Sword Destiny (19 page)

The sharp arrowhead punched through the soft eyeball and into the brain. Garl was killed instantly and knocked backward out of his chariot. He hit the earth with a crash and sprawled there with the feathered shaft standing like some obscene plumed flower growing out of his eye socket. Red blood welled upward and trickled down the side of his face. The battlefield froze into stillness, swords and axes were checked in mid-strike and there was a sudden hush.

Half of them expected to see the blue god rise again, but Garl disappointed them. He lay lifeless, transformed from a possible god into a definite mortal being in one swift stroke. A great cheer rose up from the throats of Maghalla. Sardar bellowed his war cry and lashed up his horses, leading the rest of his cautious champions madly into the fray.

 

 

 

One Maghallan battle chariot had not even waited for the first of the blue men to die. Seeva, the Tigress of Maghalla, still wearing her dead husband's black battle armour, had at last been rewarded for her long days of campaigning on the battlefield. She had searched the proud banners of Karakhor as they had filed out to take up their positions in the enemy vanguard and she had watched with jubilant eyes as the banner of the silver boar had finally appeared. The prince who had slain her beloved Zarin had at last come forth and now his life was forfeit.

Seeva had whipped her horses into the first charge, ignoring the fact that hers was the only chariot to cut its flying path through the advancing foot soldiers. She drove straight into the fierce but more conventional fighting on the left flank of the Karakhoran front, away from the carnage being wrought by the Gheddan lazer fire. Heaving left and then right on her reins, she dodged past the cleaving swords of both Jahan and Devan and crashed her chariot headlong into that of Ramesh.

The four horses neighed and plunged together in a rearing tangle of tearing harness and snapping shafts. Both carriages were smashed asunder and the two occupants thrown out of the wreckage. Ramesh rolled, stunned, on the ground, but Seeva landed more lightly on hands and knees, with Zarin's sword still clenched in her hand.

“I am Seeva,” she screeched at him. “Daughter of Sardar, wife of Prince Zarin.” She rose to take a two-handed grip on her sword and swung it up above his head.

Ramesh struggled to one knee, groping for his own sword. He saw her distorted face staring down at him, her fragile beauty ruined by the blaze of madness in her eyes and the drool of spittle on her lips. He remembered all the stories he had heard of the Tigress of Maghalla, of the score of men she had butchered. Her rage was a terrible thing and she was a woman. Ramesh had killed many men since this war had begun, but he had never killed a woman. His hands faltered and his bowels turned to ice. He understood how all those men before him had fallen to her vengeful blade.

Seeva swung her sword in a stroke that should have split his helmet and his head like a ripe pineapple. The blow only fell halfway before a second sword parried and turned it aside.

Seeva turned with a wail of frustration—and faced another warrior who was her equal.

“Men die before you because they will not fight a woman,” Maryam told her with contempt. “But I am not a man. I do not have that weakness.”

Seeva screamed with fury and flung herself into an attack. Maryam gave ground before the onslaught and a circle cleared around them to give them room.

Maryam turned Seeva's blade again and kicked her hard in the groin, a typically Gheddan assault. Seeva gasped and staggered back, both with surprise and the sudden crippling pain. No one had ever kicked her there before.

As Seeva reeled away, Maryam pursued her advantage with a series of swinging sword blows that hammered down her defence. Seeva made one last attempt to rally, spinning full circle and coming back with a thrust that would have disemboweled her opponent if it had scored home. It was a play that had to kill one of them. Maryam stepped nimbly to one side and Seeva impaled herself on the lunging Gheddan blade. She screamed horribly as she died, more in hysteric fury than in agony.

Maryam stood breathless for a moment, watching with a strange feeling of hot elation as the corpse of the Tigress of Maghalla slid slowly from her blade. When she killed Sylve, she had felt shame and nausea, but that was many weeks and many battles ago. Now she felt only satisfaction.

Behind her there was a roar of anger from Maghalla, and immediately the two nearest warriors hurled themselves at Maryam's back, but now it was the turn of Nirad to intervene. He had recovered his wits and the use of his sword arm and he met them with a whirlwind of steel that cut both of them dead in their tracks.

The moment of triumph was short as the tide of battle turned swiftly against the struggling fighters of Karakhor. As Maghalla took heart, the whole front line of the defenders was pushed back. The Gheddan swords were taking a terrible toll, but despite their ferocity and skills in swordplay, the Gheddans wore no protective helmets and they had never been trained in the defensive use of arm shields to fend off enemy blades and arrows. A sword slash to the skull killed Landis and in almost the same moment a second fatal arrow pierced Caid through the neck. With two more of the blue gods down, the massed voices of Maghalla howled in triumph.

Taron was close enough to see Landis fall, and with a bellow of rage, he leaped down from his chariot and carved a bloody path through to where his dead companion lay. He took swift and immediate revenge, slicing the perpetrator's head from his body and then kicking it high above the heads of all the rest. But now the big, ugly Gheddan was alone, a lion at bay, trapped and surrounded by a swarming pack of Maghallan jackals. They fell upon him from all sides and Taron went down fighting beneath the storm of blades.

 

 

 

In all that deafening, soul-destroying insanity, Gujar could barely tell friend from foe. He had become separated from his chariot and fought on foot, hacking and slashing almost blindly, with the vague assumption that those behind him were friends and those before were foes. He knew that it was only a matter of time before he felt the hot cut or thrust of death and until then he was only determined to kill as many of his enemies as was humanly possible.

He was tiring when a Maghallan arm shield suddenly smashed into his face, its edge opening up a deep cut above his left eye. He was pushed backwards, his heel caught on a fallen corpse and he sprawled heavily on to his back. He rolled instinctively, escaping the first of the downward hacking sword blows that rained toward him. With an effort, he struggled to one knee, still retaining his sword, but he was half-blinded by the blood pouring down into his eyes.

Three Maghallan warriors formed a half circle around him. He saw them through a thin curtain of dripping red and knew that in this handicapped moment he could not kill them all. Then behind them a chariot abruptly loomed. Gujar recognized the tall figure of Rajar, reins in one hand and a bloodied sword in the other. Rajar hauled his horses to a stop and for a moment their eyes met. Then Rajar deliberately flicked his reins and his chariot just as swiftly disappeared back into the whirl of battle.

Gujar had known for a long time that it was Rajar's scheming that had caused the death of his father. Now he also knew that by his aloof attitude he had betrayed himself. Rajar knew that he knew. The young prince could easily have attacked his assailants from behind, but had chosen to leave him to his fate. As the thoughts flashed through Gujar's mind, the three Maghallans came in for the kill.

They were too late. An eye-dazzling blur of flashing steel cut through them and in less than a minute all three had died on a single blade. As the last one fell away in a spray of blood, Raven turned and casually offered his free hand to the still unsteady house lord.

Gujar stared at the blue hand that was extended toward him, the hand of Maryam's blue god. This was the man who had fired the beam of white light that had murdered his father, but the deed had been done openly and the blue god had been tricked. All of Gujar's hatred now was directed only at Rajar. After only a moment's hesitation, Gujar took the blue hand and allowed Raven to haul him to his feet.

“You are a useful blade,” Raven said calmly. “Fight on.” With that the Sword Lord moved forward, rejoining Maryam and seeking out his next victims.

Gujar stood dazed for a moment as the battle surged momentarily away from him and then heard his name called. He turned as two chariots pulled up beside him, side by side. He recognized his own horse team and Kasim in the second chariot, holding both sets of reins. Slowly Gujar climbed back into his chariot and took the offered reins. Kasim flashed him a smile and then returned to the bloody work at hand. Gujar had not understood Raven's parting Gheddan words, but after wiping the blood out of his eyes, he too took a renewed grip on his sword, followed his friend and fought on.

 

 

 

Jahan and Devan were the two mighty rocks on which the tide of Maghalla broke and foamed and foundered. They fought side by side in their chariots and the Maghallan dead piled up around them. Then slowly, under the surging pressure of the battle, they were pushed apart. Each champion was isolated and alone.

Jahan's sword was growing heavier and swinging more slowly in his hand. Every blow seemed to require more effort as the old man weakened. The sweat was pouring down his face and his helmet had taken a blow that had knocked it to an uncomfortable angle. His damaged leg threatened to collapse beneath him and he knew that if he was to be forced down from his chariot, then he would not last for more than seconds.

Still he fought on stubbornly, determined to wield the great ruby-hilted sword until his last, dying breath escaped him. He hacked and slashed until suddenly he became aware that those who were baying for his blood were falling back. He paused and watched as a Maghallan chariot pushed through the parting mob. The banner of the red fist on a black background fluttered against the blue sky, the flag of the Prince of Kanju, and the grinning driver was Bharat.

Bharat had held back and waited, watching from behind an almost solid wall of his own warriors until it became evident that the old man had tired. His own sword had hardly moved in his hand all through the long, bloody morning, but now it was time to wield the blade. He came forward for a single combat battle of champions which was already decided. The defeat of Jahan, the Warmaster General of Karakhor, the glory and honour of victory, were all his for the taking.

“We meet again,” he said cheerfully as he reined his chariot alongside.

“We meet again,” Jahan agreed, and swung the first blow with deadly ferocity, knowing that this was his best and only chance.

Bharat almost died. He was over-confident and not yet ready and barely succeeded in blocking the cut in time. He was forced back in the small fighting space that his chariot walls allowed and found himself defending against a hurricane of blows. However, it was a short-lived storm. Jahan's strength was failing and Bharat was the younger man and still fresh. Also, he was nimble and fast, able to make full use of his confined space while Jahan was hampered by the throbbing pain of a stiff and crippled leg.

Slowly Jahan's movements became weaker. He only just ducked a swinging cut that caught the top of his helmet and toppled it from his head. Another crushing blow shattered his arm shield and left him with fresh blood pouring down from his elbow. He could only defend now. His breath was coming in struggling gasps and grunts and his eyes glazed with his efforts. The proud old heart was drumming and a red veil formed in front of his eyes. The ruby-hilted sword would no longer obey his mental commands. It was too heavy to lift. His crippled leg was dragging him down. Bharat struck the deathblow and clove him through the side of the neck, crushing the top of his breastplate and chopping through his collar bone. Jahan's eyes closed and the blood flowed in a red wave as he fell.

Bharat cried out in triumph and waved his bloodied sword aloft. His men cheered and applauded, but Bharat had celebrated too soon. Thirty yards away, Devan's great, wrathful bellow thundered over the cheers. Devan charged his chariot straight for Bharat's, bouncing and flying over both the dead and the living who blocked his path. His chariot was almost airborne as he heaved his horses round and swung it crashing into Bharat's. With one massive sweep of his sword, he struck Bharat's head from his shoulders and sent it spinning above the battlefield.

It was too late, for already the black news was spreading across the plain, sending shockwaves of despair through the weary hearts of Karakhor.

“Jahan has fallen.”

“Lord Jahan is dead.”

 

 

 

Kaseem had taken up a position on top of the watchtower above the main gates into the city. Below him was the bridge, only a symbolic entrance now that the unbroken expanse of lashed logs covered the river along the whole length of the city walls. However, in a token gesture, Jahan had blocked the bridge and the gates with the last two war elephants left to the city. They stood side by side, silent and unmoving, presenting their daunting tusks and head-harness spikes toward the enemy. They would be a last, if ineffective, obstacle to Sardar's chariots.

From his high vantage point, the old priest had watched the surge and thrust of the battle, the sun beating down upon his bared head and shoulders and the tears flowing unimpeded down his brown and wrinkled cheeks. Karakhor was being slaughtered before his eyes and there was nothing he could do to help. Raven and his crew had failed to make any real difference to the final outcome. They had only delayed the inevitable. Slowly and pitilessly, the forces of Karakhor were being pushed back toward the river, their numbers shrinking as the army of Maghalla tightened around them.

The noonday sun blazed hot and as merciless as the blood-dripping swords. Then the dreaded cry went up that Jahan had fallen. Kaseem felt as though a spear thrust had found his own heart and clutched at the wall in front of him for support. The tears flowed hotter and faster down his face and he turned to look for Sahani who had kept vigil beside him. “It is over,” he said bitterly. “There is no more hope. Let the
Juahar
begin.”