David Cook - Horselords (Forgotten Realms: The Empires Trilogy, Book 1)

Horselords

Book 1 of the Empires Trilogy

By David Cook

A Proofpack Release

Ebook version 1.0

Release Date: December, 15th, 2003

The streets of Manass remained empty as the priest and his barbarian bodyguards marched through the town. The procession saw few men until it rounded a corner and entered a large plaza. There, armored soldiers carrying wicked-looking swords formed a wall.

The priest bowed to the governor, who stood foremost in the ranks. "I am a Koja of Khazari," he began, a little nervous. "I bear you greetings from Hoekun Yamun, khahan of the Tuigan, who styles himself Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples. He has sent me to deliver a message. The words of the khahan are these: 'Submit to me and recognize my authority over your people or I shall raze your city and destroy all those who refuse me.' "

As Koja finished the demands, there was a murmur of shock and surprise from the soldiers in the plaza. Many eyes turned to the governor, whose face was purple with rage. "Is that all your barbarian friend has to say?" he shouted.

The priest wiped his sweaty palms on his robe. "No, Lord Commander. He also bids you to look over your walls from your highest tower."

"I've seen the reports from the sentries. Your khahan has gathered himself a sizable force of bandits. And now he wants to style himself 'Illustrious Emperor of All Peoples?' He's got a lot to do before he can claim that title," the governor said with a sneer. "Does he really think he can capture Manass with that puny force?"

Koja smiled slightly. "Yes, Lord Commander, he does."

THE EMPIRES TRILOGY

HORSELORDS

David Cook

DRAGONWALL

Troy Denning

CRUSADE

James Lowder

HORSELORDS

Copyright 1990 TSR, Inc.

All Rights Reserved.

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Distributed in the United Kingdom by TSR Ltd.

Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributors.

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First Printing: April, 1990

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Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 8951888

987654321

ISBN: 0-88038-904-4

All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

is purely coincidental.

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To Sarah Elizabeth, who will be with us in our memories, and to Helen.

Quaraband was a city of tents. There were no permanent buildings, only domelike yurts of white and black spread out in the shallow bowl of a valley. The little round shelters were scattered in dense clumps, large and small, radiating out from the river that meandered across the valley from the south. The space between each yurt was cluttered with heavy, wooden-wheeled carts, ox yokes, racks of drying meat, hobbled horses, and camels. Here and there were wicker corrals for horses and sheep. Thin trails of smoke drifted from the cooking fires between the yurts. Farther out were herds of horses, cattle, and sheep grazing on the greening grass of the spring steppe.

The stubby grass broke through the pitted crust of old snow that still dotted the plain. White snow, green grass, and brown dirt covered the flat ground in broken patches, stretching as far as one could see. There were no trees, only gently rolling hillocks that rippled to the horizon. Dark scars from old gullies made jagged cuts across the barren land. Small clumps of bright blue and pink, the blooms of early crocus and dwarf lily, struggled against the cold to bring the first signs of spring to the land.

Chanar Ong Kho, a general of the Tuigan, seemed to glisten as sunlight played off the burnished metal scales of his armor. The light emphasized the luster of Chanar's thick braids and the thin sheen of sweat on the shaven patch at the top of his head. The sword at his side, its scabbard set with sapphires and garnets, swung in rhythm to his mare's swaying steps, scratching out a beat as it scraped against the general's metal leggings.

Saddle leather creaked as Chanar looked back to see if his companion was impressed. The man, a gaunt rider on a black mare, lurched along, parallel to a long, winding file of mounted soldiers a small part of the ten thousand men under General Chanar's command. The companion wore what were once bright orange robes, though they were now travel-stained and worn. His head was shaven, and around his neck hung several strings of beads, each ending in a small prayer case of silver filigree. The priest rode stiffly, bouncing with every jolt, not with the natural grace of his fellow horseman. Chanar waited with bemused distaste as the priest pulled alongside.

"Tonight, Koja of the Khazari, you'll sleep in the tents of the Tuigan," Chanar announced, as he leaned forward to stroke his mare's neck. "Even though it's only been a few nights under the sky."

"Three weeks is more than a few nights," Koja observed. The priest spoke haltingly, with a musical inflection, ill-suited to the guttural twists of the Tuigan tongue. It was a language clearly different from his own. "Even you, honorable general, must welcome a night in warmer surroundings."

"Warm or cold, Khazari, it makes no difference to me. The Blue Wolf gave birth to our ancestors in the bitter cold of winter. My home is where I stand. Learn that if you mean to stay with us," General Chanar answered. Snapping the flank of the dapple mare with his knout, the general urged his horse into a gallop toward Quaraband, leaving the foreign priest behind.

Koja let out an exasperated sigh as he watched the horse-warrior gallop ahead. Once again Koja had to put up with the arrogance of the Tuigan general. The priest was saddle-stiff, dust-caked, and sun-scorched after three weeks of constant riding. The Khazari had traveled with the general and ten thousand Tuigan warriors through forests, over mountains, and finally across the dry and empty steppe to reach the great capital of the Tuigan people. He had left the comforts of civilization far behind.

Now, the capital of these mysterious warriors, men who bedeviled the valuable caravan trade, lay ahead. This khahan, emperor of the Tuigan, could wait a few more minutes while he looked their city over.

It was primitive, rustic and it took Koja's breath away. There wasn't a single stone building in Quaraband. The little tentsyurtswere dirty felt mounds, but the sheer number of them was awe-inspiring. There were thousands of the yurts set up upon the plain. Quaraband covered the valley floor, a mile or more in each direction. A gray smudge of smoke hung over the tents, the residue from hundreds of fires. It had an acrid tang that came from burning dung. This unpleasant fuel was a necessity, since there was precious little else to burn on the treeless steppe.

A cloud of dust swirled up in front of Koja, partially obscuring his view of the city. The line of troopers snaked past; the sound of snorting horses, grumbled curses, and creaking leather suddenly reminded the priest of where he was. General Chanar was well ahead, trotting toward Quaraband. Koja awkwardly spurred his own horse forward, hurrying to catch up.