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Teylas, I only read what was written! I am your faithful scribe!”
    “One of you has lied and will forfeit his life for it,” Yamun rumbled, looking from the priest to the scribe. The prostrate servant began heaving with muffled sobs. Koja looked at the letters again, baffled by this strange accusation. Yamun looked at the two men over his folded hands, his mind deep in thought.
    Suddenly the khahan stood, knocking the stool over, and strode to the doorway of the tent. “Captain!” he shouted into the darkness. The officer appeared within a second. “Take this dog out and execute him. Now!” Yamun thrust his finger at the scribe. With a shrieking wail the man clutched at the carpets for safety.
    The scribe’s pathetic screams grew louder as the black-robed guards approached. Koja slid back, out of the way of the grim-faced warriors. Yamun’s visage was fixed with anger and hatred.
    “Shut up, dog!” the khahan shouted. “Guards, take him!”
    Three soldiers picked up the scribe and carried him from the tent. His muffled cries could be heard through the tent walls. Yamun waited expectantly. The screaming grew frantic and hoarse, then there was a dull thud and the screaming stopped. Yamun nodded in satisfaction and took his seat.
    Koja realized that he was trembling. Lowering his eyes, the priest practiced his meditation to regain his composure.
    The captain of the guard pulled the tent flap aside. In his hands was a bloodstained bundle—a simple leather bag. Wordlessly he entered and knelt before the khahan. “As you ordered, so is it done,” the captain said as he unwrapped the package. There, in the middle of the cloth, was the head of the scribe.
    “Well done, Captain. Take his body and feed it to the dogs. Set that,” he sneered, pointing to the head, “on a lance where everyone can see it.”
    “It will be done.” The captain looked at Koja in curiosity, then took the head and left.
    Yamun let out a great sigh and looked at the floor. Finally, he turned to Koja. “Now, priest, bandage my hand.”
    Still trembling slightly, Koja took out his herbs and began to work.

2
Mother Bayalun
    Yamun trotted his horse, a sturdy little piebald mare, through the camps of his soldiers. Alongside him rode Chanar on a pure white stallion. From behind came the jingling clatter of reins and hooves as five bodyguards, black-robed men of the elite Kashik, followed closely behind.
    It had been days since the audience with the priest from Khazari, and Yamun was still reflecting on the events. He scowled as he pondered the contents of the envoy’s letters. The prince of the Khazari wanted a treaty between their two nations. Yamun didn’t know if that was desirable, and, before deciding, he needed to know more about the Khazari—their numbers, strengths, and weaknesses. “The sleeping rabbit is caught by the fox,” or so went the old saying. Yamun had no intention of being lulled to sleep by mere paper.
    Dismissing the topic in his mind, Yamun slowed his horse and looked with pride on the endless sea of soldiers’ tents and campfires. This was his army. He had organized the tribesmen into arbans of ten men, then jaguns of one hundred, further still to minghans of one thousand, ending finally in the tumen, the great divisions of ten thousand men. Every soldier had a rank and a place in the army, just as Yamun planned. Under his command the men of the steppe were transformed from raiding bands into a tightly disciplined army.
    The khahan reined in his horse, bringing it to a stop just in front of a small group of soldiers gathered around their fire. The entourage with him clattered to a stop, too. The squad of ten men who sat around the fire leaped to their feet.
    “Who is the leader of this arban?” Yamun demanded, tapping his horsewhip on his thigh. The khahan’s horse pranced uneasily, agitated by Yamun’s energy.
    One man hurriedly ran forward and flung himself to the ground at the mare’s hooves. In the warm