrong and the assassins were paid by Prince Ogandi? The farther they rode, the less confident Koja became.

"Down there," said Sechen, interrupting the thoughts of both men. "We hid the bodies down there." He pointed to a small overhang that projected from the other side of the gully. "That way there would be no questions."

"Good," Jad said. "You have served my father well. He will see that you are rewarded."

"To serve him is my only reward," answered the wrestler. Koja had no doubts the man meant every word.

Stopping at the edge of the gully, the group dismounted in the shade of the trees. Sechen hobbled the prince's stallion so it could not wander. The rest slipped off the bits and bridles so the mares could graze comfortably. The mares would naturally stay near Jad's stallion, so there was no need to hobble them. Leaving their mounts, the men slid and stumbled down the bank to where the bodies were hidden.

If the battlefield hadn't already stank of death, they would have smelled the bodies some distance away. With so much death around, the smell of the corpses was only a minor thing. The heat of the day had not been kind to the dead. Drawn by the decay, flies buzzed thickly around the small shelf where the bodies were tucked. Sechen reached in, brushing the cloud of insects away, and pulled the corpses out.

The bodies had already started to rot, and something had been gnawing at them. A noxious, poisonous wind exhaled from their inner cavities as the two corpses came tumbling out of the crack. They flopped and rolled down the slope until they jammed up on a small pile of rocks. Koja felt a quick squeeze of queasiness and resolutely choked it back. This was all his idea; he couldn't be sick now. Goyuk and Jad stepped back, well away from the bloated remains. Sechen quickly hurried away as soon as his job was done.

Koja was not as fortunate as the others, for the spell he meant to cast required him to touch the bodies. However, he was slightly prepared. He pulled a spice-infused cloth and pressed it over his face. The heady smell made him dizzy, but at least now his nostrils weren't filled with the odor of rotten flesh.

"Get started," Jad said impatiently.

The priest thrust a small stick of incense into the ground, then waved to Sechen. Reluctantly, the tall fellow shambled over with a small metal cage hung from a chain. In it glowed a hot ember. Taking the chain, Koja picked out the ember with silver tongs and touched it to the incense. Within seconds, a thin stream of sweetly scented smoke rose up from the little stick. As the incense filled the air around him, Koja settled back and began chanting sutras. He had never used these prayers before, but knew they were the words needed to summon back spirits.

The others watched him silently. Still suspicious of the priest, Jad signaled to Sechen, making like he was drawing a bow. The wrestler nodded in understanding. Quietly he took up his bow and held it ready, just in case the priest attempted to cast a spell on the prince.

Everyone waited nervously for Koja to finish his chant. It seemed that the priest droned on forever. The words were hypnotic, seductive.

Koja was oblivious to the strange sound of his chant. All his concentration was spent in uttering the words Furo poured into his mind. Simply saying the chant required an effort that cramped the muscles of his face. His upper lip trembled, and the back of his neck tingled. He could sense forces swirling about him, called by the musical quality of the words. His vision narrowed to a single point.

Then, abruptly, the words stopped. Koja leaned forward and touched the cold, blue forehead of the dead wizard. A pale red light swelled out of the late Afrasib's slack mouth, winding slowly around the dead wizard's face.

Gradually, the orb rose, trailing tendrils of light that continued to play over the cold face. As the orb moved, it elongated and increased in size.

Koja sat back in surprise. Summoning up dead spirits was new to him; he had no idea what to expect. No one at the Red Mountain Temple ever mentioned a glowing light like this. As he watched, the light shimmered and expanded, slowly forming into something—a wispy, transparent form of Afrasib. The spirit opened its eyes, black voids, and stared directly at Koja.

The lama shuddered as he looked into the dark pits.

The priest spoke over his shoulder to the others, behind him. "The spirit is bound here for a short time," Koja whispered, afraid he might disturb the thing that hovered over Afrasib's body. "Quickly, what are your questions? I can only ask a few, so choose them carefully."

"Ask who it worked for," Jad hissed, sitting stiffly upright, concealing his fear.

Koja turned back to the spirit. "Who ordered you to kill Yamun?"

"The one who wanted it done," the spirit answered. Its voice came from midair, somewhere in the vicinity of its former mouth. It was Afrasib's voice, but cold and monotone.

"Ask the name," urged the prince.

"What is the name of the person who ordered this killing?"

"Ju-Hai Chou." The words drifted softly throughout the gully.

"Who is Ju-Hai Chou?" Jad wondered aloud. "No, don't ask that. Ask about Bayalun."

"Did Eke Bayalun know of the attack?"

The spirit languorously replied. "Mother Bayalun knows many things. Would she not know this?"

"Now the spirit questions us," the prince muttered in disgust.

"I cannot hold him much longer, Prince Jadaran," cautioned the lama.

Sweat had broken out on his brow, and the strain of keeping the spirit bound was telling on him.

"Who is Ju-Hai Chou?" Goyuk broke in, taking up Jad's previous question.

"This may tell us more."

"Who is Ju-Hai Chou, the one who ordered you to kill Yamun?" Koja strained to keep the spirit from slipping away. The light wavered and dimmed, then returned.

"The hu hsien," the voice echoed faintly. The image started to dwindle.

"What was his plan? Quickly, priest, ask!" Jad shouted, sensing that the contact was fading.

"Afrasib, what was Ju-Hai Chou's reason?" Koja blurted out.

"He was sent to help," the spirit intoned.

"Who sent him?" Koja quickly asked, before the spirit could fade.

"The Minister of State," was Afrasib's cryptic reply.

"Who was Ju-Hai Chou help—" Koja didn't finish the question. The light had shrunk in on itself, leaving only a small point that hung in the air for a few more seconds and then disappeared completely. The priest slid back from the dead bodies, thankful to Furo that it was over. "I am sorry. The spirit escaped me. It was very strong." He pulled off the scented cloth and bowed to the prince in apology.

Jad grunted, sounding a little like his father. "What about the other? We can learn more from him."

Koja rubbed his shaven head, and looked at the body of the fox-man. The gaping gash that shattered the creature's chest was black and thick with flies.

"I do not think it will work. He is not a man. His spirit is not the same."

"Then we've learned nothing," Yamun's son said in disgust, brushing the dust from his kalat as he stood.

"We have a name—Ju-Hai Chou," the priest pointed out. He was relieved that no names from Khazari had come up.

"And we have a mandarin's title," Goyuk added. "Big herds grow from small sheep."

"Perhaps," Jad conceded as he climbed back up the bank. "Still, I don't see anything useful in it." The rest of the group got up and followed.

They rode back to the khahan's camp with little conversation. The midday sun beat heavily on the corpses covering the battlefield. The stench grew stronger. Koja never before realized that war left behind such death and decay. He knew that some men died in the battle and others often suffered hideous wounds, but the aftermath was always something forgotten, ignored.

Nobody ever told of the horses' screams or the bloated bodies of the unburied that covered the ground.

The group reached the camp without any interruption, detouring only a few times to avoid some packs of jackals that refused to flee from their approach.

As they wound their way back through the warriors' tents, the men came out to greet them. The troopers stood quietly with their heads downcast as the prince passed. At first, the men seemed mournful for the loss of Jad's father, their khahan. Watching them line the way, the priest could sense an uneasiness among the men. The mourners fixed their gaze on Jad, as if waiting for him to do something.

From the back of the crowd, a man suddenly broke into an anguished chant, improvising a lament to the fallen khahan.

"The winds of heaven are not balanced.

The body of birth is not eternal.

"Who drinks the sacred water of life?

In our short lives, let us enjoy.

"The winds of heaven are beyond touch.

The lives of men are not eternal.

"Who drinks the sacred water of life?

In our short lives, let us enjoy."

The singer's voice cracked as his lyric soared and trembled. Quickly the other men took up the chant, repeating the singsong verses, embellishing on them. Voices broke above the mass to carry the words higher.

The song spread ahead of the prince, greeting him at every turn on the way to the khahan's tent. It seemed that every trooper turned out along their march. Khans knelt in respect as the prince rode by. Men, even the horribly wounded, struggled to get to the front of the press, where they could make themselves seen. Koja watched as a crippled trooper, his foot lost in yesterday's battle, was carried forward by his companions, his pallet hoisted over their heads. It seemed to take all his effort to sing the simple lyric, but sing he did, hoarsely bawling out the words.

A surging mass of men followed them up the hill to the khahan's tent. As their numbers grew, the tension increased. "Let us see the khahan!" someone screamed. "Let us see his body!" There was a grumbling swell underneath the song as more and more men called out to see the khahan's bier.

"Guards, keep them out!" Jad shouted over the noise as he entered Yamun's compound. The dayguards dashed forward, forming a triple line around the gate. Their weapons glinted in the sun, a bristling line of sword points. Officers on horseback shouted commands, their steeds prancing behind the line. The menacing black forms of the dayguards pushed forward, forcing the crowd back. Jad and the rest of his party disappeared into Yamun's tent, Sechen at the rear.

Koja hurried to check the khahan. Yamun was still alive and breathing, a victory for the day. The blankets were soaked in sweat and his color was still like that of the ice high in the mountains of Khazari. Hastily, Koja stripped off the coverlets and demanded new ones. A quiverbearer hastened to fulfill the request.

Jad came to the sickbed and watched for a moment, saying nothing. The khahan was asleep, and there was little the prince could do. Satisfied that Koja was attending to Yamun, he turned back to Goyuk. The old khan had just finished offering a prayer to the small felt idols that hung over the door.

Reaching into a bucket of kumiss by the sill, Goyuk dipped his fingers in the brew and sprinkled it on each idol. He kowtowed to the little red cloth figures and then turned to join the others.

"You should remember the old ways, Jadaran Khan," chided Goyuk.

"Teylas be angry with you." He pointed to the doorway, leaving no doubt what he wanted the prince to do. Jad held his tongue. Although Goyuk was presumptuous to speak that way to him, the prince knew that the old man was right. Obediently, he knelt down at the door and offered up his prayer, going through all the motions to make the ablution. Outside the doorway, he could hear the muffled chanting of the men. Jad wondered how long they would be satisfied to wait.

Goyuk beamed a toothless smile as Jad finished the ritual. "You are a good son. Maybe you make a good khahan, too."

The suggestion caught the prince by surprise. "My father isn't dead yet," he snapped. The weight and pressure of the day were catching up with him, and Goyuk's intimation only added to his rage and frustration.

"No, no, of course not," Goyuk quickly agreed. "But the time may come."

The prince let himself relax slightly, accepting Goyuk's explanation. "If it comes to that, I hope I'll have your support. There are many things I don't know, much I need to learn. You've always served father well, and I'd like you to do the same for me."

"Of course," said the old man, following Jad back to the sickbed .

"Lama, how is the khahan?"

Koja frowned. "The sweating may have driven the poison out of his blood."

Jad nodded impassively. "Are you certain?" he pressed.

Koja bit at his lip, then replied honestly. "No, Prince Jadaran. I think that he will live. I cannot promise that he will live."

Jad walked to the yurt's door and beckoned Koja to his side. The prince pulled open a corner of the door flap as Koja joined him. "Hear the men, lama?" he asked, putting his hand on Koja's shoulder. "They fought for him. If his assassins were alive, that crowd would rip them apart with their hands and then feed the guts to the jackals. If he dies in your care, I could not stop them."

"I still cannot promise you anything," Koja insisted. He stepped away from the door and looked Jad firmly in the eye. "I do not want to fail."

"Nor do I," echoed Jad. He looked back out the doorway and coldly murmured, "I wish I could give them the ones behind all this. Especially Bayalun."

"This you cannot do," consoled Goyuk, his sharp ears picking up Jad's softly spoken words from across the tent.

Jad let the tent flap drop. "Why not? Her wizard struck down my father," he argued. "The men would believe me."

"You have no proof she do this," Goyuk said, tapping the carpet where he sat to emphasize his point. "Think like your father. She has many relatives, many friends. You must have proof, not suspicions. Besides, the wizards and shamans protect her."

"Then what do I do?" Jad cried in frustration. "I need proof before I can act, but this viper works freely against us. I need to find Yamun's killer!"

"Wait, Jad. Be like the tiger hunting for the deer. Whoever it is will make a mistake. It will happen soon," Goyuk advised. "Ambition will cause them to blunder. We must wait until that happens."

"How long can we keep the army together, just waiting? We need to do something." Jad squatted beside Goyuk, looking to the old khan for guidance.

It was Koja, however, who spoke, from the side of Yamun's sickbed. "A funeral. If the khahan is supposed to be dead, there must be a funeral."

Jad glared over at the lama. "What good will that do, priest? It will only remind them the khahan is dead."

Koja stood and moved to where the two men sat. "It will keep the khans busy—and keep them following your orders. And it may give your father time to get well."

Jad stopped and considered Koja's words. He glanced to Goyuk, and the old khan nodded in agreement.

"If you give orders for the funeral," Koja continued, "the khans still listen to your words. They will grow used to following your commands. It will keep them from grumbling and give the men an outlet for their pain."

Jad, chin sunk to his chest, watched Koja while the priest explained his plan. As he finished, the prince raised his head and spoke. "You are much more than a simple lama. I see why father has seen fit to name you his anda."

11

Reunion

Bayalun stood in front of her yurt with Chanar at her side. Surrounding both of them were Bayalun's guards. The troopers stood tensely alert as the khadun read from an ancient scrap of yellow paper. Chanar peeked at it over her shoulder. He could read—a little anyway—and wasn't about to miss a chance to show off his meager skill to Bayalun. To his dismay, what he saw was unintelligible, a strange and twisted script. Worse still for his pride, Bayalun read from the unrolled sheet with ease, her tongue tripping over the tortured phrases.

As she spoke, a gloom settled over them and the colors leached away from everything. Chanar tensed with fear as the world went gray—the white robes of the guards, Bayalun's black hair, the red silks of his own shirt, even the orange glow of the fire. Then, there was nothing.

Abruptly, there was something. Solid ground slammed up under his feet, wiping away the brief feeling of floating. Chanar staggered, but several of the guards stumbled and fell. Bayalun managed to remain on her feet with ease.

At any rate, they had arrived in Yamun's camp.

And apparently they were not welcome.

The men of Yamun's Kashik who surrounded them held drawn swords ready. The guards were a grizzled group, seasoned campaigners wearing dirty black kalats stained with blood. They watched the newcomers with hard stares. Black beards and braids were thick and foul with grease.

Only their scarred cheeks were free of the filth. Chanar recognized many and knew their names from previous battles. Watching them, the general moved slowly and carefully. These guards were poised to strike. It was clear in the way they stood, the way they held their swords, and the friendless look in their eyes.

Bayalun's guards stood no less at the ready, their sword tips wavering in anticipation. Chanar slowly drew himself up. He was a khan, a prince of the Tuigan, not some thief. Looking his imposing best in a red robe and gold vest embroidered with blue dragons, Chanar glowered at the Kashik around him.

"Let me pass! I bring the khadun of the Tuigan to see the body of her husband," Chanar shouted. His face was clouded and dark, and his eyes narrowed to hard, unfriendly slits. The battle-hardened, bloodthirsty old brawler in him rose to the fore. "Clear the way or die!" he bellowed, drawing his sword with a menacing flourish. The general's shoulders heaved as he pumped himself up with fury and courage.

The Kashik shifted on the balls of their feet, preparing to meet his charge.

They had their orders, and Chanar's threats were not about to make them falter.

"General Chanar, you cannot teach asses courtesy," Bayalun said softly.

The general glared at her for having the audacity to interfere at such a critical point. "Put away your sword. These ugly mules haven't the wit to be frightened. You—" She pointed at the largest guard with a flick of her finger.

"Go and ask Yamun's son if the khadun must change his guards into the asses they truly are. Then he can bray out his orders to them." She smiled wickedly, an easy feat for her.

The fellow, whom Chanar recognized as an old, tough sergeant named Jali-bukha, went dead white at Bayalun's words. Eyes wide open with fear, the sergeant nodded and quickly ran toward the khahan's yurt. Bayalun looked at Chanar with a triumphant smile. "It will not be long," she confidently predicted.

With difficulty, Chanar swallowed his pride. He was one of Yamun's seven valiant men. He didn't need a woman to tell common warriors to get out of his way. Someday, he knew, there would come a time when her words and threats would no longer suffice. Then she would have to come to him for support.

Behind his back, Mother Bayalun hid her contemptuous smile. The general believes he can do this alone, she thought. But, she reminded herself, the dear general is necessary. The wizards and some of the people might follow her, but the rest of the army would never accept Bayalun's commands. She needed General Chanar to keep Yamun's—her—empire intact.

The sergeant reached the door of the khahan's yurt, less than one hundred yards away. Barely waiting to be announced, he threw open the tent flap and breathlessly stood in the doorway. Seeing the prince glaring at him for the intrusion, the sergeant flung himself to the ground. "Prince Jadaran, I bring a message," he declared while gasping for breath. "Eke Bayalun and General Chanar, they have just arrived!"

"What?" the prince exclaimed. "Here?" He clenched his fists in frustration.

With a curt wave, he dismissed the sergeant and then spun back to the others. "What are we going to do?" He whirled on Goyuk, expecting the advisor to instantly provide an answer.

"Show them ... in," came a weak voice from the other side of the tent.

Astonished, Jad turned slowly toward the source. There, on his sickbed, was Yamun. Somehow, he had struggled up onto one elbow, raising his head enough to look at them. His face was hollow and pale. A tic quivered his cheek, a small sign of the massive effort he was expending. "Get me up," he whispered hoarsely. "I will meet with my... wife." Koja hurried to his side, quickly mounding pillows for Yamun to lean on.

"Father, you're not strong enough!" Jad protested. "There must be something else we can do."

"No. Bayalun must know I live. Otherwise, she will make trouble. And Chanar deserves to know the truth." His voice trailed off weakly. The khahan rested for a little before speaking again. "Go. Greet them. Give me some time, but don't tell them I live .... I will be ready."

Jad stood still, uncertain if he should obey these orders. Koja looked up, firmly meeting Jad's gaze. "We will make sure Yamun is ready."

"Let all who disobey you know this is by the word of the khahan." Yamun mumbled, reciting the formula. Even in his weak voice, there was no uncertainty.

Resigned, Jad bowed to his father and turned to go.

"And order the Kashik to double their guard," Yamun added as his son departed.

Accompanied by the sergeant, Jad marched the short distance to where Bayalun and Chanar waited. The Kashik stepped aside to let the prince pass.

"Greetings, Mother," Jad said with forced civility. There was little warmth in his voice, although nothing in his expression noted anything less than filial love. "You should have warned of your coming. A proper reception could've—

well—been prepared." His smile was broad and utterly heartless.

"I am sure your preparations would have been most complete," Bayalun parried. She did not even bother to pretend friendship to her stepson. "We did not want to put you to such trouble."

Using her staff, Bayalun pushed her way past Jad and began marching toward the khahan's tent, ignoring everyone around her. She continued to talk, unconcerned whether Jad was following her or not. "In Quaraband, there are rumors that Yamun is slain. I came to investigate these. Now I see the mourning banner in front of my husband's tent. Why was I not informed?"

The prince quick-stepped to fall in beside Bayalun, avoiding the backswing of her staff as he did so. "We had no one who could reach you quickly. We've sent a messenger." It was a part lie; he and Goyuk had carefully avoided letting the news travel beyond the camp.

"What about Afrasib, my wizard? He could have reached me," the khadun asked warily.

"I think not. He died in yesterday's battle, slain by the Khazari," Jad lied.

The old sorceress stopped suddenly, taken aback by her stepson's announcement. "Afrasib is dead?" she asked in sad disbelief. "It is not possible."

"Most certainly, he's dead. His body was brought back from the field of battle." Jad couched his words carefully this time.

"I shall see his body later," Bayalun decided, brushing an errant gray hair from her face.

As Bayalun came to the doorway, two more Kashik stepped in front of her, blocking the way with crossed swords. Irritated, the khadun poked at them with the gold head of her staff. Although they flinched as she thrust it forward, neither man moved.

"Unless you want me to hurt these men," she snapped at the prince, "you should order them to move." She squinted at the guards with mock ferocity and wagged her staff under their noses.

"They only want to protect you from evil spirits. There is death here," the prince explained, reminding her of the old taboos. "The yurt is ill-omened.

Yamun's body lies inside." Jad carefully avoided making eye contact with his stepmother.

"I have seen enough death that this will do me no harm," Bayalun informed her stepson. Taking up her staff, the khadun thrust it forward. The sleeve on her arm fell back, revealing the smooth, golden skin that belied her age.

Bayalun pushed the guards aside and stooped through the doorframe.

Jad waited for Chanar to enter, then brought up the rear, trying to suppress his panic. Had he stalled long enough?

Was the khahan ready to receive them? He edged his hand to his sword, in case things went badly.

Bayalun took only a single step through the door and stopped. Chanar, his head bowed to get through the door, bumped into the khadun and stepped back in surprise. Looking over Bayalun's shoulder, he lurched back farther in greater astonishment. Jad easily slid to the side, out of the way, his eyes goggling at Yamun's throne.

Bayalun let out a sharp gasp of incredulity, and her staff almost slipped from her grasp. General Chanar simply gaped in shock. There, opposite them, was Yamun, alive and sitting on his throne. His legs were spread, his hands resting on his knees, his head held upright, chin jutting forward. He was dressed in his finest armor, a bribe the emperor of Shou Lung had sent a year ago. The metal gleamed in the dim light—a golden breastplate sculpted with muscles, a pair of flaring silver shoulder-guards, a skirt of the finest metal chain, and a helm of gem-encrusted brass and gold, tapered and fluted to a point. A pure white horsetail, braided with ribbons of red silk, hung down from the helmet's tip.

Under all the trappings it was difficult, almost impossible, to see Yamun's face. The lamps were hung far and high from the khahan's seat, casting his features into darkness. His hands were covered with thick gauntlets.

At the head of the men's seats, close to the khahan, sat Koja, cross-legged.

The hollow-eyed priest studied the pair who had just entered with anxious curiosity. Beside him was Goyuk, still dressed in the filthy robes from yesterday's battle. The old khan had dug out his pipe and was carefully tamping it full of tobacco. He glanced toward Bayalun and Chanar, and then returned his attention to his pipe, scarcely giving them any notice. Behind the khahan were the nightguards. At their head stood Sechen, his arms hidden in the folds of his kalat. The guards stood stiffly erect, their eyes boring in on the visitors. They made no attempt to hide their hatred.

"Come forward," the khahan said softly. His resonant voice carried clearly across the room. Cautiously, eyeing all those around her, Bayalun walked forward. Chanar strode beside her, though his gait was less swaggering than normal.

Bayalun was the first to gather her wits. She cleverly composed in a simple refrain, chanting it in a droning melody.

"Greetings, honorable son who rises again.

Your grieving mother is pleased to see you.

Your grieving wife is pleased to see you.

Double blessings flow like water upon me."

Yamun bowed his head slightly toward his stepmother. "Sit," he whispered, pointing to a seat about halfway up the women's row. Bayalun obediently took the seat, accepting the slight insult the position implied without comment.

"Sit," the khahan said in a stronger voice, indicating a seat for Chanar beside Goyuk. Chanar hesitated, for the seat put him at a lower rank than the priest. He started to protest, then thought better of it.

There was a strained silence and, for a moment, Yamun's head sagged.

The illustrious second wife watched the khahan with keen interest. Prince Jad, near the door of the yurt, silently drew his sword and caught the eyes of Sechen. The giant nodded slightly, indicating his readiness.

"Have this pipe, Great Lord," old Goyuk said brazenly, sliding forward to hand Yamun the bowl he had prepared. Abruptly the khahan's head snapped up.

"I'll smoke," Yamun answered, his voice sounding a little hollow. Taking the pipe, he lit it and took several long puffs, enjoying the sharp flavor of the exotic tobacco. Koja offered a silent prayer to the Ten-Thousand Protective Images of Furo. At the back of the yurt, the prince once again relaxed his stance.

"You've heard evil rumors, no doubt," Yamun finally said. "Rumors that assassins were sent to kill me. So, no doubt, you hurried here to prove to your own minds how wrong these rumors were."

Bayalun studied the khahan closely, trying to see if his image was some illusion created by the priest. At the same time, she quickly reviewed the spells she had ready, just in case there were more surprises.

"Sadly, there was truth in the rumors. Have the guards bring the body,"

Yamun commanded Sechen. The towering fellow left his position and exited the tent. Yamun continued, "Yesterday, during battle, a creature tried to kill me. It failed because my anda—" At this the khahan tipped his head toward the priest. "He fought to protect me. Let us drink to his fortune." With a feeble wave, he had the servants bring ladles of black kumiss. Hands shaking, he raised his ladle to his lips and tipped his head back for a drink.

As he drank his face came out of shadow. Bayalun clearly saw the deathly color of his cheeks, which were gleaming with cold sweat from the mere effort of sitting up.

Chanar sat ramrod-straight, his hard, narrow eyes on the lama. The others raised their ladles and slurped the drink. The general, though, sat still, refusing to salute the priest.

As the group finished the toast, Sechen coughed discreetly from the door.

Yamun acknowledged his presence and everyone turned to watch as the huge Kashik pulled open the door flap. There, wrapped in a freshly butchered horsehide, was the body of the hu hsien. The guards kept it just outside the door, so that it wouldn't pollute the khahan's yurt. Even knowing who, or what, the body was, Koja found the creature hard to identify. It's fur had already lost the luster it possessed in life. The gash in its chest was crudely closed, but the decay and corruption had not stopped.

Bayalun looked at the body briefly, only long enough to satisfy herself that it was the Shou assassin the mandarin had provided. It only confirmed what she now expected, so she easily concealed the few emotions seeing the body evoked. Mother Bayalun was disappointed. She had expected much more from the great empire of Shou Lung. Their token of support, a lone assassin, had failed. Now, she would have to press them for greater commitment.

Chanar, on the other hand, looked at the thing with disgust and fascination.

He'd never seen such a creature. It didn't surprise him that Bayalun would use beasts and not men. He could see now why her plans had failed, relying as they did on such creatures.

"There are also rumors," Yamun said thinly, interrupting the contemplation of the body, "that you, Mother, were somehow responsible for this." He paused. Unconsciously, the khahan tugged gently at his mustache, his body sagging forward as he did so. "Of course, this isn't true. Stil , it would end these rumors if you swore an oath of loyalty to your khahan."

Bayalun glared coldly at her stepson. In icy, measured tones, she said,

"You would make your mother and your wife swear to you? Men will say you are without morals for this perversion."

"Men will say worse of you if you refuse!" Yamun snapped, suddenly revealing surprising strength. "Will the khans hear how you are afraid of Teylas's wrath?" Yamun braced himself once more against his knees.

Bayalun realized that she stood alone. Chanar could not, would not, come to her aid without arousing suspicion. Bitterly the woman agreed. "Never before in our history has the khahan dared to demand this of his khadun. May Teylas find this offensive to his sight!" She turned and spat on the rugs.

"Teylas can make of it what he wants. Now, say the oath." Yamun commanded. By his tone it was clear he would brook no more argument.

Bayalun stared at her husband, weighing her choices. She could hear his armor creak to his labored breathing. At last, she kowtowed before the khahan. With her face pressed into the rugs, she recited the ancient words.

"Although your descendants have only a scrap of meat thrown on the grass, which not even the crows will eat; although your descendants have only a scrap of fat, which not even the dogs will eat; even then my family will serve you. Never will we raise the banner of another to sit upon the throne."

"As this is heard by the khahan, Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, so it is heard by Teylas," Yamun murmured in response. His body sank slightly as he recited the words. "Now, dear Bayalun, you're tired. This audience is over."

Burning with humiliation, the khadun struggled from the floor, pushing herself up with her staff. Eschewing the traditional formalities of departing, she barged from the yurt, driving aside the guards with a few solid whacks of her stout wooden shaft.

"Chanar, you will stay. I have questions for you," the khahan ordered when the general stood to go. Chanar froze, briefly panicked, and then slowly sat back down. He looked around, wondering if the audience was about to turn into some sort of trap.

Yamun deliberately let Chanar sit and wait. Just as Koja decided that the khahan had passed out inside his armor, Yamun spoke. "General Chanar, my anda, why aren't you in Semphar advising Hubadai?" He let his voice trail away at the end.

"I was ill and could not travel," Chanar answered stiffly. He placed his hands very carefully in front of him. "I sent messengers telling you of my sickness."

"You could've ridden in a cart, or were you too sick to travel at all?" Yamun asked.

"I am not an old man—" Chanar stopped suddenly and gave a quick glance to Goyuk. The khan's normally pleasant smile was clouded and grim. "I am not a woman," Chanar began again, "who cannot ride. Valiant men do not follow oxen to the battle. I could not fight from a wagon."

"It is true a warrior should ride into battle," Yamun agreed. "I'm pleased to see that you're feeling much better. Now that you are well, why have you come here?"

Wary of the khahan's maneuvering, the general picked his words carefully.

He looked at the floor in mock humility.

"The khadun suspected an evil fate had struck you and came to learn the truth. I could not allow the khadun to travel without a proper guard."

Metal scraped wood as the khahan shifted in his seat. "So, you came for the sake of my mother. Learn this, khans," Yamun said louder, addressing Goyuk and Jad. "General Chanar has shown us the proper thing to do. It is true I have chosen two worthy andas, the warrior and the lama. Let us drink to their health."

The kumiss was drunk and the toasts were made. Throughout the salutes, Koja tried to stay quiet and avoid Chanar's attention. There could be no misreading the angry looks the general gave him over each ladleful of fermented milk. Koja could also see that Yamun was weakening, the ladle shaking a little more each time the khahan raised it to his lips.

"Yamun," the priest finally called out, "Chanar is surely tired from today's traveling. However, he is too noble to complain, so let me speak for him and ask that this audience end."

The khahan turned toward Koja, about to lash out at the priest for such impudence, when he suddenly saw the wisdom of the lama's words. Turning back to Chanar, he held one hand up to send the servants back to their places. "My anda, Koja, is wise. I've kept you too long, Chanar Ong Kho. This audience is over now, and you may leave."

The warlord sat gaping, then, with a crash, hurled the ladle across the yurt, spraying kumiss over the rugs. "He does not speak for me! I need no one to speak for me. I am your anda!" he shouted. Not waiting for a reply, Chanar stormed out of the yurt, savagely shoving the guards at the door out of his way.

The door flap had barely been tied shut when Yamun toppled off the throne. Arms weakly flailing, he grabbed at the screen only to succeed in pulling it over with him. The khahan tumbled from the dais in a crash of metal and cracking wood. The gleaming brass helmet popped off his head and bounced across the floor. Koja sprang to his feet, hastening to the side of the stricken khahan. Quickly, he examined the fallen leader.

"He lives, thankfulness be to Furo, but he needs rest," the priest announced as he tugged off Yamun's armor. "Help me get him to bed."

"You shouldn't have put him in that heavy armor," the prince snapped as he hoisted the khahan to his feet, half-dragging him to his bed.

"The khahan insisted on it. I did not want it," Koja shot back, trying to keep his temper under control.

Jad, too, bit back his words. "That would be like father," he conceded.

"He is strong-willed," Koja noted as they laid Yamun's unconscious body on the bed. Goyuk stood near the door, making sure they were not interrupted.

"More than you know, lama," Jad agreed. He looked Koja in the eye. "I was wrong to accuse you." Together, the pair finished making the khahan comfortable. When they were done, Jad called Goyuk from the door.

"Wise advisors," he began, nodding to both Goyuk and Koja, "Bayalun knows our tricks. What do we do now?"

* * * * *

"He knows about you!" Chanar snapped hysterically, his composure completely shattered. He looked at Mother Bayalun, sitting opposite him, his eyes flashing with panic and rage.

"He suspects, dear Chanar. If he could prove anything, we would be dead by now," the matronly Bayalun corrected. Her voice was low and ripplingly musical. She took the general's hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

They sat alone in a small yurt she had appropriated from one of the commanders of Yamun's bodyguard. Influential and important though the Kashik khans might be, not even they dared refuse the illustrious second empress. It was a simple matter for her to find a tent to her liking and then persuade its owner to vacate. Indeed, the khan had been most willing; he believed the khahan dead, making this a good time to be friendly and helpful to the khadun.

Still, the usurped accommodations were far from lavish. The tent was small and cramped, divided into two sections. Bayalun and Chanar sat in a small reception area. A pair of small wooden chests covered with rugs served as chairs. The khadun had disdained these, choosing instead to sit on the floor next to the oil lamp, which provided a feeble glow. A fine bow of antler horn and lacquered wood, and a quiver of red leather hung on the wall behind one seat, marking it as the master's spot. A suit of iridescent armor, carefully tended and decorated—perhaps the khan's finest possession—hung on a stand nearby. Weapons, helmets, shields, buckets, and utensils decorated the rest of the wall space.

A folding wooden screen separated the other half of the yurt from the reception area. On the other side of the screen was the private area—a small collapsible bed with a carved and inlaid headboard, and chests of clothing and war booty.

"How long before his suspicion gives way to certainty?" the general countered, slowly pulling his hand free from Bayalun's. He closed his eyes and rubbed hard at his temples, struggling to regain control of his emotions.

Blood throbbed through the veins of his forehead and the shaven top of his head. His shoulders ached from the tension. "Why can't we just raise our standard and attack him now—just get it over with? We should defeat him in battle, not with a game of words."

"Patience, my bold warrior," Bayalun gently urged. She smiled warmly. His sudden display of temper threatened all her plans and yet fascinated her.

"Forgive me. You are a man of deeds, and I have forgotten this. Blood and the sword are meat for you, not politics and words. Patience. There will be battles, I'm sure, but not yet." Chanar could not help but notice the change in her tone.

The khadun moved closer to Chanar. It was important now, more than ever, that the general do nothing rash, that he be placated. She needed to control him, but let him think he was in command.

"Let Yamun suspect," Bayalun continued, her voice dropping to soft murmur. "We will find a way to distract the khahan." She took Chanar's hands again and gently pulled the general to her. He gave a slight resistance at first, then took her in his arms. She stroked his tanned scalp and the thick brown braids that gathered over his ears. Caressingly, she tugged at his tunic, slowly undoing its clasps.

The sun only weakly warmed the layer of frosty dew that covered the ground the next morning. On the plain where the dead lay, the day's chorus of jackals and vultures was beginning. Listening to their cries, an almost comforting sound, Chanar stretched grandly in the doorway of Bayalun's yurt.

There was a rustling noise behind him as the khadun stepped into the small reception area, adjusting her headdress.

"Yamun's death standard still stands, Bayalun," Chanar commented. He did not turn from the doorway. Coming up behind the general, she peered over his shoulder.

"Good. It gives us more time. There are many things we must plan. Now, come and eat." A small tray set with cups of salted tea, soured mare's milk curds, and chunks of sugar had been prepared by her guards. The second empress motioned Chanar to sit as she sipped at her tea.

Chanar could tell by the set of Bayalun's jawline that she had already been thinking of the distraction they needed. Taking up a cup, he settled back to listen, leaning comfortably against one of the chests.

"Did you see the khahan's face yesterday?" The khadun didn't wait for an answer. "It was pale, and his voice was weaker than I have ever heard. He did not escape my assassin. He's been hurt." She stared into her salted tea. "He wants to be dead so he can heal. We must force him into the open before he is ready."

Chanar nodded. "Easily said, but everyone believes him dead."

"I have a plan. Which khans are friendly to you?"

Chanar began to rebraid his hair. He thought for a few seconds while he worked. "Several—Tanjin, Secen, Geser, Chagadai—"

"Enough. Talk to them. If the khahan is dead, then there must be a couralitai to select a new khahan," the sharp-witted Bayalun explained.

"A couralitai?" Chanar exclaimed with a contemptuous laugh. "It'll take months to gather all the khans for a council. By then Yamun will be healed and there won't be a need to pick a new khahan. Bayalun, you've lost your cunning."

The khadun ignored his slight. "No, your khans must insist on it now." She touched his chest with her staff. "Think about it. The Tuigan are fighting two wars—one with Semphar and one here. Things could go badly without a khahan. Yamun's sons might fight each other for the throne. A decision must be made immediately." She lowered her staff. "These are the things you must tell your khans to make them worry. Then they will insist on the couralitai. They will even believe it is the right thing to do. Now, do you see?"

Chanar stopped braiding and pondered her words. "That's true. I could speak to the khans. But Yamun might let the couralitai happen. Jad might take command," the general said, trying to see all the strategies, all the complications.

"The khahan will not let it happen. He will appear," the second empress replied confidently.

"True. After all, Prince Jad might lose," Chanar mused, thinking of his own supporters.

"That's not why Yamun will appear. It's his pride that will force him into the open. He won't let another be khahan, not even his own son." Bayalun returned to her breakfast. "That is why I know he will appear."

"So, you force him to come out," Chanar conceded. "What good is that?"

Bayalun smiled, not the tender smile of the night before, but the scheming look Chanar had come to know. It drove a shiver of fear through him, the feeling he sometimes got on the verge of battle.

"When Yamun is weak and in the open, we will find a way to strike at him,"

she promised.

Their plans decided, the two plotters set to work. All morning Chanar made calls on his fellow khans, dropping suggestions, hints, and ominous predictions. At first skeptical of Bayalun's scheme, Chanar was surprised at how receptive the khans were to his words. The couralitai gave them a course of action, more so even than Jad's funeral plan. The khans began to clamor for the couralitai, threatening to leave if their demands were not met.

It was late in the afternoon of the same day when Jad insisted upon a council of war. Koja tried to prevent it, arguing that the khahan was still too weak, but the prince would hear none of it.

"I want a meeting with my father," he demanded. "The army's breaking up and there's a new problem. Envoys from Manass have arrived to negotiate a peace. I don't know what to do. Goyuk should be there, too; he knows what's going on. And you, too, priest."

No amount of debate was going to sway Jad, so Koja resigned himself to the meeting. Perhaps the prince was right, he thought. Things were getting out of control. He had heard the rumors among the guards. There was already talk of choosing a new khahan. They needed a plan.

In a short time, Jad, Goyuk, and Koja presented themselves to the khahan.

Yamun looked stronger and there was more color in his cheek, but his voice was still shaky and weak. He was sitting up in his bed when they entered, wearing an ermine-trimmed robe lined with yellow silk. Koja had insisted that he put on clean clothes as part of the healing process. In truth, the priest only wanted to get rid of the smell.

Jad wasted little time with ceremony. "Father, your death's gone on long enough," he began, almost as soon as everyone was seated. "The khans are talking, demanding a couralitai. They're stirring up the men. I cannot hold the army together any longer."

Yamun looked surprised by the news. "A couralitai takes many months to prepare. My time of mourning isn't even over."

"They want one now," Goyuk explained, his wrinkled face lined even more deeply with concern. "They say the army needs a leader." His gums smacked together as if to accentuate the point.

"It's worse, Father," added Jad, bowing his head. "The envoys from Manass have come and are impatient to begin negotiations. That's given the khans more to complain about. Already Chagadai and Tanjin have threatened to return to their pastures. That's four minghans, four thousand men, Father."

Yamun considered the situation, absentmindedly twisting the sheets.

"Anda, is my mother still in camp?"

"Yes, Yamun," answered Koja.

"Could this be Bayalun's doing?" the khahan feebly growled as he slapped the bed with a resounding thud. "Or is it spies from Shou Lung?"

There was silence from the group as they mulled over the possibilities. No one offered any answers.

"Yamun, you cannot sit here waiting for something to happen. You should make a plan," Koja suggested, speaking hesitantly.

"My anda is right. Tell them to call a couralitai," the khahan announced. He choked back a small cough.

"What?" sputtered Jad. "Why not just appear? Show you're alive?"

"Someone is manipulating all this," Yamun declared with certainty. "I'll show myself, but only after they make their move. Let's give our mysterious enemy what he wants, then see what happens. Call it for tomorrow."

"Lord Yamun, if there is a couralitai, you must appear—to prove you are not dead. Otherwise they will pick a new khahan," Koja pointed out.

"I know this. Don't worry, anda. I'll rest. Now go." With a tired wave, Koja and the others were dismissed from the khahan's presence.

As he stepped into the afternoon sunlight, Koja realized that it had been days since he'd last made any notes for Yamun's chronicle. He wondered how much he could remember. As a historian, he was doing a poor job. Wearily, the lama wandered to his tent to fulfill his duty as grand historian.

12

The Couralitai

By the earliest light of the next dawn, word of the couralitai had spread throughout the camp. Already the khans were gathering for the meeting, moving from yurt to yurt to share the rumors and gossip that would affect the day's business.

Standing near the Great Yurt, Koja could almost hear the chorus of speculation and rumors. With keen, patient interest, the priest watched the ebb and flow of the khans. General Chanar emerged from the yurt of Tanjin Khan and exchanged friendly banter with the minghan commander. Koja watched him next cross the camp to another tent, that of Unyaid, a minor commander in the Kashik. Even earlier, Bayalun had been moving about, her staff echoing with its distinctive thunk on the hard ground. The priest had not seen her for some time.

As Koja watched, Jad and Goyuk came his way. They had been out that morning, probing the khans and listening to the rumors. The three shared their information. Koja described Bayalun's movements and noted Chanar's with curiosity. Goyuk and Jad outlined the mood of the khans, who would side with them and who would not. After making new plans, Jad and Goyuk returned to their rounds, sounding out the khans. Koja maintained his watch of Bayalun's movements.

As the lama waited, the quiverbearers began preparing for the grand meeting. The gathering was to take place inside Yamun's compound, about one hundred feet from the khahan's yurt, in a large open area surrounded by the tents of the Kashik khans. A bonfire, mounded with valuable pieces of wood, was built at the far side of the clearing. The khahan's death banner was moved from Yamun's yurt and staked on the side of the circle opposite the bonfire. Young boys carefully swept the ground with broad brushes, and others rolled out rugs in two arcs to provide seating. Beyond the circle of the couralitai, servants were brewing tea at small fires, preparing for the arrival of the khans. Leather bags, fashioned from the skins of horses' heads, were filled with kumiss and set out along with ladles. Special seats for Bayalun and Jad were put up beneath the black yak-tail standard. Between these was a special, vacant seat for the departed khahan.

A horn blew a wheezing, off-key note. It sounded easily over the subdued clatter of the quiverbearers. They quickly finished their tasks and faded to the edges of the circle. The khans began to arrive and take seats. Those khans friendly to Bayalun sat on the left of the banner, near her seat, while Jad's supporters filled the places to the right. Most of the khans took places far from both the prince and the khadun, declaring their current neutrality.

The spaces on the rugs began to get crowded. Deciding there was no more he could do where he was, Koja hurried to find a spot with a good view of the action, before it was too late. The priest squeezed in, finding a space among the densely packed Tuigan. As a foreigner, he had no vote in the the proceedings, but even being allowed to watch was a great privilege.

The horn blew again. From the far side of the assembly entered Mother Bayalun, Chanar following a few paces behind. The khadun was dressed in white robes, her long, loose hair half-hidden by a white shawl. A broad sash, woven with stripes of blue and red, hung around her neck. She walked slowly but firmly across the circle to take her seat at the head of the assembly.

Chanar took a position among the khans sitting on the left.

The horn blew for a third time. Koja, sitting between a stiff-backed, black-robed commander of the Kashik and a belching, greasy-haired khan whose name he did not know, tensed in anticipation. Instead of the surprise he expected, however, Koja was disappointed to see only Jad and Goyuk venture out to join the couralitai. The prince took his seat, barely acknowledging his stepmother. Goyuk stood quietly behind him, ready to advise the khahan's son.

The khans fell silent, expecting the first words of the session. By tradition, these were spoken by the son of the departed. Jad raised his hand and waited for the last murmuring khans to fall quiet. Satisfied that he had their attention, the prince stood up before the assembled nobles.

"Jadaran of the Hoekun welcomes you. As khan of the Tuigan, he welcomes you. Let this council begin."

With these words, the council was open. Custom gave the honor of the next speech to the commander of the Kashik.

A strong, clear voice suddenly rang out. "Illustrious youth, son of our beloved khahan, commander of forty thousand, this one requests that he may be heard." There was a buzz of excitement at these words. The speaker had made the request in most respectful language, using all the proper forms and inflections—but it was not the commander of the Kashik. At the far side of the council, the wolf-faced Chagadai, dressed in a ragged and filthy kalat, stood to address the prince. He wore a dirty white turban in the style of the western clans. Without waiting to be recognized, he pushed his way to the center of the circle.

The Kashik commander, sitting near Jad, glared at the speaker. The upstart had deliberately insulted him. The commander looked to Jad for guidance, but the prince was in as much consternation as he. Goyuk leaned forward and whispered in the prince's ear. Jad spoke a few words in response, obviously debating with the old man about what could be done. Next to him, Bayalun sat, unmoved by the startling turn. A faint smile played across her lips. Finally, Jadaran looked toward the upstart khan. Throwing a resigned look the commander's way, the prince conceded, reciting the formula required of him. "As lord of this couralitai, I will hear Chagadai speak."

"May the thanks of Teylas be upon the noble prince," answered the renegade khan. Now that he was recognized, he turned to his fellow nobles in the audience. "Hear me, khans. Know that I am Chagadai of the Uesgir.

"I will not waste time retelling the deeds of my family or all the greatness of the khahan. These things we know. Instead, I ask a question we have all been wondering—where is the khahan? Where is the one who has led our people to greatness? They," he shouted, turning toward Jad, "say he has fallen. Yet they do nothing!" Jad tensed and prepared to interrupt, when Goyuk once again whispered in his ear. The prince bit his lip and nodded curtly, waiting for Chagadai to continue.

"What is the duty of a son?" Chagadai quietly asked, stepping closer to the prince. "When the father is killed, the son should not hide in his tent. He should find the murderers."

There was a grumble among the nobles. Prince Jadaran squirmed, angered by the accusation. Chanar watched coolly from his seat, his tented fingers touched against his lips. Bayalun's smile had vanished, leaving her face a blank.

Chagadai turned back to the assembled nobles. "There are ambassadors from Khazari in our camp. They arrived only yesterday. Now, why do ambassadors from our enemy come just when we are in our mourning? Do they come to share our sorrow?" The khan stopped to mop the nervous sweat from his neck. "They come to negotiate, to negotiate with Jadaran Khan in our hour of victory! He is taking our victory from us. Your warriors died in this battle." Chagadai stopped, pacing down the length of the couralitai. There was a growing undertone of discontent among Bayalun's allies.

Theatrically turning to them, Chagadai asked, "Is this who should be khahan? Let us choose another."

Jad moved to stand, only to be stopped by Goyuk's hand on his shoulder.

"Let him speak," the old advisor whispered. "This is what we want." The prince sank back down, his eyes smoldering with hatred.

"Let Chanar Ong Kho be khahan," shouted a voice from the ranks of the seated khans.

Several of the younger nobles on Bayalun's side clapped their hands, showing their support. The priest glanced around. Jad's supporters, at least those willing to show their loyalty, were few in number. It seemed that the prince faced a serious challenge to his authority.

"Chanar Ong Kho must be khahan!" cried the voice again. To everyone's surprise, Chanar shook his head, refusing to accept the offer. The general rose to address the assembly. "I thank the wise khans, but these words are disrespectful to the memory of the khahan. I am not worthy of this honor. Let the nomination go to another." There was a sigh of disappointment from Bayalun's side of the group.

Chagadai, still standing in the center of the council, refused to relent. He pressed the offer again. "Let Chanar be khahan!" The man stopped his pace near Jad. Again, the prince made to stand, only to be restrained by the gentle touch from Goyuk. The clapping for Chanar was louder this time.

Chagadai glanced toward Bayalun. She gave a quick smile of approval.

The khan was doing well, acting just as she had instructed him this morning.

Slowly, Chagadai faced all the assembly once more. "Chanar will not be khahan," he said with disappointment in his voice. "Still, Jad must show his worth. Perhaps the khahan's killers have been found and perhaps his body is in his yurt. But we have not seen the body. Jad tells us what happened, but shows us no proof. Are we sure the khahan was slain in battle? Perhaps someone else killed him. Someone who does not want us to know the truth.

Let us see Yamun's body and learn the truth for ourselves." With those words, Chagadai strode out of the clearing toward the door of Yamun's yurt.

Just as he reached it, Sechen stepped forward and blocked the entrance with his sword.

"Why is Jad afraid?" shouted Chagadai, turning his back to the door so he could address the couralitai. Caught up in the excitement and straining to see, the nobles were on their feet. "Let us see the khahan's body!" shouted many from the crowd.

"Then see it you will," said a voice behind Chagadai, echoing from the doorway of the tent.

The khans in the crowd stopped their cries and froze in disbelief. Standing in the doorway was Yamun Khahan. He was dressed in coarse robes of blue serge cinched with a belt of leather and gold. His hair was undone, shaped in a halo around his shaven pate. He leaned against the door-jamb to steady himself.

"The khahan!" whispered the big, crude khan next to Koja. The assembly echoed the man's words like the breath of a wind spirit. Several of the men abruptly knelt, bowing their heads toward their risen leader. Chagadai turned slowly toward his lord, his eyes wide with shock and fear.

Yamun ignored the wolfish khan. Pushing past Chagadai, he slowly but steadily walked into the center of the couralitai. Yamun's color was still pale, and it was clear that every step drained away a little of his strength. His brow glistened with sweat from the effort of each footstep. Nevertheless, the khahan never flinched. At last, Yamun reached the center of the circle, swaying slightly on his feet. He turned and scanned the faces of the khans in attendance. "Now, who will be khahan?" he demanded, as if he were some vengeful apparition.

No one answered. No one, it seemed, could tear his eyes from the khahan.

Koja looked toward Bayalun. She was once again smiling the same faintly triumphant smile that had crossed her face earlier. Next to her, Jad was watching the khans, his smile equally triumphant as he searched out the slightest sign of opposition.

"None shall be khahan but you, dear husband," Bayalun said diplomatically. "But some, believing you dead, were eager for a new khahan."

All eyes turned toward Chagadai. His thin face grew pale. "They forgot what is proper and called for Chanar to be khahan, ignoring your own sons. They did not even wait the thirty days of mourning that tradition demands." Bayalun tapped the ground with her staff for emphasis.

Chagadai nervously walked down the path, trying to discreetly return to his place. Those khans who had applauded his words sat very quietly in their seats, doing nothing to attract attention to themselves. Yamun turned toward the trembling Chagadai, fixing the man to the spot with his fierce stare. Those between the two men slid out of the way. "These words are true," the khahan growled.

"Great Lord," Chagadai sputtered, falling to one knee and bowing his head.

"I did these things for the good of your people. Hubadai attacks Semphar, while we fight the Khazari. We need guidance."

"And my son isn't fit to rule. This is treason."

The nobles whispered in fearful concern. None, however, dared raise his voice in protest.

"Husband and son," Bayalun interjected, "he acted for the good of the Tuigan. If Chagadai knew you lived, he would not have spoken so."

" 'Only a foolish man holds the pecking hawk close to his eyes,'" Yamun angrily retorted, using an old proverb to make his point. "Like the hawk, Chagadai attacks me. He has betrayed me." Yamun strode to where the khan cowered.

Before anyone could object, Yamun drew his sword and thrust it forward.

The sword pierced the khan's chest. There was a choked gasp of surprise from Chagadai, then he flopped to the ground, blood spurting from his wound.

The dying man twitched and jerked, but finally lay still. Yamun, exhausted by the effort, leaned on the sword, its tip in the dirt, blood running down the blade.

For a moment, no one spoke. The khans, so vocal before, were unwilling to draw Yamun's ire. The khahan, as he regained his breath, grimly scanned the assembly, looking for anyone who might challenge his actions. Servants hurried forward and dragged the body away, sweeping dirt over the dark stain of blood on the ground.

"You have been told I died in battle," Yamun finally said to his apprehensive audience. "This was a lie, you say: the khahan did not die."

Yamun wiped the bloody sword on his robe. "I remained hidden by my own command. I wanted you, my faithful khans, to think me dead."

"Why, Great Khan, why?" one of khans sitting on Jad's side asked hesitantly.

"I was attacked by assassins. I was wounded, but I live. Teylas protected me from this evil attack." He stopped to recover his strength. Suddenly everyone could see his weakness.

"Who did this to our khahan?" Bayalun called out. She looked around, waiting for an answer.

"The Khazari!" answered one from Jad's side of the couralitai. Koja suddenly felt uncomfortable, exposed. The commander next to the priest swiveled slightly, one hand on his sword. On the other side, the belching khan slid back, not wanting to sit too close to the lama.

"No, not the Khazari," Yamun snapped. "It was a Khazari who saved me from the assassins. The lama, Koja, fought to protect me from my attackers.

For this I've made him my anda." The khans on either side of Koja eyed him with surprised respect.

"Who then?" asked a khan.

"Do you want to see my assassins?" Yamun asked, feigning reluctance.

Weakened by the effort of speaking, the khahan closed his eyes. The wave of shouted approval from the khans rocked him slightly. Slowly, he took the empty seat between Jad and Bayalun.

"The bodies! Yes, we will see the bodies," the commander next to Koja shouted, urging the khans around him to add their voices to the cry. It quickly swelled and grew as khans from both sides expressed their outrage. Yamun settled back, confident that the khans still followed him.

"The bodies, bring the bodies!" went up the chant.

Yamun raised his hand, commanding silence. "Loyal khans," he shouted over the dying rumble, drawing deeper on his reserves of strength. "You shall see them. Sechen, bring the assassins here."

In the brief moments it took to fetch the grim bundle, Yamun sagged back in his seat. The khahan, Jad, and Goyuk conferred quickly amongst themselves.

Sechen returned, carrying the bloodstained rug, and dropped it with a thud at Yamun's feet. A wave of anticipation rippled through the nobles.

"Now, see who attacked your khahan," Yamun solemnly announced. "An unclean creature and a man!" With the tip of his boot, the khahan carefully pushed a fold of the rug aside. A visible wave of pollution and decay, marked by a cloud of flies, rose up from the rotting bodies. A gasp of astonishment came spontaneously from the assembled group. "A beast!" hissed a voice filled with disgust. "They send beasts to kill our khahan!"

There were two bodies in the rug: the hu hsien and the wizard. The once-bright fur of the fox creature was stiff and dull-colored. Its wounds, more fearsome in death, were sunken, the edges soft and black. Dark patches of decay spread from these, mottling the skin beneath the bristling fur. The eyes were gone, pecked out by birds. A purplish tongue, dry and cracked, lolled out of its mouth. The human next to it was equally decayed, the slashed throat gray and crusted.

Bayalun choked, "Afrasib!" She quickly clamped her mouth shut and avoided Yamun's gaze. Her face was pale. Leaning over, she whispered a word to one of the khans beside her. He nodded and slid back out of sight.

"Who are they?" cried out a thin, pock-marked khan, pushing his way through his fellows to get a closer look at the corpses. The other khans surged forward behind him.

"The beast is a hu hsien, a creature of Shou Lung," Jad explained. "The other is the wizard, Afrasib." The prince stopped, letting the khans form their own conclusions.

Eyes, suspicious and hard, started to turn toward Bayalun. She met their gaze firmly, not showing any fear. Slowly and regally, the khadun stood and walked to the dead bodies. She studied the corpses, poking at them with her staff. The khans stepped back, creating a circle around her. She rolled Afrasib's head to the side. "Traitor!" she hissed. Leaning over, she spat onto the dead wizard's face.

"He has betrayed the khahan. The Shou emperor must have bought his loyalty," Bayalun announced, turning back to her seat.

"But who sent these killers?" the pock-faced khan asked, his questions still not satisfied.

"Who, indeed?" Jad asked, looking toward Bayalun.

"The emperor of Shou uses things like the hu hsien as spies," Bayalun countered as she stiffly sat down. "Ask Yamun's priest if this is not so."

"It is true," Yamun said. In the crowd, Koja started at the statement. He didn't see why the khahan was siding with the khadun. He must be must be planning something, the lama decided.

"This is what Shou Lung thinks of us," sneered Yamun, still talking. "Their emperor fears us, so he sends evil spirits to kill me. Do we fear the dogs of Shou?"

"No!" came the cry. Even Chanar seemed roused by the khahan's passionate boast.

"Shall we sit here while they send killers—like this—" Yamun jabbed a finger toward the dead hu hsien. "He sends beasts to stalk us. Are we deer before the hunter?"

"No!" came the shout again. The khans were gripped by rage. Koja was amazed; Yamun showed no sign of the wounds that weakened him only a few minutes before. The khahan stood tall, his legs spread and set solidly.

"Do we wait for them to destroy us all or do we act?" Yamun demanded, raising his arms to the sky. His eyes were fiery, energetic, and powerful, filled with a blaze of blood-lust. Koja gaped. He'd seen the khahan like this only once before, during the great storm at Quaraband.

The khans responded with an inarticulate roar, too many voices trying to shout out their answer all at once. There were those who dissented, but their words were drowned out by the furious outrage of their fellows.

The flood of rage and anger seemed to invigorate Yamun even further. He surveyed the khans with pride, reveling in their fire and adulation. He let the warriors have their way for a while, then raised his hands for silence.

Reluctantly, they hushed to hear his words.

Yamun pushed the khans back from the bodies, clearing himself some space. "This Shou emperor has declared war on us. What shall we do?"

"We must teach them a lesson!" roared out one of the khans, Mongke by name—a thin, bony man with a powerful voice that belied his meager frame.

"How?" demanded Koja, boldly stepping into the circle. "What about the Dragonwall, the great fortification that protects their border? It has never been broken. How will you get through that?" Irritated at the priest's outburst, some of the khans began to shout down his concerns.

"We will conquer Shou because the emperor fears us," Yamun stated with utter conviction. "If this Dragonwall was invincible, the emperor would not fear me. Teylas must have spared me to become a scourge on the emperor, to break his unbreakable wall!"

"A raid!" suggested one of the Kashik khans.

"No, not a raid," Yamun answered coolly. "More than a raid. We'll teach this emperor to fear. We will conquer Shou Lung! I, Yamun Khahan, will be the Illustrious Emperor of All People!" The khahan roared out the last words to the sky, threatening as much as promising. "It is our destiny."

Yamun's eyes blazed. He panted, lustful for the challenge. His heart longed for the fury of battle and the greatness conquest would bring to him.

The excitement of the khans formed into a chant. It was as if Yamun's vision of conquest spread from him to them. It leaped to the khans, took possession of their spirit. Even Koja felt the wild passion, the lust to act that flowed from Yamun.

The khahan stepped back to his seat and surveyed the khans. They looked to him in anticipation: some eager, a few fearful. "Who will go to war with me?

Who will share in the riches of Shou Lung?" he shouted to the masses.

The response came in a tumult of yells and clapping from the khans. Koja, in their midst, was almost deafened by the warriors' frantic shouts. Yamun stood before his seat, clearly enjoying the frenzy. His eyes were wild, and his face was flushed and pulsing with energy. It seemed to the priest that the khahan had found his own cure, Here again was the man who could withstand the might of a god's thunderbolts.

"By the will of Teylas, my khans, we will ride to victory!" proclaimed the khahan. "The Dragonwall must fall!"

13

Plots

Yamun growled at his bodyguards, ten Kashik warriors who circled him at a respectful distance. One of them had clumsily bumped into an armor stand, sending Yamun's gilt mail sprawling. Fumbling to correct his error, man made still more noise. Yamun snarled impatiently for the mortified soldier to stop fussing.

It was one thing to have a bodyguard of ten thousand men who would make camp, patrol at night, and charge boldly into battle; it was quite another thing to have an arban of soldiers hovering around you wherever you went.

The Kashik, however, upon learning that morning that their khahan still lived, were determined to protect him at all times. It was a great honor for the men chosen to guard the khahan, but it was going to take time for Yamun to get adjusted. Still, the khahan knew better than to argue with the devotion and loyalty of his own men.

The guard finally finished straightening the gear and quietly took his place along the wall of the Great Yurt. The other guards stood silently in their positions. Satisfied that there would be no more disturbances, Yamun resumed his conversation.

Sitting at the foot of Yamun's throne was his anda, the grand historian, Koja. "Well, anda," Yamun said to him, "soon there'll be more to write in your histories, if you have the time. There's much to be done before we march on Shou Lung."

The priest looked at Yamun sharply, still puzzled by the events of the couralitai. "Why have you done this?" he finally asked. "You attack Shou Lung and ignore Bayalun. Is this wise?"

Yamun scowled. "Anda, I did what I must." He held out his fists. "Someone seeks to kill me: Bayalun—" He closed one fist. "And Shou Lung." He closed the other. "I will not ignore this insult."

"But Shou Lung is the mightiest of nations!" protested Koja. "Why them and not Bayalun?"

"Bayalun is one of my people. If I strike at her, there will be dissension among the khans. They will demand proof and the wizards will turn against me," the khahan predicted. "Then my empire would be nothing." He lowered his fists. "But, if I attack Shou Lung, my people will stand united in battle, and I will be rid of one enemy. Better one foe than two. That is ruling, is it not?"

Koja swallowed, hearing the determination in Yamun's voice. "But Shou Lung is huge!"

"And their emperor is afraid of me. Scared men can be beaten," Yamun confidently predicted.

Koja resigned himself to Yamun's decision. "What of Bayalun?" he asked as an afterthought.

Yamun dismissed her name with casual wave. "Now that I know her tricks, she will be watched. We will keep her here with us so she can't cause problems. We will keep the snake under our heel.

"I have decided," Yamun noted idly, abruptly changing the subject, "you'll meet with these envoys from Khazari and handle the details of their surrender. I've got to make plans for our conquest of Shou Lung."

"Me, Yamun? Have you forgotten that I am a Khazari? I can't negotiate the surrender," Koja protested.

"Who said negotiate?" the khahan replied sharply. "Just accept their surrender."

"But, there must be terms. I can't just tell them to give up."

"Why not?" Yamun asked, stroking the fine point of his mustache. "They've got no army to protect Manass. I can destroy anything they send. You tell them that. There are too many things for me to do here. There are orders to give, and reports have just arrived from Hubadai in Semphar." He pointed to the royal scribe, next to whom sat a bundle of papers tied with yellow silk ribbons.

"But, they want my head!" the little lama sputtered, nervously rubbing his scalp.

An ironic smile twisted the khahan's scarred lips. "You will do this because I have ordered it. They want your head, so they no longer consider you a countryman. You see, you are no longer a Khazari."

Koja swallowed at Yamun's words. "What can I do?" Although he did not want this task at all, it was clear that he had to accept the khahan's will.

"I want them to surrender," Yamun repeated, knowing that Koja expected more. "Very well, I want goods equal to ten thousand bars of silver to be paid on the first moon of every new year. Then, they must turn over this governor, his wizard, and the Shou officials you described. They escaped the battlefield and I want them—or their heads and hands."

Koja waited for Yamun to outline more, but the khahan had finished his demands. "That is not all," the priest enjoined.

Yamun counted out his terms on his fingers. "Surrender, goods, and prisoners. What else is there?"

Exasperated, Koja took paper and pen from the scribe, spreading the sheet between himself and Yamun. Koja quickly drew Khazari's borders.

"Yamun, these are not wandering tribesmen you have conquered. The Khazari will not surrender and obey you just because you are khahan—"

"Then I'll destroy their homes and scatter the people among my khans. Tell them that," Yamun threatened.

"No, Yamun, that will not do. The Khazari are not like the tribes." Koja dotted the map with the towns and cities of Khazari. "They have stone towns and fields. They do not travel from camp to camp. You must set someone to rule them, pass laws, and make judgments."

Yamun leaned forward to study Koja's map. "This is not our way," he grumbled. "But because you say it must be done, I will consider it. For now, tell the envoys they must give me Manass as my own. Then, they must tear down the walls around all their other ordus." The khahan pushed the crude map away with his toe. "Make me a good map of Khazari, anda."