The Quest of Kadji

Twilight was falling; the sky darkened slowly. She tugged at the reins and turned the nose of her steed about and thumped her heels in the horse’s ribs to spur the weary stumbling steps. Night must not take them here in the waste; higher up in the mountain country they could perhaps find shelter from the creatures which rumour whispered dwelt about and made the night hideous with their cries.

The old, worn map she had borne with her all the way from Zoromesh on the other side of the world, and which still lay folded and tucked in her sash, told of a safe pass through the wall of mountains that marched down from the ultimate pole. The Khondru, it was called. From here she could almost see it, a notch cut by the Gods in the granite wall that locked the east away behind the frowning ramparts of worn old stone.

At the heels of her steed the great plains-wolf loped, but he too was very weary. His tongue hung from between open, panting jaws, and his plume of a tail dragged in the dust. But he did not desert her side: like, a gliding phantom, silent as a grey shadow the wolf slunk after her, lambent eyes of gold flame blazing through the murk of dusk.

She took an ancient track that rose slowly toward the mouth of the pass, winding between the rounded hills. The mare cantered along slowly, lathered and weary. The girl, Thyra, was weary too, aye, bone-weary with hard riding, but she could not let them rest—not here—not yet.

The world darkened around them. The road lifted under them, and the Khondru grew larger till it loomed mighty through the dusk, like the portal of some unknown world, pillared with darkness.

Beyond the pass the plain stretched away east to the Edge of the World. There was naught to see, for night was upon them now and the first of the Seven Moons of Gulzund trembled on the edge of the sky, an orb of dim opal light.

Thyra made camp in the foothills beyond the world-separating range of mountains. She gathered dry dead brush and touched it to crackling flame with a Word she, had learned in young girlhood from the White Witches of her homeland. The wickerwork pannier slung across the withers of the grey mare held provisions for many days; dried meat and rank green cheese, black coarse bread and a strong dark wine that had honey in its heart and left the taste of forgotten summer on her tongue.

Wrapped in a fringed and hooded cloak, huddled near the fire for warmth, Thyra munched down bread and cheese, sharing the meat with Bazan the grey wolf. Behind her back, warm and breathing hoarsely, the mare crunched and mumbled its portion of grain.

Even in Chemedis, Thyra had taken precautions of keeping fresh foodstores packed and ready against the need for immediate departure. She knew the wily and cunning ways of Shamad the Impostor; thrice he had eluded her ere this. He had a talent for slipping away suddenly from the center of things; she had resolved that never again should he catch her napping and unprepared.