Horselords by David Cook, Larry Elmore Page A

‘A man who tells the truth should have one foot in the stirrup,’” he quoted. “It’s good advice. You should remember it.”
    Koja finally gave up and spoke his mind. “I do not want to be your chronicler, Yamun Khahan.”
    “I know.”
    “Then why do you make me do it? Why do you need a biographer?”
    “Because Teylas revealed that I should,” Yamun said testily as he pulled at one of his sodden boots.
    “But why? What good would I do you?”
    “This is no longer amusing, scribe. There will be no more argument,” Yamun snapped, his voice rising in volume. “You will write the history of my great deeds because I am the khahan of the Tuigan and I say you will. Every king and every emperor has someone to make songs about them. You will write mine. Now leave until you are called for!” With a jerk Yamun pulled the boot off and threw it aside.
    Stiffly, Koja walked out of the tent, giving only a slight bow and turning his back to the khahan upon leaving. The tent flap slapped shut with a wet flop.
    After the priest left, Yamun sat brooding, staring into his glass. The wind whistled around through the small gaps in the smoke hole. Drips fell in the corners where the rainwater had soaked through the seams of the tent.
    After the nightguard had laced up the flap of the tent, Yamun spoke. “What do you think?”
    “Me, Great Lord?” the guard asked in surprise.
    “What do you think of the Khazari priest?” Yamun said, pointing to the door.
    “It’s not for me to say, Great Lord,” the guard deferred.
    “I’m asking, so it is. Come closer and tell me.”
    Intimidated by the khahan, the man hesitantly came forward. “Noble khahan, I apologize for speaking so boldly, but I speak because you have ordered it. The foreigner is disrespectful.”
    “Oh,” Yamun commented as he began tugging at his other boot.
    The guard became more confident. “He argues and does not heed your word. He is only a foreigner, yet he dares challenge you.”
    “And what should I do?” Yamun asked, jerking on the stubborn shoe.
    “He should be flogged. If a man in my tumen spoke as he did, our commander would have him beaten!”
    “Your commander is a fool,” Yamun observed, adding a loud grunt as the boot came off with a thick pop.
    The guard looked up, his eyes wide with astonishment.
    Yamun continued. “What if everyone obeyed me and never questioned my word? Where would I get my wise advisors? They’d be no better than a worn boot.” The khahan held up his own mud-caked boot and then tossed it aside.
    Humbled, the guard nodded automatically.
    “Why do you think the truthful man has one foot in the stirrup? Truth is not always what people want to hear. Learn and someday I will make you a commander,” Yamun finished, suppressing a yawn. He struggled to his feet and began unfastening the toggles of his robes. “Now, I’m tired and will sleep alone tonight. See that my guards are in order and send someone to the women’s tent. Tell the ladies they won’t be needed. You will sleep at my doorstep.”
    “By your word, it shall be done,” said the guard, touching his head to the floor, acknowledging the duty the khahan had given him. He ran to the doorway and loosened the laces enough to bark out his orders.
    Before the guard finished, the khahan had struggled out of his clothes and collapsed, exhausted, onto the hard wooden bed set up behind his throne.

4
Chanar
    It was late the next morning when an escort of black-robed dayguards arrived for Koja to lead him to the royal compound. Reluctantly, the priest gathered his writing materials together. Today he was not eager to enter Yamun’s presence, not after what had happened last night. Although the wild night out in the storm was clear in his mind, except for the moments where he had succumbed to blind panic, Koja still had no understanding of what had happened. That, along with the idea of becoming the khahan’s biographer, frightened him.
    Taking the horse waiting