Sword Destiny Page 8

  Tuluq was flung backward, his cheek split to the bone, his senses reeling as much as his body. Instinctively he knew that he was fatally exposed, and in desperation, he whirled blindly with his sword as he spun full circle. There was no skill in the move, but the gods smiled and he was lucky. Salim had drawn back his elbow for the killing lunge when Tuluq’s sword was unexpectedly flung round to take him in the neck. Blood spurted as his throat was severed and Salim was stopped dead. He rocked for a moment on his heels and then toppled backward like a felled oak.

  There was a pause in the battle, a moment of silence, and then a roar of terrible rage. Ranjit had seen his brother fall and he too leaped down from his chariot and ran forward with a dreadful lust for revenge. Tuluq saw the equally massive figure charging toward him like the tormented ghost of the man he had just killed. It was too much and Tuluq fled. He reached his chariot and scrambled aboard, snatching for the reins and slapping them furiously at the flanks of his two horses. He looked back over his shoulder to see Ranjit brandishing his sword and bawling at him to come back, but for this day’s fighting, he’d had enough.

  As Tuluq quit the field, the attack upon the bridge faltered and broke up. The men of Maghalla and Kanju fought their way out from the bridge and began to retreat along the bank of the Mahanadi. Ranjit’s house warriors decimated them and the rout became flight.

  Zarin was pressing home his attack upon Nirad with almost total concentration, sensing that the younger man was rapidly weakening and realized too late that something was amiss. As his supporters melted away, he flicked a surprised glance over his shoulder. For Nirad, it was a last chance, but it was enough and with a final flash of inspired swordplay, he ran Zarin through. The prince of Karakhor and the prince of Maghalla and Kanju both looked as though they could not quite believe the outcome and Zarin died with that look of startled uncertainty still on his face.

  Jahan and Sardar fought with the ferocity of tigers, attacking and retreating in turn, each man trying to wear the other down. They were evenly matched. Where Jahan’s extra years may have slowed him down, his longer reach and accumulated skill more than made up the balance. Sardar was beginning to swing more wildly, but Jahan was finding that his sword was becoming heavier and his breathing harsher and harder. The fight between them was still in the balance as they slugged it out sword to sword, but even in the thick of the fight, Jahan’s senses were finely tuned to all that was happening around him. That was his undoing, for gradually he became aware that there was another threat to his beloved city.

  The sounds of battle were too still all around them, and yet from the direction of the city bridge he could hear the ring of steel and shouts of excitement. Another man might have missed those sounds with the non-stop clashing of his own blade and that of his opponent deafening his ears, but not Jahan. He knew that he had been drawn out for more than one reason. Sardar intended to kill him, but also he had been used as a distraction.

  The circle of watching faces was not totally intent on the gladiatorial epic that might well settle the whole war. Many of them were casting glances over their shoulders to try and see what was going on behind them. Jahan knew that it would be fatal to follow suit but his concentration was divided. Sardar grinned and pressed forward with another whirlwind attack. In the same moment, Ranjit’s great bull-bellow of rage as his brother Salim fell carried clearly across the whole plain of battle.

  Jahan flicked his gaze in the direction of the sound and Sardar grabbed his chance and broke through his guard. Sardar’s blade chopped down below Jahan’s parry and clove the old Warmaster deep in the thigh. Jahan groaned and staggered back, the blood pouring down over his knee in a bright red flood. Sardar pressed forward in a continued attack, smashing Jahan’s blade to one side and then swinging a great two-handed blow. Jahan took the blade on his arm shield, but the shield shattered and he was knocked down on to the blood-drenched-knee. The old Warmaster stabbed his sword down into the ground to hold himself up and now he was helpless. Sardar swung up his own sword, poised for the final blow.

  Hamir the huntsman was still alive. His foremost skills were in woodcraft, his knowledge of wild animals and tracking, but he also possessed a latent but definite talent for survival. On that fighting retreat from the tiger hunt, he had shown that he was a natural swordsman and he had acquitted himself well over the past five days of battle. He also had a keen eye for the bow, and when the conflict had stilled to watch the mighty conflict between the two war leaders, Hamir had been in the act of notching another arrow to his string.

  He had frozen in that stance, watching like a hundred others, with bated breath. He was as loyal and brave as any man on the battlefield, but he was not a trained soldier. He had his own code and his own philosophy, but it was not an exact mirror of the militaristic code of most of the men around him. In the wild, he was his own master and did not look for orders. When he saw Jahan fall, he acted upon his own instincts and instantly raised his bow. He drew back and let the arrow fly, knowing only that he could not stand by and let the Warmaster General of Karakhor be butchered like a stunned ox.

  The feathered shaft flashed forward without pause for aim and tore through Sardar’s arm shield, slicing open his upper arm and spinning him round in a half circle.

  There was a mass roar of anger from the throats of Maghalla and a score of warriors surged forward to protect their king. The foremost warriors of Karakhor leaped to meet them and the battle was instantly rejoined. Sardar was pulled back behind his milling ranks and Hamir ran forward with half a dozen others to retrieve Jahan and carry him, wounded but alive, from the field.

  Chapter Five

  The nightly war council in the great audience hall in Karakhor was again a sombre and grim-faced affair, with three more gaps in their ranks. The weeping and wailing for the deaths of Salim and Sanjay carried up clearly through the high, open windows from the streets outside. One by one, the weary princes, house lords and war captains assembled, most of them still grimy with the day’s blood and dust and carrying their steel or leather battle helmets under one arm. Rajar was one of the last to arrive, having taken the time to bathe, change his clothes and don a clean white, bejeweled turban. The young prince stood for a moment, surveying the silent faces of his peers and elders, and then his dark, longing gaze lingered again on the empty elephant throne.

  Slowly, casually, Rajar strolled toward the seat of supreme power. He hesitated on the last step, his tongue briefly licking his dry lips. He knew every eye in the room was watching for his next move. He was aware of Ramesh starting forward and quickly turned.

  Devan was standing beside Ramesh. As the young prince moved, their uncle stepped forward with him, his left arm thrusting sideways to form an iron-rigid bar across Ramesh’s chest. “No, my prince,” Devan said softly, but firmly. However, he was not looking at Ramesh. His warning gaze was fixed angrily on Rajar.

  Rajar turned to face them with his back to the throne. For a moment it seemed that he might have defied his uncle and seated himself, but he still did not have quite enough courage. He scowled and then took a half step forward, toward Devan but away from the throne.

  “We are all agreed,” Devan said firmly. “The question of who succeeds your father must wait until the outcome of this war is decided.”

  “So who rules Karakhor?” Rajar snapped. “My father left his mandate to Jahan and Kaseem. But the old priest is dying, he has been unconscious for three days—the life is ebbing away from him and he will never awaken. Now Jahan is also bleeding to death. Karakhor cannot be ruled by two old, dead men. Who now leads this war?”

  “Jahan named me Warmaster General if he should fall,” Devan said flatly. “I lead this battle now. For the time being, the winning of this war is all that matters. Karakhor cannot afford to be divided by the dilemma of succession.”

  “The succession must be decided. I am the oldest son of Kara-Rashna. It is my right to rule.”

  Ramesh bristled, but still the powerful arm of
Devan was holding him back.

  “The only clear right of rule is that of Kananda, the first son of the first marriage. If Kananda does not return, then we shall need the knowledge and holy lore of our Brahmins and priests to decide between the rival claims of yourself and Prince Ramesh.”

  “Kananda will not return. Kananda is dead.” Rajar needed to believe those words so badly that he almost howled them in his frustration.

  “Perhaps.” Devan refused to be drawn into argument. “But even if Kananda does not return, we still cannot make this decision without the right guidance, the right prayers and the right sacrifices. Our learned Brahmins must search their histories for the correct precedents of lineage. There is no time for all of this while we must fight for the survival of our race and city with Maghalla.”

  Rajar glowered at Devan, but saw that his uncle was adamant. He looked around the hall and saw only nods of agreement from the gathered fighting men and looks of fear and apprehension on the faces of the priests. In the eyes of the young lords Gujar and Kasim, he saw cold opposition. He had no definite support, and while the daily struggle of battle embroiled them all, there had been no real opportunity to build any. He had never expected that Kananda would simply disappear into the stars or that his father would be fool enough to go out onto the battlefield and fight. The opportunity to claim the throne had caught him unprepared. He bit his lower lip and held back his curses, knowing that a show of petulance would bring him no rewards. However, he was determined to have the last word.

  “When Jahan and Kaseem are dead, my father’s mandate ends. Then this must be decided. Karakhor must have a king.” He turned baleful eyes upon the collection of hovering priests. “You should start your book-searching and holy rituals now.”

  There was a quick flurry of palm-clasping and nodding and Rajar was momentarily satisfied. Then his brief moment of triumph was dashed as a bed was carried into the audience hall by a mixture of servants and soldiers. On the bed lay Jahan, propped up by pillows and one elbow. Blood stained the sheet that covered him at the thigh and his face was pale, but the old hawk eyes were still fierce and bright. Behind him, propped on one side by his staff and supported on the other by the young acolyte Sahani, was the frail and exhausted, but at last awake and still-breathing, figure of Kaseem.

  “By the grace of Indra, Agni and Varuna, we are both still alive,” the old priest intoned weakly but clearly. He smiled as his gaze took in the circle of faces and received smiles in return, of relief, welcome and joy. His smile included Rajar but there the return look was only one of startled, thunderous fury. In a moment, the atmosphere within the great hall had changed and the circle had pressed forward and reformed around the two new arrivals. Rajar tasted bitter bile in his throat as his claim was briefly forgotten and he was left to stand alone.

  Devan was the first to grasp Jahan’s hand, crushing it warmly in his large fist. “I always knew you would be a hard man to kill,” he said with affection. “And I am glad. I did not really want to be Warmaster General. When I found you were not here, I thought you were too sorely wounded.”

  “Our good priests and healers do take an undue amount of time to sew up just one leg,” Jahan said ruefully, although he was not ungrateful. “The prayers and the sacrifices take longer than the stitching. But there was more. I had to re-think our strategy and give orders for tomorrow.”

  “You can ride your chariot?” Devan looked doubtful.

  Jahan winced at the thought and shook his head.

  Kaseem answered for him. “He will walk again, but not for many days. The sword cut was long and deep.”

  “Then I must still lead the field of battle.” Devan’s tone showed neither joy no apprehension. He simply stated the fact.

  “No, my friend.” Jahan reached out and touched his arm. “We will not go to the battlefield. We have already lost too many of our champions and too many of our soldiers and warriors. We are outnumbered on the battlefield. Sardar’s forces are too many and he continues to receive fresh troops where we receive none. If we continue to go out to meet them, we are doomed. I have had time to think this out while they have played with my leg. Our only hope to save our people and our city, our beloved Karakhor, is to withdraw from the field. We must defend Karakhor from behind its walls.”

  Devan drew back, affronted. “There is no honour in hiding behind the city walls. That is the place for our women and children. Men should challenge each other man-to-man on the open field of battle. We would bring shame to ourselves and to those who have already died. Must we leave all honour to Maghalla?”

  “What honour has Sardar of Maghalla?” Jahan demanded bitterly. “Was there honour in using jungle cats to bring down Prince Sanjay? Was there honour in trying to ride me down when I was on foot and he was still in his chariot? Was there honour in their attempt to force the bridge and break into the city? If our young lords and princes had not made their heroic stand on the bridge, Tuluq and Bharat would have smashed their way through the city gates. Do you think they would then have spared our women and children? No, Maghalla has come to rape our women, to butcher our children, to loot the treasures of our temples and palaces. We have tried to fight this war with honour, with all the rules of champions in single combat, but this is no longer a sporting contest. It is a war to the death, not just for champions and warriors, but for all of Karakhor.”

  “Perhaps you are right,” Devan grumbled. “But we could sally forth for one more day. I now have my brother Sanjay to avenge. Give me one more day to meet up with Sardar of Maghalla.”

  “My slain brother, Salim, also cries out for vengeance.” Ranjit pushed forward to Devan’s side, appealing to Jahan. “Give me one more day to find and challenge Tuluq.”

  Jahan heaved a deep sigh of regret. “Prince Devan, you are the last of your father’s brothers. Lord Ranjit, you are the last of your father’s sons. Our younger lords and princes are both valiant and noble. Without their stand at the bridge, the battle might have been wholly lost today. But you two are the last of our great champions. Karakhor cannot now afford to lose either of you.”

  “Just one more day,” Devan insisted.

  Jahan smiled. “I know you too well, old friend. You would always argue for one more day. That is why I have already issued the orders to all of our night watch captains. Our campfires beyond the river have all been stoked up with green wood. A few groups sit in front of the smokescreen, eating and talking to create the impression that all is normal. Behind the smoke, all our forces are being withdrawn over the bridge and into the city. By dawn it will be done. Sardar will have no choice but to make siege or go home.”

  Rajar had listened with a conflict of emotions. The reappearance of Jahan and Kaseem had effectively pushed his claim to the throne far back on the agenda. Also, his plan to eliminate Ramesh had completely backfired and now his rival and his friends were being credited with saving the city. The gall was still there in his throat, but at least there was one ray of light in all this mess. None of the others liked it, but Rajar was relieved that tomorrow he would not have to ride out again and risk his life on the battlefield. He considered his words with political care, and then announced his support for the old Warmaster’s actions.

  “I agree with Lord Jahan. It is a wise decision. This was my father’s kingdom. Now it is my kingdom. I do not wish to leave the field, but our army must not be destroyed. Our city must not fall. We must do whatever is best to defend Karakhor.” It was a neat little speech, which regained their attention and sounded just right. Rajar was pleased with it, but then Kaseem had to spoil everything again.

  “It is a wise decision,” the old priest agreed, “for I have seen another Holy Vision. I know now that the Prince Kananda will return. It will take many weeks, but he will bring the Golden Gods and their white-fire ships with him. We must hold the walls of Karakhor until then.”

  In the tents and around the campfires of Kanju, there was also gloom and despondency as the men there talked over their
flight from the bridge and the death of their Prince Zarin. They needed a fine speech to raise their spirits and fire them up for the next day’s fighting, but Bharat chose to stay in his tent and sulk over his wounds and bruises. He was not badly hurt, but mortified by the fact that he had been forced to retreat from the field after being thrown from his chariot. What should have been a victory had become a shambles and there had been no glory or honour in it. He even slightly regretted the death of Zarin, although the death of his nephew had left him almost the undisputed ruler of Kanju. There were two other child-sons of Kumar-Rao for whom he would have to act as Regent until he could decently have them disposed of, but otherwise his way was clear. However, he had liked Zarin, a willing tool and able battle companion. He cursed again at the day’s events and drank heavily from his cup of wine.

  From the next tent in line, where Zarin had slept, he listened to the depressing sound of noisy female weeping. Zarin had brought his wife Seeva with him, being too newly wed to bear a parting, and Seeva had two ladies-in-waiting. The three of them made enough noise for ten women and Bharat guessed that he would have to endure it for the rest of the night. Sourly, he refilled his cup with wine. He knew he should attend upon Sardar and listen to the squat toad’s aims for tomorrow, but tonight he just felt like getting drunk. Sardar would probably be too much in his own cups to miss him anyway.