The Quest of Kadji
- Автор: Картер Лин Спрэг
- Серия: Chronicles of Kylix #1
- Год: 1973
- Язык: английский
- Год: Five Star Paperback
- Жанр: Научная фантастика
Электронная книга - «The Quest of Kadji». Краткое содержание книги:
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!”
vii. The Flame Globe
SHAMAD SPRANG to his feet and behind him the burly, blue-scaled form of his monstrous henchman also rose, snakelike eyes glittering with cold malice.
On the dais, the Ja Chan sat motionless, his rouged and painted face a mask of utter astonishment.
The taut silence that had gripped the hall while the spectre spoke ceased when Shamad sprang to his feet. It was as if by his sudden movement he had broken the spell that had long held the glittering and barbaric assemblage bound. They roared in one shattering crescendo of red rage. Tables went crashing over, swords were drawn in a hiss of steel against leather shouting men sprang up yelling for blood.
By his involuntary motion it seemed that Shamad had flinched from the accusation thus leveled at him from the very halls of the dead. If he had remained unmoving—if he had laughed—perhaps he could have retained his grip on the beliefs of the Horde chieftains. But the way he leaped to his feet had, somehow, betrayed his guilt. In an instant the Horde warriors’ realized how greatly they had been duped. Savages beneath their veneer of civilization, they roared for the blood of the impostor. In an instant the great room was a shambles. Wine lay spilt in spreading gouts, staining the marble pave with pools of scarlet, like blood. Platters of steaming meats went clanging to the floor and were trampled underfoot by angry men, blind with primal fury.
Upon the great dais of the Sun Throne the Ja Chan still had not moved or spoken. His face bore no expression at all, but in his little pig-eyes, as they looked upon Shamad, appeared a glint of relief and—amusement!
It was even as Kadji had prophesied—no king willingly shares one jot of his, power with another. Not even with the holiest of priests or prophets.
Cold little eyes glinting with cruel satisfaction, the Ja Chan watched the downfall of him who had pretended to be the Masked Prophet of Kamon-Thaa.
AS FOR Kadji, he had been ready for the moment of his triumph. Even as the first enraged Hordesmen had surged for the chair whereby the false Prophet still stood, the lithe figure of the Red Hawk of the Chayyhn Kozanga Nomads had hurtled to their front From under his uniform tunic he brought forth the Axe of his God and brandished it high.
In the light of ten thousand candles, the Axe of Thom-Ra flashed blindingly as a slice of sun.
And, of all those gathered in that hall, only Shamad recognized it.
The dais whereupon rose the chair of the Prophet towered high above the hall, almost as high as the Sun Throne itself. Six steps led to the summit of the dais where Shamad and Zamog stood facing throng of angry men howling for bloodthirsty vengeance.
Kadjj was the first to reach the foot of that dais and as he went leaping up to where Shamad stood he lifted his young voice in a great cry.
In all that place, only Shamad knew the war challenge of the Chayyim Kozanga when he heard it bayed forth.
In a flash—in an instant—Shamad realized how he had been tricked, and by whom. Oh, doubtless he did not know the name of Kadji Red Hawk, but the pale stern features of the boy warrior; his shock of sunny hair, the fierce exultation in the clear gaze of the youth, told Shamad all he needed to know.
They say on the plains that the vengeance of the Kozanga Nomads has an arm long enough to reach from World’s Edge to World’s Edge. In this swift moment, Shamad realized the truth of that saying, as he stared down frozen into the hawk-bright eyes of Kadji and saw the Sacred Axe glitter through the smoky air as it flashed to sever his throat.
But Shamad the Impostor had been raised in a hard school. They who live by their wits alone—by lie, deception, and deceit—learn early to ward against every turn of the dice or do not survive. And Shamad had survived tighter traps than this. From amidst the very stronghold of his foes, in golden Khôr, he had eluded the assassin’s blade, the watchful eye of the plotters, and the armed hosts who would cut him down, to slink forth in secret when all men thought him safely dead.