The Quest of Kadji

THE OLD Easterling wizard was brewing herb tea over the small fire, stirring the steaming fluid in a small iron pot with along-handled spoon of carved horn and sniffing in the rich aromatic fragrance with sleepy pleasure when the thing came out of the darkness toward them.

They had ridden hard, to the edge of their horses’ endurance, and a while ago they had made a rude camp amidst the waste. Now they had eaten and, while old Akthoob brewed his tea, the boy Kadji rested, sprawled out on his blankets, using the saddle as a sort of pillow. Behind him in the lengthening shadows, his black Feridoon pony and the old wizard’s steed munched dried grain from leather feedbags.

The first two moons had just arisen to tremble like orbs of magical colored light on the dim horizon, when the shadowy shape came without a sound out of the blackness of night to stand before them.

It was a great grey shaggy brute with scarlet, lolling tongue and glistening white fangs, and it was enormous—almost as big as the young Nomad warrior himself.

Akthoob uttered a shocked squeal and knocked his herb tea, pot, spoon and all, into the small turf fire.

Kadji sprang to his feet, snatching at his weapons. Then he stayed his hand, for the shaggy grey animal was not making any signs of attack. And it looked familiar… .

He stared into the lambent golden eyes of the creature and whispered a name, “Bazan!”

The grey plains-wolf whined deep in his throat and wagged the shadowy plume of his tail, for all the world like a gigantic dog.

“Kill it—kill it!” old Akthoob squeaked, fluttering his bony hands nervously as if hoping to shoo the wolf away. Then he paused, blinking owlishly at the beast, which had padded over to kneel at Kadji’s feet. Akthoob sucked in his breath between his teeth with a little whistling sound as, greatly daring, the boy warrior bent slowly and scratched his fingers deep in the thick coarse fur that grew behind the wolf’s pointed ears.

The long pink tongue came lolling out and timidly licked the boy’s wrist.

“It is Bazan,” said Kadji slowly, trying to keep the tense excitement out of his voice. “It must be! The plains-wolves do not roam these far wastes at the World’s Edge … and if it is not Thyra’s pet, why should a strange plains-wolf be so friendly … or be here at all, a thousand leagues and more from the habitat of his own kind?”

Akthoob blinked nervously, but was forced to admit that the beast bore much resemblance to the tame wolf who had followed the flamehaired girl.

“It knows the smell of my body from the weeks we dwelt together in the cave, that time I lay sorely injured and close to the black gates of Death,” the boy reasoned. “It knows me for a friend—but why has Bazan left the side of his mistress?”

The old Easterling wizard cleared his throat with a dry cough. “This humble person might suggest that, uh, the honorable lady has met with an accident … some enemy, perchance …”

The firelight flared in Kadji’s eyes. He chewed restlessly on his knuckles.

“You may be right, old man. Shamad is somewhere in this waste of dreary sand …”

“Ay, young sir! But it need not he him we seek has harmed or captured the flamehaired one. There are beasts haunt these desolate wastes at the World’s Edge. Aye, and the shades of long-dead men roam the shadowy margins of the world, if old tales be true …”

“Well, whatever has become of Thyra, her wolf will lead us to where she lies,” the boy warrior said. If hurt or—or—slain,” the youth gulped, choking a little on the word, “Bazan will guide us to the spot. And if taken captive by Shamad or by some other, the wolf will aid us in tracking her and her captors, as he can follow her scent.”

Old Akthoob wearily agreed. “But on the morrow, surely! These old bones ache from hours in the saddle, and the horses are worn to their limit and must rest!”

Reluctantly, Kadji permitted himself to be persuaded, although every fibre of his hot young heart urged him to ride forth into the night on the trail of the flamehaired girl. But he knew it was not a wise course, for if pressed beyond their endurance, the steeds would founder and they must thence forward attempt the crossing of the waste afoot, which were very great folly.

They slept that night rolled in thick blankets beside the guttering fire, and rose with first dawn to eat hastily and ride on toward the Rim of the World.

All that day they rode, with Bazan loping ahead, nose to the ground, guiding them due east. Every two or three hours they paused to rest the horses, and Kadji bitterly begrudged every lost moment. All that day, and much of the night, and for most of the day that followed they rode ever onward, close on the trail of Thyra, and of Shamad the Impostor, too, although they could not be certain of that fact.