The Sword Lord (11 page)

The surviving guard found enough of his wits to scream. The sound was choked into a gurgle as Kasim's second arrow plunged into his cheek, but it was enough. The guard's fall against the tent had disturbed the occupant and the half-cry brought the man out to raise the alarm. He was a squat, hairy creature wearing a necklace of monkey skulls. His hair was woven into long black braids, and from each braid there dangled the skull of a bird. He carried a spear and, with a fearsome shriek, he charged full tilt at Kananda.

Kananda noted that the monkey skulls were painted a bright red and that the man had emerged from the tent with the red monkey banner. The chief of the clan, he guessed, and there was a grim satisfaction in him as he deflected the spear thrust and skewered the man through the middle.

He backed up swiftly, but by now the camp was in uproar. A dozen Maghallan warriors came running from behind the black tent with Sardar's banner, armed with swords and axes, while from all sides the wild men were pouring out of their huts with clubs and spears.

Another volley of arrows from Kananda's small force of archers slowed the Maghallans, and Kananda glanced over his shoulder to see the rest of his soldiers rushing to join him. Among them was Hamir, the huntsman. Hamir was not a trained fighter, but a brave and loyal man and a strong, fast runner. Kananda slew another Maghallan with his sword, and then passed Ramesh back to the huntsman.

“Take your prince back to the horses,” he shouted.

He could only trust that he was obeyed, for there were swords and spears thrusting at him from all sides. Blows rained on his arm shield and his defending sword blade, but then he was no longer alone. Kasim was on his left and the slim silver figure of Zela on his right. As one sword became three, defence became attack, and they carried the fight back into the ranks of Maghalla.

Kananda fought as he had never fought before, his sword whirling an avenging dance of death before him. Kasim was no mean swordsman and Kananda could have chosen no better man to stand beside him. But even in these hot and bloody moments, as their sword blades flashed and reddened in the star and firelight, he found time to marvel at the prowess of Zela. Her speed and skill were equal to his own and she fought with all the fury and splendour of a true goddess.

The three held the foreground while their companions held the flanks, and the Maghallans gave way. This strange silver woman with the flying gold hair and the death-singing blade was beyond their comprehension. They, too, feared that she was more than mortal, a demon perhaps, in human form.

Kananda gave an order and the Karakhorans fell back, retreating in an orderly group toward the path that led back through the forest. The lull in the battle and Zela's unnerving presence might have given them their escape, but then the king of Maghalla and a group of his senior commanders burst from their black tent.

Kananda recognized Sardar immediately. The short, broad body with the powerful chest and long arms was one he would never forget. Disturbed from his sleep, Sardar wore only a black loincloth, but in his hand was a long sword. His face was a startled mask of bestiality, slashed with that dreadful scar tissue from beneath the left eye and across the corner of his mouth to the cleft of his chin. He had a high, ape-like forehead and flared nostrils and his eyes burned with black rage.

Recognition also flashed in Sardar's eyes. At their last meeting, they had faced each other over half-drawn swords in Kara-Rashna's palace hall, but now their blades were free and naked and the weight of sheer numbers was with Maghalla. Sardar swung up his sword and, with a mighty roar, he attacked.

Kananda sprang to meet him. Here was a god-given chance to avenge his brother, to put an end to Sardar the Merciless, and perhaps to the whole threat of war. If he could succeed in this, then he would not have failed in his duty.

Both sides recognized a battle of champions and stayed their hands. Steel met steel in a crash of sparks and the night air echoed with blow after blow in ringing succession. The blades of Kananda and Sardar whirled faster than the eye could see and for a full minute both men held their ground. Then Sardar slipped and drew back.

Kananda thrust for the kill, but was foiled by one of Sardar's lieutenants. The man hurled himself between them to protect the body of his king, and died as Kananda turned his blade, first to deflect the assailant's axe-stroke, and then to back-cut across the man's throat.

The moment of single combat was past. The Maghallans threw themselves forward and surrounded Sardar. A dozen blades flashed against Kananda, but then Zela and Kasim were beside him again. Kananda strove furiously to reach Sardar and three of the Maghallan bodyguards died in as many seconds before his wrath, but there were more Maghallans to take their place. The Maghallan camp behind Sardar's tent was much larger than Kananda had realized. Sardar was swallowed up behind the bodies of his guards and saved from Kananda's ferocious reach.

The weight of the battle swung against them. Four of the Karakhoran soldiers and two of the young nobles were dead. The survivors fought for their lives against ever-increasing odds. The wild men had found their courage and pressed in from both sides to avenge their dead chieftain.

It was now or never, Zela realized. She pressed forward with another lightning display of swordsmanship that cleared the ground before her, and then in the few seconds breathing space, she stepped back. She transferred her sword neatly to her left hand and with her right she drew the hand lazer from her hip. She fired directly into the loose knot of warriors that confronted Kananda and Kasim.

The bright, white shaft of the energy beam lanced through the mob, killing three and scattering the rest in mortal terror. It hit the black tent of Sardar and transformed it instantly into a red burst of roaring flames. Maghallans and wild men fell back together in shock and confusion.

Zela fired again, the beam scything through the close-packed tribesmen on their left flank and turning the tent with the black monkey banner into a second inferno. The howls of hate that had issued from the savage throats now became howls of gibbering fear. Those who did not faint or throw themselves to the ground turned and fled.

Kananda searched for Sardar, but his enemy had disappeared. He would have launched himself in vain pursuit, but Kasim's hand restrained his arm and Zela called on him to fall back. He ground his teeth in bitter frustration, but knew that they were right. Zela's hand weapon could only hurl a limited number of the lightning bolts and they had to use the respite she had given them to escape.

He gave the order and the survivors from Karakhor backed up to the path that had brought them here. Then each man in turn dashed back through the invisible tunnel into the thick darkness. Kananda held the rear, but there was no challenge. He stared at the running backs of their enemies who were fleeing in the opposite direction. Then he looked up at the black leopard banner above the burning tent and saw that it too was being eaten by the ravenous flames. It gave him a moment of satisfaction but it was not enough. Again he searched for Sardar.

Zela pulled at his shoulder and she urged him to hurry. Kananda swallowed his frustration and turned to follow her and Kasim through the jungle. The fierce glow of flames was quickly left behind them.

They were blind here, but they ran as fast as possible knowing that there might be other jungle paths where the wild men would be able to get ahead of them. The unseen foliage that had softly caressed them as they slowly moved in now whipped and slashed at their bodies and faces as they raced back. When any one man stumbled, the others automatically blundered into him or over him in an undignified heap. Where their courage had held fast in the face of battle, it now waned as they felt themselves lost in this hellish, tangled blackness. The retreat had become a rout, but mercifully they were not pursued.

They finally emerged from the forest bruised, battered and bleeding, but with an infinite sense of relief at finding that they were once again beneath the familiar patterns of moon and stars. Kananda saw with relief that the huntsman was waiting for them with the two soldiers who had stayed with the horses, and the body of Ramesh was already secured on Kananda's mount.

“He is alive,” Hamir said hoarsely, but there was hope and elation in his voice.

Kananda stared at the huntsman, hardly daring to believe what he had heard. Ramesh hung like a corpse, face down in front of the saddle, and slowly Kananda lifted the slack head and looked into his brother's ghost-white face. As he leaned closer, he felt the faint movement of breath on his cheek. He had been so certain that his brother was dead that he could barely believe it. He turned to stare joyously at Zela.

“He breathes. He lives! We must tend his wounds.”

“There is no time,” Zela answered firmly. “We must get further away.”

Kananda stared at her, and then realized bitterly that she was right. The pursuit would be hot behind them and if they stayed, they might all be lost.

They had left four of their number behind, so the party now numbered thirteen, together with Ramesh who had to be carried. Kananda ordered the horses to be ridden double, and the four men who still had to run to be rotated as soon as the runners flagged, and in this manner they continued their escape at a good speed.

 

 

 

It was mid-day before Kananda dared to allow a stop. He knew that even though the monkey tribes might be demoralized by the death of one of their chieftains, Sardar would almost certainly pursue them as soon as it was light. They were still only just within the frontiers of their own empire, but the horses had to be rested and the men needed to eat and drink to rally their strength. Also he could no longer delay his own desperate need to examine his brother. After the hard riding of the past few hours, he was again unsure whether Ramesh was alive or dead.

They laid the young prince tenderly on the ground, and with Hamir and Zela beside him, Kananda carefully checked his wounds. Hamir had made a hurried attempt at dressing the two deep gashes in the naked chest and Kananda peeled away the rough bandages and the handfuls of leaves that the huntsman had used to plug the open wounds. They were spear or sword thrusts, ugly but mercifully shallow. One thrust had skidded off the ribcage, tearing the flesh in a long, ragged slice. The other had pierced between two ribs, but the thrust had lacked power and had been stopped by the ribcage itself before penetrating any vital organs.

“I think he suffers mainly from shock and loss of blood,” Zela offered. “Fortunately you cut him down before he could fully bleed to death.” She took the medical kit from the broad belt at her waist and quickly began to clean and dress the wounds. Ramesh remained unconscious, but at this stage there was no more they could do.

While they shared the meagre rations from their saddle packs, Zela again sat to eat beside Kananda. When they had refreshed themselves, they were silent for a while, and then Kananda struggled to find the words to thank her.

“We are friends,” Zela said. But her smile was troubled and she continued, “I am glad your brother lives, but we lost four men in exchange. Was it worth it?”

“Ramesh is a royal prince of Karakhor,” Kananda said slowly. “We showed that an attack on the royal household will not go unpunished, and that retribution from Karakhor can reach even into their forests. We killed one of their chieftains and burned the leopard banner of Sardar. All of this may force the monkey tribes to think again, and they may yet turn back from their alliance with Maghalla. If we have achieved this, then we have done what my duty demanded.”

He paused to glance at the still figure of his younger brother. “In all of this, Ramesh was more than a man. He was more than my brother, even though I would war against all of Maghalla to avenge him. He was a symbol. He carried the name of Karakhor and flew her golden banner. And it is always in the nature of men to die for their names and their banners. Even if Ramesh dies, even if he had been dead as I first feared, all of what we have done would still be worth the sacrifice and the effort.”

Zela nodded her understanding. They watched a hawk hovering in the blue sky to their left, and when it swooped out of sight, Kananda spoke again. “You are skilled with the sword, Zela, more so than any man I have ever seen. And yet I thought your people only wore swords for ceremony?”

“I did add that some of us do practise the art,” she reminded him. “And with good reason.” Her face hardened with another grim memory, and then she explained: “Once, I too had a brother, whom I loved as dearly as you love Ramesh. Lorin was my elder brother, a splendid young man, and when I was a little girl I worshipped him almost as though he were a god. I also had two younger brothers. We all used to play together. One day, when I was only ten years old, we were playing in a boat on the lake near our home. Suddenly a terrible storm blew up…”

 

 

 

The memory was ever painful in her mind, a mental pain her thoughts would return to like a tongue to a nagging tooth. The fateful day had started with hot blue skies, the warbles of birdsong, and the light slapping of the wavelets on the small gold sand beach below their father's house. Laton, their father, was absent as usual, having left early in his sky-car for the City of Singing Spires where he taught philosophy and unified learning in the Academy of Knowledge. Zara, their mother, had died in child-birth when Larn, the youngest of Zela's brothers had been born. Larn was five now, Logan was seven, and Lorin was thirteen. Only Zela and Lorin could remember their mother, and for Zela it was a memory of feeling loved and cared for and secure rather than any visual image. She knew that Laton loved them and cared for them just as much, but he had to spend much of his time at the academy, and some of the security, and something that was unique and beautiful, had gone forever. Or perhaps not forever. Sometimes Zela had wanted to die, just to know whether she and her mother would be together again, as Laton had promised.