The Quest of Kadji

The world is wide—the seas are deep—

A man must go a Warrior’s way!

Let the women wail and weep:

A man can die but once, they say!

—Road Song of the Kozanga Nomads

i. Questions and Answers

THE SNOW had stopped and they rode back toward the House of the Seven Moons under a clear sky of hard wintry blue. And as they left the towering cliff of the Khalidôr behind, little Akthoob visibly relaxed and gradually became his talkative old self again. He plied Kadji with questions, and as for the Red Hawk, he answered them truthfully enough, for he felt he owed the old wizard that much courtesy at least.

“Aii, then you are not a Free Sword of the Ushamtar, as this lowly one had been given to believe, but an assassin of the Kozanga Nomads, dispatched by your lordly chieftain to slay the false Emperor! This humble person begins to understand …”

“To understand what, old man?”

Akthoob shrugged, but there was a hint of laughter in. his slanted black eyes.

“The manner in which you fought with the young lord of the kugars,” he explained. “This elderly one has seen the Ushamtar warriors in battle, and also, once, the noble-hearted heroes of the Chayyim Kozanga. And your mode and method of fighting, young sir, were purely Kozanga and in no wise similar to the Ushamtar …”

Kadji winced a little at how swiftly and easily an observant eye had penetrated his imposture. “Let us hope the Highborn Cyrib Jashpode is not so observant as you, old man; for now that the kugar lords are in control of the city, it would not do for me to have aroused the slightest suspicions in the mind of one who already has a grudge against me!”

“Ay, ‘twould not do, this one agrees,” the old wizard shuddered. Then, changing the subject: “But tell me, young Kadji (If this humble person may call you that by that name), what has become of the living Shamad? Think you that he has concealed himself in some corner or cranny of imperial Khôr? Surely he could not have fled the city—not with the kugars, his deadly enemies, in control of all gates?”

Kadji frowned thoughtfully and chewed his lower lip.

“Shamad must have been warned of the impending plot and substituted his hapless look-alike for himself; I would not put it past him to have forced the young functionary who so closely resembled himself to put on the imperial regalia—and then murder the unfortunate youth with his own hand, leaving the corpse for the kugars to see when they came to slay him. In the confusion, the kugars might well suppose others of their plot had already done the deed … but as to whether Shamad still dwells within the walls of Khôr or not, who can say? If he gambles on the swift arrival of his ally, Bayazin the High Prince, then he might well be hidden somewhere of the warren of the Khalidôr, awaiting the Rashemba host to seize the city … but methinks not. Shamad cannot know how long the kugar force can hold the city against Rashemba siege: I believe he has fled the city; he and his monstrous Dragonman servant; for, should the High. Prince break the kugars, the Impostor can always return in triumph from hiding.”

“Aii, but how could, he get out, with his dearest enemies holding every gate and entryway?”

Kadji smiled grimly.

“The sword-brothers of my clan have a saying, old man—‘Gold is a key can open. any gate’—and Shamad must have amassed much of the beautiful metal during his brief regime! And not all of the gates of Khôr are huge and heavy-guarded … yesterday as I studied the gates, I noted a small, obscure, seldom-used postern gate in the eastern wall of the city; Shamad and his pet monster could have gained it with ease, through the labyrinth of alleyways in the eastern quarter. It gives out on the empty plain, to be sure, but Shamad could have ridden east a ways and then turned aside to take the Grand Chemedis Road, the mighty highway across the plains the merchant caravans use. I wonder if it could be thus… .”

The little wizard shyly cleared his throat. “Ahem! Perhaps this small and insignificant person can assist you,” he suggested diffidently.

“In what manner?”

“This lowly one has some poor learning In the Art Sorcerons … to be precise, young sir, this person knows an art by which the minds of one or two men can be made blinded, fascinated, enrapt, and thereupon can be made to divulge any information they may possess …”

Kadji frowned, “Does it work? We don’t want to arouse any suspicions …”

Akthoob smiled affably. “leave it to this person—but come, we near our hostelry … what is toward?”

Kadji had seen it, too, and reined his black Feridoon pony to a standstill. For a host of kugar swordsmen invested the courtyard of their inn, and among them he glimpsed the face of Cyrib Jashpodoe.

ii. The Mind Jewel

IN HASTY confusion, they turned their steeds aside into a narrow, cobbled alley and rode its length, emerging into the Street of Monoliths, which led in the opposite direction from the boulevard on which was the House of the Seven Moons.

The little wizard was moaning with fear, and Kadji himself was tense and distressed. He could not be certain, but it looked as if the young kugar bully; now doubtless in a position of some influence, since his class had seized control of the regime, had returned in strength to have his revenge on Kadji for the humiliation he had received at the hands of the young Kozanga warrior.

At any rate, Kadji did not intend to ride into the jaws of the wolf in order to ascertain his mood. Forewarned was forearmed, as the saying had it. He would take refuge elsewhere, but there was no reason the old Easterling wizard should any longer be involved in his troubles, and it might well prove dangerous to the old man should he be. So he suggested they part company here.

Akthoob was not happy at the thought. He pointed out that the anger of Cyril, Jashpode might well be aimed at himself as well as Kadji, since his clumsiness had been the cause of the trouble. The Nomad youth could see the sense of the argument. They debated as to a possible course of action.

Since Shamad had perhaps already fled from Khôr, according to Kadji’s theory, the boy no longer had any reason to linger in the troubled city. And to remain in Khôr might be to involve him in the civil war and the coming siege: he was anxious to be gone and on the road in pursuit of his wily and cunning quarry. Akthoob, too, had no wish to endure the miseries of the siege or the vengeance of the kugar bully, and would prefer to leave the dust of Khôr behind him. So they resolved to ride without further delay directly to the little unused postern gate whereof Kadji had spoken; if possible, they might discover that Shamad had, in truth, left the city by that means; at worst, they could leave the city themselves by that Ill-guarded way. Under the lowering sky of afternoon they crossed the city by means of alleys and side-streets and drew up before the postern where two sleepy kugar mercenaries, wrapped in fleece-lined cloaks, huddled about a small iron cauldron of smouldering coals.

“Permit this lowly person to do the talking,” Akthoob hissed, and Kadji nodded and remained in the saddle while the little Easterling dismounted and walked over to the guards, plucking something from a pocket of his robes, perhaps a coin to bribe their passage.

Kadji watched with narrow, alert eyes as the little old man ambled over to the surly guards, nodding and bowing in his timid, self-effacing way, while all the time a flow of courteous speech poured from his lips. The thing he had drawn front the concealed pocket was a gem, a luminous and twinkling crystal, and as he babbled on, the wizard turned the crystal between his fingers In an absentminded way, as if through nervous habit.

To the guards, the jewel was a potential bribe, and one of princely value, and they eyed it with greedy interest, not noticing that as Akthoob turned it and played with it, the gem became alive with glittering lights that played in a bewildering and mesmerizing fashion over their faces. Amber and coral and rose, azure and palest yellow and opal blue the twinkling lights of the sorcerous gem played across their stolid, unshaven, loutish features. And all the while their greedy little pig-eyes followed the shimmering lights of the moving gem while Akthoob talked on and on in a low murmurous voice.

At length the moving play of colored lights held them bedazzled. It was as if their minds were asleep while their bodies remained awake. One even let go of his heavy spear which fell to the frost-crusted cobbles with a clang and aclatter that Kadji thought was enough to wake the dead—but the two guards did not even seem to hear the noise. They listened sleepily to the low singsong voice of the little wizard and, after a time, began to answer his interrogations in dull grunting tones, too low for the young warrior to hear.

Finally Akthoob turned away from them, opening the postern gate and then returning to his mare. The flashing jewel he carefully stowed away in his voluminous garments.

“It worked, I gather?” Kadji grinned.

Akthoob nodded in bland satisfaction. “The mind jewel seldom fails. Yonder kugars tell that just before dawn two men bribed their way through this same gate with much gold—”

“Two men? Did they describe them?”

“Unfortunately, they could not see their features, for they were robed and cowled in black garments like priests. But one of the men was hulking and brutish, like a great ape, and the other, who conducted the bribery, had smooth white hands, strong and fair and well-kept, like a princely lord. The guards say the two rode east inconsiderable haste.”

“Then I am right! I must be right—it could be none other than Shamad and Zamnog, his reptilian slave!”

The old Easterlluig shrugged. “Doubtless the young sir was correct in his assumptions. However, the guards also state that one other person used this gate, and that but recently, scarce an hour ago.”

“Could they describe him, at least?”

“Alas, it was not a him; it was a young woman,” replied Akthoob.

Kadji gasped, and swore feelingly.

“A young girl—my own age—a flamehaired girl with smoky amber eyes?”.

“I cannot say. She, too, went heavily robed against the cold wind; my two friends yonder could not describe her appearance, save that her saddle was silver-mounted, and her robes of expensive fur.”

It is that girl again—Thyra—the girl we glimpsed looking at the corpse at the foot of the throne—it must be her!” Kadji growled. “At every twist and turn of the way, I encounter this girl! She is a puzzle, aye, a great puzzle …”

“They say she rode alone, but that there was a great dog with her, like a tame wolf,” offered the little wizard.

Kadji grinned. “Aye, the grey plains-wolf, her pet. Then it is the girl Thyra! But why should she have left the city? Could she be in pursuit of Shamad as well as we?”

“I know not the answer to these riddles, young Kadji, but if this lowly person may suggest haste … yon two guards remain ‘mazed and bewildered by the art of the mind crystal, and I have opened the gates for our passage. We should be on our way, for the power of the jewel will not hold them in the magic slumber for very much longer.”

And so Kadji, accompanied by the little Easterling wizard, rode forth from imperial Khôr on a bleak wintry late afternoon, and turned east on the tracks of Shamad the Impostor.

The boy thought that with luck they might catch up to the fleeing traitor ere nightfall, for the Impostor could have no suspicions that he was being followed.

Kadji was determined to ride as far as was needful, however.

He did not dream how far his journey would take him in truth. Had he somehow known, he might well have turned back. As it was he rode on into the gathering shadows, following the triple trail of tracks across the snowy ground … east and ever east they led, and the Red Hawk and the little wizard followed ever after.

iii. Flaming Eyes

WHEN IT became too dark to any longer follow the trail, Kadji was forced to· halt, to make camp amidst the frozen plains, and to wait for.day.

Because they had so swiftly left the city to avoid the vengeance of the kugar Jashpode, they had with them neither those of their belongings which had been left behind in the inn nor any provisions whatever. But Akthoob had cleverly “borrowed” the winesack wherewith the two guards of the postern, gate had been driving off the chill, together with a few wheaten cakes one of the guards had been munching. So it was not entirely on empty bellies that the two travelers went to sleep that night, wrapped in their saddleblankets and curled about a small fire.

WHEN THEY woke to the first light, of dawn, Kadji cursed with great feeling. For soft fat flakes of white snow were falling and, from the thick white blanket that covered the ground, had obviously been falling for an hour or two. Thus the slight track left by Shamad in his flight was now hopelessly obscured.

Refreshing themselves with the last of the wine and some crumbs of the wheaten cakes that were left, the two mounted and rode on due east through a driving blizzard that steadily grew worse until at length Kadji could no longer perceive their direction from the position of the sunstar Kylix, as the sky was one blowing mass of freezing whiteness. He dared go on no further, lest in the blind flurry of snow they deviate from the eastward and wander aside, thus losing whatever small advantage they had, for by now he reckoned they were not far behind Shamad, who could have had no reason to have pressed his flight with such tenacity and vigor as had the vengeful Red Hawk of the Kozanga Nomads.

They had halted on a low rise of ground and Kadji was debating whether it would not be wise to try to pin their blankets together into a crude tent, and thus wait out the storm in relative comfort, when his black Feddoon pony lifted its head alertly, sniffing the freezing air, and gave voice to a harsh neigh of danger.

In a moment, Kadji, too, had heard the distant sounds that had aroused his pony to a sense of peril.

Wolves!

The eerie chorus of their distant howling came faintly to his ears, as if the blanket of snow muffled their hunting cry. But he knew the sound for what it was: Somewhere out there on the snowy plains, a pack of gigantic wolves were circling their helpless quarry, narrowing in for the kill.

It was a vagrant wisp of thought that made him ground out a bitter curse and seize up the reins, pulling his pony about and heading his nose into the wind. His booted feet thumpe4 the pony’s ribs, and without a word of explanation to his companion, the boy warrior was off and had vanished into the flurry of snow. Like an avenging demon the Red Hawk hurtled through the whiteness, praying to his grim Nomad Gods that he not be late … for it had occurred to him that the quarry the hunting wolves sought might well be his enemy, Shamad! And it was before the sacred Axe of Thom-Ra that the cunning and traitorous Impostor must fall, not to the glistening fangs and hungry jaws of a pack of plains-wolves… .

Within moments he saw them. Their grey hides made them all but invisible in the snowy murk, but their eyes of flaming green were visible, like a host of goblin moons, burning weirdly through the snow-streaked gloom.

He burst among them like a thunderbolt, and the great Axe was in his hands, flying through the air in terrible whistling curves like a live thing, shearing its irresistible way through the thick fur at throat and flank, hacking a gory way through tough muscle and heavy flesh of shoulder and neck.

The wolves broke into a vengeful howling chorus at the sudden appearance of this new and unexpected adversary. One sprang snarling for his face, but the heavy Axe caught it in mid-leap and flung it back to the snowy earth, maimed and broken. A second wolf leaped upon him and clung for a second, claws buried in saddle-leather, foaming jaws snapping at his breast, lambent eyes of emerald flame burning like mad moons into his own. The Axe came whistling down and clove its head to a flying splatter of crimson and broken bone, and it fell and was lost behind.

Then he was through the circling wolves and rode up to where their quarry sat astride a great grey mare, muffled in furry robes. There was no time for words—no time for anything but fighting, for the wolves were upon them now and Kadji was very busy for the next few minutes, wielding the flying Axe. But he did not fight alone: the fur-clad one was fighting, too, with a flashing rapier that drifted as lightly as a ray of light, drinking deep of wolf-gore as it ripped like a steely needle through throat and side. Haral fought, too. The brave little pony was shod with steel, and as the steed reared back on its hind legs, it churned the air with fore-hooves that struck like meteors amid the mass of ravening wolves. More than one went down to death with the hoofmark of the black Feridoon pony stamped deep in broken skull and splattered brains.

In a moment or two more it was over, for the wolves had lost heavily, and turned from their quarry to tear asunder their own fallen, to snarl and snap and quarrel over their own dead.

And then a weird shape loomed out of the murk and came flying toward them, and it was Akthoob. The little Easterling wizard was pale and chattering with terror as he rode through the wolfpack, but he was fighting nonetheless, in his own way, with flashes of violet flame that spurted from his trembling fingertips with an audible crack, like a whip, though muffled and dulled by the blanketing snow. In a moment he was through the raging wolves and reined up with a palsied hand beside the boy warrior.

The plains-wolves were in the retreat now, dragging their dead away to be devoured at leisure and in safety from these strange beings who fought and slew so terribly, not only with cutting steel, which they knew all about, but with miniature bolts of purplish lightning, which were frightening and wholly new to their experience.

One wolf there was that did not flee; indeed, he seemed to be fighting on their side, and came trotting back after the others had been driven away. And Kadji thought he knew that grey phantom with burning gold eyes, and turned to its master with a thrilling surmise, to see who it was be had rescued from the ravening fangs. And found himself staring into the white, tense, but beautiful face of a young slim girl with eyes of smoky and amberous gold, under a flying banner of flame-red hair.

iv. Thyra

HE MUST have called her name aloud in his surprise, for she turned curious eyes upon him.

“You seem to know my name, warrior,” she said in a clear voice like a pure golden bell. “But I know you not … unless … yes! I have seen you before; in Nabdoor, was it not, although you were dressed differently then—”

“So were you!” he returned, and she laughed, a lovely sound.

“So I was, come to think of it! But then you went robed in an Ushamtar kuruz, with leggings, and girdle, and belled cap … whereas now you look more like one of the Kozanga clansmen than any Ushamtar …|”

Kadji grinned; upon quitting Khôr he had thrown off the Ushamtar garments and donned his true tribal raiment, which fortunately he had concealed in Haral’s saddlebags against discovery.

“I am Kadji the Red Hawk, the son of Goraky the Tall, who was the son of Zarouk the Lord Chief of the Chayyim Kozanga Nomads,” he said proudly. “And I have seen you—you three times: once in Nabdoor, when you went in ragged scarlet like a wench of the Perushka; the second time in the streets of Khôr, when you went in the fine silks of an Imperial princess; and the third time in the great halls of the Khalidûr, when you looked upon the naked face of him men believe to be Yakthodah the Holy Dragon. Emperor … but whom both you and I know to be a vile and villainous impostor!”

Her eyes widened in incredulous amazement, and he laughed in a gush of loud, boyish humor at her expression. But she did not contradict him—it was obvious that she was following the flight of Shamad, too, for she had looked on the face of the dead man and must have known, even as had Kadji and Akthoob, that he was not the True Emperor.

Before she could speak, the little Easterling, whining and snuffling, spoke up miserably.

“The snow falls heavier and yet more heavy, and we sit here talking as if ‘twere the balmy breezes of spring caressing our frozen ears, and not winter’s bitter blasts,” he complained. “Can we not bundle our saddle-blankets together into some fashion of tent, to shield us against the blizzard?”

“There is no need,” Thyra offered quickly “I have a small tent stored on my mare, and collapsible tent-poles. If we all work together, perchance we can put it up, even in this heavy snow … and then we can rest and talk in comfort.”

THE TENT was not easily erected in the rising gale, cumbered with the weight of thick-falling snow; but at length, and with much exertion, it was erected, and proved surprisingly capacious, although once three horses, three people, and an enormous grey wolf had entered and the tent flap was sealed against the wind, it was somewhat crowded.

Thyra’s plans seemed to have been made far in advance, as if she had received some premonition of Shamad’s flight and the rising of the kugars. For the wicker-work pannier her mare had borne disgorged other supplies besides the tent: food and drink, and even a. shallow porcelain dish of charcoal, which Akthoob set aflame with a solemn magical Word and a mystic sign of his left hand. As the baking warmth of the ruddy charcoal steamed his garments dry and thawed out his numb and icy exterior, Kadji relaxed, pillowed comfortably on his own saddle and blanket-roll, stretching out his feet toward the cherry glow of the coals, and reflected that there were worse companions to take along on a journey than a magician. Such personages came in handy at times.

And so they ate and drank, frugally, and fed meal to the cold and weary horses, and all the while the mighty smoke-grey wolf sat by his mistress and regarded them with unblinking eyes of gold fire. The wolf made Akthoob uneasy and he kept moving his own saddle and blanket-roll closer to Kadji.

“You need not fear Bazan, little man,” Thyra smiled. “He is a friend to those I name my friends, and only a foe to my foes.”

“Aii,” whimpered the timid little wizard, eyeing the great wolf uncomfortably. “Then this person humbles himself, and begs that you will make doubly certain he understand Akthoob to be his very great friend, indeed. Perhaps then the lord wolf will cease regarding this lowly one as though he were a dumpling!”

Thyra and Kadji laughed at the notion that anyone could mistake the lean and scrawny little Easterling for a plump and edible morsel.

Ere long the heat of the fire and the warmth of the wine made them drowsy, and Kadji doubly so, for that he had enjoyed no sleep the night before, and by now it was certainly early evening, although one could not be certain as the sky was a blind mass of falling snow.

They slept that night in cozy if cramped quarters, while beyond the tent the demons of the storm howled and the Seven Moons bid their shining visages behind veils of flying snow.

v. A Princess of the Blood

IT WAS past dawn when they woke, and the snowfall had ceased at last, and all the world was a shimmering plain of utter white under a fierce but impotent sun.

They breakfasted frugally from Thyra’s store, washed themselves in snow melted over the last embers of the coals, struck the tent and rode forth over immaculate fields.

Kadji was grim and worried. Yesterday they had been close on the heels of Shamad: now they had lost him, for surely the tracks of his passage were hidden beneath the snowy mantle. All they could do was to ride forward in the same direction, due east, hoping that be was continuing in the same direction. If, after a time, they did not come upon fresh tracks, they would know he had changed direction, perhaps riding south to strike the Grand Chemedis Road.

As they rode, Kadji and the girl saddle to saddle, the old wizard behind, nodding sleepily and dozing from time to time, the two young people talked in low tones. Kadji had told Thyra his story, and was curious to learn her own. When she did not elucidate the mystery of her presence in these events of her own accord, the boy warrior made so bold as to ask for it.

“You know my mission, and why I must pursue the Impostor at peril of my own life, so as to wreak the vengeance .of my people upon him, and thus eradicate the stain laid upon the honor of my brethren. Shall I not know your own reasons and your story as well?”

“That is so,” the girl said. “And if we are to be road companions, we should share our knowledge as we share our food. Ask, therefore, what you will.”

“Who are you, really?”

“I am the Lady Thyra of the Turmalin House. My mother was Amazya the younger sister of the late Emperor, Azakour, Third of that Name. She died in a distant province when I was but a child, having fled the Dragon City on the death of her brother.”

That was something to think on! Kadji was astounded and stared at her in silence for a bit.

“An Imperial princess, then,” he said. The girl nodded, her flame-red hair rippling gloriously in the sunlight.

“But are you not the True Heir to the Dragon Throne?” be demanded in astonishment. “If you are the last surviving member of the dynasty, why … why …”

She shook her head firmly. “The Law states that a female shall not inherit, thus I have no claim upon the throne of my Uncle. But my false cousin, the so-called Yakthodah—”

“—Shamad of Perushk,” Kadji murmurred.

“Even so, although I did not know his true name,” she continued: “The charlatan, Shamad, when he came to power, feared that the family of Azakour might perchance know him for a false Yakthodah, or might seek to dethrone him so that another of the Holy Blood could ascend the Dragon’s Chair. Thus he pursued with his vengeance even to our distant province, to the west, and would have exterminated the last of our House. Alas, there were few to oppose him: my mother dead, my father long since in his tomb, and I but a child. But friends of my House had hid me away, disguised as a serving girl, so that the assassins could not find me, and bore back to the false Emperor word that the House of Turmalin was extinct to the last leaf of the last withered branch.

“I determined to seek out this false-hearted and murderous charlatan, and if he were not the True Emperor as my friends whispered, to expose him: for I knew certain things about the true appearance of the original and genuine Yakthodah that perchance he could not know, nor could any, since they were buried in family documents in the archives of the dynasty. I traveled in the guise of a Perushka girl, and as such you glimpsed me in the streets of Nabdoor; this I did because there were none would wonder to see a girl traveling alone, if she were in Perushka dress.”

“Was it not unsafe for you to travel by yourself, a mere girl?” he asked.

She laughed again; she had the loveliest laugh the boy had ever heard. “Not with Bazan going ever at my side! For there be few bandits or thieves so foolhardy as to pick a fight with a full-grown wolf of the plains!”

“Why did you abandon your disguise in Khôr, and appear as your true self? Did not that place you in danger from Shamad?”

“Ah, but not in the least! For what could be done in distant Zoromesh—the province wherein I was reared—and openly, by assassins, can hardly be performed, in the Imperial capital against an avowed Princess of the Blood. There are too many eyes to see, too many tongues to whisper, too many agile and cunning minds to speculate. I came into Khôr in state and presented irrefutable and documentary evidence of my lineage to the collegium of the heralds. Poor Shamad—I shall have to get used to that name!—was forced to publicly acknowledge me his royal cousin. I was extremely careful; you may be sure, that my palace was guarded against intrusion; and doubly certain never to leave myself alone with Shamad or any of his people. In public places, he could not easily contrive my assassination, and in private I took every precaution that it should be no less difficult. His only recourse was to—politely—ignore my existence as much as was possible, and keep as far from me as he could. I never let him learn that I suspected him for an impostor, although I goon enough determined that he was one. Ere I had maneuvered circumstances to a pass where I could expose him and ruin him, the intriguing kugars intervened with their stupid plots and the coup was accomplished. As a Princess of the Blood I could come and go freely in the Khalidûr at any time; thus it was not difficult for me to obtain a close view of Shamad. Even as did you, I recognized that the man on the steps of the dais was not Shamad but another. My people queried and bribed, the gate guards and eventually discovered that Shamad and his Dragonman in disguise had fled the city on the very night of his pretended assassination; I. made haste to follow.”

“Why?” asked Kadji bluntly. “He is believed dead, and can no longer trouble you. The kugars have nothing against you, since a woman cannot inherit the Empire. Why not leave him alone?”

“You forget that he sought to slay me. Me, a Blood Princess, of the House of Holy Azakour! I, too, seek vengeance, even as you.”

She bridled a little under his frank, quizzical gaze, and her small, determined chin lifted proudly.

“Oh, you need not look at me in that wise, young man! What have I to fear from the Impostor and his servant? I can use sword, lance and bow as well as any man—and Bazan, here, is a powerful ally! I could have slain both of them, I know it!”

He wisely held his tongue. There are times when it is not good to provoke a woman, and this was one of those times.

BY MIDDAY they had seen no trace of tracks on the snowy plains, and thus decided to veer south so as to join the Grand Chemedis Road. This broad highway spanned the plains from the remote satrapies of the Easterlings, to the Rashemba kingdoms of the west. If Shamad was bound east, they should encounter each other on the highway sooner or later; if he had doubled back, hoping to join forces with the High Prince Bayazin, then they had lost him for good.

By nightfall they reached the stone-paved way that led east and ever east across the world. They slept that night under a sky of black velvet, blazing with the fretted fire of a million stars.

For several days thereafter they continued following the stone highway east, until Khôr, its plots and dynasties, its sieges and thrones, dwindled far behind them. On the fifth day of their departure from the little postern gate in the wall of the Dragon City they came upon an encampment of Perushka.

vi. A Knife in the Dark

THE GYPSY caravan was drawn up in a semicircle beside the old highway, and a huge bonfire blazed in its center, as much to warm the wandering Perushka against the chill of winter nights as to keep away the plains-wolves who went famished in this bleak season and were often goaded by their near-starvation to attack men, even large parties.

Kadji was doubtful as to the wisdom of stopping to interrogate the chief of the Perushka caravan, for among his people they were despised as rogues, thieves, liars and vagabonds. But Thyra made mock of his hesitancy; she knew them well, and had learned their barbarous tongue as a child. Besides, she argued, even if the caravan had caught no glimpse of the two fugitives in their flight, they would doubtless permit Kadji to purchase food from them for red gold, and Thyra’s store of provisions was almost exhausted since she had not planned on being forced to feed two extra mouths, to say nothing of the horses.

At length the boy let himself be shamed into following her plan, and they rode forward into, the Perushka camp. The wagons were dilapidated and shabby, and the canvas that covered them was threadbare and patched in a thousand places. The Perushka themselves were a villainous-looking lot, with swarthy faces, filthy clothing and vicious eyes. Their women were bold and painted hussies, but the heavy application of cosmetics could not disguise knife-scars and the signs of disease. Even the dogs that came pouring out in a yelping chorus from under the wagons to herald the arrival of strangers were a mangy and mongrel lot, although they lost courage at the sight of mighty Bazan. As for the great grey wolf, he paced like a gliding, flame-eyed shadow at the heels of his mistress and ignored the hound-pack with the innate dignity of his kind.

The chief of the caravan was a lean, sallow, one-eyed rogue with a gap-toothed leer instead of a smile and a ragged fringe of whiskers that made him resemble one of the Hairy Men of the Hills of legend. Gold bangles flashed in his ears; bracelets. jangled about his dirty wrists; a gaudy kerchief bound his scabby and unwashed scalp; and the thick reek of cheap perfume which clung to him did not even disguise the stench of his unwashed body or wine-stained clothes.

Akthoob, like most Easterlings, was a merchant at heart, which is to say that among his people the ancient craft of haggling over a price had long since risen to the level of one of the fine arts. Thus Kadji left it to the small wizard to conduct negotiations for the purchase of supplies. And as Thyra was the only one who had any familiarity with the Perushka tongue, he left it to her to question the chief as to whether he or his people had seen anything of the fleeing Shamad. This left him with nothing to do, so he stayed with the horses. He might be wrong about the Perushka being thieves and vagabonds, but there was no question but that they were past masters of the art of horse-stealing, and there was no one else to stand guard.

Kylix the sun star had long since sunk in crimson glory behind the western horizon of the world when his two companions returned from their separate missions.

Akthoob was beaming, his lank and bony face glowing with a smirk of self-satisfaction. By this, Kadji correctly guessed that the little wizard had purchased provisions for many days from the gypsies, and at a price not too exorbitant.

Thyra, too, was radiant with suppressed excitement. “The chief—his name is Rukuz—says they saw two travelers at sunup, riding dead east along the highway. One was a tall, bright-haired man with white skin, but the other was lumpish and thick-set, and muffled in heavy robes. It can be no other than Shamed and Zamog!”

“Then they are, at most, only a day’s journey ahead of us,” Kadji said. “If we ride all night—pray to Mother Chaya there be no more snow—we could catch up to them by dawn.”

“I think so … but, Kadji … old Rukuz has offered us the hospitality of his people tonight … they have boar roasting in the fires, and there will be singing and dancing …”

He gave her a strange look.

“Well, we cannot spare the time. And if that one-eyed old rogue is as villainous a blackguard as he looks, I would not trust his wine to be without a sleeping-potion mixed therein … or saw you not the twinkle in his eye when I gave Akthoob the purse of gold wherewith to buy provisions? I have seen naked cupidity in my time, but the glint in his eye at ‘the sound of the chink of gold coins was virtual lust. I wouldn’t trust that old wolf any further than his own scruffy whiskers!”

The girl proved obstinate.

“ ‘Twould be an insult to refuse the hospitality of the caravan,” said Thyra stiffly. “We would be doing Rukuz an affront to his dignity; and I know these people, Kadji. They may look a bit rough-avised, but they are good folk at heat. We must stay, if only for the meal …”

The youth set his jaw grimly. “I am one day behind the false Shamad, and I will not fall further behind him by a single hour. To the Nine Hells with Rukuz and his dignity! I am sworn to a sacred mission of vengeance and honor and I will ride to the World’s Edge, if need be to strike down the traitorous Shamad! You may stay here for the ‘singing and dancing’ if you like; if these be such ‘good folks at heart’ as you claim, then you are safe in their company. But I am for the road.”

There was fire in the girl’s eyes but he paid it no heed. While she spluttered and argued he turned stiffly away and mounted his black Feridoon pony. Some of the Peruskha were drifting near to watch this altercation between the foreigners. Poor old Akthoob was flustered and apologetic, trying to calm the angry girl and appease the stiff-faced youth.

“Will you stay with her, old man, or do you ride with me?” Kadji demanded. He did not like the way the Perushka were gathering close about them. “Speak up! You owe me nothing, so if you wish to follow later with her and the wolf, I bid you farewell …”

“This lowly one is of the opinion, young sir, that—aii! Treachery!”

Kadji never learned the opinion which the skinny old Easterling wizard was about to give voice to, for in the next instant he felt heavy hands upon him and he was dragged headlong from the back of the rearing squealing pony. It would seem that old Rukuz saw that fat, jingling purse of gold about to leave camp and ride away across the Great Plains, and had decided to enforce his hospitality upon them. Kadji was in no mood for such tricks. He swung about, half out of the saddle, and drove his bootheel full in the teeth of one swarthy, grinning Perushka rogue. Teeth snapped and crunched and the man fell away shrieking and spitting broken teeth and blood.

Then firelight flashed on polished steel and Kadji felt a blow strike him in the back. It was not a heavy blow: odd how numbness spread through his shoulders and arms. Strange how the world swung and swooped dizzily about him and the noise of the scuffle faded as if in vast dumb distances. He reached a curiously heavy hand to his back and drew it away red with blood.

Then he heard Akthoob yell and Thyra scream and the world went black and he fell forward and did not even feel it when he hit the ground… .

vii. Flashing Swords!

HE MUST have been unconscious for only a few seconds, and he never knew what had roused him, unless perhaps it was the pain. Never had he felt such pain in all his young years … red, raw, ripping pain that tore through him with every breath and brought him, gasping and tingling, awake.

He lay face-down in the muddy, trampled snow and his back and left shoulder were on fire, or so it felt. Dashing, dipping, swerving figures cavorted between him and the roaring bonfire at the center of the camp, and he watched them fuzzily for a few moments, wondering at their odd, ungainly dance. Then he saw it was fighting, and he heard a wolf growl and snap and a man scream, high and shrill like a woman. In the next instant he heard Thyra cry out some words in a desperate voice, and he came lurching to his feet, helping himself up by clutching to Haral’s legs and bridle, for his pony stood very near as if to shield his fallen master from attack.

Akthoob and Thyra stood back to back in a circle of snarling Perushka rogues. The girl had a sword and was fighting superbly, steel rapier flickering in the firelight: even as he looked she gutted one bewhiskered rogue neatly, and parried the swing of a cutlass with a clang of steel on steel.

Akthoob was fighting off the attackers in the same way he had battled his way through the wolves—with flashing streaks of brilliant violet flame that flickered from his outstretched fingers. The timorous little old wizard might be pale and chattering with terror, but he fought like an avenging demon when need was at hand. As Kadji rubbed his eyes to clear his fuzzy vision he saw one Perushka villain stagger screaming from Akthoob wrapped in crackling flames.

But Bazan was the true hero of the battle. The great wolf ranged among the Perushka like a flame-eyed monster from the Nine Hells. His savage jaws crunched on bone and ripped through manflesh, spurting blood in showers on the trampled snow. With each ringing snap of his ferocious jaws a man died, his face torn away, his arm savaged, his guts spilling from a slashed stomach. The grey wolf killed and killed again.

Kadji dragged out the sacred Axe from beneath his garments and lurched and staggered into the mass of rogues. The pain had faded again; the numbness was back; but it was not enough to drag him swooning down as before, for his friends were in danger and he must fight. If he must die, at least let it be on his feet, in the teeth of the foe; then could he die happily, as a Chayyim warrior should.

From somewhere within him the boy found the strength to lift the heavy Axe and begin that slow, remorseless, and resistless sweep from side to side. So had the Kozanga axemen fought from the dawn of time, and it transformed one man into a terrible killing machine. He staggered into the massed Perushka, whose backs were to him, and the great swinging scythe of the Axe had felled five men before the Perushka even realized he yet lived.

Akthoob cried out in amazement to see Kadji on his feet and fighting, and Thyra looked with astonishment all over her white face; she had thought him slain.

He did not walk very well, so he took his stand, spread his feet wide, braced himself against the pull of the heavy Axe, and swung the glittering steel in the faces of the Perushka who turned their steel against him now. They perhaps did not know that cutlass, dirk or wicker shield cannot stand against the terrible swinging stroke of a Kozang axe. But they learned it soon enough. Swords snapped and dirks shattered against the whirling might of that mighty blade. Shields were smashed to flying bits and the men that bore them were knocked from their feet with broken arms or dislocated shoulders or crushed ribs when they sought to ward off the great curving blows of the Axe of Thom-Ra. Men died about Kadji like flies.

The Blacksmith of Heaven had smelted and purified and tempered the steel of that immortal Axe, and it was from no worldly ore at all. The burnt-out core of a wandering and fallen star had given up that precious and unearthly metal. The War Prince of Gods had given that glorious and sacred weapon into the hands of the founder of Kadji’s race, Kozang of Chaya. The divine blood of that ancient hero flowed yet in Kadji’s veins, and as Kadji fought, in a red haze, fighting against the black shadows that thickened about his vision and strove to pull him down into the long sleep from which there is no awakening in this world, he chanted aloud the ringing staves of the age-old epic of his warrior people.

They would have been proud of him in this hour.

Now the Perushka had melted from before him like frost before the dawn of spring, and he must turn about for they were at his back. They crowded behind him, yapping and yelping and snarling like curs, when such strive to pull down a kingly stag. His feet were clumsy, for he could no longer feel his legs, but somehow or other he managed to turn about without interrupting the slow, sweeping rhythm of that terrible scarlet Axe. It was just as well, for had the rhythm faltered, the exhausted boy could never have found the strength to lift that mighty weight again. He was all but dead on his feet and he did not even know it.

And so he turned about to face them, and now the fire was at his back and he could see the cowardly fear written across their snarling faces, and the mirror flash of naked steel in their hands. Again and again the terrible scythe of that great steel axe tore through them and its passage through their bodes did not even slow the tempo of the swinging strokes.

The Axe sang now, a weird hum and thrum, as it swung like a hideous pendulum through the bitterly cold air. The deep-throated song of its swing was loud in Kadji’s ears, for he could hear nothing else now save the song of the Axe and the thunder of his heart beating, heavy and slow, and deep so that his whole body shook to the rhythm like the slow pulse of a mighty drum.

Now he could not even see, for blackness was before him and between him and the men he fought and slew so terribly. Black, black, all was black. And—cold. The coldness came seeping up through his body from the earth itself, as if he stood knee-deep in glacial ice. His legs he could no longer feel, and his arms were like two sticks of wood. His face was black with effort, his lungs were on fire, his teeth were bared in a fighting grin as terrible as a skull’s, and yet he fought on.

And then he took the sword in his side. It came in low and under the ribs and it sank deep within him. He did not feel it, but he could feel the warm wetness spreading over his belly and down his thighs, as if a floodgate had been opened. And as the blood went out of him, his strength went too, as if the wound had loosed both at one blow. The Axe of Thom-Ra flew from his nerveless hands—striking yet another Perushka in the face, shattering his skull, and taking down to death yet one more foe, although he knew it not. And he fell forward and moved no more.

It had been a good fight, he thought. His grandfather would have approved.

And then there was nothing but the darkness.