Horselords by David Cook, Larry Elmore Page B

for him, the priest set out. One man rode alongside him, holding the reins of his horse. Ever since Koja’s accident, the guards had taken the utmost precautions with his mount. None of them wanted the foreigner’s horse to go galloping off again.
    The rain from the night before had altered the dry steppe. The snow cover had melted to patches and pools of slushy mud. Grasses and flowers, filled with bright vibrant green, had sprung up where none had been before. The ground around the Great Yurt was checked with swatches of fresh green and barren areas of churned mud. Small, black-headed birds hopped around the edges of these mires, poking at the standing water with their beaks. Children charged at them, scaring them off, and then splashed merrily through the muck. The legs and the hems of their robes were caked in mud.
    Passing through the entrance to the khahan’s compound, the guards dismounted and led their horses up the slope. As they marched to the royal yurt, Koja looked out across the the horse pens, trying to decide which corral had been the scene of last night’s terrifying visitation. There was nothing to distinguish one from another, so he couldn’t be sure which of them was the one.
    “Captain,” Koja called out as he hurried to ride alongside the officer in charge, “did anything unusual happen last night?”
    Slowing his pace, the officer turned to look at Koja. “Unusual? Teylas sent a storm.”
    “Yes, but more than that. Did the nightguards report anything strange?”
    The captain looked at him suspiciously, his eyes narrowed. “Strange? I did not hear of anything strange.”
    “I heard rumors some horses had escaped.”
    “A man who listens to his neighbors seldom hears the truth.” The captain once again picked up his pace, making it clear he would answer no more questions.
    As he neared the top of the hill, Koja saw that the court was to be held outside today. The area was already prepared. Felt rugs in bright red and black patterns were laid out over the sodden ground, layered thickly to keep the topmost ones dry. A small stool for the khahan sat near the doorway to his yurt. Behind the seat towered the khahan’s horsetail standard, a sign that he was present in his compound. On the left was the khahan’s golden bow case as well as a quiver filled with blue-feathered arrows. On the right side of the standard was a saddle of polished red leather. A white trim of sheepskin decorated the saddle’s edges, and its silver fittings gleamed brilliantly in the sun. A tray with cups, a kettle, and a pitcher sat beside Yamun’s throne.
    “And let his horses graze in our pasture,” boomed the khahan from nearby. He was walking up the hill along another trail, evidently returning from some business. He was still dressed in the thick layers of the his sleeping robes, and his hair was loose, undone. Koja could see the tips of his toes under the long hems, unshod and covered in cold mud.
    With Yamun walked an old, stoop-backed khan, who was absentmindedly nodding as the khahan gave his orders. The ancient man was a short, thin fellow with patchy spots of hair and a perpetual stoop. Koja recognized the man as Goyuk Khan, one of Yamun’s trusted advisors.
    Behind those two followed an entourage of guards and attendants. There were several unsmiling dayguards in heavy black kalats, hands always at the hilts of their swords. Yamun’s quiverbearers, his personal servants, carried his morning clothes and a silver-hiked sword in a bejeweled scabbard. At the end of the group came one servant carrying a hooded falcon, the khahan’s prized hunting bird, out for its exercise. All told, Koja counted at least thirty people. Yamun acted as if they were not there.
    Koja had been told the khahan had two thousand quiverbearers in his service and another four thousand dayguards. No one had ever estimated the number of nightguards, the finest of the bodyguard, because the khahan had decreed anyone that curious would