Текст книги "Horselords"

Автор книги: David Cook

Соавторы: David Cook
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"You will come with us, Khazari," said the wrestler. The guard's voice was hard and tinged with an unpleasant threat. Koja decided not to argue. "The khahan has given orders for you to be confined to a yurt. You will come with us." Sechen drew a knife meaningfully.

"But I've done nothing!" protested Koja.

"You are Khazari. Come with us or die." The guards flanked him, each taking one arm. Resigned and more than a little fearful for his safety, Koja allowed himself to be whisked away.

The guards placed him in a small empty yurt. Koja had no idea where his servant or his belongings were. Sechen and the other man took position outside the door. Koja, with little else to do, sat near the door, trying to glimpse the activity outside and listen to whatever he could hear.

For a long time, nothing in particular happened. Then, as the sun was almost set, he heard a familiar thunder. Horses, a large number of them, were on the move. Soon the noise grew louder and louder. Koja could only imagine the scene on the other side of the ridge. The minghans were advancing with the setting sun at their backs, to blind the archers on the walls. The lama strained to hear more. Faintly, echoing through the dusk, were the blasts of horns and the deep, staccato roar of war drums. A ringing, higher note rose above the lower rumble. At first, Koja could not place it, then he realized that it was the sustained cries of screaming horses and men.

The battle for Manass had been joined, and all Koja could do was listen.

The noise continued for about an hour after sunset, gradually growing fainter and less insistent. Koja sat still, rapt by every crash, cry, and wail that reached him. The battle was a failure, the lives were wasted; he was convinced of this. He imagined the ground outside Manass was strewn with gutted horses and broken men. Koja choked back an involuntary sob at the thought of the suffering pointlessly inflicted.

This was Yamun's vision of conquest. It was a dream, filled with blood, valor, and death, but nothing more. Koja wondered if this, the futile attack on Manass, was really what Yamun's god had shown the khahan in that thunderstorm. Was this what Yamun wanted?

Before today, the priest thought Yamun would conquer Khazari. He also had been sure that Yamun could somehow be persuaded to leave it unharmed and safe. Koja had tried to hint and suggest the possibilities for peaceful rule. What hope was there of that now? If the khahan was willing to send his own men to certain death, Koja knew Khazari could expect no mercy from the Tuigan warlord.

Images of the dream came back to him as he began pacing around the yurt. His old master had talked of his lord, and the strange creature claimed Koja was with the khahan. Who was his lord? Prince Ogandi had sent him as ambassador to the Tuigan. The khahan had sent him as ambassador to the Khazari. Now he was a prisoner. Koja felt lost, the events of the day casting his own actions into doubt. There was no treaty between the Tuigan and Khazari as a result of his actions. Instead, there was an army on the border of his homeland. He, as envoy, had failed his prince.

Exhausted, the lama sat back down and prayed to Furo for guidance, silently whispering his sutras as he sat huddled near the door. Finally Koja realized what he must do. As a lama of the Enlightened One, Koja must guide the khahan to be a true ruler, more than just a warlord.

His decision made, Koja strained to hear any sounds of the struggle, but the tumult of battle had ceased. Koja sat patiently, until sleep finally settled over him.

The guards came and woke the lama during the night. It was dark and bitterly cold in the thin mountain air, and Koja was shivering from the instant he awoke.

"Quickly," ordered Sechen, "come with us." The lama groggily heard the words without really understanding them. The guard grabbed him by the arm and pulled him to his feet. "It's time for you to go."

"Go where?" Koja managed to ask as the Kashik pushed him through the doorway. His bodyguards were being none too kind.

"Away. We're leaving," Sechen offered as explanation. It didn't tell Koja much. The guard pushed the priest toward a horse. Servants were already setting to the task of taking down the yurt. Indeed, the camp seemed to be astir, but in an oddly silent way. The normal sounds of breaking camp– the grunted shouts, clatter of cups, even the braying of camels—were all missing. The men, even his guards, spoke in hushed tones. The fires, normally blazing, were damped to the lowest coals.

"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 lounging. 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.