The Quest of Kadji Read online

  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 correetly 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.