The Quest of Kadji

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 sword-brothers; 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 sword-brothers 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.