She glanced down and laughed. Her astral body was naked and as softly flushed as the one she had left behind. She clothed it quickly with a short dress.
“Unfair,” Antar said, but he was unoffended. He reached out to take her hand. “It is good to see you again, Laurya. There are far too few of us capable of rising to the Astral plane.”
“It is good to see you, too, Antar.” They were old friends and she accepted the offered hand. She wanted to tell him about her Earth visit and her meeting with Kaseem, but there were more pressing matters and she knew that there would be a better time. “What news is there of Commander Zela and her mission?”
“They were landed on schedule and the Strato-bomber has returned. The rest we must find out.”
She allowed him to pull her higher and together they scanned the night skies above the city. Occasionally there were other astral travellers over Alpha, some of them advanced and friendly, most of them simply absorbed in their own wonderful wanderings. Tonight there was not even the glimmer of a silver thread in sight. Antar finally gripped her hand more firmly and they both fixed their thoughts on Ghedda.
Like silent white birds using directional techniques they could neither fully describe nor understand, their spirit selves flew north. Within seconds, they had left the City of Singing Spires far behind, its dome-like aurora glow fading into the horizon, and within minutes they were out over the Great Storm Ocean. They soared high into the thinning atmosphere, almost into space itself. The stars glittered with icy intensity and the two visible moons rolled large above them. The moon orbits were at their maximum pulling positions, and they could feel the magnetic and gravitational stresses tearing through their psychic forms. It was painful and bitterly cold, but on the ocean surface, two mighty hurricanes whirled and clashed in elemental frenzy. It was better to freeze in near space than to risk being shredded and torn from their lifeline cords by the monstrous winds.
For several minutes, they endured the discomfort, and then mercifully the sheer speed of their passage had carried them over the dividing ocean, and they dropped down into warmer air as the continent of Ghedda sprawled out below them. Massive cloudbanks obscured much of the alien world, but they were still able to discern most of its shape and features. The continent was roughly square shaped, but with its coastline rugged and frayed where the sea had taken great bites out of it. To the northeast, almost one-third of the land mass was covered by a great polar ice cap. Below the ice curved a barrier of mountain ranges, their frozen pinnacles thrusting up above the clouds. To the west, below the mountains, stretched a vast area of ice lakes and frozen marshes. The centre of the continent was occupied by a great swath of thick forests, and it was here, among the wild mountain foothills and the encroaching forest, that the minor and semi-independent Sword Lords of Ghedda held their strongholds.
The southern half of the continent was the domain of the Gheddan Sword Empire. The City of Swords was almost dead centre of the southern coastline at the mouth of the Great Steel River. The blaze of its lights was only one of a dozen such clusters of brilliance that marked the other major cities of the empire, most of them in the vast valley and fertile plains carved by the continent’s major river and its tributaries. East of the central plain was the Stone Desert, and to the west the Great Gar Desert. Beyond the Great Gar was the vast black swampland split by its own tortuous river system.
Almost with one mind they swooped down toward the mouth of the Black Swamp River and began to follow it inland. They followed it for almost a hundred miles before they saw the skimmer nosing its way carefully upstream in the darkness. The craft showed no lights and they knew that Zela must be navigating with her viewscreen and keeping her air cushion high enough to let any debris on the current pass harmlessly under their hull.
“All seems well,” Antar sighed with relief. “This far up river they should be safe from Gheddan patrols. Tomorrow they can continue in daylight.”
Laurya chuckled. “You are a fraud. Your soul is not as hard as your physical face suggests.”
“Perhaps not.” Antar smiled at her, and then pulled on her hand again. They had seen what they had hoped to see, but there was no way they could communicate with Zela and her companions and no more they could do. However, he did not lead back the way they had arrived along the river, but turned to the east, leaving the black swamp behind and heading out over the barren sands of the desert.
Laurya was curious but made no comment. They knew the location of every bomber base and missile site in the Great Gar, and there seemed little that another astral flight could add. They paused for a while to watch the flaring lights and buzz of non-stop activity around the rocket pad where the Gheddans were aiming to put their next lazer battle station into orbit, and she both felt and shared the great sadness that filled Antar’s soul.
“Can’t we shoot these battle stations out of orbit before they launch their strike at us?” she asked, knowing that it was empty question.
“Ghedda would take it as an act of war,” Antar said wearily. “Which, of course, it would be. Their code would demand instant retaliation.”
He pulled her away and a few minutes later they were hovering over the City of Swords. Blades pierced up at them, crowning every gateway into the city, and starshine gleamed slickly, like wet black blood, on the monstrous blade that thrust up from the central barrack square. Laurya felt uncomfortable here. Even the air felt tainted by the godless militarism below, but Antar wanted to linger.
“Why do we wait?” she eventually asked.
“For a friend,” Antar said quietly, and she sensed in him a concern almost as deep as that he had radiated while watching the launch preparations for the battle station.
Laurya was perplexed. In all their astral journeys over Ghedda, they had never encountered another traveler. The very nature of their materialist psyche and their total rejection of any religious or spiritual beliefs had seemed to make all Gheddans totally blind to any metaphysical possibilities. No Alphan astral travelers ventured here and so the continent had always been an astral desert.
“We have no friends here,” she reminded him. “The Gheddans are soul-dead, or they might as well be.”
“We have one,” Antar contradicted her gently. “A Sword Lord name Karn, and one of the Council of Twelve. I met him here while you were away on Earth.”
“A Gheddan!” Laurya was startled. “Here on the astral?”
Antar nodded. “I gathered that his physical body was very sick. I think that perhaps he was dying. At the very least, his physical form was in great pain. I think he must have tried by a great effort of will to separate his body from his mind, to get away from the pain. Somehow he succeeded in breaking free and breaking into the astral. He was very confused and disoriented. Fortunately I was close by when he appeared.”
“What happened?”
“He saw my golden face, realized that I was spying on his empire, and tried to kill me.” Antar chuckled. “It was a clumsy attempt. He was falling over his own nightshirt and did not even know how to will a weapon into his hand.”
“What happened?” Laurya repeated in some exasperation.
“I saw an opportunity,” Antar continued more seriously. “I fled from him, and let him follow. He was slow and uncertain but I let him keep close behind me. I led him back across the Great Storm Ocean, back into the heartland of Alpha. He was weak. Even his astral strength was spent when we arrived. He realized then that I could have killed him if I had wanted. Instead, I showed him our missile sites along the Greenwall Mountain ranges.”
“You what?” Laurya almost shouted in disbelief.
“I showed him the caverns where our missiles are sited,” Antar repeated evenly. “And then I showed him how volcanic that area truly is. I took him almost into the flames of some of the active cones. I explained to him how the outer crust of our planet, with its continents and oceans, floats on this vast inner ball of molten lava. Then I led him back across the Great Storm Ocean and gav
e him a flying tour of the volcanoes that litter the Great Northern Ranges of his own continent. I showed him that both our continents have highly vulnerable volcanic fault lines. I succeeded in convincing him that our Alphan fears are neither weakness nor propaganda, but that they are terrible and real.”
“Karn,” Laurya suddenly understood. “The Sword Lord who now leads the minority group in the Council of Twelve.”
“The same, but Jayna brought us that information. I have not seen Karn since that first night, and since Jayna’s forced exit from Ghedda I have had no up-date of news. This is the sixth time that I have returned to this spot and waited in the hope that he might free his spirit once more. But every wait has been in vain. I do not know at this moment whether the Sword Lord Karn is alive or dead.”
They waited for over an hour, hovering over the enemy city like anxious ghosts, but there was no flicker of silver movement anywhere on the visible astral plane. The one man who might possibly swing the fate of their planet, and of both of its civilizations, back from madness to sanity did not appear. The first grey fingers of dawn began to claw over the eastern horizon and they knew that they could not stay away from their own bodies for much longer.
“Karn may be too weak,” Altar said at last. “Or it may be that he does not even know how to reach the astral plane again. He was pain-crazed and his first breakthrough was blind chance. I think that even he did not know exactly how it happened.”
Laurya took his hand and gently pulled him away. Reluctantly he came, and they began the homeward journey to Alpha.
They both wanted to believe that Karn might still be alive, but it was a faint hope.
CHAPTER FOUR
Radd was light and fast, moving quickly on the toes and balls of his feet. He came at Raven in an attacking whirlwind of blurred steel, to the accompaniment of loud cheers of encouragement from the crowd. A lesser swordsman than Raven would have died in those first few furious minutes, but Raven’s blade matched the speed of his opponent's and held Radd at sword’s length as they fought back and forth across the raised dueling ground.
Some of the cheering began to falter, and Raven smiled into Radd’s ice-cold eyes. He knew now what they had all expected. He had spent almost eight weeks in deep space and they had assumed that he would still be stiff from lack of exercise. But even in the confines of the ship he had worked daily to keep himself loose and supple, and to maintain the strength of his sword arm and wrist.
Radd bared his teeth in an answering smile, and for a split second, his pressure eased. Raven smashed forward an attack that drove the younger man backward and now the cheering all but died away.
Despite his slightness of build, Radd had the strength of coiled steel. He suddenly leaped high and whirled sideways. It was a neat trick, well practised and perfectly executed, but Raven had seen similar before. He whirled on his heel and his blade was there, defending as Radd attacked again. Raven was forced to give ground, and again there were cheers from Radd’s supporters.
Raven had the measure of his man now. Radd’s swordplay was brilliant, and he was without doubt the most dangerous opponent Raven had ever faced, but Radd had his weakness.
Raven knew that he was being pushed back to the very edge of the dueling platform. The uncertain cheers for Radd became louder, and then triumphant. Raven’s heels were inches from the edge, and he risked all on flicking his gaze to the right as though checking the fighting room that was still available. It was the second Radd had waited for— the glacial eyes hardened, and his right shoulder hunched fractionally upward.
Raven saw the tell-tale sign from the corner of his left eye. He pivoted instantly on his left heel, dropping his upper body forward to keep his balance as he sucked his belly back. Radd’s thrust lunged through suddenly empty air between Raven’s chest and his knees, the disemboweling twist did no more than scratch the golden chain mail of his cod piece.
Radd recovered too late. Raven’s blade flashed up and cut down again in a vicious back slash. The cut took Radd in the side of the neck and the force of the blow severed his head from his body. The dead man’s trunk reeled sideways, pumping blood in a bright crimson fountain, and then crashed to the floor. The detached head rolled over to the foot of the table where the Council of Twelve sat and gaped.
There was a stunned silence. Raven slowly straightened and flexed his shoulders. He looked for the chalk-white face of Maryam and gave her a reassuring smile. Then he rested the flat of his bloodied blade briefly in the palm of his free hand as his sardonic gaze passed over the remaining spectators.
Taron, Garl and Landis found their breath, filled their lungs, and gave a great mutual roar of approval.
Raven smiled back at them and waited for the applause to fade. Then his smile disappeared as he returned his full attention to the Council of Twelve.
He walked back to his former position where he had stood to address them, and casually leaned forward to spike Radd’s head, sliding the point of his blade into the severed windpipe. He held his grim trophy aloft.
“Swordmaster Radd was very good,” he said conversationally. “But he relied too much on his fancy tricks.”
He flicked the head disdainfully away, watching it roll off the edge of the platform. Then he took a pace forward, his hard gaze fixed on Doran. The old Sword Lord stared back at him without flinching, although Doran knew he was staring death in the face. The entire room was hushed, knowing that Raven now had full right to challenge Doran to the sword.
Raven’s eyes flickered to the right, to the face of Karn. He raised one eyebrow in silent question.
Karn’s face was another frozen mask. Nothing cracked, but almost imperceptibly he moved his head.
Raven was surprised. Both his eyebrows lifted, seeking confirmation.
Again Karn made the silent, negative motion of his head.
Raven returned his direct, thoughtful gaze to Doran. For some reason Karn did not want him to re-issue the sword challenge and kill his enemy.
Raven’s mind raced, weighing his options. It was never wise to leave a sworn enemy alive, and the opportunity might not come again. Yet there were subtleties in this power struggle behind the scenes that he did not yet understand. Doran clearly wanted Karn dead, yet Karn wanted Doran alive. It was an intriguing mystery, well up to the labyrinthine workings of empire politics.
Perhaps time would give him the answers. Raven made up his mind and stepped back a pace, allowing his level gaze to sweep the full length of the table.
“Does anyone still wish to accuse me of foolishness and cowardice?” He asked pleasantly.
It was a general question and not a direct challenge to any individual member of the Council. For a moment, no one answered, and then Karn pushed himself painfully to his feet.
“We have seen that our first estimation was both hasty and ill-judged,” he announced ponderously. He looked neither left nor right for either confirmation or dissent from the remainder of the Council. “The Council accepts your report, and we are satisfied that all your actions and decisions on the third planet were made in the best interests of the Gheddan Empire, the Gheddan Code, and Gheddan Honour.”
Raven acknowledged the belated compliment with a slight bow. There were a few murmurs of agreement along the table and he pretended not to notice Doran sitting stone-faced and thunderous.
“Perhaps you will call on me later in my quarters,” Karn continued. He allowed himself the faintest of smiles. “When you have cleaned your blade.”
Raven sheathed his sword and made the open palm salute. Karn returned it, and with a final bow, Raven turned and walked away.
There were cheers from the spectators, all of them now for Raven. He ignored them, but as he stepped down from the fighting platform, he held out his left arm to the waiting Maryam. She moved into its welcome embrace with her chin held high and they exchanged smiles.
Raven felt an urgent need for her. Radd’s sword had come close to clipping his manhood, and the memory had left
him with a sudden perverse but undeniable hardening that was excruciatingly contained by the chain mail at his groin.
Maryam was not aware of it yet, but as the crowd parted to let them through and make their exit, she could not resist throwing a triumphant smile over his shoulder at Sylve.
It was two hours before Raven sought Karn in his quarters in one of the larger barrack blocks. The guards allowed him into the building with formal salutes but without comment. His knock was answered and the door opened by a silent young Gheddan woman who might have been Karn’s daughter, but probably wasn’t. Raven could not recollect her face from his previous visits, but in three months many things could change. The woman led him to an inner bedchamber where Karn waited and then discretely withdrew.
The old Sword Lord lay sprawled back on his bed with his head and shoulders propped up by half a dozen large fur cushions. He had removed his chain mail but still wore the white dress uniform. The tunic and waistbelt were both open and for a moment Raven thought that he had interrupted the same sport that he had paused to enjoy with Maryam. Then he saw the pain lines etched across Karn’s ravaged face, which told a very different story.
Karn indicated a stool and Raven pulled it closer and sat down.
“How long have you been sick?” he asked.
Karn weakly shrugged his shoulders. His huge frame was wasted from what Raven remembered, but he was still larger than most men of his age. “It started soon after you left. Now it is well advanced. I have the eating sickness. It gnaws its way into my guts. All of my bowel movements are streaked with blood.”
Raven smiled. Karn had always been crude of speech, and the proximity of death had done nothing to improve his language.
“I am sorry,” he said simply.
“So am I,” Karn grunted shortly.
They were silent for a moment. The eating sickness was the general term for a malignant fungus that attacked its victims from the inside. It could occur almost anywhere, in the throat, the lungs or the stomach, and it was incurable. The empire physicians had made some attempts to cut the foul growths out of some of their patients, but all of them had died anyway. Karn was not the sort of man who would let the butchers cut him, and if the eating sickness was in his bowels, then his time was short.
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