The Quest of Kadji (3 page)
ERE THE sun star Kylix had ascended to the zenith of noon, Kadji had finished purchasing his provisions. He settled his debt to the innkeeper, paid for stabling his pony, mounted and rode forth from Nabdoor. The sleepy Rashemba knights merely waved him through the gates without a word of query; still and all, the Red Hawk did not breathe freely until he had left the shadow of the walls of Nabdoor-town far behind.
Ahead of him, grim and bleak under the grey wintry sky, the endless plains of whispering grasses stretched north and ever north to the gates of golden Khôr and the fulfillment of his mighty Quest. He turned his pony onto the caravan road to Khôr and rode with a blithe heart and a merry song on his lips under the lowering sky.
The air was crisp and clear and cold, and the wind which sprang up with late afternoon had a sharp biting edge like a steel knife, but he pulled his fringed cloak more closely about him and rode on. It was a small joy to the youth to know that every hour brought him nearer to his goal; that with every league he rode he drew closer to the Dragon Throne, and to the dreamed-of confrontation with the shrinking and cowardly black-heart that sat in the sacred chair and wore the false name of Holy Yakthodah, and to the epic moment of glory when through his hands the Axe of Thom-Ra would strike down the Usurper on the high seat of his power, amidst the fat greedy
kugars
and the venal and cunning Rashemba knights.
What would happen after that proud and splendid moment, the boy Kadji could not envision. His dream stopped with the fall of Shamad the False . . . what would happen thereafter, Kadji could not guess. Doubtless he would die himself in the very next moment, cut down by the enraged knights of Prince Bayazin of Rashemba . . .
Perhaps. Very likely.
At any rate, he somehow did not see himself riding this same road south again, through the Barren Hills and the streets of Nabdoor, fording the level waters of the Babdar, and thence south across the Great Plains to the black mountains within whose hidden and secret heart his lordly grandfather Zarouk awaited his coming.
THE RED HAWK rode north as sunset filled the west with flame and rode on under bright stars as the first of the Seven Moons arose to fill the skies with silvern light.
He slept that night beside a flickering fire in the grasses and rose with first dawn to ride on. North and ever north.
And as he rode, Kadji the Red Hawk of the Chayyim Kozanga did not guess or dream that his feet were set upon the first leagues of a journey that would take him across the measureless face of the world to its legended and unknown very Edge, and to a strange and marvelous destiny before the gates of shining Ithombar the City of the Immortals.
Nor that his name would live in song ten thousand years.
IN GOLDEN KHÔR
O life is short—and death is long—
‘Tis joy to live, and joy to slay!
Out swords and life the battle-song:
A man can die but once, they say!
—
Road Song of the Kozanga Nomads
IT WAS with dawn the Red Hawk rode proudly into high and golden Khôr.
Heaven was a canopy of golden silk shot through and through with flamy tints, and the lofty towers and tall spires of the imperial city caught and held the first shafts of brilliant day and blazed with a glory of flame.
Nor was it by mere accident or chance that Kadji chose the hour of dawn for his entry into the Dragon Emperor’s city. He knew that guards who have watched the gates all night, marching their weary rounds upon the crest of the mighty wall, would at dawn be thinking more of breakfast and a soft warm couch than of catching an outlaw or piercing a disguise.
And also, at this hour, the gate road was flooded with early travelers: heralds in the imperial scarlet and silver, bearing scrolls sealed in hollow segments of the horns of unicorns; farmers with groaning wains, eager to be first at market; all manner of priests in black robes, sorcerers in purple, soothsayers in prophetic green, bound for the shrines, temples, holstelries and librariums of the great city.
In such a thick and motley throng, a lone warrior can easily lose himself; thus Kadji used a fat puffing old pedlar in soiled and tattered blue, mounted upon a fat waddling grey mare, to block himself from the view of the guardians of the gate, sleepy-eyed and brusk though they were.
He suffered the torments of the illicit, for a moment or two, when the fat old pedlar stopped dead before one of the guards and loudly asked the way to a good inn. The boy bent his heed as if to adjust his leggings and fumbled with sweating fingers at the leathern thongs while the pedlar and the guard discussed the merits of this or that hostelry, and finally came to a mutual agreement on an establishment called the House of the Seven Moons.
But then the pedlar, bobbing his bald head In courtesy to the surly Rashemba knight, thumped his bare heels in the ribs of his mare and she went clopping forward, with the boy Kadji on his black Feridoon pony closely behind, and he was inside the frowning walls of golden Khôr.
Once he was past the scrutiny of the gate guards, Kadji turned his black pony into one of the broad avenues that radiated out like spokes from the hub of a wheel from the palace-crowned hill that lay at the heart of Khôr. All about him was hurry and bustle, even at this early hour: fat greasy
kugars
borne by tawny Easterling slaves in sumptuous palanquins, guardsmen on horseback and beggars afoot, court ladies in veiled conveyances, archers in clattering companies, merchants, laborers, priests. The broad avenues were throned with hundreds of men and women, and amidst the crush and flurry, the Nomad boy felt lost and alone and out of place. He rode about aimlessly for a while, as the sun star Kylix climbed higher and ever higher in the azure dome of heaven; getting the feel and flavor of the Dragon City.
He cast a carefully casual glance or two at the high walls and gleaming towers and golden domes of the Khalidûr, the Citadel of the Dragon, as the imperial fortress-palace was called. To seek an audience with Shamad the Impostor openly was futile and foolish: he must come to stand before the Dragon Throne by some subterfuge, some subtle scheme. Doubtless one would occur to him—later. In the meanwhile he rode the city streets and gazed upon the myriad marvels of the world’s greatest and most splendid capital.
Never—as it chanced—had the boy Kadji been within the walls of imperial Khôr. Even when he rode with his sword-brothers to establish the false Yakthodah on the holy throne, he had not entered the golden gates but had remained behind in the Nomad camp. Now was he here in truth—and alone!
Jubilation bubbled up in the boy’s heart; but his head was cool, and he did not fail to see that it would be exceedingly difficult to make his entry into the fortress of Khalidûr. For whole companies of imperial scarlet-and-silver guards watched the gates—the Dragon Guard, they were called, he knew, and their number was made up of foreigners and Rashemba knights and mercenaries from distant and strange kingdoms.
About the base of the mountainous citadel, which was almost a small city in itself, and which the folk of Kbôr called the “Inner City,” ran a deep rushing, moat as broad as a river. Guard towers stood at either end of the seven bridges that spanned this moat, and the heart of Kadji sank in gloom as he saw that every person who sought entry to the citadel was stripped and searched and disarmed of any weapon whatsoever, even to the smallest dagger.
Getting in would not be easy.
Getting out again might prove impossible.
However, he would worry about such problems later.
Suffice it for the moment the troubles thereof, and let tomorrow’s trouble await the morrow
—or so ran the old saying of the Chayyim Kozanga Nomads.
He had at least gained entry Into Khôr, and that without arousing the suspicions of any person.
And thus came Kadji to the Dragon City, and the first part of his Quest was accomplished.
HIS MORNING tour of Khôr finished, the boy turned off into a maze of side streets and began searching for a hostelry. The first such that be encountered bore painted on a shield hung above the courtyard gate the emblem of seven red crescents. This must be, he guessed, that same House of the Seven Moons whereof the fat pedlar had inquired of the gate guardians. On impulse he decided to stop here, as he was weary and hungry and cold.
The inns of Khôr, it seemed, were very different from the rude and rickety little inns, simple fare and rough housing he had sampled days earlier at the little hill town of Nabdoor. He could see the difference the moment he guided his pony through the portal emblazoned with the Sign of the Seven Moons.
Within he found a broad stone-paved courtyard, swept spotless, and a livery-clad stableboy to take the reins of his pony popped up on the instant, as if conjured into being by a magician.
The main hall of the hostelry was very large and low-ceilinged, stone walls and pillars washed in clean plaster of snowy white and warm peach and creamy rose. There was not just one but three mighty hearths with great fires roaring against the biting chill of the day, and scurrying scullery boys greasing and salting and spicing the, mighty slabs of beef turning on slow creaking spits over the thundering fires.
The hall was crowded, despite the early hour, and men sprawled drinking at long low wooden tables. They were drinking vintage wine from rare glass bottles and stoppered earthenware pots, rather than sour beer or cheap ale from leathern jacks. These things the boy noted at once, and not without certain qualms, for although his purse was well-stuffed with gold and silver coin, it was not bottomless—Zarouk, had seen him well-furnished of pocket, reminded of the aphorism that the man who pays his way liberally goes a smooth road, while he who pinches his purse is ever in suspicion.
A fat, oily innkeeper with a smooth smile and cold ugly eyes greeted him effusively and found a room for him on the third floor of the establishment, though at a price that caused the boy warrior to wince visibly. These necessaries accomplished, and a livery-clad servingman having carried his saddlebags up to his room, Kadji turned aside into the hall and found a place for himself near the fire and ordered a hearty meal, although not without wondering how much, it would cost him. When he asked, with a forced and false casualness, the serving girl named a figure so extreme that he had to bite his lip against crying Out the word. “thievery!”— and, sourly, the boy reflected that with prices like these he would have to accomplish his Quest swiftly or find himself sleeping empty-pocketed in some alleyway.
Kadji devoured the meal with relish, despite the cost, and was finishing his pastry when the noise of an altercation forced itself upon his attention.
While eating, the boy had noticed in an offhand manner the arrival of a
kugar
lordling into the inn’s main hall, for the man made so much noise slamming in through the door, and such a great affair of shaking off the snow from his overcloak, and such a proud display of ruffled sleeve and velvet sash and gold buttons that he could hardly be ignored. For all that he was already flushed and somewhat the worse for wine, the young lordling loudly called for more, and so peremptory were his several needs that it took three hurrying maids to settle and serve him. Seated as if throned, booted feet thrust out before him, the
kugar
rudely stared about him at the others in so offensive a manner that Kadji wondered how the boorish fellow survived from day to day without getting into continuous fights.
He little dreamed that before the world was an hour older he would be facing this same
kugar
with naked steel himself.
IT WAS a sudden explosion of thunderous bellowings that drew Kadji’s attention to the scene.
The
kugar
had been sprawled out, feet rudely thrust wide, blocking the aisle between the long low tables, and, it seemed, a passing fellow had stumbled over them. Instead of making his apologies for causing the other man to stumble, the
kugar
sprang to his feet with a roar of rage and hurled a string of epithets at the inoffensive fellow. Looking up, Kadji saw that the man was a little old man, lean and bony, in the grey robes of a wizard. A small, timid, inoffensive old man he seemed, with worried and watery eyes, slitted in the Easterling fashion, his yellowy head shaven but for a black queue, his hands buried in the capacious sleeves of his wizard robes, which, Kadji saw, were soiled and patched and tattered. This was odd, for the House of the Seven Moons catered most obviously to those whose purses were well-stuffed with gold coin. But there was no time to dwell on this peculiarity now, for events were exploding into a quarrel.
The mousey little wizard had been pattering down the narrow aisle between the crowded benches when his lean and bony shanks collided with the outstretched legs of the noisy, red-faced young lout of a
kugar
. The old man, his head bowed on his chest in deep thought or meditation, had not spied the spread-out legs of the drunken and offensive young lordling, and he had stumbled over them. Squealing in dismay, the wizard staggered, tripped, and nearly fell. Thrusting out his hands to steady himself, he had the bad luck to strike the
kugar’s
arm just as the surly young lordling was hoisting a full goblet of fiery liquor to his lips. When he joggled the lordling’s arm, the cup went flying, and so did the expensive purple beverage therein.
The
kugar
surged to his feet with an inarticulate roar of rage, and stood there with fire gleaming in his bloodshot, piggish, squinting little eyes, while the purple brandy dripped from his soaked japon and velvets.
Now, as, attracted by the disturbance, Kadji looked up, It was to see the poor old wizard shrinking beneath torrents of verbal abuse, fumbling for apologetic words, frightened gaze roaming about, while the burly young lordling, who towered over him with one red hand clenched on the hilt of his curved sabre, bellowed the vilest and coarsest insults at the old man from the top of his voice.
The little wizard was confused and bewildered and stammered for polite words; the
kugar
, younger by twenty years and taller by half a yard, glared down at him, red-faced and roaring, little pig-eyes fierce and brilliant and alive with the pleasure of a born bully.
“You foul-breathed, toad-hearted, stinking lump of dung! Dirty my boots, will you! Kick my feet out of your way, will you! Stinking gob of an Easterling whore! I’ll wash my boot-leather in your filthy blood, you white-gutted old turd!” roared the red-faced young lordling.
“Highborn and most noble lord;” the timid little man protested, stammering in alarm and gazing about with frightened eyes as if to enlist the aid of the others in the hall, “I swear to the Gods I mean no harm! This lowly and most insignificant one intended no insult to your lordly self! Ten thousand apologies if this vile one has given offense! I beg you—I pray you—accept these humble apologies, and permit an old man to pass and take his weary bones to bed!”
His bleating tones were drowned beneath the bullthroated bellow of the
kugar
. And, as they wandered in pitiful pleading from face to face, meeting only indifference or derision, the frightened eyes of the little wizard came at last to rest on the face of Kadji.
“Pass, is it, you reeking lump of filth! To your bed, eh? Not likely, pig of an Easterling—more like, to your grave!”
And the
kugar
clapped his hand again on time hilt of his sabre and made to draw it from its scabbard of oiled leather. But he did not. For a hand seized his wrist and held it in a grip like iron. Kadji’s hand.
THE ROOM became silent as death, save for the sussuration of indrawn breath as many men sucked in their teeth, and the muted thump and clatter as men moved away to clear a space.
“You
touch
me . . . you dare to lay hands upon me!” The face of the young
kugar
lordling went pale with astonishment and he stared as if marveling into the grim serious eyes of Kadji.
Kadji spoke in low, quiet tones, and his words were courteous. “I pray you, lord, that you permit this poor old man to pass by without harm, and that you do the kindness to accept his apology for stumbling against your feet; and I beg your pardon for this interference, but, look, lord! The man is old enough to be your father, or mine: and he hath no steel. Surely the young noble lord would not draw steel on a harmless old man incapable of defending himself!”
The little pig-eyes stared marveling down at the boy and in wondering tones the blond
kugar
repeated: “You lay hands on me . . . you dare to lay your dirty paws on the Highborn . . . you, a dog-gutted whelp of Ushamtar gutters?
Haroo!
”
