Sword Destiny (4 page)

The forces of Maghalla withdrew to the tents and camps that were massed along the edge of the forest. The warriors of Karakhor retreated to the edge of the river where they collapsed to rest. Both sides had to eat, tend their wounds and sharpen their weapons for the dawn. Men too severely wounded to fight again were carried back into the city. The women came out with food and water jugs to search desperately for their own loved ones among the bleeding, exhausted ranks of the survivors.

The princes and house lords returned to the city to eat and rest, and then to gather in a silent, subdued group in the great audience hall where the elephant tusk throne of Kara-Rashna now stood empty. They glanced frequently at the vacant symbol of power, but none so often as Prince Rajar, the elder of the dead monarch's gathered sons.

They waited for Jahan and Kaseem. The Warmaster General was busy ensuring that his warriors, horses and elephants were all fed and cared for, that guards were set for the night watches, and that the burial parties were retrieving the dead. The old priest was supervising the rituals and ministrations that preceded the cremation of Kara-Rashna, who now lay in silent state in the courtyard of the temple of Indra.

At last priest and Warmaster appeared together, both of them looking tired and drawn. Jahan had removed his helmet and chain mail armour, but otherwise he still wore the same blood-and-dust-stained clothing of the day and his sword still hung sheathed at his waist. He glanced grimly around the gathered assembly, noting how many were there, and his mouth tightened a little more as he noticed how close Rajar had edged to the vacant throne. He knew instinctively how much the young prince longed to be seated there, although as yet he dared not make that move.

Kaseem spoke first, his hands clasped as though still in prayer. His bony shoulders sagged beneath his thin robe, but he held his chin high and met their eyes. “Our King had no wound,” he offered with only a slight quaver in his voice. “No enemy blade or arrow has touched him. It seems that his heart died inside him. His great soul saw too much pain. His noble heart stopped beating. Karakhor has lost her king, but in this there is no victory for Maghalla.”

“No victory for Maghalla,” Prince Devan agreed, but his hand slapped down hard on the hilt of his sword. “But there will be vengeance for Kara-Rashna and for Karakhor. I will seek out Sardar of Maghalla and avenge my brother. By all the gods, I swear it.”

There were sombre nods of approval, but Kaseem flinched and he looked down. He had washed and anointed the body of Kara-Rashna with his own hands, dressing his old friend again in his finest robes and jewels, all the while uttering the sacred rites and prayers. He had lit the sacred fires and made the all-important sacrifices. Soon, after due time of mourning, he would have to light the final cremation fire. Now he wondered how many more times he would have to perform the same sad tasks. Anger and bloodlust made men reckless with their lives and he wondered whether the angry Devan would be the next to fall.

“We will avenge our brother,” Sanjay affirmed. “Today it was important for all our battle banners to be in the front rank of chariots but tomorrow I ride a war elephant. The greater height will give me a wider view of the battlefield. Sardar will not be able to hide from my javelins.”

“Sardar will be well protected.” Jahan growled a note of warning.

Devan scowled but Sanjay turned the talk away from any possible argument. “How many others did we lose?” he asked grimly.

“Some three hundred warriors,” Jahan answered, “Most of them dead. Only a few live with wounds too serious to let them fight again. The monkey tribesmen butchered all those who fell. I believe they took some away to eat them. We also lost six elephants, hamstrung and crippled, and a dozen chariots and horse teams.”

“Against how many of the enemy?”

“Sardar's losses must be at least half as much again. The rain of arrows from our walls took a heavy toll on his foot soldiers. But he has twice as many to lose.”

There was a pause while they digested the numbers, and only Rajar was not listening. His hand caressed the polished ivory that formed the arm of Kara-Rashna's throne. Jahan watched him from the corner of his eye and waited for the young prince to become bold enough to speak.

“Karakhor needs a king,” Rajar said at last. “The elephant throne should not stand empty.”

The words echoed in silence as all eyes turned to fix upon the young prince.

“With Kananda gone, I am Kara-Rashna's First Son. I am the rightful heir to Karakhor. I should sit upon the elephant throne.” He had claimed his right to rule as forcefully as he dared, but he still lacked the courage to actually take the coveted seat.

His elders seemed uncertain or unready to answer him, but then Ramesh thrust himself quickly forward. “With Kananda gone, I am the First Son of the First Marriage. If there is a right here it, is my right. Kananda is our rightful ruler now and I will hold the throne until my brother returns.”

“Kananda will never return. He has vanished into the stars. Karakhor needs a king now. With Maghalla at the gates, the people must know that they have a king to lead them.”

“Then I shall be the king that Karakhor needs. I am now the First Prince of the First Royal Bloodline.”

“You are a boy and our dire situation demands a man,” Rajar snarled. “This is not a time for playing games.”

Ramesh grew hot and red in the face and his hand dropped to his sword. Rajar flushed the same angry colour and he too reached for his blade.

Kaseem stepped between them, clapping his hands angrily together. “You forget your father's mandate,” he told them sharply. “Warmaster Jahan and I will act together as Regents for the throne until the Prince Kananda returns—or at least until this war is ended. That was the will of Kara-Rashna.”

“Kara-Rashna is dead,” Rajar snarled. “His will holds no longer. And Kananda is probably dead also. You cannot hold the throne for dead men.”

Ramesh would have charged at him, but two firm hands held him back. Gujar clasped his left hand in a hard vice on the right shoulder of the young prince while Kasim's right hand clamped down on his left.

Sanjay, always the practical diplomat, moved smoothly between his belligerent nephews. “While we fight Maghalla, Karakhor needs her most experienced soldier as head of state. That man is the Lord Jahan, and therefore I support our dead brother's last mandate. The question of succession can wait.”

Devan nodded, “Jahan has always served Karakhor to the best of his ability. He has the skill and knowledge to lead us to victory. I too will honour our brother's mandate.”

Rajar was furious, but looking round for support, he found none. His uncles were against him. The House Lords were uncomfortable but neutral, and even Nirad, his own brother, looked uncertain.

Jahan had waited, shrewd enough to let Kaseem and the senior princes endorse Kara-Rashna's last decision before making his stand. He bowed his head briefly, with due respect, and chose his words with care when at last he spoke. “I accept the command of Kara-Rashna and the noble princes. With due regard for the advice of our High Priest, I will lead our army in the defence of Karakhor. Until the First Prince Kananda returns or until Maghalla is defeated.”

Rajar glared savagely at the old Warmaster, but he knew that he had lost this battle and that for the time being the mandate of his father would prevail. He shot an equally vengeful look at Ramesh, and then spun on his heel and stalked out of the room.

Ramesh looked ready to follow his half-brother or call him back, but Gujar and Kasim still had their restraining hands on his shoulders. Then Kaseem stepped forward and gently indicated to the two young lords that they should move away. Carefully, the old priest put his arm around the shoulders of the bristling young prince and led him to one side.

“My prince,” he said softly. “Your mother needs you. With your father dead and your brother and sister lost among the stars, you are all that the Queen Padmini has left. We should go to her.”

Ramesh stared into the wrinkled face before him and then the words sank home and his anger ebbed, sucked away in a swirl of even greater emotions. A tear glistened suddenly in his eye and he nodded. Kaseem took his arm more firmly and led him slowly from the audience hall.

On the far side of the room, Gujar was still glaring at the archway through which Rajar had made his exit. Quite suddenly there was no more doubt in his mind and he was certain that Rajar had to be the royal prince who had caused the death of his father. Rajar's naked ambition had been clearly visible in the recent exchange of heated words. Rajar wanted power and to rule Karakhor and would not shrink from any act of treachery or deceit that would bring him his goal. Gujar's hand was on his sword and the urge to challenge Rajar was strong. He took a half step in pursuit, but Kasim was still at his side and Kasim understood his expression and his feelings.

“No, my friend,” Kasim warned. “I can guess at what you are thinking but now is not the time. Our elders will not allow us to duel among ourselves while Maghalla surrounds our walls. You must wait.”

“And if Kananda fails to return,” Gujar whispered harshly, “Rajar will be king.”

“Perhaps.” Kasim was at a loss. “But you cannot be sure. And you cannot be sure that Rajar is the jackal that you seek.”

“I am sure,” Gujar breathed softly. “And when this war is over, I swear that I will challenge Rajar, whether he be king or not.” He turned to face Kasim and finished earnestly, “In the meantime, I think we must both watch the backs of the Lord Jahan and Ramesh. I think Rajar will stop at nothing, and Jahan and Ramesh are all that now stand in the way of Rajar becoming king.”

 

 

 

Kaseem spent most of the night with Ramesh and the weeping Queen Padmini, leading their prayers and sharing their vigil beside the dead body of the king. Kamali, the second wife of Kara-Rashna, joined them, escorted by Nirad, and it was almost dawn before Kaseem could persuade the two red-eyed, tear-streaked women to retire to their bedchambers. Ramesh and Nirad led their respective mothers away from the temple while Kaseem stayed and fussed to ensure that his subordinates would attend to the perfumed flames and the continuing ceremonies with all due diligence. Finally the High Priest himself turned away to wearily seek his bedchamber.

Kaseem was exhausted. His old bones ached and his whole being was drained by grief and worry. He felt almost as though his soul were dead. He lay back on his cot and closed his eyes, but sleep refused to come. Instead, he saw over and over again the angry scenes he had witnessed between Rajar and Ramesh. The hot fires of rivalry that had flared between the two fierce young princes boded ill for the future of Karakhor, even if the city should survive the onslaught of Maghalla. Again, as he had prayed a thousand times before, he prayed passionately and earnestly for the safe return of Kananda.

He heard the dread sound of the battle horns and the ringing blasts of the conch shells which heralded the start of the new day. He opened his eyes and saw the streaked light of dawn filtering into his chamber and knew that the bloodshed was beginning again. Bitter tears of despair flowed down his shriveled cheeks and his body jerked and shook with the depths of his anguish.

Finally, by an effort of will, he calmed himself and closed his eyes once more. This time he did not even attempt to sleep. Instead he sought escape on the astral plane where he could leave his useless old body behind. Over the past few months, he had become adept at making the transfer, but this time it almost eluded him. The high degrees of spiritual concentration and physical relaxation which were required were, in his present emotional state, almost beyond him. To strive for the required state was to work against it, but when he had almost given up hope, fatigue collapsed his physical form and his spirit was released.

As Kharga, he soared aloft, reveling in the warrior strength of his spirit body and willing a sharp sword into his hand. He hovered in the dawn light above the beleaguered city, looking down on the massed ranks of Maghalla and Karakhor as they faced each other for the second day. Instinct made him search the astral for any sign of Nazik or Sardar. He expected none and when he scanned the chariots of the enemy champions below, he saw that both his enemies stood ready to fight on the physical plain.

Satisfied, he looked up again, searching for the last glimmer of reflected starlight which he now knew marked the planet Dooma, the fifth planet from Earth's sun, and the only place where he could hope to find his lost prince. He willed himself to surge up towards that tiny silver sparkle, not knowing whether it was possible to break the bounds of Earth, but suddenly determined to try.

The horizon expanded swiftly below him and then just as swiftly began to shrink again as he passed through layers of drifting cloud. Karakhor and the tumult of battle disappeared and the land became a vast pear shape, hanging under a barrier wall of ice-peaked mountains and set in the sparkling blue of the planet's seas. Then the sub-continent also began to shrink into a blue and white world that hung in the infinity of star-strewn space.

The atmosphere thinned and then there was nothing. He sensed, although he did not feel, the searing heat of the sun. His concentration was fixed on that one flash of light in this one solar system that was Dooma, excluding all the surrounding glory of the galaxies with their multitudes of cascading suns and spiraling molten arms. Blue, white and golden fire-bursts filled the immensity of the heavens, but he knew instinctively that if his concentration wavered he would be lost. He fixed his will and held to it and his spirit soul was sucked through the universe of his hopes and dreams, and somehow through the reality of space and time between Earth and Dooma.

He was aware of Mars, the red planet of scorching dust and desert, as he crossed its orbit, but he did not dare look toward it. The fifth planet was his only goal, fixed in the mind-eye of his soul, the desperate, pin-point focus of all his being. The mechanics of this transportation were beyond him. He simply willed himself to cross the void between the planets.