Sword Destiny (6 page)

Devan rolled in the dirt, his sword wrenched from his hand by the force of the impact. A dozen Maghallan foot soldiers would have rushed in to finish him but Durga bawled at them to stay back. This was still a battle of champions and he was not about to be robbed of his glory. The black-clad general picked himself out of the ruins of Devan's chariot, shook the dust out of his eyes and beard and raised the double-bladed axe again for the final deathblow.

Devan saw it coming. He had lost his sword, but his circular arm shield still hung from his elbow by one half-severed leather strap. He tore it away as he rolled on to his back and flung the shield with all his strength like a discus. The whirling shield struck Durga across the eyes, just under the rim of his helmet, and snapped his head back. The gleaming axe head fell, but fell short.

Devan scrambled to his feet, saw his sword through a haze of dust and dripping sweat and snatched it up. Durga was still staggering back but defiantly bringing up his axe for another mighty, double-handed swing. Devan too had a double-handed grip on the hilt of his sword. He pulled his blade back behind his right shoulder and then let it sweep forward again with all the weight and strength of his body behind it. The sword blade met the axe shaft just below the axe head. The axe shaft had been bound with steel wire to strengthen it from such a meeting, but it had already been smashed and weakened by a score of similar blows. The sword blade snapped, but in the same moment chopped through the axe shaft and the axe head dropped to the ground. Both men stared almost in disbelief at the broken weapons in their hands, but then Devan reacted first. He stepped in close and, using what was left of his broken sword blade like a dagger, he rammed it home hard into Durga's throat. Durga's eyes opened wide, his mouth gaped and oozed blood into his beard, and his expression was one of complete surprise.

There was a moment of frozen silence, and then screams of rage from the watching Maghallan warriors as Durga fell. They came in a rush and the exhausted Devan might have been overwhelmed in seconds, but there were fighting men of Karakhor ready to fill the gap and Devan was snatched back behind their lines to safety.

 

 

 

The snarling tiger that marked the chariot of Warmaster Jahan was also flying back and forth along the front ranks of the battle. Jahan guessed from his carefully built up estimate of the man that Sardar would today put caution before valour, but he hoped to find and conclude his unfinished business with Bharat. The banner of the red fist eluded him, but the black fist was flying bravely. The young Prince Zarin, prince of both Kanju and Maghalla, was suddenly blocking his path. Jahan reined his chariot to a bone-jarring halt, glared at the younger man and said angrily, “Go away, boy. I seek your treacherous uncle.”

“My uncle is busy elsewhere, old man. And you will seek no more.”

Zarin slashed his reins at his horses and charged. Jahan flicked his reins to move his team to one side as the hurtling chariot passed and deftly sliced his ruby-handled sword through the leather harness which secured the passing horse team to Zarin's chariot. Almost effortlessly, he ducked Zarin's wild sword swing in the same moment. With only one side of the harness still intact, Zarin's chariot was out of his control. His half-freed horse team could only succeed in swinging round and tipping him out.

Jahan wheeled his horses, bringing his chariot round and to a stop. Swiftly he tightened the reins and lashed them twice around the front bar of his chariot. With their heads pulled high, the frightened pair flailed at the air with their front hooves, but then settled at a standstill. Jahan stepped down from the open back of the chariot with his sword in hand.

Zarin had struggled to his feet. Somehow he had clung to his sword and now he charged at Jahan, swinging lustily. It was crude, hacking swordplay and Jahan was a master of the blade. The old Warmaster stoutly blocked each swing in turn, and as Zarin weakened and faltered, he moved from defence to attack. His blade hammered at Zarin's, knocking it left and right and then sweeping it away altogether. Zarin watched his blade sail high and vanish, and then looked down at his suddenly empty hand. When he looked up again, the point of the ruby-hilted sword was aimed at his throat.

Jahan scowled and hesitated, and then slowly lowered his blade. “I give you your life,” Jahan said slowly, “in honour of your father who was once a good friend of Karakhor. Take Kanju out of this war. Your warriors have no place here.”

“Perhaps not—” Zarin's voice was a dust and fear-dried croak. “But I must honour another father now. I am also a prince of Maghalla. My wife is the daughter of Sardar. My honour will not allow me to leave this battlefield.”

For a moment, Zarin stared into the face of death, but Jahan would not go back on his own word. He sighed heavily as he lowered his sword and climbed back into his waiting chariot. “At least you are no coward,” he said in parting. “But if we meet again I will kill you.” He un-wrapped his reins, slapped up his horses, and drove back into the fray.

 

 

 

For the younger princes of Karakhor, the battle was both terrifying and frustrating. Terrifying for there was blood and death all around, frustrating because they were hemmed in on all sides by Jahan's hand-picked guard captains and guards. From the relative safety of their chariots, they could hurl their javelins and shoot their arrows over the heads of their protectors, but as yet none of them had drawn a blade to face an enemy. Jahan had them guarded too well.

The chariots of Nirad and Ramesh had stopped side by side, their proud pennants of the silver boar and the silver panther flying together in the rising dust. The adult champions of Maghalla scorned to challenge them, while the ring of Karakhoran shields and steel surrounded them, breaking every wave of Maghallan foot soldiers. However, they could not avoid all risks, and eventually a chariot pushed through the enemy forces carrying a Maghallan prince only a few years older than themselves.

He stood straight and slender under the banner of a blue leopard's head. His arm shield bore the same insignia and there was a long spear in his right hand. His eyes were as long-lashed as a girl's and yet they gleamed with a fierce hatred as he taunted them through reddened lips. “I am Udaya,” he shouted shrilly. “Udaya, the son of Kamar. Come forth, monkey-dung of Karakhor. Come and face me if you dare.”

Ramesh and Nirad exchanged affronted glances.

“I am the oldest,” Nirad said furiously. “I will face him.”

“Only by a few months,” Ramesh objected. “His blood is mine.”

Their senior guard captain was between them, his restraining hands hauling back on the traces of both their chariot teams. The fighting around them had stopped as the foot soldiers awaited the outcome and there was a sudden hush over that part of the battlefield. The guard captain had a delicate balance to keep, but he knew his duty and stood his ground. “No, my lords,” he objected. “This could be a trap to draw you from my protection.”

Nirad looked around and saw no other banners and no more chariots. The foot warriors of both sides were parting to give room and Udaya was alone.

The son of Kamar pointed his spear at his enemies and laughed at them. “Go home, monkey-dung princes. If you dare not fight, then sneak back behind your walls and go suckle with your mothers.”

More laughter roared up from the warriors of Maghalla, and Nirad was provoked.

“He is mine,” Nirad yelled at Ramesh. Then he slapped with the free end of his reins at the guard captain's wrist, forcing the man to let go. He drew himself up to his full height and lashed at the rumps of his horses as the pair surged forward. Immediately Udaya flicked his spear up and back and then hurled it forward with all his strength. Nirad saw it coming and swept his shield arm up to block and cast the weapon aside. Udaya urged his own horses forward and the two chariots crashed alongside each other. Nirad was attempting to draw his sword as he was flung forward, losing his balance and falling between the locked chariots. With a numbing crack, his head struck the hard rim of Udaya's chariot wheel and he tumbled senseless to the ground. With a cry of triumph, Udaya jumped from his own chariot, drawing his sword and aiming for a death lunge.

Ramesh had followed through, only reining back when he realized that Nirad would reach Udaya first. The law of single combat would not allow him to intervene while they were evenly matched, but now that Nirad was helpless, Ramesh was unleashed. Swift as the panther that was his battle emblem, Ramesh leapt from his chariot and sprang forward. His sword, drawn at last, parried that of Udaya and forced the prince of Maghalla back.

They fought savagely, two young fighting cocks with their blood pumping hot and fierce in their veins. Udaya was older, slightly taller and with a little more experience, but the few weeks of practice that had been given to Ramesh had all been under the severe guidance of Jahan and in fighting skills they were evenly matched. They circled each other with clashing blades, each one cheered on by their own warriors, but slowly Ramesh began to weaken. Udaya was the stronger, while Ramesh had only just recovered from his near brush with death.

Udaya scented victory and attacked harder. Twice he left his guard open in order to make what he hoped would be a killing stroke. Each time, Ramesh was unable to take the advantage, but the one thing Jahan had imprinted on his brain was never to lower his own guard. Ramesh was tiring but his defence was rock solid and each time he turned the killing blow. Udaya lost patience and made a third whirlwind attack, ending in another desperate thrust that should have skewered his opponent. “Keep your guard up,” Jahan had said, “and eventually you will know all you need to know about your enemy.” Ramesh had that knowledge now and with the third attack, he made no attempt to parry Udaya's blade. Instead he stepped neatly to one side and made his own final thrust. His sword point pierced Udaya just below the breastbone with all the last power of his shoulder behind it.

For a moment Ramesh could only stand there, gasping, with the dead weight of Udaya hanging on his sword blade. Nirad still sprawled unconscious on the earth beside them. Then their guard captain shouted an order and they were surrounded again by the warriors of Karakhor. Immediately the battle was raging around them once more, but for the moment their part in it was over.

 

 

 

So it went on for the rest of that long, bloody day, and at nightfall, the armies once more drew apart to drop wearily by their own tents and campfires, and to count the awful cost of the day's grim work. In Karakhor, there was joy and thanksgiving for the victory of Devan over Durga and the sense that Kara-Rashna had been partially avenged. There was also praise for Ramesh for his first triumph in single combat. Ramesh basked in the heavy backslapping and the smiling congratulations of his peers and his elders. In saving the life of his half-brother, he felt that he had partially atoned for the folly of his ill-fated tiger hunt which had cost the lives of so many of his friends. Only Rajar sulked and offered him no acknowledgement, but safe inside his own rich glow of pride, Ramesh hardly noticed.

There was, however, one other bad sign which hung like an omen of disfavour from the gods over the great palace and the holy temples of Karakhor. The High Priest Kaseem had spent all day in his bedchamber, locked in a deep motionless coma from which no one had been able to awaken him. His wrinkled face was as white as the sheet beneath him. He barely breathed and his heartbeat was almost stopped. Despite the prayers and the sacrificial smoke with which they had surrounded him, his brother priests all feared that he must be on the very point of death.

 

 

 

The night was calm over the mouth of the Black Swamp River. The stars were brilliant and two of the three moons were already up and shining. Where the river joined the ocean and the waves broke, there was a distant line of silvered white foam, a low wall of breakers and a soft growl of tumbling sound. For this part of this wild, almost pre-historic world, it was a rare night of lonely beauty, a night for stargazers and lovers. However, Zela would have much preferred a normal night of howling storm and darkness. There was no cover on a night such as this, and although their skimmer was painted in a camouflage pattern of grey and jet black swirls, she knew that it was still reflecting a metallic gleam of moonlight. If an alert Gheddan patrol ship flew overhead, they could not be missed.

With the ocean in sight, she slowed the skimmer, turned it in the widening river mouth and pointed the bows upstream. She eased down the power so that there was just enough thrust to hold them against the current.

“We are to return into Ghedda?” Kananda asked uncertainly from the seat behind her.

“No,” Zela said with a smile. “We have to hold our position here and wait.” She flicked the switch of the craft's main communicator and leaned forward to speak into the mouthpiece mounted onto the control panel in front of her. “This is Z-K-One. We are in position and waiting.” She waited for a silent count of ten then repeated the short message before switching off the communicator.

After a minute Kananda said doubtfully, “They make no answer.”

“Alpha and Ghedda both have technology which can overhear radio transmissions and locate their point of origin,” Zela told him simply. “That is why we keep such calls to a minimum. I made one call when we first reached the skimmer to let Antar know that we were on our way. This call tells them we are here. It should be enough. Our rescue ship should be cruising in close orbit somewhere above the river-mouth.”

They all stared upward through the clear glass of the control hood. Jayna was leaning close against Kananda. She had slept on his shoulder for most of the long journey down river but now she was awake again. The drugs in the skimmer's medical pack had helped her and now she was pain-free, but she was still hurt and weak. All three of them were silent, watching and waiting.