by Lin Carter
“Aye, Lord!”
“Then came the miracle! Out of westerly Rashemba came word that the Prince Yakthodah lived! That assassins of the banished kugars had sought his life, but slew another thinking it was he—while the True Prince fled into hiding under a name not his. You were a child when this word first came to the plains. Like the wind of spring it was, and our hearts flowered with joy at its coming. And thence into the Empire rode the Prince, with a mighty host of the chivalry of Rashemba by his side, to drive out the usurpation of the kugars and to claim his holy father’s throne. Did not the great Kozanga raise the war standard and ride by his side? Did not the swordbrothers of the Chayyim Kozanga break the kugars at the Hills of Yush? Did not I, Zarouk, stand in the Hall of Halls and see the True Prince crowned as Dragon Emperor? Did not he name me ‘brother’ and ‘friend’ before all men?”
“I swear that all these things are true,” the boy said solemnly.
The old warrior heaved a sigh.
“Aiii, for the sword-brethren! For dark days came upon us soon after! The Dragon was not the man his father was! The wealth of his ancestors he squandered for gauds and baubles! The gold of Khôr he spent on jugglers and astrologers and magicians! Did he not spend his days in frivolity and his nights in gaming, drinking and revel? Did he not build his Dragon Guard—not from the swordbrothers of the plains—but from among the dog-knights of Rashemba? Did not he take as his Empress the foreign woman—the very daughter of the High Prince Bayazin who had lent him an army to whelm the kugars? And did he not, once the coffers were empty, welcome back the same kugars he had broken and banished—they and their gold? Did he not trade them Kozanga land for their gold? Did he not turn against us of the Kozanga, to curry favor with the kugars … did he not, at the last, outlaw and banish us, forbidding that a Chayyim Kozanga should enter the gates of golden Khôr? And then, as we rode from his lands with dignity, did he not loose upon our heels the dogs of Rashemba, to ambush and slaughter us? Which he would have done, had not the Gods warned us in time with the Omen of the Wolves …”
Kadji bent his head and beat his chest.
“Lord jemadar, alas, all these things are true!”
“Very well! Now, hearken thou, O Red Hawk, O son of my own son. In the darkness of night the War Prince of the Gods came to me in my dream and spake unto me, saying, behold, O Elder Brother of the Kozanga, the man that sits in the chair of Azakour is not the son of his blood, but a vile and cunning impostor!”
iv. The Red Hawk Rides
NOON FOUND the boy Kadji half a league from the village whereat the legion had slept the night before. Alone, mounted on his favorite Feridoon pony, the youth had retraced the path the Nomads had taken in their flight from the lances of Rashemba. Now the boy reined to a halt atop the brow of a low hill to scan the horizon. Were the knights of Prince Bayazin still on the track of the brethren, or had the dogs turned back to the Dragon City—back to golden Khôr where a foul deceiver ruled from the holy chair of a thousand Emperors? The boy cursed and spat at the thought.
The clear skies of noon shone down with a fierce light on the measureless plains below. Cold and frosty was the wind, with the touch of winter in it, but the sun burned hot and bright. Searching the horizon, Kadji found no trace of mounted warriors. No trail of dust rose to 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 swordbrothers 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 ponderous stallions of the mailed knights of western Rashemba!
Kneeling in the trodden dust, the Red Hawk swore before his savage Gods the sword-brethren should not have died in vain.
He kissed the blade of the sacred Axe in token of his vow and rose and rode on, and his heart was filled with grim purpose. But now he must ride with very great care, scanning the world around from every hillcrest or elevation. It would seem that the dog-knights of Rashemba had turned back in truth from their pursuit of the clan legion, for he saw no sign of them as he retraced, day after day, the flight of the swordbrothers. But here, on the far shore of the Agburz, he was in the country held by the foe, and well might they have left guardposts or watch parties behind to warn against the return of the Chayyim Kozanga Nomads. So he rode carefully, muffled in his cloak, taking advantage of every bit of cover the landscape might afford. He followed the winding path of dry gullies; he picked his way through the stand of trees, using the bushy underbrush to hide him from any watchful eye; and thus he
passed many leagues unseen by any man.
v. The Gates of Nabdoor
IT WAS some days later that Kadji, Red Hawk of the Chayyim Kozanga, came within sight of Nabdoor.
The small traders’ town lay below him, for now he was among the Barren Hills, and the settlement lay below on the banks of the Babdar, a small river that wandered out of the north and down whose meandering stream came flatboats from the northern farms bearing goods to market. Here at this spot the river from the north met with the great caravan routes that crisscrossed the plains from east to west: hence a permanent village of tradesmen, artisans, caravan lords and merchant princelings had grown up in olden time.
Now it might well be that the Rasbemba, turning back from the Field of Agburz to return to the heartlands of the Dragon Emperor, might have paused at Nabdoor-town. At very least, it seemed likely they had left a garrison to ward and hold this outpost of golden Khôr. Therefore the boy Kadji tethered his pony to dry brush below and wriggled on his belly to the hillcrest, from which high vantage he could gaze down and see the streets and ways of Nabdoor spread out below him like a living map. He searched with keen and thoughtful eyes and saw that his worst fears were realized; for while the main body of the Rashemba host had departed from these parts, a garrison did indeed hold the gate and walls of the town.
Kadji crawled down from the hillcrest to where his pony waited patiently and huddled in his robes, munched dry provisions, while he thought out his strategy. The pony nosed him and he dug a handful of dry meal from the saddlebags and let it eat from the palm of his hand, chuckling as the moist, bristled lips moved over his hand.
“What shall we do, eh, Haral?” he murmured, stroking the velvet nose of the pony. “Of course, we could circle Nabdoor without entering it, and continue on into the north … but if we so do, little Haral, we shall both go with empty bellies many a day, for there is little left in the bags for you to feed upon, and naught at all for me.”
The pony whickered softly and shoved his shoulder with its nose, as if to say “Let’s go down and dare it.”
At length Kadji made up his mind. His pony was of Feridoon breed, unlike the proud war stallions of the swordbrothers; and he himself, with his blond locks and blue eyes—a rarity in the Nomad clan-brethren—could pass for an Ushamtar of the plains. And he had cleverly bethought him of the time when perchance he might need to hide his Kozanga identity behind some manner of disguise; thus he bore with him in the saddle pack garments purchased from the go-mak of the Ushamtar village whereat they had paused to rest that night.
On sudden impulse the boy rose and threw off the red felt hat and striped ishlak robes, which would mark him to all eyes as a warrior of the Chayyim Kozanga.
Nude save for a linen clout wound about his loins, the boy stooped and bathed in the cold waters of the Babdar, which, like a mirror, caught and held the image of his lean brown young body, broad-shouldered, smooth-chested, narrow-hipped, and long and rangy in the legs. He bent, grinning, and scooped cold water up in cupped palms, slashing it in his face, shivering at the bite of the chill Water as it dribbled down his naked breast and thighs.
When he had cleansed himself, he opened the saddle pack and took out fresh garments, which he drew on over his shivering nakedness.
In a few moments he wore the fringed kuruz, the high-strapped leggings, the broad girdle and belied cap of a lordless Free Sword of the Ushamtar. The Ushamtar warriors had taken no part in the battle between the foreign Rashemba knights and the swordbrothers of the Kozanga; no curse of banishment or outlawry lay on their heads; thus, in the guise of a wandering Ushamtar mercenary, Kadji could ride where he wished without fear. He hoped!
Mounting his Feridoon pony, he rode boldly down to the gates of Nabdoor.
The town, which was not large, was ringed about in the embrace of a wall of rough fieldstone covered with cream and white stucco. It had two gates fashioned of heavy wood, and up to the nearer of these rode Kadji. As a boy might, he had concocted a long and very complicated story to account for his presence here. It included a false name and a full genealogy, and much incidental and anecdotal material. But to the vast disgust of Kadji, the knights of the Rashemba garrison did not even question him. Huge and red-faced and surly, they looked down at him from the height of the wall, saw him for a Ushamtar mercenary, and gestured him through the gate with but a grunted word. He felt somehow cheated: but it was just as well. His tongue might betray him for a Kozanga. He had not the guttural accents of a true born Ushamtar, although he had not thought of this.
He rode in, finding narrow cobbled streets and ramshackle houses and sheds dominated by huge warehouses of the merchant lords. At length he found an inn. And he found also a girl.
iv. The Perushka
KADJI HAD rented a place in the stables of the inn for his pony and was striding the streets bound for the nearest bazaar when he saw her.
She was gloriously fair, slim and strong and no older than he, if as old. Her hair was a banner of dark red flame and her eyes, large and bold and startling in her clear tanned face, were smoky amber flaked with fiery gold. She had proud young breasts and a free-swinging stride that reminded him of the wild Kozanga girls; like them, she wore high boots and tight leggings which displayed the slim clean lines of her long legs.
It puzzled him as to what she might be. No daughter of the merchant lords or princely artisans of Nabdoor would walk alone in the streets, for the townsmen were fiercely protective of their women and kept them behind walls; when, as seldom chanced, they were permitted abroad in the two town streets, they went heavily veiled and in giggling groups guarded by eunuchs. Not so, the flamehaired girl with eyes of smoky gold. She walked as freely as if she had no master—and no father, either. He was baffled, intrigued, and also—attracted.
While he shopped at the booths of the bazaar, selecting dried meats and preserved fruits and black bread and an oiled sack of red wine for his long ride to the north, he eyed her. She might be, he guessed, a Perushka—a gypsy—for she wore the loose flapping aftar of that people, and the gaudy kerchief about her brows, and the gold bangles at earlobe and throat and wrist. But she did not have the roguish swagger, the bold flirtatious eye, the flaunting walk, which marked the Perushka women.
And there was one thing else.
By her side paced a gigantic plains-wolf, grey as smoke, with eyes of lambent golden fire. The bazaar-folk gave it and its mistress a wide berth, he noticed, and indeed it was a strange thing, and almost unheard of, for the wolf was as tame as a great dog. And yet it was purebred plains-wolf, untainted in blood with town-dog strain, for often had Kadji seen the terrible wolfpacks of the Great Plains, and had fought them betimes, when harsh winter made them fierce mankillers.
She was an enigma, and as he went to sleep that night in a cramped loft atop the inn, the mystery of the girl and the beauty of her filled his thoughts and floated in his dreams.
WHEN HE rose with dawn from his narrow pallet, it was to shiver in the cold raw breeze. The harsh bleak light of morning flooded the little loft and through the one small window, shielded with a carven uthrab screen of pierced wood, he could see the grey light on stucco domes and low-roofed houses, and a clouded wintry sky beyond to the World’s Edge.
He broke his morning fast in the tavern of the inn, before a roaring scarlet fire, while a cheerful inn-girl with red cheeks and thick braids and a very dirty apron clattered pots and pans noisily. When he went to the stables to say good morning to Haral, his boots crunched on frozen mud crusted with a very light fall of snow. The cold season was upon the world, and henceforth the going would be hard and difficult.
The black pony was happy to see him, stamped restively and nudged him with its velvet nose while he gentled the steed with soft loving words and wove his fingers through its long unshorn mane. Today he must finish the last of his purchases and depart. He thought of the amber-eyed Perushka girl with her flaming hair: soon she would only be a fading memory to him, a bright-haired wraith. For once
he left the streets of Nabdoor-town behind in his travels, he would never see her again.
He growled at himself, as a boy will: why all this accursed mooning over a pretty girl glimpsed in passing amid the streets of this nameless and unimportant little, town? He was glooming over her like a love-struck poet, but he was no poet but a warrior; a man, and on a mighty mission of honor and vengeance! He had no time to dream about pretty girls; he should be meditating on blood and fire and steel… .
Yet somehow he could not drive her from his mind. And as he strode about the snowy streets, buying provisions for his pony, his thoughts returned again and again to the slim, proud, lovely girl with eyes of smoky amber and hair like a scarlet banner tossed on fiery winds, and on the great wolf that went ever at her side.
Almost he thought to see her again today, but no, she was nowhere to be seen, and Kadji did not care to ask too many questions of the boothkeepers in the bazaar. For here and there about the square strode burly knights of the Rashemba in their glittering longshirts of chain mail, horned helmets of sparkling steel on their Straw-colored hair, their heavy red faces impassive, and cold grey eyes roving everywhere, alert and suspicious. To ask, questions might mean to draw attention to himself; therefore Kadji asked no one about the flamehaired girl.
He kept his month shut and his face blankly incurious. He bought his goods with a minimum of talking, and he kept as far away from the towering horned knights as he could, without seeming to do so. And under his fringed kuruz the God-Axe, the Axe of Thom-Ra, lay bound against his beating heart. The sacred “Fortune” of the Chayyim Kozanga Nomads rode with him … and the razory edge of the holy steel thirsted to drink deep of the vile blood of the dog-knights of Rashemba,
