The Quest of Kadji (10 page)

IT WAS thus, in a mood of alienage and strangerhood, that Kadji came to the king city of the once-mighty Horde, and found the gates of immemorial Chemedis opening before him.

The city was vast and bewildering, but to every hand lay the evidence of an advanced and glorious civilization. Khôr, for all its imperial magnificence, could have been tucked away in one corner of Chemedis and been easily lost.

All of red stone was the old city built, or if not, then the masonry was sheathed in red plaster. The buildings were immense and complicated warrens, almost minor cities in themselves, each crowned with spires and minarets as thickly set as the boles of a forest. The walls of Chemedis were so enormous that entire regiments were housed within them, together with stables and granaries, barracks and kitchens,

The architecture was bewildering in its multiform complexity: great, sleepy-lidded faces of stone gazed down from the eight-sided towers; fantastic dragon-hybrids writhed entangled coils above portal and arch; many-armed and beast-headed gods thronged the paven ways, lining entire avenues in rank on rank of carven stone idols so innumerable as to suggest pantheons as populous as dysasties.

For all its size and splendor, the city was a half-deserted ruin. The entire southern half lay mouldering in decay; kingly mansions were gutted shells; great twisted trees grew in the midst of avenues where once Hordes had marched forth to the conquest of half the world, A once-sophisticated and urban people had degenerated to greasy-faced savages, squatting in filthy hovels built amidst the wreckage of immense palaces their own ancestors had reared. The black oil smoke of cook-fires rose beside ragged tents; naked yellow children ran through paven ways buried beneath centuries of filth; statues lay fallen to fragments; fires had consumed entire suburbs and had burnt out, exhausting their flames against walls of imperishable marble.

Amidst the vast sprawling metropolis rose the Sun Palace, the residence of the Ja Chan. It dwarfed every other structure in all the magnificent city, and it was still an imposing edifice despite centuries of neglect and decay. One entire wing of the enormous palace had collapsed over the interval of ages, and miles of what had once been immaculately tended gardens had been transformed by neglect into an untamed forest, almost a jungle. Kadji and Akthoob strode into the Sun Palace through a portal that reared thirty yards above their heads and into a hall so vast that the eye could not discern the roof thereof. Beggars and shamans camped in the very hall of the monarch, and Kadji saw alcoves that had become reeking latrines, shrines where now unkempt ponies were stabled, and withered crones huddled in filthy tents that had been made out of superb tapestries. The black smoke of camp fires rose here and there amidst the infinity of the colossal hall to add their grime to columns and architraves black with centuries of filth. The squalor and decay was indescribable; the noise and confusion abominable; and the stench beyond words.

The Ja Chan was fat and giggling, painted like a harlot, and covered with flashing gems. He squatted like a huge toad atop a dais covered with priceless carpets, heaped with cushions, over which a golden canopy was stretched. Once that canopy had blazed like the sun and billowed like a cloud; now it was filthy and tattered.

The Ja Chan hardly noticed their obeisance and nodded absently as Yakthuul deposited a silver-bound casket of treasure on the lowest step. He was busy plucking gobbets of some sweet paste from a battered platinum urn with fat, jewelled, dirty fingers, and stuffing them between the rosy painted lips of several beautiful little boys who lolled or squatted nakedly around his cushioned nest. As the boy-concubines giggled and slobbered, licking the sugary paste from his fat hands, Kadji looked away in disgust . . . and promptly forgot the nauseating squalor and license of this degenerate court in a blinding instant of revelation.

HE QUITTED the presence of the toadlike Ja Chan and happily gained the freshness of open air and clean sunlight again. His head was held high and glory shone in his clear eyes,

The dark time was ended; the feverish and worrisome days, the nights of confusion and torment, of mysteries and enigmas. The enigmas were over and done. The shadows that had clustered about him so long, blurring his sense of purpose, darkening the bright clarity of his mission, all, these were now dispersed as swamp-mists are driven away by the rays of the risen sun.

He stood tall and heroic under the blaze of the eastern sun, and he was fit and whole again. Pattering along beside him, hands tucked in the long sleeves of his capacious robe, Akthoob chattered with excitement and nervousness, for the scrawny, faithful little Easterling wizard had seen what Kadji had seen there in the shadows of that abominable throne.

For there on the right hand of the Ja Chan of the Chemed. Horde had stood Shamad the Impostor . . . and the Quest of Kadji was nearly at its end!

Shoulders back, head high, one hand resting lovingly on the handle of the Axe of Thom-Ra, the boy warrior, Kadji, the Red Hawk of the Chayyim Kozanga Nomads, strode forth under the burning sun of the World’s Edge at last to face his destiny.

Or his doom.

THE MASKED PROPHET

Cities are fair and kings are proud,

Princes have wealth to throw away!

Let war’s red music ring forth loud:

A man can die but once, they say!

—
Road Song of the Kozanga Nomads

THEY LEFT the mighty fortress, Kadji in elation but the little Easterling wizard somewhat dejected. All the way back to the caravanserai they talked, careful that none should overhear.

“This humble one assumes there can be no error?” mused the little wizard. Kadji shook his head, bright locks stirring on the wind.

“None, little man! True, he went veiled, but ‘twas not enough to hide his face from me. When he turned his head to speak to the man beside him, the veil moved asunder and I saw it—that red mark on his face that is shapen like a
tarisk
leaf. Lucky for us that birth-blemish is low on his face, below the corner of the mouth, for were it higher the mere stirring of the veil would not have disclosed it. Nay, ‘tis him we seek, the impostor himself!”

The little Easterling grumbled and groused under his breath. When Kadji demanded to know what was troubling him, old Akthoob groaned: “Naught indeed, young sir, save for the slight problem of what we are now to do.”

Kadji frowned. “To do? Why, expose the Masked Prophet for an impostor, what else?”

“Indeed? And may this humble and lowly person inquire how the young warrior plans to accomplish that?”

Precisely how to unveil Shamad was a bit of a problem, and Kadji acknowledged that it would take some thought. Just pointing the finger of accusation and crying out “Impostor” . . . well, that would accomplish little. All Shamad had to do, in such an event, was to deny the charge: Kadji had no proof. To recount the story of his Quest thus far would be merely hearsay, and Shamad could lightly shrug it off.

The nexus of the problem was that the Impostor had ascended to a place of tremendous influence and power among the Chemed Horde. Playing upon the superstitions terrors of the barbaric and degenerate Hordesmen, he had won first their fear and then their enthusiastic worship, for it is a short road from superstition to fanaticism. Somehow or other he had managed to strike awe into them, to convince them that be was the mighty Prophet of old, risen from the shadows of death to lead them on to recover the glories of their former greatness.

Akthoob, like all magicians, was a clever practical psychologist. He knew that one way to persuade great masses of men to join your cause was to tell them what they most wanted to hear. Men are easily convinced that what they wish to be true—is true. Here, in the decayed wreckage of their past grandeur, the remnants of the gigantic Horde wanted desperately to be told that they had the favor of their savage gods and could recover the world-spanning empire they had lost. For generations they had dreamed that the hallowed Masked Prophet of Kamon-Thaa would someday return to lend his supernatural powers to the restoration of their greatness. Now that be had in fact returned, they would believe in hint to the last; were Kadji to force them to face reality and to abandon their dreams of glory, they would trample him down. They did not want the truth; they would cling hungrily to their dream and would defend Shamad against a thousand Kadjis!

Back in the caravanserai they discussed the problem over a bottle of tart purpleberry wine while the shadows of afternoon lengthened in the ruin-choked forum outside. And when they came to settle the bill, yet another problem presented itself.

They were growing short of funds.

THE NEXT day they busied themselves seeking some sort of employment whereon to live while they sought a route to their goal. But this proved difficult.

Akthoob might earn a few copper coins performing his magical feats in wineshop or marketplace, but the competition was enormous. Half the sorcerers and magicians of the eastern kingdoms were gathering in the metropolis of Chemedis, for the Masked Prophet was assembling a legion of wizards. When the Horde was ready to begin the reconquest of the world, it would fight with sorcery against the swords of the foe. And thus, in every wineshop, on every street corner, and in each forum or square, a dozen or a score of thaumaturgists were already performing their shadowy arts to entertain the throng of warriors. Akthoob returned to the inn as Kylix the sun star sank crimson in the east, and he returned with scarc6 enough coppers to afford the cheapest evening meal for the two.

Kadji had met with even less luck. In a city so huge, there should have been many ways in which a strong youth could gain employment—but he had found none. And each person to whom he had applied bad turned him away with the same words—”The Masked Prophet has declared that all other occupations save the glorious profession of the warrior are treason against the Sun Throne. In the war of destiny, all men shall be warriors of the Ja Chan!”

“At this rate, we shall be able to afford our room for only another two days, this person fears,” moaned Akthoob. “Then we must sell our horses and beg in the streets, if we would not starve.
Aii
, this lowly one should have stayed in golden Khôr!”

Kadji grimly downed the cheap supper of black bread and ale, and determined there was only one course for them to follow. He had not yet figured out a method by which the Masked Prophet could be exposed. He needed more time. And there was only one thing that they could do to buy time.

And that was—sell themselves!

Thus at dawn of the following day, Kadji, Red Hawk of the Chayyim Kozanga Nomads, sold his sword. The emblem of the seven gold dragons was sewn on his tunic, and he became a warrior in the Chemed Horde, a mercenary in the service of the Ja Chan.

THE NEXT few days passed swiftly. From sunup to evening, Kadji drilled under the merciless eyes of the Horde officers. The Chemed warriors fought from horseback, with pikestaff, hook sword, and barbed lash, and in the use of these weapons Kadji required much drilling. He worked, ate and slept with his fellow warriors, and seldom could find the time to consult with Akthoob; indeed, the little Easterling had enlisted in the corps of wizards and was equally busy during the daylight hours.

Kadji had feared that being an outlander would make him an oddity among the little slant-eyed, bandy-legged Easterling warriors. Happily, this was not true: many a white-skinned Westerling had drifted east to join the growing ranks of the Horde, for the Ja Chan scattered his golden largesse with a liberal hand and the host of the Horde had dwindled so much in recent generations that to build an army for the reconquest of the world he was forced to fill whole regiments with Westerling mercenaries. Indeed, there were thousands of the tall stalwart light-skinned warriors of the west in the streets of Chemedis, and among them Kadji was but another stranger.

The days passed swiftly and Kadji found little leisure to work on the problem that baffled him, although now as a warrior of the Horde he might find it easier to gain access to Sun Throne when time came to rip the veil from the face of the false Prophet.

All day he labored in the ranks, learning to ride the little shaggy-maned ponies bareback in the Horde fashion; learning to use the hook sword and barbed whip and long-handled pike that were the traditional and sacred weapons of the Chemed Horde warriors. Each night in the crowded barracks he went to his pallet with aching muscles and weary limbs, too exhausted to think and plot and plan, only to fall asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pallet; and the sleeps that followed were deep and dreamless sleeps.

Day by day the host of the Horde grew. Thousands of new warriors swelled the ranks of the Chemed warriors . . . Easterling peasants and farmers, the younger sons of noble lords, wandering adventurers and mercenary swordsmen . . . they came flocking to the Seven Dragons Banner, drawn by the magic of the legended empire of old and by the glory of the Arisen One, as the Masked Prophet was called.

And then one day Kadji saw her again.

His squadron was riding through the streets to an exercise field on the other side of the barracks area. It was a rainy day, the sky veiled in gloom, high-piled clouds mantling the west, the broken and crumbling pave glistening with puddles. In double file the Westerling mercenaries rode through the streets cloaked and hooded against the wet.

There were few out on so dismal a day, but as they rode along, Kadji noticed someone riding a horse that looked familiar.

Even more familiar was the great grey wolf that gilded like a shadowy phantom at the side of the horse.

When they drew alongside Kadji strove to catch a glimpse of the rider’s face, but it was, hooded like his own against the downpour.

But what drew him up tense in the saddle, what forced a cry from his lips, was the glimpse he caught of the rider’s hair.

It was red and gold, like flame, that long lock, of hair that had escaped from the rain hood.

Long and rippling: a woman’s hair.

Thyra’s
hair!

ALAS, HE WAS a bound man now, and not a free agent; thus he must obey the orders of his officer and continue on to another weary day of weapon practice. He could not obey his inclinations and turn aside to investigate this flamehaired woman who rode the streets of ruined and age-old Chemedis with a great grey plains-wolf at her side like a savage dog.

But he could not get her out of his mind! That it was, must be, Thyra he entertained no doubt. But what was her mission to the court of the Ja Chan?

Had she, like them, discovered that Shamad now posed as the Arisen One, the shadowy and mysterious messiah of old, returned to lead the Horde to the heights of its lost glory?

If so, was she here to destroy Shamad—or to join forces with him? To expose him, to the fury of those whom he had hoaxed . . . or to lend him the allegiance and supernatural aid of the White Witches of Zoromesh?

Kadji did not know what to believe. But he feared . . .

ONCE A WEEK, Kadji went off duty and was permitted to leave the crowded barracks and seek an evening’s diversion in the wineshops and pleasure-houses of the great metropolis.

On these nights, it was his custom to meet with Akthoob at the caravanserai where their horses were stalled.

On the next such evening they met; a grey evening of cold drizzling rains—the evening of the day he had glimpsed the girl he suspected to be Thyra of Zoromesh in the streets. Kadji was morose, short of tongue, preoccupied. He still could find no way to expose the Masked Prophet for an impostor; although he had found employment and was well-fed and housed, be was no nearer to the solution of his problem and the achievement of his Quest than he had been seven days before. Thus, glumly, he toyed with his wine and stared broodingly into the flames that crackled on the great stone hearth while garrulous old Akthoob chattered merrily.

The little Easterling wizard had found much to seize his interest in the service of the Ja Chan. It was a professional matter, so to speak: the arts and sciences of sorcery were his lifelong enthusiasm, and tonight he was babbling over his new friendship with a necromancer from the isle of Thang in the Southern Sea.

Kadji hearkened to his happy babbling with but half an ear. But he gathered that the prime cause for Akthoob’s wizardly enthusiasm was the rarity of his new colleague’s specialty. He was given to understand that necromancers were rarely met with in these benighted days, for the ancient science was out of fashion and the necromantic arts were dying and well-nigh lost.

“. . .
Aii
, the honorable young warrior doubtless cannot grasp an old man’s enthusiasm! But not since this lowly one was a humble young novice in the collegium of the Secret Sciences in far-off Zool below the shadow of Mount Ing, has he chanced to encounter a practitioner of the art necromantic! ‘Tis rare in our age to discover one given to the study of this unusual science; ah, but this one hopes to prosper by the gods-given opportunity to gain knowledge of the rare science from this person’s new colleague, the Necromancer Arbalac! Perhaps even to observe and experience’ at first hand the Xin Ritual itself!
That
would truly be a rare intellectual stimulus, for the Xin is, of all the rites of the art of Ceremonial Magic, the most seldom practiced . . .”

“What is a necromancer, anyway?” Kadji grunted. “I thought you were one.”

Akthoob’s long bony face broke in a toothy smile.

“Ah, young master, surely you jest! This lowly and insignificant one is but a wizard.”

“Wizard, necromancer, magician—what’s the difference, old man?”

An expression of prim reproof settled on the old Easterling’s knobby features.

“What, young sir, is the difference between a blacksmith, an archer, and a raiser of hogs? To each his own art, sayeth the Black Sage! As for the thaumaturgical sciences, the honorable young warrior must know they are several and distinct A wizard employs talismans and amulets, periapts and sigils—material agents—to effect his sorceries.”

“Likç the mind-crystal you used back in Khôr, I suppose?” Kadji asked, only half listening.

Akthoob nodded enthusiastically. “Exactly! But a magician, now, uses spells and cantrips, mantra, and the speaking-aloud of Names of Power, you see. It is a very different thing: one employs an object, a talisman; the other, a spoken spell or Name.”

“And this necromancer of yours? What does he do?”

“
Aii!
A necromancer, now! He conjures up the spirits of the dead, either to learn from their shadowy lips the secrets of the past, or to gain from the prophecies of the days yet to come. A most difficult art indeed, and far more complicated than the mere casting of a spell—whether by talisman or uttered cantrip! Your necromancer, now, employs ritual: the drawing of pentacles, the purifying of the chamber, the burning of the appropriate incense, the recitation of the ceremonial conjuration, the use of the Planetary metals . . . ah, a most difficult art, in sooth!”

“And this Xin Ritual? What is that?” asked Kadji.

Akthoob was bubbling with enthusiasm, rubbing his hands together briskly.

“The most concentrated and powerful of au the necromantic rites of Ceremonial Magic,” he said. “For it dispenses with all external instruments of the art (save fur the use of the Great Conjurational Circle, of course). The Xin Ritual is an act of the disciplined will, and by it the spirit of a dead person may be conjured at any time, in any place, without all the flummery of asperging, suffumigation, purification, incense, perfume, the use of Planetary metals . . .”

Kadji let the old fellow talk on. But ere long, yawning with boredom, he begged his comrade’s pardon and rode sleepily back to the barracks to report in early.