The Quest of Kadji

Cities are fair and kings are proud,

Princes have wealth to throw away!

Let war’s red music ring forth loud:

A man can die but once, they say!

—Road Song of the Kozanga Nomads

i. Seven Gold Dragons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They were growing short of funds.

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

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

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

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

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

And that was—sell themselves!

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

ii. Again, the Flamehaired Girl

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

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

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

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

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

And then one day Kadji saw her again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long and rippling: a woman’s hair.

Thyra’s hair!

iii. The Xin Ritual

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

HOURS LATER he came suddenly to wakefulness. From one state to another he snapped, with no discernible transition therebetween. One instant he was deep in the muddle of a confused and shadowy dream—in the next instant he had sprung erect on his pallet, eyes wide open and staring into the darkness where, men snored and mumbled in their sleep.

Could any have seen, in the dense blackness of night, the face of the blond young Westerling warrior who worked and fought and ate and slept amongst them, they would have been amazed at the expression of slack-jawed astonishment and joy that spread slowly across. Kadji’s features in that moment.

For in one swift instant there had dawned upon his comprehension the answer to the riddle … the solution to the problem which for so many days had baffled him.

And he knew of a way to expose Shamad amidst all the host of the fanatic Chemed warriors who worshipped him as the Arisen One.

Expose, and … destroy him and his influence over the Horde of the Ja Chan for all time!

iv. The Necromancer Arbalac

THE NEXT seven days were agony to Kadji, for the hours passed with leaden feet, and he must endure the crawling passage of that much time until again he would be free to meet and consult with the little Easterling wizard in the old caravanserai by the Western Gate.

He passed the time, however, gathering information. Few men are so talkative as soldiers, for beyond their exercises they have little else to do but talk to their comrades when confined to the barracks of evenings. And by subtly guiding the direction of his conversations, Kadji bit by bit gained the knowledge that he desired.

The knowledge concerned the festival days observed by the Chemed Horde warriors, and those festival days when the Ja Chan feasts his chieftains and is entertained by displays of prowess.

Kadji soon learned that one of the great feast days was close at hand It was called the Feast of the Moon Gods, and on that night the Ja Chan would revel with his lords and courtiers, while jugglers and acrobats, dancing girls and sorcerers would perform for the amusement of the Shadow of the Hand of Heaven and his chieftains.

When the seventh day at last had come, Kadji hurried to the old caravanserai by the Western Gate, and ordered a private room wherein he could talk to Akthoob in privacy. Somewhat bewildered by the boy warrior’s intensity of emotion, the little old wizard pattered up the stairs and waited patiently while Kadji locked the door and drew him down to a seat at a small rickety table near the small cobwebbed window where they could talk unobserved.

And then, in a low tense voice, he explained his plan, the daring concept that had occurred to him in his dreams that night in the barracks.

Akthoob rolled back his eyes in terror and his sallow skin went pale at the thought. And yet, as Kadji argued urgently and went into each detail, the old Easterling wizard became calmer and began to realize just how foolproof was Kadji’s plan.

But there were several difficulties to be resolved, and not the least of these was the problem of enlisting the technical aid of Akthoob’s new friend, the wise old Necromancer Arbalac. The heart of the problem was easily captured in few words—why should the old Necromancer risk danger to himself by lending them his scientific assistance? What inducement could they offer? Kadji chewed over that for a moment, then said, “Perhaps we do not need your friend at all. Perhaps he could teach you how to perform the Xin Ritual!”

“Perhaps, but—”

“You said it was simple enough, and involved only drawing a circle.”

“Yes, but—”

“It is just a matter of memorizing the ceremonial, isn’t it? Couldn’t any wizard or magician or whatever perform the ritual if he knew the ceremonial?”

“Yes, probably, but—”

“Then we don’t have to involve your friend at all … unless he would like to earn the undying gratitude of the Ja Chan, by helping us expose the cruel and ambitious hoaxer who is playing upon the superstitions and the fanaticism of his warriors in an unscrupulous and ambitious bid for power!”

“Aii, but would not the honorable Ja Chan feel, instead of gratitude, the same vengeful fury his warriors will feel when their dreams are exposed as sham, as fabrications, and they are brought to the cruel reality!” whimpered the old wizard plaintively. “Have we not already concluded that sleeping men prefer not to wake, and will visit their anger upon those who rouse them from their rosy dreams of empire?”

“Yes,” grinned Kadji, “but the Ja Chan is strong enough to protect us even from the vengeance of the outraged faithful. Why should he, you ask? Because the Ja Chan is—must be—conscious of the fact that as the Masked Prophet gains power, the Ja Chan loses power! No monarch in all this world, enjoys watching an underling grow in influence to a position as high as that to which Shamad the Impostor has ascended. Outwardly, the Ja Chan may regret the extinction of the imperial dreams his deluded followers have worshipped; inwardly, he will be relieved, for it must have occurred to him that Shamad may dream of taking his place upon the Sun Throne. The Ja Chan is a fat, weak, pleasure-loving little man, and much of a fool … but he was, born to power and even fools are jealous of their crown when they suspect another covets it! You might suggest to your necromantic friend this also: a wonder-worker who exposes the fake powers of another wonder-worker gains in prestige and has a good chance at taking over his position, his power, and his prerogatives. It never hurts an artist, whatever his craft, to publicly prove himself superior to a rival artist!”

DUBIOUSLY, Akthoob carried back to his gifted colleague the arguments and inducements Kadji drilled into him, although in his heart of hearts, the timid little Easterling doubted they would work.

As for Kadji, he returned to the barracks of the mercenaries in high hopes, and in a mood of suspense, for it would be many days before he could know for certain whether or not his persuasive talents had been sufficient. It would be the night of the Feast of the Moon Gods before the boy ‘warrior would know for sure whether or not his arguments had worked and his plans would bear fruit.

And he had a lot of work to do before that fateful hour arrived!

v. The Feast of the Moon Gods

FOUR DAYS later, toward the hour at which Kylix the sun star burned like a scarlet beacon athwart the shadowy ramparts of the western sky, the mighty Ja Chan of the Chemed Horde held holy festival in the hall of the Sun Throne in the great Sun Palace of his ancient ancestors.

But once in each three years came that night when all seven of the moons of this world of Gulzund were gone from the night sky and left heaven vacant. During the coming hours of absolute darkness the dreaded Night Demon made his triennial assault on the unoccupied heavens, and only the prayers of the faithful sustained the weakened Moon Gods in their epic battle against the Demon of the Darkness.

Or such was the belief of the Chemed barbarians, at any rate.

On this night, then, it was up to the mortal men of the world to lend what illumination they could to alleviate the reign of the darkness. Ten thousand fat white candles blazed in the mighty palace that loomed like a man-made mountain amidst the colossal wreck of Chemedis. The splendour of this radiance gleamed and glistened on polished marble, agate, lapis, jade and malachite—flashed from golden helms, sparkling rubies, burnished shields of bronze, and naked swordblades of shimmering steel. Bedizened in gaudy silks, a mass of dazzling gems from head to foot, the fat little Ja Chan squatted like a bloated and obscene toad in his nest of cushions atop the broad dais, surrounded by squirming boys from his harem. Pots of incense smoked before him, spreading a cloud of pungent blue vapor through the candle-lit air.

Wine flowed like purple rivers. Smoking meats were laid before the plumed lords of the Chemed Horde in such numbers that the steam of their bubbling gravies thickened the air with succulent odors.

Dancing girls, their slim tawny bodies fully revealed save for a few beads and bangles, posed and postured lithely in the immemorial ceremonial dances. Capering dwarves in fantastic garments downed and waddled about comically. Jugglers filled the air with spinning balls, ate fire and breathed flames, while acrobats spun through hoops of blazing fire and twisted their bodies into weird positions to escape the glittering slash of naked blades.

All was noise, light, tumult, confusion. From where he stood in the shadow of one colossal pillar, Kadji felt stunned by the riot of sound and color and motion, dazzled by light—light everywhere—flashing, dancing, glittering, beaming from every polished surface and metal mirror.

To bribe those who selected warriors to serve as guards in the Sun Palace, and to make certain that he was one of the chosen, Kadji had squandered every last copper be had earned during all his weeks of service with the Horde.

But it was worth it, for—if all went according to plan—before the east reddened to the coming of dawn, the Quest of Kadji would have reached its end, and Shamad the Impostor would be dead.

From his post in the shadow of the pillar, Kadji stared hungrily upon the person of his adversary. For many months he had fought his way across half the world to bring down the doom of the gods on the beautiful head of Shamad the Impostor. He had suffered the hardships of travel, cold nights spent on the hard earth under star-strewn skies. He had come through battle and siege, treachery and delay, to this hour. His path had been long and wearisome, and it had taken him perilously near to the yawning gates of Death … but he had survived, and ere long, be would triumph.

The Masked Prophet sat drinking purple wine and turning his veiled and hidden eyes upon the slim golden bodies of the dancing girls. His tall, strongly built body, was robed in priceless silks of mystic green; gems flashed on his hands, which were gloved in black satin; expensive boots of scarlet leather showed beneath the hem of his silken gown. There was no slightest portion of his flesh bare to Kadji’s eyes. But the boy warrior knew beyond question that the tall figure in the shimmering robes, his face veiled in shadowy mystery, was Shamad, he who had earlier borne the proud name of Yakthodah. His identity could be seen in the arrogant posture of his body, in the kingly way his proud head was held erect, in the grace wherewith he disposed his limbs.

Silent, hidden among the shadows, the Red Hawk watched his deadly enemy, and beneath his tunic be fondled the handle of the Axe of Thom-Ra.

Now a deep gong rang out, thrilling the vibrant air. A magnificent chamberlain in silver cloth and ebon velvet raised his plumed staff and boomed out!

“The magicians are come before the glory of the Sun Throne, to perform their arts of mystery before the Ja Chan!”

And hidden in the shadows, Kadji caught his breath in sudden fear.

What if Akthoob had failed to persuade Arbalac to perform the ritual?

What if Arbalac had been unwilling, either to perform it himself, or to instruct Akthoob in the art?

If that were the case, then all Kadji’s plans had gone for nothing …

His heart in his mouth, the Red Hawk of the Chayyim Kozanga searched the file of robed magicians with eager, fearful, expectant eyes.

vi. The Spectre

THERE WERE plump, placid-faced sorcerers from Quarah and Dhesh who struck the paven floor with long staves and, lo! flames of emerald and ruby and gold sprang from cold stone to dance and coil and slither to the weird song of unseen flutes.

There were gaunt magicians from Shoth Am and the Mountain Countries, spirit beads wound about their bony brows and dangling in clanking chains from thin bare wrists. They sang complex spells and the rolling clouds of incense became fields of shimmering color whereon could be seen depicted the Ja Chan at the head of his tremendous Horde marching across the face of Gulzund in victory and triumph, his scarlet sword hidden, from hilt to point, in crowns, crowns and tiaras and coronets.

There were dwarfed wizards from Orome and the White River Kingdoms, small smiling men with agile glittering eyes, their, narrow beards stained blue, their mouths reddened with fayol. They set at the compass points sigils of the Planetary Metals, gold discs for Zao, iron plates for Thoorana, lead rondules for Olymbris, cirques of silver for Zephrondus. Then, brandishing talismans that flared in glimmering haloes of mystic fire, they raised spirits and summoned down demons from the stars to relate, in deep sepulchral voices, of the marvels of the universe.

Then stepped forth a tremendous man in robes of glorious scarlet. He was immense, taller than a Barbarian, and of more mighty girth than the fattest of men. He must have weighed three hundred stone or more. His round shaven face glistened with sweat and he wheezed and puffed at the exertion of moving his massive weight.

The chamberlain’s steelmace rang against the broken pave as he summoned attention for the next practitioner, of the magic arts.

“The Necromancer Arbalac from the isle of Thang in the Southern Seas will perform a rare and unusual feat of the art necromantic for the glory of the Ja Chan!” boomed the chamberlain. Kadji tensed in the shadow of the column, relief and new excitement surging through him.

From his girdle the huge Necromancer drew a black wand tipped with a strange grey gem. He uttered a pertentious syllable and the gem spluttered into blinding blue fire. With this blazing point Arbalac traced a great circle on the stony pave. The spluttering blue flame left a charred black mark clearly visible on the pave. This, Kadji knew, must be what Akthoob had named the Great Conjurational Circle.

In a deep base voice, the Necromancer spake.

“If the Glorious One will indulge this person for a moment, I shall attempt to summon from the shades of the Kingdom of the Dead the spectre of one who has lain among the shadows for a thousand years,” he announced, bowing ponderously in the direction of the Sun Throne. On the dais, the Ja Chan nodded absently, busily fondling one of his painted boys who squirmed and giggled lasciviously under the subtle movements of the jewelled hands.

The black circle lay on the stone floor. At one edge thereof stood the immense figure of the Necromancer, swathed in voluminous robes of arterial crimson. He folded his hands over the black wand. His lips moved without speech. His eyes sank into his head; his face paled and became wet with perspiration. He trembled throughout his ponderous body as if in the grip of some intense emotion. Kadji knew that the Necromancer was concentrating his will to such a degree that by the sheer power of mind alone he could summon into the land of the living an apparition from the Kingdom of Death.

The hall grew still, all watched the gigantic figure in glowing crimson. The iron force of the Necromancer’s will seemed to seize and hold the attention of the revelers. Men turned from drinking, feasting, love-making, to stare at the huge bald man.

From his high place, the Masked Prophet turned to watch the Necromancer Arbalac with close attention. Did he feel the icy breath of foreknowledge? Did some eerie premonition of what was about to occur visit his mind with fear?

Within the black circle a shadow began to form.

At first it was as tenuous as a wisp of smoke. Gradually, it took on shape and substance as if it gathered weight and being out of the smoky air itself.

It was the likeness of a tall thin man with a gaunt skull and cavernous eyes, swathed in tatters of rotten graveclothes.

The beard of the apparition was long and shaggy and unkempt. Its face was lined with age or sorrow, but its eyes glittered like black cold stars under hollow brows. Some emotion akin to anguish seemed to twist its narrow, lipless mouth into a frozen grimace. Skeletal hands were clasped before its bony breast, which heaved with some terrible emotion.

When at last the spectre had taken on form and substance, the Necromancer relaxed his frightful concentration. He sucked air into starved lungs and gasped, wiping his dripping brow on the sleeve of his crimson robes. Then he peered at the silent figure which loomed within the black circle.

“Speak, phantom, and reveal to us your name,” he said in a deep voice.

The hall was deathly silent now. Not a single figure stirred or spoke. The assemblage seemed hardly, to breathe. All eyes were fixed on the gaunt, horrible figure of the dead man within the circle.

“Speak, I command you!” Arbalac repeated. “How long has it been since you died? What is your name and condition? Speak!”

In a quavering, reedy voice, the spectre made its reply. “A thousand winters have passed over this world of Gulzund since I last dwelt among the living,” the thing answered slowly. “For a thousand years have I wandered the cold halls of the restless dead, despairing of my sins; begging for the benison of my gods … but now another cry wells up from the center of my soul … a yearning for vengeance possesses me! Aye, vengeance! For there is one here among you living men that has done sin against me, and a sin whose depth and consequence you mortal men cannot comprehend!”

Abralac leaned forward, eyes glinting in the candle glare.

“Who is it that has offended you? Speak, phantasm! Who art thou, and who is that man who has committed evil against one dead for so many generations?”

The spectre unclasped its hands. One arm shot out, drifting through the murk of roiling incense. Gaunt as naked bone was that arm, and tattered ribbons of rotten cloth swung and swayed from it.

The bony finger pointed directly at the place whereupon sat the Masked Prophet. The Prophet sat rigid, unmoving, frozen; his gloved hands clenched the arms of his chair so tightly it seemed almost that the stone would be crushed.

The voice of the spectre rose to an unearthly screech screech of rage and detestation.

All eyes turned to watch the Prophet. The phantom screamed— “That man has stolen my very name … for I am the Masked Prophet of Kamon-Thaa who died a thousand years ago!”

vii. The Flame Globe

SHAMAD SPRANG to his feet and behind him the burly, blue-scaled form of his monstrous henchman also rose, snakelike eyes glittering with cold malice.

On the dais, the Ja Chan sat motionless, his rouged and painted face a mask of utter astonishment.

The taut silence that had gripped the hall while the spectre spoke ceased when Shamad sprang to his feet. It was as if by his sudden movement he had broken the spell that had long held the glittering and barbaric assemblage bound. They roared in one shattering crescendo of red rage. Tables went crashing over, swords were drawn in a hiss of steel against leather shouting men sprang up yelling for blood.

By his involuntary motion it seemed that Shamad had flinched from the accusation thus leveled at him from the very halls of the dead. If he had remained unmoving—if he had laughed—perhaps he could have retained his grip on the beliefs of the Horde chieftains. But the way he leaped to his feet had, somehow, betrayed his guilt. In an instant the Horde warriors’ realized how greatly they had been duped. Savages beneath their veneer of civilization, they roared for the blood of the impostor. In an instant the great room was a shambles. Wine lay spilt in spreading gouts, staining the marble pave with pools of scarlet, like blood. Platters of steaming meats went clanging to the floor and were trampled underfoot by angry men, blind with primal fury.

Upon the great dais of the Sun Throne the Ja Chan still had not moved or spoken. His face bore no expression at all, but in his little pig-eyes, as they looked upon Shamad, appeared a glint of relief and—amusement!

It was even as Kadji had prophesied—no king willingly shares one jot of his, power with another. Not even with the holiest of priests or prophets.

Cold little eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction, the Ja Chan watched the downfall of him who had pretended to be the Masked Prophet of Kamon-Thaa.

AS FOR Kadji, he had been ready for the moment of his triumph. Even as the first enraged Hordesmen had surged for the chair whereby the false Prophet still stood, the lithe figure of the Red Hawk of the Chayyhn Kozanga Nomads had hurtled to their front From under his uniform tunic he brought forth the Axe of his God and brandished it high.

In the light of ten thousand candles, the Axe of Thom-Ra flashed blindingly as a slice of sun.

And, of all those gathered in that hall, only Shamad recognized it.

The dais whereupon rose the chair of the Prophet towered high above the hall, almost as high as the Sun Throne itself. Six steps led to the summit of the dais where Shamad and Zamog stood facing throng of angry men howling for bloodthirsty vengeance.

Kadjj was the first to reach the foot of that dais and as he went leaping up to where Shamad stood he lifted his young voice in a great cry.

In all that place, only Shamad knew the war challenge of the Chayyim Kozanga when he heard it bayed forth.

In a flash—in an instant—Shamad realized how he had been tricked, and by whom. Oh, doubtless he did not know the name of Kadji Red Hawk, but the pale stern features of the boy warrior; his shock of sunny hair, the fierce exultation in the clear gaze of the youth, told Shamad all he needed to know.

They say on the plains that the vengeance of the Kozanga Nomads has an arm long enough to reach from World’s Edge to World’s Edge. In this swift moment, Shamad realized the truth of that saying, as he stared down frozen into the hawk-bright eyes of Kadji and saw the Sacred Axe glitter through the smoky air as it flashed to sever his throat.

But Shamad the Impostor had been raised in a hard school. They who live by their wits alone—by lie, deception, and deceit—learn early to ward against every turn of the dice or do not survive. And Shamad had survived tighter traps than this. From amidst the very stronghold of his foes, in golden Khôr, he had eluded the assassin’s blade, the watchful eye of the plotters, and the armed hosts who would cut him down, to slink forth in secret when all men thought him safely dead.

As the Axe sped for his throat Shamad touched gloved hands together and then stretched them wide, uttering a guttural Word. From charmed sigil rings which had met when his hands were pressed together—sparks of supernal fire flashed!

Floating in thin air between his parted hands appeared a spinning globe of white fire!

Brilliant beyond a thousand suns it blazed! Scorching rays seared deep into Kadji’s eyes—he cried out, squeezing shut eyes which watered now from the stab of agony that bit through his very brain. It was as if fiery needles were suddenly thrust through and through his head.

His charge wavered and failed. He lurched to one side, stumbled, and fell.

The flame globe floated up over the throng—and burst!

Light—light—intolerable light drenched the hall of the feasting.

And then the darkness came down on them all. Black and deep, as if the ten thousand candles that flared this night to aid the Moon Gods against the Darkness Demon had blown out.

And the hall was filled with men who cursed and cried out and staggered and stumbled, blundering into each other and into the furniture.

They were all struck blind.

viii. Night of Doom

THE TOUCH of the wet rag was soothing to his aching eyes. Kadji huddled against the alley wall and drew in sobbing breaths as the, old Easterling wizard bathed his red and bleared eyes with cold water. Old Akthoob made soft, clucking sounds of sympathy as the boy warrior sobbed raggedly.

“So close … so very close! Agh, Mother Chaya! He was … within my grasp! … Gods … another moment more,” the youth wept.

All around them surged the sound of tumult and battle. Several buildings were aflame and corpses hung from rude, improvised gibbets at the head of every street. Rioting had spread through the capital all night long. Men said the treasury had been sacked—the Ja Chan still lived, but had withdrawn into the inner citadel of his palace to consult with the Gods, leaving the city to his roaring warriors who were drunk on the wine of fury and howled for blood like ravening madmen.

Most men within the city had been struck temporarily blind in that same terrible instant the Flame Globe leaped from the hands of the false Prophet.

Driven mad by the sacrilege of the Impostor, tormented by the agony of their seared and sightless eyes, the Hordesmen had gone wild, rampaging through the streets slaying all whom they encountered. As the hours of night crept on toward morning, it was learned that the magic darkness was a passing thing. But even this did little to assuage the wild drunken fury of the deluded warriors. As Shamad had been an outlander, a white-skinned Westerling, some had seized upon the notion that the imposture was a Westerling plot. This had been shouted out, and it had been like a lighted match touched to a lake of oil. The Horde chieftains had come boiling out of the palace roaring against treason and treachery, thundering through the barracks of the Westerling mercenaries to burn and slay.

The Westerlings, struck blind by the same magic, had fought back, thinking their own blindness the magic of the treacherous Easterlings. Blind armies locked in furious battle had crushed and howled through the streets, slaughtering each other in their madness.

Now buildings were seething infernos and streets were choked with rubble, with hasty barricades, with sprawled and crimson-splashed corpses. The black sky was crimsonly underlit with the glare of flaming palaces.

And thus it was that the vain imperial dreams of the Ja Chan died in one terrible night of slaughter and madness and destruction. Even if he survived the riot, his throne intact, the Ja Chan could not again dare dream of his lost empire …

OLD AKTHOOB gently dried Kadji’s wet eyes and applied a soothing ointment from his sachel.

Exhausted, his emotions drained, Kadji huddled like a bundle of soiled rags against the alley wall, staring wearily at the dawn-smudged sky.

The agony of blindness had passed. He could see, although it would be days before his tortured eyes regained once more the hawklike fierceness they had known. Somehow, although as blind as he, the old Easterling wizard had gotten the sightless and trampled boy out of the riot-torn palace and to a safe haven. Kadji laid a hand on the old man’s shoulder by way of thanks.

“And … Shamad?” he asked tiredly.

“Gone … gone. Vanished into the night, no man knows how or whither,” Akthoob sighed.

“So the road goes on,” Kadji whispered.

“Aye.”

“Will I ever bring him to swordpoint? Will he always elude my vengeance with his clever tricks?” the boy wondered dully.

The old man chuckled.

“He has not much farther to run, young sir, so this humble person dares to suggest the noble youth will set his back against the wall at last, ere long. For naught lies beyond here save for the measureless sands of a great waste … waves of desolation like a bitter and lifeless sea that wash across the leagues to break at last at the world’s very Edge! Beyond World’s Edge even the cunning Impostor cannot go… .”

“I wonder,” said Kadji.

“It is truth, young sir. But come! It is death to linger here now that men are beginning to recover from their blindness. The Hordes are slaughtering all Westerlings this night. We must be up and on our way … this cowl will mask your white skin from any suspicious eye … we must forth to the inn for our ponies, and thence from the gates of Chemedis, and forth on the track of the Impostor before the world’s an hour older.”

AND THOSE things were done, and as Kylix the sun star rose up over the Edge of this world of Gulzund the two adventurers rode forth from the broken walls of Chemedis into the morning.

Far ahead of them some where rode Shamad, accompanied by his monstrous servant.

And one other rode fast and far. For hard on the heels of the fleeing Impostor rode a young girl with flamegold hair, mounted on a great horse, with a grey plains-wolf loping by her side.

For Thyra alone had observed the flight of Shamad. Perhaps the magic powers invested in her by the White Witches of Zoromesh had been strong enough to shield her from the blinding beams of the Flame Globe. At any rate she had seen the false Prophet and his dragonish henchman as they fled into the early dawn, and the fiamehaired girl had followed not far behind.

This was not known to Kadji.

Neither was it known to Shamad.

But they were destined to meet together, all of them, at World’s End.