The Quest of Kadji (11 page)

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!

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!

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.

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!
”