Free Horselords by David Cook, Larry Elmore Page B

there, the wind began to drop away and the howling rage subsided. The rain changed from a hammerlike pelting to a slower downpour. The water was still icy, and rivers of muck ran into the folds of his robe. Koja’s body was chilled to its core. He clung to the ground, trembling, as the lightning and thunder diminished.
    “Scribe? Where’d you go?” Yamun’s voice carried easily to Koja.
    “Here,” Koja called weakly, raising his head from the mud. Panting, he got to his feet. “I am here, Great Khan. Wherever that is,” he added quietly. With the storm gone, it was too dark to see far.
    “Come here, then,” ordered the khahan. He sounded unharmed by the storm.
    Koja set off in direction of Yamun’s voice. He could only hope he was headed the right way. “Great Lord, where are you?”
    “This way,” came the answer. Koja stumbled along until he found the corral. The fence was still standing, but the pen was silent. Following the fence around, the priest came to the gate. Waiting on the other side was Yamun Khahan, unhurt, although he wavered unsteadily. Spying Koja he said, “Let us go,” offering no explanation.
    Koja nodded automatically, concentrating on the pen. It was empty; there were no horses, living or dead. The lama looked at Yamun, startled, and then back into the corral, trying to see any sign of the horses or any marks left by the glittering blue fire. There were no steeds, and the mud was so churned up that it was impossible to tell what had happened. The fence showed no scorching or damage from the sparks. It was as if nothing had occurred.
    “What happened?” Koja asked in amazement.
    “Come on. We go,” Yamun said as he stepped through the gate. He moved slowly, with exaggerated care. His stiffness could have been caused by the late hour or the lightning. It was impossible for Koja to tell.
    Koja remained insistent. “What happened?”
    Yamun guided the priest by the elbow, firmly squeezing it as they walked along. By now the wind was only a chilly spring breeze and the freezing drops of rain had given way to a fine drizzle.
    “I talked with Teylas, my father, the Lord of the Sky.”
    Koja stared at Yamun, believing him possessed or victim of some demented illusion. Perhaps Yamun meant it only figuratively, he decided. Many people, he knew, “talked” to various gods and never received an answer. Lamas and wandering priests were the only ones he knew of who could contact the fearsome powers of the outer planes and expect some kind of reply.
    Yamun noticed Koja’s skeptical stare. “I talked with Teylas.” The khahan’s voice was filled with conviction.
    Koja didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything he could say that wouldn’t sound patronizing or obsequious. He slogged up the muddy slope alongside Yamun in pained silence. “You were glowing,” he finally said.
    “Was I? I can never see what happens.”
    “You’ve done this before?” Koja sputtered.
    “Of course. Teylas demands his offerings.” The khahan waded through a wide puddle.
    “But you’re not hurt.”
    Yamun stepped over a fallen cooking pot. “Why would Teylas hurt me? I’m the Illustrious Emperor of the Tuigan, and a son of the Blue Wolf.”
    Koja cocked his head at that, trying to decide if Yamun was serious or playing some grotesque joke.
    “Teylas will not strike down his own clan.” Yamun splashed through the mud, not breaking his stride.
    “Then what happened to the horses?” the lama finally asked.
    “Teylas took them.” As Yamun spoke, his breath fogged the air. The temperature was dropping quickly in the wake of the storm.
    “What?”
    Yamun stopped walking and turned to face Koja. The khahan’s shoulders sagged with exhaustion, but his face, especially his eyes, were still vibrant. “The horses now serve Teylas in his realm. Don’t you make sacrifices to your god?”
    “You sacrificed them?”
    “Teylas took them. I didn’t touch them.” Yamun pointed out.
    “Flaming blue sparks