THE QUEST OF KADJI
Lin Carter
A FIVE STAR PAPERBACK
This edition published in MCMLXXIII by
PBS Limited, Victoria Mills, Pollard Street,
Manchester M4 7AU
Copyright © MCMLXXI by Lin Carter
Made and printed in Great Britain by
C. Nicholls & Company Ltd
The Philips Park Press, Manchester
The Quest of Kadji
Is for that fine
Sword & Sorcery writer
MICHAEL MOORCOCK
my colleague in S.A.G.A.
Prologue
ZAO, Olymbris, Thoorana, Zephrondus, and great Guizund …
These are the five worlds that circle
The star Kylix in the constellation of the Unicorn.
And now of Guizund would I speak.
No eye but mine has seen her whispering plains,
Her ebon cliffs, her dragon-guarded shores.
But I have voyaged thither in my dreams,
And watched the Red Hawk ride to the World’s Edge,
And from my voyaging, bring back this tale …
Song of Worlds,
from
CHRONICLES OF KYLIX, the Fifth Book.
Part One
THE RED HAWK
The age is dark—the world Is old—
The Gods are dead or gone away!
But what care we? For I am told
A man can die but once, they say!
—Road Song of the Kozanga Nomads
i. On the Great Plains
FOR THREE days and three nights the great clan of warriors had ridden without pause or rest across the worldwide plains of the whispering grasses, and in all that time no habitation of men had they seen.
But now, toward evening, one of the advance scouts turned back and rode like the very wind itself to the forefront of the weary and battle-stained legion. He rode up to the place where a tall bearded man, wrapped in a voluminous ishlak of striped red and black wool, bestrode a superb white stallion.
The scout swept his steed to a halt, hard wrists tightening on the reins, and sung himself from the saddle in a whirl of dust. He stood waiting for the grizzled leader of the war-stained host to ride up to where he stood, and when the white stallion neared, be seized its silver-studded bridle, snatched off his tall hat of red felt, and bowed his dark head.
“What is it, O Jorad? The foe, surely, are not before us, as they are close behind?”
“Nay, Lord—huts! A village; and—a well,” said the scout.
The greybeard looked ahead, keen eyes narrowing, but the Great Plains ahead were dark with gathering dusk and even his eagle’s gaze could not penetrate the limitless distances.
“How far, O Jorad?”
“An hour—two at the most, jemadar, Peasants. No horsemen, no fortifications, and the Dragon Banner”— here the young scout grimaced as if the phrase had a bad taste in his mouth, and spat in the dust at his feet— “the Dragon Banner flies neither from chieftain’s post, nor lookout’s nest, nor from atop the god house.”
The bearded leader of the host grunted and frowned thoughtfully. To rest … even if for a little time … to dismount and to permit the stiffness to drain from taut and weary muscles … to ease chafed limbs and to forget for a time the endless rhythm of pounding hooves throbbing like drumbeats over the endless stretches of the plains … it was a delicious thought, and the promise was most tempting.
But was it wise? No man could say how close upon their heels followed the victorious and arrogant foe. It might well be that the pursuing enemy had given up and turned back days or hours since; it might also be that the legion had long since outdistanced the enemy, and could afford some hours of rest.
And it might also be that the village ahead, seemingly peaceful, was—a trap.
He sighed wearily, but from within; outwardly, no weariness or weakness or slightest sign of indecision was permitted to be visible in the stern, stiff mask of his face. And in the midst of his own exhaustion and suffering, and the perplexity of the present danger, and worryings about the hazards of the unknown future, he calmly and judiciously appraised their chances.
As if he read the mind of the jemadar, the young scout, Jorad, spoke up.
“Lord—I do not think it is a trap. The village, lies alone in the empty plain. There is no place where the troops of the foe might hide.”
The tall bearded man mused silently. He sat erect in the great saddle, stiff and tall as a spear, for all the pain of his wound. For three days since, when he and his men had been broken before the assault of the Rashemba knights at the battle of Agburz River, he had taken a lancehead in the shoulder. His sword arm was numb and useless, and despite the herbs bound to the wound, blood still trickled down his arm to splatter the tall dry grasses whereover they rode. The pain was very great, but his face was hard as iron and by no tremor in his voice nor wavering in his posture nor sign in his face did Zarouk, jemadar or Lord Chief of the fighting Kozanga Nomads betray the agony that tormented him.
“Very well; we shall make camp there. Surely we have put many leagues between the brethren and the accursed Rashemba by now. And the sword-brothers must rest. Ride thou ahead, O Jorad, and tell the villagers the Kozanga are coming—and that our needs are great!”
The young warrior grinned, white teeth flashing in the dusty mask of his face. Village camp meant hot meat and wine and a soft bed—Hai-yaa! Gods! Almost had young Jorad forgotten the taste of wine and the feel of a bed beneath his weary bones!
He ducked his head, clapped the red felt cap back on his long black locks and turned to mount and ride when the jemadar spoke sharply, calling him back.
“And tell them, O Jorad, that we be the fighting Kozanga—true sons of the Great Plains—and no foreign dogs of Rashemba. We shall pay in red gold and white silver for food and drink and fodder. The Kozanga honor will take nothing at swordpoint from the people of the plains. Tell them that!”
The scout grinned and bobbed his dark head again.
“Aye, Lord!” Then he was off like the wind and the bearded Zarouk gazed after him wistfully. An, to be young and strong again, to fight all day and drink all night, and still be fresh to fight again the morrow! But he was old, old and grey, and his heart’s blood was ebbing from him drop by drop through the red hole torn by the treacherous lancehead of a foreign dog of a Rashemba. Long had he led the clan of warriors; now, his days as jemadar were nearly at their end. Could he but live to shepherd the sword-brothers into the black mountains of Maroosh, where no man could follow, then could he rest content.
His wistful gaze hardened. His jaw muscles tightened under the crisp, iron-grey beard. Rest? Not while one man lived—the thrice-damned and god-accursed false princeling who had betrayed them to his foreign dog-friends …
Under his breath the gaunt old jemadar breathed five words—and whether it be a curse or a prayer, what man could say?
“Death to the Dragon Emperor!”
ii. The Axe of Thom-Ra