“I understand why you did not send for me before.”
“Argh!” Karn grimaced. “It was not the pain. I thought that Doran might try to get at me through you. So it seemed best to let our friendship lie dormant, to hope that Doran might forget that I had named you as my champion. Not much of a hope, I admit. Doran had too much confidence in Swordmaster Radd.”
“An ill-placed confidence,” Raven said. “But some small warning might have been helpful.”
Karn laughed, a pain-filled grating sound. “You had your warning. Who do you think primed the drunken loudmouth who talked to your friend Taron?”
Raven laughed in turn. “I should have known.” It was the nearest he could come to an apology.
Karn continued to laugh until the agony rising up from his bowels choked it away. He reached for a glass that might have contained water or white spirits and gulped it down. They were silent for a moment after he replaced the empty glass.
“Why?” Raven asked at last.
“Why did I stop you from killing Doran?” Karn understood the question. “It is a long story. If Taron grasped all that he was told, then you know that Doran leads a majority on the Council that is demanding an immediate first strike war on Alpha.”
“I know that much,” Raven acknowledged. “I know also that we have launched the first of the three battle stations that will stop any counter-attack from Alpha and give certain victory to the empire. What I do not understand is why you oppose such action.”
Karn’s eyes became wary. He knew that the truth of his conversion would find no credence anywhere within the Gheddan Empire. He said carefully, “I thought it prudent to examine the Alphan claim that such an exchange of our most powerful missiles could possibly destroy our planet and both empires. Now I believe they may be right. There are many more fire mountains than we first believed in the Great Northern Ranges. The Alphans claim that their continent shows even more evidence of volcanic activity. It is just possible that their fears are justified.”
“But we have always known of the fire mountains.” Raven was perplexed. “And the Alphan theory. No one believes it.”
“I am not saying that I believe it.” Karn knew that he could not go far. “I say only that it may be possible.” He reached up and gripped Raven’s arm with a surprising lunge of strength. “Listen to me. I have studied all the geological and geographical evidence I can find, and I have to give them the benefit of the doubt. If the Alphans are right, then our whole world is in grave danger of total destruction, Alpha and Ghedda. Is it worth the risk?”
“Our victory is certain,” Raven said slowly. His eyes searched the older man’s face and he wondered what Karn was holding back or hiding. “Doran and the majority of the Council think it is worth the risk.”
“Doran.” Karn sighed and relapsed back into his cushions. “Doran is my oldest friend. We have served together, guarded each others backs, fought shoulder to shoulder.”
“Is that why you did not wish me to kill him?”
“Partly.”
“But he planned to have Radd kill you.”
“I know,” Karn snarled because he could not deny the obvious. “But Doran is still my best hope. If I can convince anyone that the risk is real and that I am not senile, then it must be Doran. If you had killed him, then another young warhawk would have been elected to the Council.”
Raven smiled. “I might have been voted to the Council.”
“No.” Karn shook his head. “Only a majority vote from the surviving members can vote for a new member, and the vote would still have been seven against four. All those I can see as candidates have been shouting for war even louder than Doran.”
He was silent for a moment and then finished wearily. “Doran thinks that I have gone soft in the head, but if I can convince him, then the danger could be diverted. It is the only hope I have.”
“It galls me to leave it so,” Raven said softly.
“Trust me,” Karn said shortly. “Besides, there is nothing you can do now, and there are other matters that require your attention.”
“What other matters?”
Karn moved to try and make himself more comfortable on his cushions and then grimaced as a spasm of pain wrenched at his bowels. He clasped at his stomach with both hands and for a moment he was silent with gritted teeth.
“There was a communication for you while you were absent,” he said when he was able. “From your brother Bhorg. One of your neighbouring strongholds has changed hands. It has a new Sword Lord, a man named Brack. It seems that Sword Lord Brack is unduly ambitious. He has challenged your brother to the sword.”
Raven’s face became hard and angry. His home stronghold was now far behind him, in terms of years, miles and emotional distance, and a trip north was something he did not particularly want.
“So Bhorg is dead,” he guessed harshly.
“No, Bhorg refused the challenge. So did your brother Scarl. They both claimed that they hold Stronghold Raven in your name.”
At that Raven chuckled. “So, they keep the stronghold but there is another sword duel waiting for me. It can wait a while longer.”
“Perhaps not. Brack has formed an alliance with another stronghold, a Sword Lord named Raige. Together they have laid siege to Stronghold Raven.”
Raven swore, a colourful enough set of epithets to make even Karn smile with approval. “When did this siege begin?”
“About a week before your ship returned.”
“So, is it really a coincidence that this business must draw me away from the city at this time?”
Karn shrugged. “I am not sure how Doran could have arranged it, but he may not have relied entirely on the prowess of his pretty-boy champion. If I were you, I would expect an ambush or two along the way.”
“It can still wait,” Raven decided. “If Bhorg and Scarl are still withstanding the siege, then they can hold out a little while longer. My presence may be more important here.”
Karn was thoughtful for a moment, and then said wearily, “I think you should go. You have to settle this matter, and I must try and talk again with Doran. He may feel less threatened, and more ready to listen, if I do not have your sword at my immediate call.”
After Raven had left her, Maryam lay back in their bed of soft furs and struggled to let her mind catch up with her windswept emotions. The past few hours had been such a hurricane of events and feelings that all her senses were still reeling. She had felt a strong sense of pride as they entered the Council chamber, pride in her handsome blue lover and pride in herself as a noble daughter of Karakhor. Then her whole world had capsized as she realized that Raven was fighting for his life, and even more. Sylve’s gloating sneer told her that eventually her life would be forfeit too if Raven lost his battle. After the terrible moments of pure fear had come the elation of Raven’s victory, coupled with the horror of Radd’s death. And finally, and most recently, the unexpected and most violent bout of love-making she had yet known. She felt bruised, abused, and delighted. His power, strength and virility stunned her, and yet she had matched him. He was her man and he accepted her as his woman. It was, as always, almost too much and too exciting to fully grasp.
She lay with her head spinning and her loins throbbing. Her whole body was still aroused and sensitive and she wanted him to come back. At last, however, she decided that she must get up and get dressed. She washed quickly, and here in these cold rooms, it was a purely hygienic business and nothing like the long, perfumed luxury with attendants which she would have enjoyed at home.
Afterwards, she deliberated for a few moments, and then regretfully folded away her silk shawl and sari, and donned instead the practical Gheddan garments of leather and wool. Her fine Hindu clothes she now kept only for very special occasions. She hesitated for a few more seconds over the studded belt with the sheathed knife, and then strapped it around her waist.
There were four rooms in the block they occupied: the day room, the bedroom, the wash room and
the food room. Maryam wandered into the latter in search of some fruit to eat, and made herself a cup of the hot, diluted honey which was all that the Geddhans seemed to drink when they were not consuming beer or wine. She moved back to the tall window in the day room and looked out over the barrack square as she ate and sipped. At this hour of the day, there were several squads of Gheddan warriors drilling, hacking at wooden posts with their swords, or just running round and round the perimeter. She had watched Jahan drilling the warriors and young lords of Karakhor, and although there was less finesse here and the language was more crude, there was a great similarity in that it all seemed to consist of a lot of blind running, stamping and shouting.
She was still watching when she heard the faint click of a key in the door. Expecting Raven, she did not turn immediately. One of the running men had tripped and sprawled on the hard packed earth, and even through the thick closed glass she could hear the choice words of his irate drill master. Many of them were unfamiliar and her imagination was working overtime. She turned at last to teasingly ask the meaning of one particularly illustrative phrase, but it was not Raven who stealthily crossed the room toward her.
Maryam’s eyes opened wide in astonishment, and Sylve stopped and gave her a vicious smile.
“You!” Maryam blurted. “How? What?” She was too startled to frame her questions coherently.
Sylve showed her a set of iron keys on their ring and jangled them in front of her face. “I was Raven’s woman before he brought you back from the third planet. I still have the keys to these rooms.”
Maryam stared at her, and then saw the movement in the outer doorway that Sylve had left open. It was not Raven. Another man stood there grinning. Sylve was not alone.
Sylve saw the shift of Maryam’s eyes and instantly hurled the heavy key ring full into Maryam’s face. Maryam flinched and twisted her face away, bringing up her hand to protect her eyes. The keys smashed into her cheek, and then Sylve followed them up with a clenched fist that hit Maryam square on the jaw. The Hindu princess reeled and fell and the side of her head came into violent contact with the corner of one of the low tables. With the third blow, her senses blacked out with the triple shock and the pain and she slumped in a heap to the floor.
Sylve stood over her victim, breathing heavily but grinning with triumph. The man behind her quickly closed the door, and then knelt to check that Maryam was unconscious. When he was satisfied, he rolled her inert body into the window alcove and then pulled the curtains to cover it.
“Hide yourself,” he commanded Sylve. “The Sword Lord Karn is a sick man and he will not detain Raven for long. He could return at any moment.”
Sylve scowled. She did not like taking orders and this was her plan, but Tighe was a trained assassin and Doran had placed him in charge. She drew the long knife from her hip and then moved to conceal herself behind the tall curtains. It gave her a certain pleasure to hide there, standing over the fallen body of the hated brown bitch. If Tighe did his job properly, she would not be needed, and then she would be perfectly situated to slice the brown bitch’s throat before they left.
Maryam’s senses swam back slowly. The side of her face hurt and her head ached and she lay still to avoid aggravating the pain. She felt the wetness of blood trickling down her cheek and remembered what had happened to her. She felt her anger rising, but instinct warned her to remain silent and still.
When her head stopped swimming, she carefully opened her eyes, just enough to give her narrowed slit vision. She saw the bare floorboards, a glimpse of the bottom edge of the tall curtains, and a black leather boot. She could hear nothing. She lay as if frozen and then risked opening her eyes fully. Her head hurt a little more, but nothing else happened. She could see no more than she had seen through her slitted eyelids, just a few more square inches of knotted floorboard and a little higher up the curtain.
Very slowly, she turned her head a little toward the black boot. The black leather rose to a blue-skinned knee, and then there was bare blue thigh flesh, disappearing under a short leather skirt. She realized that Sylve was standing over her, and a glint of steel almost out of range of her vision told her that Sylve was holding a drawn knife.
Sylve was silent and waiting, hardly breathing, and she had not been alone. Maryam guessed that the man who had accompanied Sylve was also silent and waiting, Out of sight from the main door in either the food room or the bedroom. They were waiting for Raven to return.
Maryam steeled herself, and she too waited.
It seemed an eternity before she finally heard movement at the outer door. Raven’s key clicked in the lock and she heard the door creak as he pushed it back without any need for silence or stealth. Above her, she saw and felt Sylve go tense.
“Raven, beware!”
With both palms flat on the floorboards, Maryam pushed herself upwards. The back of her neck slammed Sylve in the crotch and her shoulders butted hard at the taut buttocks. Turning her head in the same moment that she shrieked her warning, Maryam sank her teeth into the soft flesh of Sylve’s inner thigh and bit down with all the strength of her jaws. Sylve was knocked forward, out of the window alcove and dragging the curtains down with her.
Raven froze in the outer doorway. He saw Sylve tumbling forward, and then Maryam rearing up behind her. Sylve still hung on to her long knife, and now Maryam was drawing a similar weapon from her own hip. In the split second that it took Raven to register the scene, he also recognized that the fighting women were not his immediate problem. Assassins rarely worked alone, and it was almost certain that Sylve had a partner.
Raven stepped back a pace, and then leaped forward into the room with a complete head over heels somersault. He landed upright, and instantly leapt backward on his heels. He came to rest in the window alcove, facing into the room in a fighting crouch, his sword already flashing out from its scabbard.
Tighe had charged out from the bedroom, sword drawn and lunging. He slashed only empty air where Raven had already passed, and then spun on his heel with the shock of impending death already in his eyes. Raven’s blade whirled, disarming the would-be-assassin and flinging the other’s sword from his grasp.
Tighe snatched for a dagger at his hip and Raven calmly ran him through.
Supporting the dead man on his blade, Raven carried him back into the bedroom and out of the way before withdrawing his steel. He turned to see Maryam and Sylve circling each other like spitting cats and stayed back to give them room.
He could easily have cut Sylve down, but there was no honour in killing a woman. It would be better if Maryam could do it. If she was to survive on Ghedda he knew that she had to learn.
Sylve was enraged and rushed forward with her knife, slashing in demented frenzy. Maryam gave ground, but she had marked the position of the overturned table behind her and leapt lightly over it. Sylve blundered into one of the table legs and almost tripped. Recovering her balance, the blue-skinned woman wheeled only just in time to face Maryam, who had deftly circled the table to come up behind her.
Sylve charged again, the long knife stabbing down, but this time Maryam did not retreat. As a child, she had not only played the little girl games with her half sister, Namita, which her mother and her aunts had fondly approved. To their dismay, she had also enjoyed the more rough and tumble games of wooden swords and daggers with Kananda and her other brothers. She had learned a few tricks, and now she came in under the stabbing knife, catching and stopping Sylve’s knife wrist with her free hand. With her own knife, she thrust low and hard, and the blade slammed into Sylve’s stomach and buried itself deep.
Sylve’s fingers went limp and her dagger dropped to the floor. Maryam released the hilt of her own knife and stepped back. The two women stared at each other with tortured faces. The blue face of Sylve was shocked and disbelieving. The dusky brown face of Maryam was filled with the sudden horror of what she had done. She had always turned her wooden daggers and punched at the last second with her fist. This time she had not
turned her wrist and the killing steel had driven home.
Neither of them could speak. Time itself seemed to have stopped, leaving them both in agonized limbo. And then slowly Sylve’s eyes glazed over, her knees buckled beneath her and she collapsed.
“Well done.” Raven applauded softly, and his strong arms embraced Maryam from behind. Part of her wanted to faint, to fall back and rely upon his strength, but she forced the weakness away. She needed him, but she was suddenly flooded with a multitude of new doubts.
She could not understand why he had not intervened. He had allowed them to fight to the death when he should have been able to stop it. Had he been afraid that he might not be able to separate them without putting her at risk? Had he been confident that she could kill Sylve, or had he simply not cared which one of them would survive?
And the worst thought of all, would he have simply taken Sylve back to his bed if Sylve had killed her?
CHAPTER FIVE
“Will the Gods truly answer our prayers?”
Kaseem turned slowly away from the sacrificial fire and looked into the anxious face of the speaker. The young priest was named Sahani, and Kaseem recalled that he had been present when the blue invaders had desecrated the holy place where they were now standing. The altar fire was burning low, the scents of burned meat, flower petals and sandalwood still lingering, although the morning rituals were now over. The dying flames cast soft, smoky shadows into the dark alcoves behind the temple pillars, and over the youthful faces of the five acolytes around him. All of their faces, like that of Sahani, showed signs of shared doubts.
“Only the Gods themselves can know which prayers they will answer,” the old priest finally offered after a long moment of soul-searching thought.
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