The Quest of Kadji

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

i. The Coming of Kadji

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.

ii. The House of the Seven Moons

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.

iii. The Honor of Cyrib Jashpode

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!”

And yelping a shrill cry the lordling whipped his hand loose from Kadji’s grip and gave him a ringing slap across the face.

Kadji went white to the lips, for to strike another is the deadliest of all insults. And he knew that now he must fight. He stepped back and drew from beneath his garments the sacred Axe of Thom-Ra—for he bore no other weapon—and kissed it, making silent apology to the War Prince of the gods that he must employ the God-Axe in so ignoble a cause as a wineshop brawl, and saluted the kugar with great courtesy.

“I am high Ioga of Yuzan, a Free Sword of the Ushamtar Nomads,” he said in formal salutation, using the false identity he had assumed for the duration, of this adventure.

The kugar laughed and spat and ripped off his velvets and the ruffled silk of his japon, revealing a bronzed and well-threwed torso. He unsheathed his sabre and kissed it to Kadji, growling out his own, salutation in a slurred and careless fashion.

“I am the Highborn Cyrib Jashpode of the House of the Jashpodine,” he grunted, and without further warning or ado swung a vicious back-handed slash at Kadji’s throat. But, lithe as a dancing girl; the boy sprang backwards so that the blade whistled past him to go thunk in the wood of the table-edge, with such impact that Jashpode staggered and almost lost his footing.

The Red Hawk might have slain the kugar in that same moment, for the lordling could not at once disengage his blade from the heavy wood, but he did not, instead stood courteously to one side with the Axe lowered while the other with some effort wrenched his sword free of the grip of the wood.

Now wild with fury at the mild words and courteous manner of the Nomad youth, the young lordling sprang upon Kadji with a veritable whirlwind of blows. Steel rang against steel, filling the raftered hall with war’s ringing music. Again and again, with effortless ease, the slim brown Kozanga lad turned aside the slashing strokes of the kugar’s sabre. And ere long the heavier youth, somewhat the worse for drink and flabby in the muscles, became scarlet-faced with exertion and glistening with perspiration. He roared the vilest of insults at the silent boy, but before long he had to save his breath to fight with. And soon he was purple-faced and panting and staggering, his torso glittering and slick with sweat.

By contrast, Kadji was bone-dry, silent, and he breathed shallowly, showing no sign of exertion. Nor had he once taken a stroke with his great steel Axe, but restrained himself to merely warding off or turning aside the strokes of his opponent. This, though none but he knew it, was the silent vow he had made to his warrior Gods before entering the contest: that if he must employ the Sacred Axe in so lowly a combat, he would merely use it to defend himself, not to slay.

Around and around the long table they went, Jashpode panting gustily, dripping sweat; the Nomad youth as silent as a stalking panther. The boy had fought many hours with the axe and the sword, for the double-bladed war axe was one of the favorite weapons of the Kozanga Nomads; he knew that it had certain advantages against the sword—especially the sabre, which is slim and curved and can only be used to slash—and he was awaiting the proper moment to employ the weapon in a manner ho knew. But it must be just the right moment.

It came: He caught the other’s blade and twisted his wrist, allowing the glistening curve of steel to slide up the axeblade to the hook at its peak; therein it caught firmly, and he twisted his wrist very suddenly, the other way.

The narrow curving blade snapped in two pieces with a ringing clash that filled the hall. And Jashpode was disarmed.

Now, according to the code of the duel; as fought in the realms of the Dragon Emperor, it was well within the rights of Kadji to slay the other man. Instead he saluted politely and returned the Axe to its place beneath his fringed cloak, then turned away, taking the old wizard by the arm to escort him to his room, leaving the kugar behind, bare-handed, weaponless, weak with exhaustion and trembling with inarticulate fury.

All the way up the wooden, stair the fat little wizard marveled at the prowess of Kadji the Red Hawk. And the youth answered the old man politely but modestly.

Thus it was that on the first day of entering the city of the Dragon Emperor, Kadji, Red Hawk of the Kozanga Nomads, made a friend.

And an enemy, too. For he had affronted the honor of Cyrib Jashpode, and that honor could be cleansed only in scarlet blood.

iv. Akthoob

THE NEXT day Kadji continued his tour of the magnificent city and even the desperate importance of his Quest did not deter him from admiring the splendor that lay about him to either side. For thirty centuries of time golden Khôr had ruled these lands, and in all those ages it had drunk deep of the rivers of gold that poured through the hands of its merchants and landowners. Emperor after emperor had added new jewels to its crown, until by This age it was a splendor of arch and forum, temple and theatre, colonnade and sepulchre. Broad, level avenues were lined with heroic statuary; memorials to triumphant and fabulous wars, the glories of long-dead monarchs and extinct dynasties.

At evening he made his way back to the House of the Seven Moons, but before he had even reached that quarter of the city he was fortunate enough to catch a glimpse of the man whose death was the goal of his Quest and the sacred duty laid upon him by the Lord Chieftain of the Chayyim Kozanga.

There was a crash of golden trumpets; heralds armed with ceremonial whips rode clattering through the street and the throng of citizens rapidly drew to the sides thereof, and among them was Kadji. A moment later a troop of mounted and gaily caparisoned nobles rode past, laughing and jesting, and amidst them all, one tall golden man shone. He was serene and beautiful, with a cold, sculptured face and ice-grey eyes, and when he laughed, as he did both often and loudly, Kadji saw that the laughter did not reach beyond his lips, for his eyes remained frozen and watchful and arrogant. Thus he was watched as Yakthodah the Holy Dragon Emperor rode past under a cloud of fluttering banners in the noontide of his glory.

As he passed, on his way to an evening of revelry at the theatre or the hippodrome, he turned by chance and his arrogant, icy gaze flickered over Kadji’s face. For a single instant they stared into each other’s eyes, the traitor and the avenger, before the Dragon rode on. And the keen eyes of Kadji noted that the cold beautiful face of the Emperor bore a strange small flaw. Directly below the corner of his mouth was a bright scarlet mark the shape of a tarisk leaf.

And then the Emperor was past the place where Kadji stood, and Kadji noted with widening eyes the curious and horrible creature who rode at the Emperor’s back.

It was no man but a monster with the broad, sloping shoulders of a giant and the long powerful, dangling arms and short, bowed legs of an ape. The thing went naked save for a harness of belted straps, and with amazement Kadji saw that its body was covered with glittering snake-scales, sapphire blue. It had a hideous broad hairless bead, thrusting forward from bowed, enormous shoulders, neckless, noseless, scaled blue, with weird eyes of dull scarlet. In his astonishment, the boy uttered an ejaculation.

The man who stood next to him in the crowd chuckled at his cry of revulsion. “ ‘Tis naught to fear, young sir, for that is Zamog, the Holy Emperor’s familiar, as we call him—one of the Dragomnen of the Swamp Country. They say he is as intelligent as an ordinary man and utterly devoted to his master.”

Kadji turned to murmur polite thanks to the man beside him and recognized him for the small, timid Easterling wizard he had saved from the bullying of Cyrib Jashpode the evening before.

The wizard nodded and grinned: “Aye, young sir, I knew you at a glance, and could not help speaking, for still this lowly and insignificant one owes you a debt of gratitude for your gallant and chivalrous deed! I am Akthoob of Zool, a minor practitioner of the Art Sorcerous and Magical, drawn hither to perform my small and unimpressive craft before the Holy Emperor, whom, or so this person has been told, delights in exhibitions of magic, and has a liberal hand with gold for those fortunate enough to entertain him! But, come, if you are on your way back to our mutual hostelry, let us walk together, and perchance you will permit this person to join you at supper, so that we may converse further and at our leisure… .”

KADJI FOUND the garrulous old wizard amusing and informative company. Over a fine dinner of jellied eels and spicy herb broth that evening he drew the fellow out. Akthoob, as was his name, had never been in golden Khôr ere this, but knew it well from converse with other magicians in his coventicle. Like all of his Easterling race, Akthoob was loose of tongue and thus it was not difficult to guide the conversation in the directions Kadji desired. Passing himself off as one Ioga of Yuzan, a Free Sword or mercenary-for-hire, come from the territories of the Ushamtar Nomads, Kadji expressed the curiosity concerning the city and its emperor proper in an outlander but new-come to the mighty capitol.

Akthoob, he learned, had already applied to the Chamberlain for permission to enter the sealed gates of the Khalidûr and perform magic before the Imperial court. His pass was dated two nights hence.

Their meal done, and Kadji yawning with sleepiness, they parted—effusively wishing the young warrior a good rest, old Akthoob went to his chamber and Kadji to his own. But not to sleep. The Easterling wizard had described the hundreds of alert and wary archers and swordsmen who guarded every portal of the Khalidûr, and Kadji lay awake far into morning, his brain bewildered, examining first this plan and then the next. When finally he dropped into an uneasy and fitful slumber, it was on a hopeless note.

There seemed to be no way he could enter the palace and strike down the Impostor.

v. The Flamehaired Girl

THE NEXT day dawned with dim ruddy light filtering through a fall of snow. The air was crisp and biting cold, and Haral stamped and neighed, its breath a plume of vapor on the frosty air as Kadji led the black pony from its stall.

Hooves crunching on crusted snow, they rode the circuit of the city that day while the Red Hawk continued his explorations. This day he had set aside for studying the gates of the city, their number and positioning, the approaches thereto, and the manner in which they were under guard.

Returning toward sunfall when Kylix was a disc of red gold sinking, behind the towers of the western quarter of Khôr, the Nomad boy made a strange discovery.

As he guided his pony into the long Avenue of the Hippogriffs that led to the House of the Seven Moons, a young woman was borne past him in a princely palanquin veiled in gauzy silks and carried by strong slaves in gold-and-purple livery.

The inquisitive youth had studied the nobility of Khôr. He knew that the kugars, the greedy class of great landowners, used no livery; being wealthy but not armigerous, The Emperor permitted a blank white escutcheon to the kugar class as a whole, but only the old Imperial baronial families bad the distinction of color liveries. And gold-and-purple, he knew, were the colors borne by an ancient family close to the dynasty currently regnant: a royal house, however, considered extinct.

Thus his attention was drawn to this closely veiled palanquin through curiosity, and by this chance he was able to observe something he might easily otherwise have missed.

Just as they drew together, side by side in the stream of traffic, the slaves bearing the palanquin slipped in an area of slick, icy wet snow, and staggered for a moment. This caused, the flap of the veils wherewith the sides of the palanquin were draped to fall back, revealing the features of the personage who rode within.

For a single flashing instant of time Kadji found himself gazing straight into smoky eyes of amberous gold, huge dark-lashed eyes set in a clear tanned oval faces framed in a gorgeous mane of flamy-golden hair.

It was the girl he had seen in Nabdoor, to the very life!

His eyes widened in surprise, and he caught, in that flashing instant before the flap fell back, a similar expression of surprise on the girl’s face. She had recognized him, as well.

He reined up his black Feridoon pony and watched the palanquin go by in bafflement. The girl he had seen in Nabdoor had gone unattended save by a monstrous grey plains-wolf. And she had been dressed in ragged and voluminous garments like a wandering Perushka wench But this girl rode like a princess, and her slim young body was sheathed in expensive silk, and pearls, the great blond pearls of Nizamar, had been woven like a net through her glorious tresses, and a great green opal had glowed at her brow.

Surely the two girls were one and the same—or were they?

On sudden impulse, he guided Haral aside to follow in the wake of the veiled palanquin. It turned in to a courtyard much overgrown and where the ruins of a garden grown wild lay dead and black and tangled beneath the deathly fall of the filtering snow.

The mansion that rose in tiered height beyond the walled courtyard was splendid and ornate, virtually a palace. But it was festooned with dead vines and the carven stonework at balcony and architrave was weather-stained. Such dilapidated grandeur in decay could have been caused only by long years of neglect … as if the mansion had stood empty and unattended for some space of time.

At the corner of the street whereon rose the mansion, Kadji found a small wineshop; he tethered his shivering pony to the wooden bar at the door and went in and ordered a tankard of ale, mindful of his shrinking purse.

Those who frequented the wineshop were, he saw, grooms and squires, gardeners and servants employed hereabouts, and thus a reservoir of gossip. He unlocked their tongues by buying a drink for all, for the moment pretending to be a genial mercenary swordsman on a drinking spree. Before long he learned that the mansion was the House of the Turmalin, that it had in truth stood deserted for many years, since, in fact, the death of the last Emperor, Azakour, some twenty years before. The Lady of the Turmalin had fled the city during the struggles of dynastic succession, and had taken up her abode in a far province.

“But surely the noble maiden I glimpsed going in just now is too young to have deserted Khôr twenty years ago!” Kadji said.

One of the grooms winked and nodded.

“Aye, this be her daughter, the Lady Thyra, new come from the provinces,” he said.

And that was all Kadji could discover. He rode back to the House of the Seven Moons through the blowing snow, deep in thought. Was the girl of the palanquin the same girl be had seen as a ragged Perushka in the traders’ town far to the south? They were alike as sisters, nay, more so: Kadji was convinced they were one and the same.

But why this should bother him, he could not discern. What was it to him that a strange and beautiful girl had been in Nabdoor some days ago, and now was here in mighty Khôr?

The snow was thicker now. Great parties of kugars were moving through the slushy streets in the direction of their quarter, which ringed the central Khalidûr like a half-moon. All day he had seen the kugars gathering into the capital and had thought but little of it, save to keep a wary eye out for the Highborn Cyrib Jashpode, the young kugar lordling whom he had angered and fought, and with whom he guessed there would yet be a final reckoning.

He dined alone that evening while the snow storm rose and raged beyond the shuttered windows. The friendly Easterling wizard, Akthoob, was not in evidence this night. And as the bony and talkative little old man was the closest thing to a friend he had yet made in this vast, bewildering, many-peopled metropolis, the Nomad boy felt oddly lonely as he ate his meal alone.

There was shouting in the streets and many horsemen rode by and the sound of blown bugles somewhat later, but the boy Kadji, nursing a frugal jack of ale with a full belly beside the warm hearth, paid no attention. Then, toward the first hour after midnight, the inn door came crashing open with a blast of icy air sand a flurry of swirling snowflakes, and the Easterling Akthoob, came in, white from head to foot with snow, his pointed nose, blue with cold, his slitted eyes watering, blowing on his frozen hands and stamping the caked snow from his fur-covered buskins.

Kadji hailed him. “Come, friend, share the fire and a jack of ale, for the uight is cold and dark.”

Suppressed excitement glittered in the slant black eyes within that long sallow face.

“Colder and darker than you think, young sir,” replied the little wizard in tense low tones.

“What do you mean?”

“The kugars have arisen. Holy Yakthodah lies dead in the Khalidûr, cut down by a kugar knife. And a kugar council rules golden Khôr this night!”

vi. The Death of the Dragon

ERE DAWN the word had sped to every corner of Khôr and not a miserable beggar shivering in his hovel but knew that the last legitimate heir of the dynasty was slain, that the great House of Azakour was extinguished at last, and a grim and bloody time of troubles had come upon the Dragon Empire. The savage and merciless struggle for power would begin now, and there were many men of Khôr who could well recall the terrible days that followed the death of Azakour Third twenty years agone, and how all of the Plains had been torn asunder by civil war until the discovery of a legitimate heir—even that same Yakthodah who lay now in state in the Throne Hall.

The facts behind these bloody and swift-moving events were easy to unravel. The kugars had seized power after the death of the Emperor Azakour, and only an army of Rashemba knights, lent to the Pretender, Yakthodah, by his supporter and father-in-law, the High Prince Bayazin, had driven the greedy kugars from the place of power. The Nomad warriors of the Great Plains had aided in that war, but no sooner had they assisted in establishing Yakthodah in his father’s holy throne, than the fickle Emperor, discovering he needed the friendship and the fat purses of the kugars to sustain him in the life of revelry and license he desired, had welcomed back with open arms the rich and powerful landowner class. From this point things had gone from bad to worse, even to the point of alienating, then outlawing, and finally making war against the stout and loyal-hearted Nomads.

But the kugars were not completely satisfied. They feared the influence of Bayazin, and the strong hold he had on the pleasure-loving Yakthodah. And recent news that Bayazin, with an army of his mighty Rashemba knights, was, now moving upon Khôr—ostensibly to pay a visit of state upon his royal son-in-law, and also to garrison the heartlands about Khôr. against the long-expected revenge of the Kozanga Nomads—drove the jealous and fearful kugars into open rebellion. Yakthodah had been assassinated by night in his own Throne Hall, and kugar mercenaries now held the Khalidûr fortress, and the gates of Khôr itself against the expected siege of Prince Bayazin.

In all the turmoil and chaos that made the very world echo to the collapse of dynasties and the battle of opposed regimes, what of the boy Kadji, Red Hawk of the Chayyim Kozanga Nomads, and his sacred Quest to avenge upon the body of the man the world believed to be the True Emperor the stained honor of the Kozanga war clans?

What indeed? It would seem that a kugar blade had spared him the task his grandfather had set upon his shoulders.

He made up his mind swiftly, for time was very important: by noon, it might be, Khôr would be in a state of siege. If he were to act at all, be must do so now.

“Akthoob, have you still that pass which permits you entry into the Khalidûr?”

The old wizard shrugged bony shoulders. “This humble person has it here in his purse, young sir, but what good? I shall not now use it, as the Holy Dragon Emperor before whom I would have performed my small arts lies now stark and cold as last morning’s bacon… .”

“Does the pass describe the purpose of your visit?” Kadji pressed urgently through the fog of words.

“No, no indeed: it merely says that one Akthoob of Zool is given permission to enter into the Khalidûr and to come into the Throne Hall …”

“And it is dated?”

“Aye, young sir, but why all these questions? Oh, very well! It bears tomorrow’s date, as I told you when we talked …”

“You mean, today’s date, surely! For dawn is not many hours away, and the folk of Khôr reckon a day as beginning one hour past midnight, do they not?” urged Kadji.

“Very well, then, today’s date, surely, but why do you ask all of these questions …”

Grim purpose burned in the boy’s clear bright eyes, and determination could be seen in the firm set of his jaw.

“You are in my debt, are you not, Akthoob, for that I saved you a beating from the hands of that kugar bully, Jashpode, and mayhap saved your life, indeed?”

“Yes, yes, to be sure, young sir, but I do not—”

“I like it not, that I must force you to endanger yourself, old man, but my cause is very urgent, and as I see it we shall not be any great hazard, if all goes well. But now I fear I must ask you to absolve yourself of your debt to me, by doing me a favor …”

“A favor? What favor, young sir?” Curiosity glittered in the slant black eyes.

In short words Kadji answered him and watched the curiosity turn first to consternation, then astonishment, and finally—to terror.

vii. The Double Impostor

SURPRISINGLY ENOUGH, it proved no great task to enter the Khalidûr. True, the bridges that spanned the moat, and the gates and portals through which they must passed, were under very heavy guard, and those guards were not the burly, red-faced Rashemba knights (most of whom, Kadji learned, had been brutally massacred during the first swift, crimson hours following the assasination of the Emperor, and those survivors now disarmed, under guard, or fled) but nervous, truculent kugar hirelings.

The odd thing was that one glance at their pass sufficed to win them past guardpost after guardpost, and generally without any questioning at all. Kadji, garbed for this expedition in sober robes and betraying no signs of either his true Kozanga identity or his assumed Ushamtar guise, had frankly expected keen questioning to expose the falsity of their purpose. And while he did not expect arrest, he would not have been surprised had the guards at the very first checkpoint brusquely turned them back, refusing to let them pass.

In preparation for this he had bidden the old wizard to clothe himself inmost unwizardly raiment: sober and nondescript, but expensive garments in good taste.

As it was, their pass,—after all a valid one,—saw them through the hazardous moments of scrutiny and ere long they stood within the vaulted halls of the Khalidûr, and both of them could begin to breathe again.

The explanation of the miraculous ease whereby they had passed the sentinels of the Khalldûr was simple. A dynasty had fallen in the first hours of dawn; and now, in the earliest hours of morning, a new regime was being put together. Hundreds of people were streaming in and out of the royal fortress, important kugar lords bound for council meetings, young lordlings, boys, messengers and the like, scurrying back and forth with screeds and notes, commands and memoranda. No individual with a proper pass could safely be stopped for questioning, for no guard could be certain—in this uneasy and disquiet time—whom he could offend with impunity. The most insignificant-looking fellow might by tomorrow wield terrifying powers of life and death over the remnants of an empire. Hence they passed through swiftly.

The immense pile of the ancient Khalidûr was murmurous with sound, whispering conversations in the corners, the footsteps of hurrying pages and message-bearers, the bustle of important lords. In the busy throng no one bothered even to notice the presence of two unfamiliar faces, here where so very much was new and where so many faces were those of strangers.

Hardly caring to risk stopping a passerby to ask him the way, Kadji and old Akthoob found their way through the shadowy and labyrinthine ways of the vast fortress by a combination of lucky accident and inspired guesswork. Without wasting too much of their time, they gained the entrance of the great Throne Hall at last.

For the rest of his life Kadji never forgot that moment. And yet, oddly enough, he could hardly remember the hall itself, one of the wonders of the world, with its soaring columns like a forest of stone trees, its stupendous dome, its glistening and mirrorlike pave of slick black marble. From the moment they stumbled upon their goal his attention was riveted on the thing that lay under a scarlet-and-gold cloth at the foot of the throne itself.

The throne—as for it, he spared hardly a glance at the glorious and immeasurably ancient seat of imperial power. True, it was fashioned entirely of pure and solid gold, and contained in itself the ransom of a province; true, the hand of some long-dead genius had lavished a lifetime of skill in the fashioning of it, for it was formed into the likeness of a coiled and glittering dragon whose arched wings rose enormous, and whose uplifted head was a snarling and terrible fanged mask of ferocity with eyes that glistened like orbs of flame. Two gigantical fire-rubies were those eyes, and their like the remainder of all this world could not afford. But Kadji saw it not, the Dragon Throne, for his eyes were fixed upon that which lay at its foot, on the lowest of the nine tiers of the dais whereupon the throne stood.

A young woman was bending over the covered body as the two entered the hall, and Kadji seized his companion’s arm and shoved the old Easterling wizard into the shadow of a column from which they could watch unobserved.

The woman drew back the torn tapestry a little as if to reassure herself that it was truly the dead Emperor who lay there. For a long moment she looked, ignored by the guards who stood about the throne with stolid and indifferent faces. Then she drew up the cloth again and turned away to make her way swiftly and purposefully out of the hall.

As she glided away her path took her directly into the glare of gold light from massed candles, and Kadji sucked in his breath with amazement and wonder. For it was—Thyra! The mystery girl he had glimpsed many days ago, disguised as a wandering Perushka lass, in the little village of Nabdoor—the girl he had seen but recently borne through the streets of kingly Khôr like a princess!

What was the secret of the flamehaired girl who so often crossed his path? The boy’s tanned face settled grimly: he must face one mystery at a time. And so he but watched helplessly as the strange young woman left the Throne. Hall and vanished from his view.

Then, with the nervous wizard at his heels, Kadji rapidly crossed the length of the hall and approached the throne and that which lay at its foot. The body was sprawled on the lowest step of the dais, and a rich tapestry had been hastily torn down to cover the dead thing. Kadji stepped nearer, despite Akthoob’s fearful admonitions; he shrugged off the restraining hand the little Easterling laid on his arm. He must make certain that this was in truth the body of the man all the world thought to be Yakthodah but be knew as Shamad the Impostor. He bent over it but he could not see its face because of the torn tapestry. Greatly daring, he reached out and drew aside one corner of the covering, exposing the head and breast of the corpse.

Akthoob turned pale as milk and gestured feebly, but Kadji ignored him and bent closer, straining to see in the dim wavering light of distant candles.

There were kugar mercenaries, stationed about the throne to guard the body, but they gazed stolidly ahead and paid Kadji no attention. It was naught to them who came to gaze upon or mock or revile the body of the Holy Emperor. In the general uncertainty of the times, they, like the sentinels at the gate, did not care to earn the enmity of any strange or unfamiliar person who might, ere long; turn out a man of power with a long memory.

So Kadji turned back the blood-stained tapestry and gazed without hindrance upon the face beneath.

It was cold and white as marble. In death, and death had robbed it of much of its beautiful perfection. The mouth was drawn in a frozen grimace of terror or outrage or surprise (who could say?) and the glazed, unseeing eyes stared up forever at the unknown face of the assassin.

Many knives had done the fearful deed—or perchance but one knife, striking many times. For the corpse bore frightful wounds in breast and shoulder, belly, throat, and side. It lay in a pool of drying blood, sticky and glutinous and vile.

Only one wound was visible on the face of Yakthodah, and that was in the cheek. Part of the lower face was slashed and gory, and Kadji noted without saying anything that the wound had obliterated that portion of the face that had borne the scarlet leaf-shaped birthmark he had noticed yesterday when he bad watched this man riding through the streets on his way to a night of revelry—

“Come; look,” he bade Akthoob.

The old wizard shuddered and rolled up his eyes but did not dare make too vocal a protest with the guards so near. He shuffled timorously over to where the Red Hawk stood and peered down with frightened eyes at the gory horror beneath the cloth.

“Is that Yakthodah?” the boy asked in a low whisper.

“Of course—who else should it be?”

“But is it? Look closely; you saw him yesterday as clearly as did I.”

Akthoob shuddered and turned away.

“Whoever he was yesterday, he is dead meat today … let us be gone from this accursed palace, young sir, I beg of you.”

“In a moment. Look again … look at his jaws,” he said.

“What of it? The Holy Emperor did not have time to shave before they … they … cannot we go now, while we yet have whole skins? What if the man be not shaved?”

“Nothing, perchance,” frowned Kadji. “But somehow it seems odd that his beard-stubble should be so long. Yestereve, when we saw him riding by, the Emperor was cleanly shaven … but this is no one night’s crop of whiskers … it looks like this man had not shaved in two days, perchance three… . Had the Emperor anyone in his court who resembled him?”

“Haii, gods, will you stand here talking when any moment we might be … well, and how should I know?” whimpered the wizard fretfully.

“Think,” Kadji insisted. “You were in the Khalidûr at least once ere now, were you not, to be interviewed by the Chancellor so that you might obtain permission ‘to perform before The court. Saw you anyone who resembled the Emperor?”

“Well … yes, now that you remind me of it, this humble person did indeed notice a minor functionary … a handsome youth with an extreme pallor and light eyes … he did look somewhat like the Holy Dragon Emperor. I remember thinking so at the time, although it had quite passed out of my mind …”

Kadji replaced the tapestry and turned away, striding thoughtfully across the hall. The guards regarded him with stolid indifference. At one of the exits from the hall, he exclaimed suddenly, and turned, excitement lighting up his face.

“What is it now?” groaned the Easterling.

“Where is Zamog?” Kadji demanded fiercely.

“Wha … the Dragonman? Why …”

“Yes! The loyal monsterliug that went ever at his master’s back; surely, to have struck down the Emperor, the assassin would first have had to slay the faithful Zamog.”

A strange light dawned in Akthoob’s slitted eyes.

“Can it be … ?”

“Yakthodah was slain right there, where his body now lies; and the body of Zamog the Dragonman should be hereabouts, if he is dead. But where is it? Nowhere! And why should they have bothered to carry away the corpse of the blue-scaled one? Kick it into a corner and forget it, let it lie—that’s how they would have thought, under the pressure of swift events! If Zamog is not here, it means the monsterling is not slain; and if Zamog is not slain …”

Excitement flared in the face of Akthoob.

“What is this you are saying! Does this humble one understand you to suggest …”

“Yes. That is not the body of Yakthodah, but of another. The man you knew as Yakthodah is an impostor named Shamad. He yet lives; he has fled—doubtless, fled the city itself.”

Kadji laughed, a boyish, reckless laugh, dangerous in this shadowy and murmurous place filled with eyes and ears. He cocked an irreverent thumb back at the hacked corpse.

“That dead man is a double impostor … and Shamad lives!”