Sword Destiny Read online

  Bharat drank enough to dull his senses and then sank into a snoring sleep. The night passed and the grey light of dawn filtered into the tent before he awoke. Something was not quite as it should be and he blinked his eyes as he pulled his befuddled wits together. It took a few moments to realize that the irritating sobbing from the next tent had stopped and somehow that puzzled him. It seemed to him that the tearful noises had not recently stopped. He sensed that there had been silence for some time and that was not what he had expected. Seeva had been a dutiful and loving wife and the custom demanded that she should still be grieving for her husband.

  Suddenly Bharat became aware of something else. Just inside the closed door flap of his tent was a tall patch of shadow that was not blurring away with the sharpening daylight. Instinct made him grab for his sword and jerk it half-free from its scabbard.

  The shadow moved and he froze. He recognized the helmet of black steel with its long cheek guards and sharp nose bridge. He also knew well the black steel chest guard and the hard black leather of the shoulder guards and war skirt. The figure wore familiar black leather gloves and boots and the long steel sword with the black-mailed fist moulded on its pommel. For a moment, he thought that the ghost of Zarin had come back to haunt him, but then the intruder took another step forward.

  It was Zarin’s armour, but the blood had been washed away and the black steel and leather had been polished until it shone and sparkled even in the enclosed gloom of the tent. The face behind the helmet was full-lipped and pale, with beautiful, long-lashed brown eyes that no longer bore any signs of tears. It was a cold face, small and icy in its determination.

  “Seeva!” Bharat spluttered. “What madness is this?”

  “My husband is dead,” Seeva answered him bluntly. “I will observe the rites, but I will not sit in my tent and merely weep. I will avenge him. Tell me, Bharat, who slew my husband?”

  “One of the Karakhoran princes.” Bharat searched his memory “The one who flies the banner of the silver boar.”

  “Then I will continue to fly the banner of the black fist. I will ride my husband’s chariot into battle. I will wear his armour and carry his sword. I will hunt for this Prince of the Silver Boar—and when I find him I will kill him. Then I can return to being a woman.”

  Bharat stared at her, and then suddenly he grinned. “It all fits you. At least you look better in Zarin’s armour than he ever did.”

  With a speed that surprised him, she drew the sword. It flashed into her hand and the point pricked his throat. Her eyes were furious. “Do not jest,” she screamed at him. “I will kill the man who slew my husband. And anyone else who gets in my way.”

  Bharat knew that his life hung suspended on a slender thread. The woman was proud and crazed. She was a daughter of Sardar and the madness blazed in her eyes. He remained motionless, holding her gaze, and then with infinite slowness he lifted a finger and touched the blade that had already drawn a globule of blood from a small cut under his chin. He froze again, still not daring to breathe and then gently, with the tip of his finger, he moved the blade aside.

  Seeva stepped back and sheathed the sword. Bharat let out his breath in a long, shuddering gasp and sucked in another. “I believe you,” he said at last.

  Seeva smiled. “I will ride beside you until we find the Prince of the Silver Boar,” she promised.

  Bharat nodded. For the moment he was not prepared to argue. Then another thought struck him. “What will your father say?”

  Seeva shrugged. “I am a Princess of Maghalla. My father will laugh.”

  Bharat nodded again, and then he too roared with laughter.

  The two queens, Padmini and Kamali, the first and second wives, and now widows, of Kara-Rashna, completed their nightly tour of the temple courtyards and the noble houses. The priests and the women of the city were using all the space they had to accommodate the dying and the wounded. Everywhere the royal wives stopped there was only suffering and pain, the stench of blood and the sound of sobs and groans. The women and priests of the city were almost as gaunt and wretched as the men they tried to save, their robes in many cases equally stained with red.

  Padmini and Kamali moved among the wounded and those who cared for them to give them some comfort and moral support. The need for their presence and guidance was one of the heavier arguments that Jahan and Devan had used to stop them from their initial desire to throw themselves on the sacrificial fire of their dead husband. They needed to set a living example, Jahan had insisted. The noble women of Karakhor would look to them for leadership and follow where they led. Those who lived must work and fight for the survival of the living.

  When they returned to the palace, they dismissed the guards who had accompanied them and Kamali followed Padmini into the first queen’s quarters. Padmini waved her maids away and the two women embraced and released the well of tears that so far they had held back. They wept on each other’s shoulders. At last Padmini broke the embrace and found a lace handkerchief to dry her eyes. She used the same wisp of lace to wipe the glistening cheeks of the woman she loved as a sister.

  They sat on one of the long padded chairs that furnished the chamber. The maids had left bowls of fresh fruit, dates and figs and glasses of milk, but they ignored them. Neither of them had any stomach for food or drink. Padmini stared blankly over the marble balcony of the open window. She could see the stars in the night sky where her children had disappeared.

  Kamali stared down at her hands folded in her lap. Finally the younger queen spoke. “It gets worse. Will it never end?”

  Padmini drew back from her own sad thoughts. “It will end,” she said bitterly. “But I fear it will not be an ending to our liking.”

  “You think Karakhor can lose this war?” Kamali was shocked. It was the first time they had dared, or feared, to admit as much.

  Padmini hesitated but then she nodded. “Our men fight bravely. They are like lions. But they are too few and they cannot be replaced. The hordes of Maghalla are like locusts. More appear every day.”

  Kamali trembled. If there had been any tears left she would have wept again. “Every day,” she said miserably, “I wait to see if my sons Nirad and Rajar will be among the mutilated or the slain. Our husband is dead. My daughter Namita was murdered by the blue men when they invaded our city. Nirad and Rajar are all that I have left.”

  Padmini put her arm around the young queen’s shoulders. “I fear and pray for Ramesh, and for Maryam and Kananda, but perhaps my first son and daughter are safe among the stars. Perhaps they sail in glory in the steel temples that took them away. I fear your burden is heavier than mine. The stars may be a better place than poor Karakhor.”

  They were silent for a long minute. Then Kamali turned her face to her friend. The blue powder that was intended to make her dark-lashed eyes more beautiful had smeared across her face and the tear trails ran through it. “I wish that we had joined with Kara-Rashna in the flames. We should have performed the Juahar.”

  Padmini nodded slowly. “It was our right and our duty. Perhaps Jahan and Devan were right to make us wait, but I think we will perform the Juahar. When the city falls, we must lead all the noble wives and daughters into the cremation fires. Soon we will have to begin to prepare them. We must talk to the older women first, the wives of the great houses, and let them talk to their daughters.”

  Kamali stared at her. “I think Jahan and Devan will still forbid it.”

  “What choice will they have?” The senior queen allowed the bitterness to creep back into her voice. “Jahan has a wife. Devan has three daughters. Do you think they will want to die knowing that all those they love will be raped and butchered by Maghalla when their own bodies lie broken on the battlefield?” Padmini put her hand on Kamali’s and pulled the young queen closer. “This is why I agreed with our men that we would not join immediately with Kara-Rashna. I cannot see any way in which Karakhor can win this war. Jahan and Devan will argue against it to the last day, but what is ine
vitable will come and they will not let us be dishonoured. We must wait, but in the end we must lead all the women of all the noble houses into the Juahar.”

  With the full light of dawn, the forces of Maghalla again marched forward in their awesome battle lines. The chariots of their war leaders formed the front rank, with Sardar, flanked by Kamar and Tuluq, standing proud in the centre. Behind them were the remaining war elephants and then the hordes of common soldiers, warrior groups, and the half-naked aboriginals that were the forest tribesmen. They all stamped and threatened, shaking fists and weapons and shrieking insults, a thunderous noise made to boost their own morale as much as to frighten the enemy.

  Except that today there was no enemy. No chariots came storming out from the drifting smoke of the dying campfires to oppose them. No elephants lumbered into view. No massed ranks of warriors marched out to form the Karakhoran battle lines. There were a few small groups of warriors still sitting or standing around the visible campfires, but suddenly, at some unseen signal, they too turned away and simply disappeared into the low mixture of fading wood-smoke and the dawn mist above the river.

  Sardar drew his sword, ready to give the sign that would start the battle drums pounding, the blare of the trumpets and conch shells, and then launch the initial charge of the day. He hesitated, and then looked from Kamar to Tuluq. A mystified silence had now fallen over the vast horde behind them.

  The morning breeze rippled the broad surface of the Mahanadi, blowing away the last shreds of smoke and mist along the full length of the riverbank. The rising sunlight gleamed on the high walls of the city, walls that were now fully manned by the massed defenders of Karakhor. The plain had been abandoned, the bridge stood bare and empty, and the gates beyond were closed.

  Sardar understood and roared his rage and frustration. He had calculated that eventually the pride of Karakhor would be humbled and that they would then retreat behind their walls. However, he had hoped for that haughty pride to hold until he had slaughtered all of their champions and enough of their forces to make his victory certain, and he had not been prepared for such a silent and complete withdrawal. He cursed long and loud and his vilest obscenities were directed at his own night watchmen who had been so completely fooled.

  On either side and behind him, the cries of anger and insults again rose to full volume as they all realized how the enemy had deceived them. The clamour became deafening and, although their chariots were side by side, Kamar had to shout to make himself heard.

  “I smell the hand of Jahan in this, my Lord. You cut him down but did not kill him. He cannot take the field himself, so now he pulls back.”

  Sardar scowled and nodded. After Nazik, Kamar was his most able ally, a general who was well aware of the importance of understanding both the strengths and weaknesses of the enemy. “With the cut I gave him, Jahan cannot ride. Perhaps he cannot even walk. So who would lead them now?”

  “Probably Prince Devan.”

  Again Sardar nodded in agreement. He was hearing what he already knew, but he liked to be sure that he had missed nothing. “Devan is a good fighter and a proud man. He could be tempted to open the gates for a challenge of champions.” With the blade of his sword, he touched the thick bandages that now swathed the upper part of his wounded left arm. “Sadly I am not yet fit for single combat.”

  Kamar grinned, his face that of a gleeful wolf behind the steel bars of his helmet. He hefted the spiked steel ball of his dreaded battle mace and brandished it toward the city. “Then I will draw him out, my Lord. Signal the charge and I will cross the bridge.”

  Sardar laughed, raised his sword again and cut down sharply through the air. Immediately the battle drums began to beat and the trumpets and the conch shells shrieked their shrill challenge into the sky. The crescendo of catcalls and war cries increased as Sardar slowly raised his sword again, and when he slashed it down the charge began.

  On the wall above the gates, an elevated litter had been placed, and from there Jahan watched the horde of Maghalla pouring down from the plain. Beside him stood Devan and the other princes and house lords, and behind them more trumpets and battle drums sounded the warning call to arms. Archers moved forward and nocked arrows to their bows. Swordsmen and spearmen still waited.

  For most of the yelling multitude, the charge ended at the edge of the river, in a spirited exchange of arrow showers and insults. Two chariots failed to brake in time and overshot the banks, crashing straight into the Mahanadi to howls of delight from the ramparts. The chariots quickly sank, pulling down the struggling horses. The riders also sank out of sight, pulled down by the weight of their weapons and body armour.

  A small vanguard of chariots raced straight for the bridge, hurtling across the slender approach in a whirling clatter of hooves and wheels and drawing behind them a swift stream of foot soldiers. Kamar’s chariot led the way, streaming his proud banner of the red leopard’s claw. He and the other charioteers knelt low in their cars as they came within range and held their shields aloft to protect themselves from the rain of arrows that slashed down from the top of the wall. Another chariot slewed sideways and crashed into the river as an arrow skewered one of its straining horse team through the eye. The foot soldiers were decimated and toppled by the fast-falling feathered shafts as they ran. Then the first chariots were skidding to a halt before the great gates of the city. The surviving foot soldiers ran close to the walls, where the archers above had to lean far out to target them, and thus became easy targets themselves.

  The situation was stalemate, and for a moment both sides paused, waiting to see what would happen next.

  Slowly Kamar straightened up. He turned his horse team away from the closed gate, circled them back a few steps toward the bridge, and then stopped again where he could clearly be seen from the top of the wall. A score of nocked arrows were aimed at his chest, but he had demonstrated his bravery and now no archer would loose a shaft without a direct order. Kamar deliberately removed his helmet and shook loose his long black hair. He stared straight up at the watching faces on the top of the wall and bared white teeth in a wicked grin.

  “Have you no honour left in Karakhor?” he taunted them. “Why do you hide like women behind your walls? Have you no champion left who dares to come out and face me?”

  Laying almost helpless on his litter, Jahan silently cursed the raw pain of the leg that would not let him stand and he understood the fury and frustration of the men around him. Devan and Ranjit were leashed tigers ready to explode, but he could only try to restrain them. Devan took a step to the wall, gripping the raw stone parapet until his knuckles turned white, then looked back. Bitterly, Jahan shook his head.

  “He only wants the gate to open, Lord Prince. This is not a matter of honour.”

  Below them there were chuckles of laughter. The two chieftains who had crossed the bridge with Kamar were made bold by his example. They too stood tall in their chariots and took off their helmets. From the far bank, the massed army of Maghalla hooted and jeered.

  Kamar let the moment draw out, allowing the tumult of taunting to swell. Then slowly he raised his right arm, swinging the massive battle mace up to the sky. He turned around slowly to face his own forces, and the act of turning his back to the defenders on the walls was also a calculated insult. “They dare not face my face,” he shouted.

  Safely out of arrow range, Sardar of Maghalla roared with laughter, a signal for the entire horde to follow suit.

  Kamar turned to grin up at the walls. Then faced his own army again. “They dare not face my mace,” he bellowed, and brandished the weapon again toward the walls.

  Again all of Maghalla roared with laughter.

  He paused, lowered the weapon and leaned it against the side of his battle car. There was silence as he stood with hands on hips and they waited with bated breath for his next words. Kamar knew how to please them and finally he bellowed, “Will they dare to face my arse?” With that he bent forward, lifted up the leather flaps of his war s
kirt and showed his bare buttocks to Karakhor. The applause and laughter from the Maghallan ranks were hilarious and hysterical.

  The gross crudity was too much for Devan. He gave a bellow of rage, spun on his heel and ran down the flight of stone steps on the inside of the wall. Jahan called after him but then saw the futility of words. The old Warmaster’s face was suddenly haggard as he looked toward the captain of his personal guard, who moved forward questioningly with a dozen hand-picked warriors at his back. Devan had his own personal guards and they too made a warning move to intervene. Jahan drew a deep, uncertain breath.

  Then Gujar said swiftly. “Show him a dozen swords and he will fight. Let me try to speak with him.”

  As Devan descended the steps, he shouted for his chariot, which stood harnessed and ready with his favourite pair of white stallion and mare between the shafts. An alert groom quickly ran the horses forward and handed him the reins. With another bellow, Devan commanded the guards to open the gates.

  The gate guards moved instantly to obey. Three ran to each of the great teak bars and heaved their shoulders beneath them. The first gate bar lifted from its massive iron catches and would have been thrown aside, but then Gujar threw his full weight on top of it and dragged it back into place. The three men who had been thwarted stared at him, and then looked back uncertainly to their prince, the bull-tempered hero whom most of them now thought of logically as the practical ruler of Karakhor. The guards on the second gate bar also paused and waited.

  Devan had faintly heard Jahan shouting behind him and then two pairs of fast-flying feet pursuing him down the stone staircase. One man he now realized was Ranjit, who had followed him in support and was now shouting for his own chariot. The other was Gujar, who now blocked his way. “Stand aside.” Devan was still blind with fury, the blood coursing hotly through his veins. “The gate will open.”

  “My Lord Prince, the Lord Jahan commands that the gate must not open.”