Sword Empire Page 7

  It was not a satisfactory answer. Kaseem could see that in their faces. Over the past weeks traders and travelers had brought in many stories of the growing might of Maghalla. Warrior patrols had ridden out and brought back stories of troop movements and skirmishes, and some patrols had not returned at all. Everyone knew that the enemy was gathering strength, and that soon they would appear at the gates of Karakhor. The name of Sardar was spoken in the same hushed tones that were used to speak of demons and of all the nightmares of hell.

  “The blue ones cut the head from Indra with their white fire.” Sahani looked toward the temple entrance where the decapitated statue still partially stood in fearful reminder. “Perhaps the Gods have decided not to aid us.”

  “The blue ones cut down a stone image of Indra,” Kaseem corrected him. “It was an image made by men, and that which is made by men can be destroyed by men. But nothing can destroy Indra. The Gods are beyond man’s reach. They are far above the poor images we make of them.”

  “Even so—” Sahani began, but Kaseem was staring directly into his eyes and his voice faltered away.

  “Even so, we must have faith,” Kaseem stressed firmly. “The Gods will most certainly abandon us if we do not have faith.”

  He turned, and with a conscious effort to avoid any undue display of haste, he walked away. With some relief, he left the confines of the temple and emerged into the contrastingly brilliant sunlight. Slowly he walked back to his own quarters and his heart was heavy inside him. He was the High Priest, the Holiest of all the Holy Men of Karakhor. His role was to allay fears, to rally the inner, spiritual defences of every man, woman and child in the city, and to teach the younger priests, one of whom would eventually take his place. His problem was that he was no longer sure of what he should be teaching.

  He entered his rooms, glad to be back in cool shadow, and waved away his housekeeper who tried to offer him drink and fruit for refreshment. He was neither hungry nor thirsty and went straight to his bedchamber where he closed the door and shutters and then lay back in the privacy of his bed. However, there was no escape from his thoughts, which were as troublesome as those of his fretful pupils.

  Since that first fateful flight on the astral plane with Laurya, he had remembered many things. He knew now that his spiritual essence had passed through many lives, most of them on Dooma, as a citizen of both Alpha and Ghedda. His mind had opened up a whole book of hidden chapters, and he realized that he was as familiar with the world views and moral systems of the two great continents of the fifth planet as he was with the whole pantheon of Hindu Gods that dominated the spiritual life of his present world. The ignorant and outraged priest who had first questioned Zela on her beliefs was no more, for now her beliefs were a part of his own wider understanding.

  There were no gods to be found on the astral plane, either of Earth or Dooma, and yet the certainty that there was a spiritual dimension to all life was stronger than ever within him. If there was a God, then he knew that it had to be a spiritual core, something akin to the God Behind All Gods of the Alphans. God could only be a permanent spiritual essence, beyond even the astral plane, from which all spiritual things came, and to which all spiritual things returned. He knew his understanding was inadequate, but he could define his inner conviction no more clearly.

  He sighed and turned fretfully on his bed. The questions of Sahani and the others haunted him. How should he answer them? What should he teach them? Their experience and perceptions were too limited to ever grasp what he himself could not grasp fully. Yet they needed faith and hope, for without them they would truly be lost souls. Was it best for them to continue to believe in Indra, and Varuna, and Agni, names to whom they could address their prayers, and images to worship in stone and on parchment. Did the God Behind All Gods accept all the offerings that were made to Him through other names? Was that possible?

  Kaseem groaned under the weight of his own heavy thoughts. Perhaps it was all irrelevant. The forces of Maghalla were gathering, and perhaps soon there would be no more Karakhor and no more Kaseem. He had witnessed the destruction of other cities and the death of other bodies. The cycles of life and death, for men and empires, were as fleeting as the seasons. It all came round again and again, and perhaps the individual events had no permanent meaning at all.

  Something inside him would not accept that, and his thoughts turned more to the threat of Maghalla. He had tested his astral ascending abilities several times since the departure of Laurya and the Alphans, but knowing that he was no match for the combined astral presence of both Nazik and Sardar, he had not ventured far. Now he decided that perhaps it was time to take the risk. His ability was wasted if he was too afraid to use it.

  He closed his eyes and willed his body to relax while his mind soared upward. Now that he knew what he was doing, it had become easy, and he no longer needed to drug himself with smoke and fatigue before the separation of the physical and the spiritual could take place. He was Kharga, powerful and strong, clothing himself automatically in that best-loved body image with the garb and sword of a Gheddan warrior. He looked down on the frail, collapsed body of the old priest sprawled limp on the bed and felt a huge sense of freedom.

  His mind was sharp, unchained from its priestly worries, but he allowed caution to rule him. He left his quarters but moved swiftly into the shadow of the great temple tower to Varuna, the tallest edifice in the city since the lazer blast from Raven’s Solar Cruiser had sliced the top off the temple to Indra. In its shadow, he ascended to the topmost pinnacle, and from there scanned the surrounding sky to be sure that there was no ambush in waiting.

  He sensed no danger and finally propelled himself upward in fast vertical flight. Within seconds he was on the edge of space itself, and again he paused, alert and watchful for any sign that he was not alone. He would have welcomed an encounter with either Nazik or Sardar, but he was certain that neither of his enemies would venture onto the astral plane alone. They might not know that he no longer had Laurya by his side, but either way he was sure that after losing one of their number, the remaining two would hunt together.

  He sped east, gauging his distance before dropping down through the atmosphere until the forest canopy rushed up to meet him. He’d judged correctly and it took him only a few minutes to find the great clearing in the forest where the monkey tribes had been camped. The grey ash of dead cooking fires and the circles and postholes that marked the tent sites were still there, but there was no sign of life. The red and the black monkey clans had moved on.

  He scouted the surrounding area and quickly found the path where they had left the forest. It opened onto a wide trail of trampled grass and scrubland leading north, clearly marked by the litter of excrement and discarded food rubbish on either side. Sardar had persuaded them to follow his banners and the monkey tribes had marched into the heartland of Maghalla.

  Kaseem flew high again and followed. He knew he was taking an increasing risk, but all existence involved risk and chance. In most of his past lives, there had been the element of a gambler in his make-up, and now that he had in effect cast the astral dice, he was prepared to follow and see where they rolled.

  Maghalla appeared on the horizon, a vast city of brown mud walls, housing a few buildings, but mostly a great mass of fur and animal skin tents. There were more tent encampments outside the walls, and countless numbers of men, idling or training at arms. He recognized the banners of the red and black monkey clans, the banners of Sardar and his sons and chieftains, the banners of Kanju, and worse, the blue wave, sea-serpent banners of Bahdra. The sea coast Kingdom of Bahdra lay to the south of Karakhor. With Bahdra and Kanju both aligned with Maghalla, it meant that Karakhor was encircled by enemies on every side.

  The Bahdran contingent was small compared to the others, probably a token force. It meant that the rulers of Bahdra expected Karakhor to fall and were playing safe to avoid the future wrath of Sardar. The old king of Bahdra was weak, Kaseem reflected contemptuously, and his s
ons and lords were all cowards.

  He had seen enough and sped quickly back to Karakhor, making a mental note of every troop movement and position that he saw on the way.

  Jahan listened to all that the old priest had to tell, his mind distracted and wandering to what had initially seemed more important matters, but gradually paying more and more attention. By the time Kaseem had finished his tale, the Warmaster General’s hard eyes had narrowed under his bushy brows and he was staring intently into the shriveled and expressionlessly solemn brown face before him. They sat on opposite sides of Jahan’s map-strewn desk, Kaseem in the straight-backed chair where a long and endless parade of traders, merchants, troop captains, spies and other informers had sat over the past few weeks.

  “How do you know these things, Holy One?” Jahan at last enquired carefully.

  “They appear to me in Holy Visions.” Kaseem had thought long and hard about the best way to present his information, and this seemed to be the most acceptable. “I have prayed to Indra, the Great God of War and Thunder, and He has rewarded me with these images in the flames of the Holy Fire.”

  Jahan’s expression was sceptical beneath his turban, but he held his tongue. Almost everything Kaseem had told him had reinforced the scattered and widespread gleanings of intelligence that had reached him from all of his other sources. Only an hour ago he had received news of a Bahdran troop movement far to the south, and he had feared the worst. The Bahdrans had not arrived here to support Karakhor, and so could only have been making a long swing north to align with Maghalla.

  “Holy visions?” Jahan repeated slowly, hoping for some further explanation.

  “Holy visions,” Kaseem repeated firmly, but offered nothing more.

  They stared at each other for several moments. They were old friends and each trusted the other, but the soldier knew that there must be more, and the priest knew that it could not be believed. The silence grew heavy.

  “Thank you, Holy One,” Jahan said at last. “Your visions clarify many things. Please let me know if you have more.”

  Kaseem stood up to leave and Jahan walked with him to the door.

  “Sardar has amassed a mighty army,” Kaseem said gloomily. “Very soon now he will come against us.”

  Jahan nodded. “Once an army is gathered, it is a mistake to let it stand idle. Soldiers grow bored and drift away, and it is costly to feed them. Even a dung-head like Sardar will know that.”

  Kaseem clasped his hands in a silent parting prayer and left. Jahan closed the door behind him and then wandered over to the high window and stood staring thoughtfully across the parade ground below. It was full of men at weapons practice, but he hardly gave them a glance. He was puzzling over all that he had just heard. Every word rang true, it all fitted neatly with and elaborated what he already knew. But holy visions! He shook his head in bewilderment.

  The angry scream of a war elephant finally dragged his attention down to the training ground. The huge tusker in full war regalia was being raced up and down the far side of the open square. In the small howdrah box on its broad back, the tall, lean figure of Prince Sanjay stood upright, perfectly balanced with a javelin poised in his left hand. Sanjay swayed his body and hurled the javelin with all his strength. The keen blade clipped the edge of a large straw target as the elephant charged past.

  Without hesitation, Sanjay shouted at his driver and reached down for another javelin from the bundle that hung in a rope sling on the elephant’s flank. The mahout sitting astride the animal’s neck pulled at the tops of its ears, shrieked his own commands and kicked mightily at the side of its head with his feet. The elephant screamed its annoyance but made the tight turn and thundered back again. Sanjay hurled his next javelin and the blade crashed dead centre through the target.

  The watching soldiers cheered, but Sanjay was already selecting another weapon and calling for a third turn.

  Jahan felt a swelling of pride. Since the white fire of the blue men had seared his right arm, the King’s younger brother had worked hard to overcome his disability. Unable to throw and control his chariot, he had taken to the back of a war elephant with a driver to control the beast, and now he practised daily with the javelins and his left arm. His keenness of eye was unimpaired and now he could throw almost as accurately with his left arm as he had once thrown with his right.

  Jahan continued to watch until a knock sounded on his door. Reluctantly, he turned away and called permission to enter. It was another unexpected visitor and his eyebrows lifted in fresh surprise.

  “My Prince,” he said deferentially as he moved forward.

  Ramesh stood hesitantly in the doorway, but then closed it behind him and made the slight bow of greeting. Jahan inclined his head in return, noting both the younger man’s pale face and the grim warrior garb of leathers and belted sword. Ramesh had healed slowly and the scars on his chest and shoulder were still red and angry, but he held his head high and defiant, as if expecting an argument.

  “How can I help my prince?” Jahan asked, although with a sinking heart he knew.

  “You can train me to the sword,” Ramesh answered firmly.

  “You are not yet fit,” Jahan objected. “You have barely recovered your strength.”

  “There is no more time to waste,” Ramesh said simply. He squared his shoulders and drew a deep breath. “Uncle, I have been irresponsible. My foolish behaviour on the tiger hunt caused the death of many of my friends. They died bravely but needlessly for a child’s whim. I wanted to kill my tiger and I did not think of the consequences.”

  “You have learned,” Jahan consoled him. “It was a hard lesson, but you will be the better man for it.”

  “Yes, Uncle. And it is time to be that better man. I could not have my tiger, but I will be a tiger. Teach me the sword, and I will be a tiger for Karakhor. Now that Kananda is no longer here, I must fight as he would. I must stand my ground in the ranks against Maghalla.”

  Jahan’s tough old heart wept with pain. This was the second child within a week, and this one was barely back to eating solid food again. He wanted to send Ramesh away, as he had wanted to send Nirad away, but his old heart also knew that there could be no non-combatants in the coming battles. The scream of Sanjay’s tusker from beyond the open window reminded him that no one was exempt. Karakhor would soon need all of her sons, even those who were still little more than boys.

  “I will speak to your father,” he said at last. “Tomorrow you can join your brother Nirad to begin your training.”

  In the long weeks since Kananda had departed, the new Lord of the House of Gandhar had never forgotten the cruel and treacherous manner of his father’s death. He had questioned Jahan as persistently as he dared, but the man most likely to have ferreted out the truth of the matter had either failed or was choosing to keep his own counsel. Gujar strongly suspected the latter. There were few secrets in Karakhor that the old Warmaster General could not uncover. His spy networks were as deep reaching within the city as they were far reaching beyond its walls.

  Jahan had confirmed that the three men who had tried to kill Raven were known assassins who could have been hired by anyone with enough coin. Normally such men would never have worn any identifying tags which could have linked them to their employer, and so the only other point on which Jahan claimed certainty was that they had not been hired by the House of Gandhar. Whoever had paid them had also paid them to wear Gandhar colours to cover his tracks.

  If Jahan knew and was refusing to reveal whoever had paid the death money, then it had to be a politically delicate issue. Gujar could understand that at this time, with the urgent need for all of Karakhor to remain united against Maghalla, Jahan would not want to see a blood feud or acts of vengeance between any of the great houses. His cool mind could respect that, but his hot blood still demanded to know the truth.

  So he had begun to haunt the more unsavoury taverns along the waterfront, places where his instinct told him such dark plots might be hatched and its p
erpetrators known. He had visited the first two places alone, and then Kasim had caught him returning from the second tavern, recognizing him despite his dark cloak as they passed in a narrow street. Gujar had needed someone with whom to share his suspicions and his thoughts and so he had confided in his friend.

  The waterfront is a dangerous area to wander alone,” Kasim had told him firmly. “In the future you must let me come with you.”

  “It is my business,” Gujar objected. “There is no need.”

  “We are sword brothers,” Kasim had reminded him. “Did we not stand side by side on the hill top with Kananda and his golden woman and defeat all of Maghalla?”

  “Only most of Maghalla.”

  Gujar had smiled at the memory, they had clasped hands to renew their friendship, and now they toured the remaining taverns together.

  It was late at night as they made their third visit together through the narrow, stinking streets close by the river. They wore swords under their cloaks and they were sharply alert for thieves and cut-throats. This was a dangerous hour to be abroad in this district, but it was also the hour when drink had taken hold and more tongues were loosened. They had already visited most of the low, dimly lit drinking hovels in this part of the city, and their hopes were fading. The dead hunchback and his friend with the disease ravaged face had to be part of an easily recognizable trio, but so far no one was talking. Only Gujar’s dogged persistence and Kasim’s unfailing loyalty made them continue their quest.

  Burning torches on either side of a doorway lit up a cracked wooden sign that was carved with the image of a sailing ship. The noise of laughter and drinking filtered out and they knew they had found another tavern. They pushed through a cheap curtain of leather strips and blinked as the smoky atmosphere stung their eyes. The interior was shadowy and dimly lit by a mixture of more torches and equally foul oil lamps. There were a dozen or more tables and all were fully occupied by hard-faced, rough-looking men and a few sluttish women. The room stank of sweat and tar and the sea. Some of the drinkers were already slumped drunk over their cups. The few who noticed the quiet arrival of the two tall young men in dark cloaks stared at them intently.