Sword Destiny (11 page)

Devan drew back, affronted. “There is no honour in hiding behind the city walls. That is the place for our women and children. Men should challenge each other man-to-man on the open field of battle. We would bring shame to ourselves and to those who have already died. Must we leave all honour to Maghalla?”

“What honour has Sardar of Maghalla?” Jahan demanded bitterly. “Was there honour in using jungle cats to bring down Prince Sanjay? Was there honour in trying to ride me down when I was on foot and he was still in his chariot? Was there honour in their attempt to force the bridge and break into the city? If our young lords and princes had not made their heroic stand on the bridge, Tuluq and Bharat would have smashed their way through the city gates. Do you think they would then have spared our women and children? No, Maghalla has come to rape our women, to butcher our children, to loot the treasures of our temples and palaces. We have tried to fight this war with honour, with all the rules of champions in single combat, but this is no longer a sporting contest. It is a war to the death, not just for champions and warriors, but for all of Karakhor.”

“Perhaps you are right,” Devan grumbled. “But we could sally forth for one more day. I now have my brother Sanjay to avenge. Give me one more day to meet up with Sardar of Maghalla.”

“My slain brother, Salim, also cries out for vengeance.” Ranjit pushed forward to Devan's side, appealing to Jahan. “Give me one more day to find and challenge Tuluq.”

Jahan heaved a deep sigh of regret. “Prince Devan, you are the last of your father's brothers. Lord Ranjit, you are the last of your father's sons. Our younger lords and princes are both valiant and noble. Without their stand at the bridge, the battle might have been wholly lost today. But you two are the last of our great champions. Karakhor cannot now afford to lose either of you.”

“Just one more day,” Devan insisted.

Jahan smiled. “I know you too well, old friend. You would always argue for one more day. That is why I have already issued the orders to all of our night watch captains. Our campfires beyond the river have all been stoked up with green wood. A few groups sit in front of the smokescreen, eating and talking to create the impression that all is normal. Behind the smoke, all our forces are being withdrawn over the bridge and into the city. By dawn it will be done. Sardar will have no choice but to make siege or go home.”

Rajar had listened with a conflict of emotions. The reappearance of Jahan and Kaseem had effectively pushed his claim to the throne far back on the agenda. Also, his plan to eliminate Ramesh had completely backfired and now his rival and his friends were being credited with saving the city. The gall was still there in his throat, but at least there was one ray of light in all this mess. None of the others liked it, but Rajar was relieved that tomorrow he would not have to ride out again and risk his life on the battlefield. He considered his words with political care, and then announced his support for the old Warmaster's actions.

“I agree with Lord Jahan. It is a wise decision. This was my father's kingdom. Now it is my kingdom. I do not wish to leave the field, but our army must not be destroyed. Our city must not fall. We must do whatever is best to defend Karakhor.” It was a neat little speech, which regained their attention and sounded just right. Rajar was pleased with it, but then Kaseem had to spoil everything again.

“It is a wise decision,” the old priest agreed, “for I have seen another Holy Vision. I know now that the Prince Kananda will return. It will take many weeks, but he will bring the Golden Gods and their white-fire ships with him. We must hold the walls of Karakhor until then.”

 

 

 

In the tents and around the campfires of Kanju, there was also gloom and despondency as the men there talked over their flight from the bridge and the death of their Prince Zarin. They needed a fine speech to raise their spirits and fire them up for the next day's fighting, but Bharat chose to stay in his tent and sulk over his wounds and bruises. He was not badly hurt, but mortified by the fact that he had been forced to retreat from the field after being thrown from his chariot. What should have been a victory had become a shambles and there had been no glory or honour in it. He even slightly regretted the death of Zarin, although the death of his nephew had left him almost the undisputed ruler of Kanju. There were two other child-sons of Kumar-Rao for whom he would have to act as Regent until he could decently have them disposed of, but otherwise his way was clear. However, he had liked Zarin, a willing tool and able battle companion. He cursed again at the day's events and drank heavily from his cup of wine.

From the next tent in line, where Zarin had slept, he listened to the depressing sound of noisy female weeping. Zarin had brought his wife Seeva with him, being too newly wed to bear a parting, and Seeva had two ladies-in-waiting. The three of them made enough noise for ten women and Bharat guessed that he would have to endure it for the rest of the night. Sourly, he refilled his cup with wine. He knew he should attend upon Sardar and listen to the squat toad's aims for tomorrow, but tonight he just felt like getting drunk. Sardar would probably be too much in his own cups to miss him anyway.

Bharat drank enough to dull his senses and then sank into a snoring sleep. The night passed and the grey light of dawn filtered into the tent before he awoke. Something was not quite as it should be and he blinked his eyes as he pulled his befuddled wits together. It took a few moments to realize that the irritating sobbing from the next tent had stopped and somehow that puzzled him. It seemed to him that the tearful noises had not recently stopped. He sensed that there had been silence for some time and that was not what he had expected. Seeva had been a dutiful and loving wife and the custom demanded that she should still be grieving for her husband.

Suddenly Bharat became aware of something else. Just inside the closed door flap of his tent was a tall patch of shadow that was not blurring away with the sharpening daylight. Instinct made him grab for his sword and jerk it half-free from its scabbard.

The shadow moved and he froze. He recognized the helmet of black steel with its long cheek guards and sharp nose bridge. He also knew well the black steel chest guard and the hard black leather of the shoulder guards and war skirt. The figure wore familiar black leather gloves and boots and the long steel sword with the black-mailed fist moulded on its pommel. For a moment, he thought that the ghost of Zarin had come back to haunt him, but then the intruder took another step forward.

It was Zarin's armour, but the blood had been washed away and the black steel and leather had been polished until it shone and sparkled even in the enclosed gloom of the tent. The face behind the helmet was full-lipped and pale, with beautiful, long-lashed brown eyes that no longer bore any signs of tears. It was a cold face, small and icy in its determination.

“Seeva!” Bharat spluttered. “What madness is this?”

“My husband is dead,” Seeva answered him bluntly. “I will observe the rites, but I will not sit in my tent and merely weep. I will avenge him. Tell me, Bharat, who slew my husband?”

“One of the Karakhoran princes.” Bharat searched his memory “The one who flies the banner of the silver boar.”

“Then I will continue to fly the banner of the black fist. I will ride my husband's chariot into battle. I will wear his armour and carry his sword. I will hunt for this Prince of the Silver Boar—and when I find him I will kill him. Then I can return to being a woman.”

Bharat stared at her, and then suddenly he grinned. “It all fits you. At least you look better in Zarin's armour than he ever did.”

With a speed that surprised him, she drew the sword. It flashed into her hand and the point pricked his throat. Her eyes were furious. “Do not jest,” she screamed at him. “I will kill the man who slew my husband. And anyone else who gets in my way.”

Bharat knew that his life hung suspended on a slender thread. The woman was proud and crazed. She was a daughter of Sardar and the madness blazed in her eyes. He remained motionless, holding her gaze, and then with infinite slowness he lifted a finger and touched the blade that had already drawn a globule of blood from a small cut under his chin. He froze again, still not daring to breathe and then gently, with the tip of his finger, he moved the blade aside.

Seeva stepped back and sheathed the sword. Bharat let out his breath in a long, shuddering gasp and sucked in another. “I believe you,” he said at last.

Seeva smiled. “I will ride beside you until we find the Prince of the Silver Boar,” she promised.

Bharat nodded. For the moment he was not prepared to argue. Then another thought struck him. “What will your father say?”

Seeva shrugged. “I am a Princess of Maghalla. My father will laugh.”

Bharat nodded again, and then he too roared with laughter.

 

 

 

The two queens, Padmini and Kamali, the first and second wives, and now widows, of Kara-Rashna, completed their nightly tour of the temple courtyards and the noble houses. The priests and the women of the city were using all the space they had to accommodate the dying and the wounded. Everywhere the royal wives stopped there was only suffering and pain, the stench of blood and the sound of sobs and groans. The women and priests of the city were almost as gaunt and wretched as the men they tried to save, their robes in many cases equally stained with red.

Padmini and Kamali moved among the wounded and those who cared for them to give them some comfort and moral support. The need for their presence and guidance was one of the heavier arguments that Jahan and Devan had used to stop them from their initial desire to throw themselves on the sacrificial fire of their dead husband. They needed to set a living example, Jahan had insisted. The noble women of Karakhor would look to them for leadership and follow where they led. Those who lived must work and fight for the survival of the living.

When they returned to the palace, they dismissed the guards who had accompanied them and Kamali followed Padmini into the first queen's quarters. Padmini waved her maids away and the two women embraced and released the well of tears that so far they had held back. They wept on each other's shoulders. At last Padmini broke the embrace and found a lace handkerchief to dry her eyes. She used the same wisp of lace to wipe the glistening cheeks of the woman she loved as a sister.

They sat on one of the long padded chairs that furnished the chamber. The maids had left bowls of fresh fruit, dates and figs and glasses of milk, but they ignored them. Neither of them had any stomach for food or drink. Padmini stared blankly over the marble balcony of the open window. She could see the stars in the night sky where her children had disappeared.

Kamali stared down at her hands folded in her lap. Finally the younger queen spoke. “It gets worse. Will it never end?”

Padmini drew back from her own sad thoughts. “It will end,” she said bitterly. “But I fear it will not be an ending to our liking.”

“You think Karakhor can lose this war?” Kamali was shocked. It was the first time they had dared, or feared, to admit as much.

Padmini hesitated but then she nodded. “Our men fight bravely. They are like lions. But they are too few and they cannot be replaced. The hordes of Maghalla are like locusts. More appear every day.”

Kamali trembled. If there had been any tears left she would have wept again. “Every day,” she said miserably, “I wait to see if my sons Nirad and Rajar will be among the mutilated or the slain. Our husband is dead. My daughter Namita was murdered by the blue men when they invaded our city. Nirad and Rajar are all that I have left.”

Padmini put her arm around the young queen's shoulders. “I fear and pray for Ramesh, and for Maryam and Kananda, but perhaps my first son and daughter are safe among the stars. Perhaps they sail in glory in the steel temples that took them away. I fear your burden is heavier than mine. The stars may be a better place than poor Karakhor.”

They were silent for a long minute. Then Kamali turned her face to her friend. The blue powder that was intended to make her dark-lashed eyes more beautiful had smeared across her face and the tear trails ran through it. “I wish that we had joined with Kara-Rashna in the flames. We should have performed the
Juahar
.”

Padmini nodded slowly. “It was our right and our duty. Perhaps Jahan and Devan were right to make us wait, but I think we will perform the
Juahar
. When the city falls, we must lead all the noble wives and daughters into the cremation fires. Soon we will have to begin to prepare them. We must talk to the older women first, the wives of the great houses, and let them talk to their daughters.”

Kamali stared at her. “I think Jahan and Devan will still forbid it.”

“What choice will they have?” The senior queen allowed the bitterness to creep back into her voice. “Jahan has a wife. Devan has three daughters. Do you think they will want to die knowing that all those they love will be raped and butchered by Maghalla when their own bodies lie broken on the battlefield?” Padmini put her hand on Kamali's and pulled the young queen closer. “This is why I agreed with our men that we would not join immediately with Kara-Rashna. I cannot see any way in which Karakhor can win this war. Jahan and Devan will argue against it to the last day, but what is inevitable will come and they will not let us be dishonoured. We must wait, but in the end we must lead all the women of all the noble houses into the
Juahar
.”

 

 

 

With the full light of dawn, the forces of Maghalla again marched forward in their awesome battle lines. The chariots of their war leaders formed the front rank, with Sardar, flanked by Kamar and Tuluq, standing proud in the centre. Behind them were the remaining war elephants and then the hordes of common soldiers, warrior groups, and the half-naked aboriginals that were the forest tribesmen. They all stamped and threatened, shaking fists and weapons and shrieking insults, a thunderous noise made to boost their own morale as much as to frighten the enemy.