The Quest of Kadji Read Free Page A

mark their wake, no burnished helm or shield caught, and mirrored the brilliant noon. He decided to rest, to eat and drink, before riding on to continue the mighty mission the jemadar had laid upon his shoulders.
    And, truly, the Quest laid upon him was a great one.
    The War Prince of the Gods, even the same Divine Thom-Ra who had given the holy Axe to Kozang of Chaya, the father of his people, in ancient times, had declared the Dragon Emperor a cunning thief of crowns. No child of the dead Emperor was he, but a sly Perushka bastard—born to a tavern slut of Perushk and fathered by a renegade kugar lordling. With incredible boldness and guile the impostor, whose real name the God said was Shamad, had somehow convinced the monarch of Rashemba, Bayazin the High Prince, that his claim to the throne was true—and a war-weary land, torn by civil strife and yearning for the peaceful central rule of a Holy Dragon Emperor again, had welcomed the liar with open gates! Kadji ground his teeth at the thought.
    Kozanga honor demanded that a high born warrior of the sword-brethren avenge both the insult to the Dragon Throne and the outrage against the Nomad legion by the death of this Shamed. The double deed had been bestowed upon the boy Kadji. His hand would wield the blade that cut the throat of Shamad the Pretender.
    And the God-Axe itself would be that blade. For, lo, the sacred Axe of the Chayyim Kozanga hung glittering at Kadji’s girdle!
    The boy’s heart was filled with grim purpose . . . but he was a boy, and not yet fully come to manhood. Hence, like all boys, he dreamed of high heroic deeds—of winning the applause of the sword-brothers with some glorious deed, some mighty accomplishment. And what higher deed than this could even Kadji have dreamed of? Thus in his young heart exultation beat high, and he thrilled in anticipation of the days to come.
    As he sat cross-legged in the grass at the foot of the hill, chewing on dried meat and dates and sucking sour wine from a goatskin bag, he dreamed of the thing. Resplendent in his Kozanga ishlak of red and black stripes, the Axe naked in his strong right hand, he would stride fearlessly through the whispering ranks of fat, greasy-faced kugar lordlings. Straight up to the foot of the Dragon Throne he would. stride with bold steps, head high, looking neither to the right nor the left. There, at the foot of the great dais, he would confront Shamad the Impostor and declare his crimes in the name of the Most High Gods—the cry of Kozanga vengeance ringing on his lips, he would lift the ancient Axe—and the head of the false Dragon would roll in black and stinking gore at his feet, while the Dragon City thundered, as with one voice, the name of Kadji—Red Hawk of the Kozanga Nomads!
    It was a beautiful dream, and sucking wine from the skin bag, the boy warrior of the Plains vowed he would make it come true. Aye, the Axe of Thom-Ra would drink the blood of Shamad even if Kadji had to follow the cowardly traitor to the very Edge of the World itself . . . aye, to the very gates of bright Ithombar, king city of the Immortals, whose purple towers rose on the world’s remotest rim!
    It was to be very many months before Kadji could know how prophetic was that vow. . . .
    HE SLEPT that night upon the bosom of the Great Plains, using his saddle for a pillow as did Kozanga warriors. And with dawn he rode on, and thus for two days he retraced the flight of the Nomad legion until at last he was come to the bloody shores of the Agburz. Here, six days before, the honor of the Kozanga Nomads had been trampled before the pounding hooves of the Rashemba chivalry. He rested beside the river, thinking of the battle. Old Thugar had fallen in the onslaught, Thugar, who had taught him to use the great bow of the plains; aye, and clever, mocking Korak, his boyhood friend; and Horem, too, and that great horseman, Gomar of the White Lance . , . how many of the great hero-brethren had fallen before the