Sword Empire Page 3

  “What could be wrong?”

  Raven shrugged. “At the very least it means that I am out of favour. I have been away too long and the power balance shifts very quickly here. The Sword Lord Karn, at least, should have sought to contact me. Perhaps he too is out of favour, or removed from the Council. There are always intrigues in the City of Swords. He may have fallen.”

  Maryam nodded understanding. She was familiar with the machinations of palace intrigues, and if her circumstances had not changed, might well have become a mistress of the art. “This man Karn—” She had heard him speak the name before but had not paid enough attention. “He is your patron?”

  “Something like that,” Raven acknowledged. “When I first enlisted in the Space Corps, the Sword Lord Karn was its Prime Commander. He saw my potential and gave me opportunities for advancement. He put my name forward to command the first mission to the fourth planet, despite there being more experienced ship commanders. He also pushed for me to lead the expedition to your planet.”

  “And you are his champion.”

  Raven nodded. “A sword lord, or any swordsman, is expected to meet his own challenges, but only up to a point. After fifty years, it is recognized that even the most proficient swordsman can be defeated by a younger and faster opponent. The empire cannot afford to lose the experience and talents of its sword lords at such a young age, and so a man with twenty or more sword-kills is deemed to have proved himself. It is accepted that then he can appoint a champion to accept his challenges.”

  Maryam frowned. “Your friend Karn, would he accept a sword challenge in your absence?”

  “He would not have to. He could await my return or appoint another champion. But he could be provoked.”

  “So he may be dead?” Maryam felt the claustrophobia of impending danger, as though the rough-hewn, stone-block walls were closing around them.

  Raven merely shrugged and declined to answer. He was a man of action who did not waste too much time on useless speculation.

  An hour later, a single sharp knock sounded on the heavy wooden door. Maryam looked up from where she still sat on the couch. Raven had resumed his slow pacing but stopped and turned in the centre of the room. He did not approach the door, but faced it with his right hand dropping lightly to the hilt of his sword.

  “Show yourself,” he called calmly.

  The door opened and Taron slipped inside, closing the door quickly behind him. Like Raven, he wore the familiar white Space Corps uniform with its gold chain mail accoutrements. With the death of Thorn, he had become Raven’s deputy commander.

  “What news?” Raven demanded. He had waited three days and his tone was edged with the hard note of a reprimand.

  “The Sword Lord Karn is still on the Council of Twelve,” Taron reported tersely. “But the word is that he is a sick man, and that he leads a minority of four against eight.”

  “That would explain much,” Raven said thoughtfully. “But why are the Council divided?”

  “The first Lazer Battle Platform has been launched.” Taron smiled, and his normally ugly face gleamed with blue pride. “Platforms Two and Three are being prepared for launch, and when all three are in orbit, Ghedda will be free to make a first strike against Alpha.” He paused there and his brow furrowed as though the rest was beyond his clear comprehension. “The eight are in favour of such an immediate strike, but Karn leads the small faction who still counsel caution.”

  “Karn is against a decisive war with Alpha?” Raven was also surprised and perplexed. “Why?”

  Taron sat on the edge of the second couch, selected a peach-like fruit from a wooden bowl on the table, and bit into it deeply as he considered his reply.

  “I cannot say,” he admitted at last. “It is the talk of the mess halls and the drink dens. Karn says that an all-out nuclear and lazer attack on Alpha will destroy the whole planet, and he has persuaded three other members of the Council. But we all know that this is an Alphan propaganda lie. The whole Space Corps wants this victory.” He took a calculated risk and finished carefully. “The Sword Lord Karn and his allies run the risk of being branded cowards.”

  “Karn is no coward,” Raven said shortly. “He must have his reasons.” He walked to the window and stared out, thinking hard. Then faced Taron again. “Who leads the eight?”

  “The Sword Lord Doran.” Taron took a second casual bite from his fruit, but his eyes were watching Raven’s responses.

  “Doran.” Raven was still puzzled. “Karn and Doran are old friends.”

  “Were old friends,” Taron corrected. “Now it seems they are on opposite sides.”

  Maryam watched them both. She had a hundred questions of her own to ask, but by now she knew better than to interfere. She would learn more by simply listening. Raven was thinking hard. Taron seemed undecided, as though wondering where to commit his full loyalty. He took a third mouthful of fruit and then made up his mind.

  “There is more.”

  Raven gave him an enquiring look.

  “The Sword Lord Doran has found himself a new champion. A Swordmaster named Radd. I have heard that Radd has made twenty-seven sword kills.”

  Raven smiled softly. “I have made a few more.”

  Taron nodded, but made no comment.

  Raven considered for a few more moments, and then clapped the hand of friendship on Taron’s shoulder.

  “I appreciate that you have taken a risk in coming here. It is best that you go now. We will speak later.”

  Taron finished the last bite of his fruit, tossed the stone into the bowl and rose to his feet. He made the open palm salute which Raven returned, and then moved to the door. There he paused one last time. “I am told that when Radd kills it is with a disemboweling thrust. He signals with a slight hunching of his shoulder as he braces his sword arm.”

  “I will remember,” Raven thanked him quietly.

  Taron nodded and left.

  The summons to appear before the Council of Twelve finally came an hour after dawn on the following morning. They were given an hour’s warning, time enough for Raven to don a clean uniform, polish up his chain mail, and spend fifteen minutes of studied wrist-flexing exercises. Maryam watched in silence, knowing from the hard set of his face that he was preparing to duel.

  Her own presence was also requested, or ordered. It was not clear whether there was any difference. So Maryam combed her hair and donned the sari and the jewels she had worn when she had followed Raven onto his ship. She had carefully cleaned and folded her own clothing at the first opportunity, keeping it in anticipation of when she would at last be presented before his strange, military court. Now she was determined that, whatever happened, she would at least make her entrance as a Hindu Princess, a true daughter of Kara-Rashna and Karakhor.

  Raven made no comment, being busy with his own preparations, but in one of his casual side glances she believed she saw a brief gleam of pride and approval.

  Dead on time, a young Space Corps lieutenant came to escort them to the Council chamber. Again Raven refrained from opening the door, leaving himself room to draw his blade or lazer as he casually invited the man outside to show himself. Like Taron before him, the young escort showed no sign of surprise or any other reaction.

  They followed their formally correct but uncommunicative escort down the stone walled corridor and steps to the ground floor, and through the massive wooden doors to the bleak parade ground. A cold wind blew and chilled Maryam to the marrow. She felt goose pimples on her arms and drew her thin silk shawl tighter around her shoulders. If it was a long walk, she decided, she would soon be as blue as these cold-faced Gheddans.

  They crossed the parade ground, passing beneath the shadow of the great steel sword. On the far side, a broad flight of deep stone steps led up to another set of high, wide-open doors, leading into a solid, square-block building that reminded her of a castle. Guards flanked each step and the doorway, each one blank-faced, with arms crossed in front of him, one hand resting on a
sword hilt, the other on a holstered hand lazer. They did not salute or make any other acknowledgement as Raven and Maryam passed between them. Neither did Raven spare them a glance.

  The Council chamber was at the heart of the building, square again, and built on three levels. On the topmost level, at the far end, was a long table of polished black marble. Twelve men sat behind it, all in the spotless white and gold chain mail uniforms of the Gheddan Space Corps, and all with cold, unsmiling faces. They had each drawn their blades and laid them out on the black table before them.

  The second level was a raised platform some twenty feet square that was immediately in front of the elevated table. Their escort led them to the three polished steps that led up to the platform and then stood stiffly to one side. Raven paused and said softly, “Wait here,” before pushing Maryam to one side and then mounting the platform. He strode to the centre of the square and waited.

  Behind him, Maryam looked around uncertainly. She had not expected that there would be an audience, but perhaps three score men and a handful of women were gathered around the sides of the lower chamber level. All of the men were in Space Corps uniforms, most of them wearing at least three sleeve rings of rank, the same number that Raven wore. She wondered then if he was to be judged by his peers, as well as by the twelve old men at the high table.

  As she glanced around, she saw not a single friendly face. She recognized Taron, with Garl and Landis who had formed Raven’s crew, but if they had noticed her they showed no sign. They were watching Raven with tight-set mouths and eyes.

  Then she saw a face she had not expected—the face of Sylve, grinning at her maliciously from across the room.

  Raven stared back at the twelve silent men gazing down at him from behind the black Council table. The drawn blades, all pointing at the spot where he now stood, indicated that he was on trial, but it was no more than he had expected. Ten of the faces he recognized, but there were two that were only half familiar at the far right of the table. There had been changes in his absence and that boded no good.

  The Sword Lords Karn and Doran sat shoulder to shoulder in the centre of the table, as befitting the two longest serving rulers on the Council. Doran’s face was a mask of ugliness, marred by a sword tip that had aimed for his throat but slashed neatly through his nostrils many years before. However, it was Karn who gave Raven the more cause for concern. His mentor had aged rapidly in the short time that Raven had spent on Earth. His huge frame had slumped and his cheeks were hollow and sunken. There were white streaks in his dark blue hair, and tiny white patches at the corners of his thinned mouth, as though he were constantly holding back a taut grimace of pain. The Sword Lord Karn was definitely a sick man.

  Letting nothing show on his face, Raven raised his right hand in the open palm salute.

  “I am Raven,” he announced formally. “Sword Lord of Stronghold Raven, Space Commander First Class of the Gheddan Empire, Leader of the First Gheddan Expedition to the third planet. I have been summoned by the Council.” He lowered his hand and folded his arms across his chest.

  With a visible effort, Karn raised himself to his feet and lifted his hand to return the salute. “Welcome, Commander. We have received mission reports from each of your crew. You will now give us your own report.”

  Karn sat down again, but in his brief words Raven read the note of warning. Taron, Garl and Landis had already been called to give their account, a reversal of procedure which was ominous enough in itself. However, it also meant that if his version of events differed in any way from the other three, then it could immediately be challenged by any one of the twelve.

  He wondered briefly how fully he could trust each member of his crew. On board ship, or in the field, he would trust them with his life, but in the power games of empire before the Council of Twelve? There a question mark would always be hanging. In Gheddan power politics, all men played their own game.

  “My command was to investigate the potentials of the third planet,” he began with the brief which they themselves had given. “To determine whether or not it could provide a refuge or a military base for either Alpha or Ghedda. If the planet could support life, my mission was to deny it to the Alphans, and as far as possible, to secure it for Ghedda.”

  His mind was racing, but whatever the pitfalls ahead, he could see no alternative to giving the true account of the events of his landing on Earth. He could only trust that all of his crew had also given a true account, without adding embellishments to advance themselves or precipitate his downfall.

  He spoke for over an hour and not once did the Council interrupt him. A few of them even looked bored. Raven knew then that whatever was due to happen next was pre-ordained. His report was only a formality to be got out of the way. Nevertheless, he made his account as complete as possible.

  “I commend all members of my crew,” he said in conclusion. “For their courage and loyalty. Swordsmen Taron, Landis and Garl, and Swordmaster Thorn, have all proved true Swordsmen of Ghedda.”

  There was a moment of silence. Doran sat back in his chair, his chin slumped on his chest, and his eyes hooded as though half asleep. The others waited for his lead.

  Slowly, Doran lifted his chin and straightened himself. He yawned, which was a calculated insult. “You commend Swordmaster Thorn,” he said contemptuously. “Yet Thorn was a fool who allowed himself to be killed by a primitive who barely knew one end of a sword from the other.”

  Raven controlled his anger and said flatly, “Thorn fought bravely and died well. The Hindu Prince had a skill with the sword which none of us expected.”

  “It was a needless death,” Doran snapped harshly. “This native barbarian had no call of honour on a Gheddan Swordsman. Thorn did not have to fight. His death was the downfall of your mission. You should not have allowed it.”

  “A sword challenge was called. Thorn accepted it. Is there any man here who would have refused?”

  Doran chose to let the question pass and asked swiftly, “You say a sword challenge was called, but how did this primitive know enough of our customs and language to make such a challenge?”

  Raven shrugged. “Obviously he learned from the Alphans who came with him.”

  “And you did not suspect an Alphan plot? Your intelligence did not suggest to you that this primitive who had learned something of our language might also have been instructed in how to act?”

  “It occurred to me,” Raven said coldly. “We were alert for an attack, and I expected Thorn to kill the primitive quickly.”

  “You expected Thorn to kill quickly. You did not expect the Earth princeling to have any unfamiliar tricks with a sword. What you expected and what you did not expect amount to miscalculations of judgement not befitting your position as Expedition Commander.”

  Raven counted seven nods of agreement along the table, but kept his temper. He knew now which way the wind was blowing. He knew which members of the Council were aligned with Doran, and which of the minority were with Karn. This issue was never intended to be settled with words, and he waited for the moment to draw his blade.

  “You had only four men with you in the Earth city,” Doran said bluntly. “Yet you allowed one of them to be tricked into an unnecessary sword duel, where his death encouraged your enemies. Then you fled from an Alphan attack and left the city to them.”

  He paused there, but only for effect. There was to be no time-wasting discussion with the rest of the Council. Doran was secure in his position and gave his verdict.

  “Commander Raven, I say that you are both a fool and a coward.”

  There was another long moment of silence, and then Raven slowly smiled and unfolded his arms. His right hand dropped lightly to the hilt of his sword.

  “I challenge,” he said calmly. “Withdraw those words, or defend them with your sword.”

  Doran smiled, a wry twisting of the lips that pulled at his deformed nostrils, but he made no move. From behind him, a younger man stepped out from the shadows behind one
of the supporting columns of the great hall. He was tall and slim, wearing the white and gold of the Space Corps. He moved lightly on his feet, the sign of a practiced athlete. He, too, was smiling, but his eyes were glacial ice.

  “My Lord Doran has fought many duels in his youth. He no longer has to prove himself. But I am Radd, champion for the Sword Lord Doran. I accept your challenge, Commander Raven, champion of the Sword Lord Karn, on my lord’s behalf.”

  With the reference to Karn, Raven fully understood. A Sword Lord could elect a champion, but if that champion fell, then the victor could immediately challenge the man behind the champion. The Code of the Sword acknowledged that after a duel between two evenly matched younger men, then the victor would be tired and slowed. A match between the victor and the patron of the vanquished would then be near even.

  There was much at stake here, for if he died, then Radd could continue and challenge Karn. This was not about the conduct of his own mission to Earth, but about the power play in the Council.

  Raven drew his blade and stepped back a pace to allow more room.

  “Come down,” he invited. “Come down and die.”

  Radd laughed and as quickly unsheathed his own blade. He circled the Council table, and like a white and gold cat, leaped down onto the fighting platform below.

  Maryam watched, horrified, barely able to comprehend the swift passage of events. She had expected to be called forward and questioned about her homeworld and her city, but it seemed as though Earth and mighty Karakhor were of no importance here. She had been ignored, and at first she had been angry.

  Now she was suddenly afraid, and she had good cause.

  With her attention focused on Raven and his accusers, she had not noticed any movement in the silent, spellbound crowd. But one of the watchers had stealthily moved, and Maryam was suddenly aware of the hostile shoulder pressing hard against her own. She turned her head and stared into the close, hate-filled eyes of the woman Sylve.