by Laurence Yep
He didn’t even have time to shout as the third warrior’s sword took off his head. It went rolling backward toward the trunk and the third man ran after it, leaving the headless corpse to collapse on top of his dead friend.
The old man sat up dazedly. “Why are you looting your own army’s wagon train?”
But the warrior was frantically attacking the padlock with his sword as if his life depended on it—and perhaps it did. “You need money to get away. You need even more money to buy a pardon.” The padlock broke with a snap and the man used his free hand to raise the [250] lid. His hand dug inside the trunk with a rustling sound. “Papers. Worthless papers.” He raised a handful of white squares and flung them away. They showered the wagon like large, ghostly leaves.
He got up abruptly and, with one slash of his sword, slashed a hole in the silk covering the rear of the wagon so he could jump out.
“It’s not the most graceful exit,” Mr. Spock said.
“It’s too late to find some place to hide.” Puga slid across the wagon bed toward the broken padlock.
Outside they could hear crashes and snaps and the protesting of metal—as if their wagon had not been the only target of looters.
“Then”—Mr. Spock looked up at the billowing top of the wagon—“we may not live to celebrate the prince’s victory.”
Puga turned around and his fingers groped across the floor boards until they found the padlock. “As long as Rahu doesn’t live much longer.”
Mr. Spock smiled slightly. “Will you be content then?”
Puga sat up on his haunches. “Will you?”
With the threat of death facing them now, Mr. Spock was amazed by his own sense of calmness. He didn’t have to use his own powers of self-control after all. But part of that was due to the realization he had been wrong to let Puga and McCoy set the terms of the discussion. Lord Bhima had been right to a certain extent. “There are other things besides contentment. There is knowledge.”
Puga shook his head. “It seems like a poor thing to settle for. I think Lord Bhima, with all his knowledge of [251] the Warrior’s Code, would settle for a swift mount right now.”
“Truth has many faces and the seeker must be flexible.” Mr. Spock smoothed the blanket that covered him. “To insist on knowing just one face is not to know it at all. And that is because all truth is ultimately about the self.”
“Why travel so far then?” Puga asked, puzzled.
“Truth is not a set of statistics or diagrams. It is a process and it can be seen best on a place like the Enterprise,” Mr. Spock said, and then added with a nod of his head, “or on Angira.”
Mr. Spock lifted his head slightly. “The ultimate objective of knowledge is to learn about one’s self; and one can learn the most where two cultural identities overlap and where they differ.”
“What could you possibly learn here?” Puga wrinkled his forehead as if perplexed.
“Prince Vikram exists on the borderline between two cultures.” Mr. Spock turned his face toward the top of the wagon. “It is always instructive to see how a borderer survives and meets challenges—and even triumphs over them.”
Puga sighed as if he had finally understood. “And do you plan to do something for your own home world just as the prince has done?”
“I have no such lofty ambitions.” Mr. Spock shrugged.
“Then you enjoy seeing someone do something that you can’t,” Puga said.
“Perhaps,” Mr. Spock was willing to concede. He tried to compose himself for whatever might come as he studied the top of the wagon. A sudden breeze made [252] the bright silk billow in shimmering waves of gold. And then, like the edge of a storm racing across the plain, they heard a pattering sound. It swelled gradually until they could distinguish hundreds of booted feet. Men thudded by, panting heavily as if fear drove them on now rather than greed.
Suddenly, the wagon trembled again, but this time a young sinha looked inside. He seemed like the only man in Rahu’s army glad to see them. “They are still here, Lord,” he announced.
Puga rose, the padlock swinging in his right hand. But the sinha simply parted the front of the wagon so Rahu could look inside.
Rahu positively beamed when he saw Mr. Spock. “You have no idea how delighted I am to see you.” And to the sinha he murmured, “Help Lord Bhima find the equipment we need.”
Lord Bhima’s glowering face appeared behind Rahu’s. “I don’t like this.”
“You don’t have to like it.” Rahu waved his hand at the swordmaster imperiously. “You just have to help me escape. Now go.” And Lord Bhima and the sinha disappeared and Mr. Spock heard them jump off the wagon the next moment.
Puga glared at Rahu. “Have you come to take your revenge for losing? Too bad there’s only the two of us.”
Rahu stepped into the wagon. “On the contrary. I hope for all of us to get away from here with our skins and heads intact.”
Mr. Spock rolled onto his side, stretching out his arm despite the pain. He caught Rahu’s ankle, tumbling him forward, and the old man swung his padlock. But it [253] was an awkward swing, catching Rahu on the shoulder rather than the head and the next moment Rahu had his sword point at the old man’s throat.
Reluctantly Mr. Spock released Rahu’s ankle.
Rahu settled back. “Though I must admit it will give me some satisfaction to see you two suffer.”
Chapter Eleven
It took a moment to arrange the pursuit; and even longer to cross the bloody field. The sinha lay not only heaped before the barricade but throughout the trampled meadow—as if many of the wounded had crawled away to die. Swords, spears and other weapons littered the ground where Rahu’s army had once stood; and a good many nobles, perhaps leading their own household troops, had left behind their expensive armor as well.
About a quarter of a kilometer beyond lay Rahu’s baggage train. The many cumbersome wagons sat where they had been left in an oval.
The prince glanced over his shoulder at the company of harquebusiers who followed them. “Maybe I’d better detail a platoon to prevent looting.”
Urmi clutched at his arm. “Wait, there’s someone there by that big wagon.”
The prince took his telescope from his orderly and [255] had a look. “It’s Rahu, and he’s just sitting there as if he were out for a picnic.” He lowered the telescope suspiciously. “And I thought we’d be up all night tracking him down.”
“He’s up to something,” Urmi said with fierce conviction.
The prince handed his telescope back to his new orderly. “Yes, well, we’ll never find out standing here. Shall we go see what he’s up to?”
Though Rahu was still in full armor, he was sitting calmly on a fold-out stool next to a giant wagon. The wagon bed was covered by bright, shiny cloth and Sulu was startled to realize it was all of the finest flame silk. “That wagon top must have cost a fortune.”
“It’s like Rahu to live like an emperor before he is one.” And the prince signaled to the company of harquebusiers to form a circle around the wagon.
As the prince advanced, Rahu himself had remained on the stool with a confident air—as if he and not Vikram were in control of the situation. “Thank you for coming to me, Vikram. It saved me the trouble of looking for you.”
The prince took off his helmet. “Rahu, your family always had a penchant for staging last stands. Why don’t you try to be different.”
“Perhaps I will, Vikram.” And then he called to the wagon, “Lord Bhima, we have visitors.”
A flap was thrown back from the front of the wagon top to reveal Mr. Spock in a chair. A huge bandage swathed his chest. But even so, he managed to hold his head up weakly. A bruised Puga stood beside him, leaning with one hand on the back of the chair for support. Lord Bhima stood next to the chair as he held [256] his sword against Mr. Spock’s throat. A sinha with a dagger did the same to Puga. “I thought that I might buy our safe passage with this exotic pair of pets.”
The princ
e spun round anxiously on his heel to Sulu and Urmi. “This is a rather ugly turn of events. I have the obligations of a host to Mr. Spock and those of a guest to Puga; and yet I don’t dare let Rahu loose to raise another army. I may not win the next battle against him.”
“No, you might not,” Sulu admitted reluctantly. “But maybe you could negotiate a better deal with Rahu.”
The prince nodded his head toward the setting sun. “No, any delay plays into Rahu’s hands. It’s going to be dark soon. I can’t risk letting Rahu break through my lines and make his escape.”
Urmi fingered the pommel to her sword irritatedly. “If you can’t attack and you can’t wait, what are you going to do?”
“As our Vulcan friend says, there are always other possibilities.” Lifting his head, the prince called to Rahu, “You know very well that I couldn’t let you go even if you were holding my own father hostage. But I have a counterproposal. We will fight a duel. If I win, you will be my prisoner. If you win, I will be yours and my men will let you go. In either case, Mr. Spock and Puga are to go free.”
Suddenly alarmed, Urmi jerked him around to face her. “But you can’t trust oathbreakers like them to keep their word.”
“I’m not going to them unarmed.” The prince pulled free of her hand. “If they do break their oath, I should be able to hold them off long enough for you to come to [257] my rescue. And whatever else happens, I’ll at least know that I tried.”
“But if you lose,” Urmi hissed, “Rahu will be on the loose anyway.”
“I won’t lose.” The prince shrugged. “I feel lucky today.”
Urmi raised her hands and shook them in exasperation. “You’re wagering your life, not money.”
“One life could end the war and all this suffering,” the prince reminded her gently. “Surely those are worthwhile stakes.”
For his part, Rahu had stood up to hold an equally brief but earnest discussion with Lord Bhima before he looked back at the Prince. “I like my proposal better,” Rahu said. “However, I’ll agree to a duel—but only on one condition.”
“And what’s that?” the prince asked suspiciously.
Rahu swept his palm toward the wagon; but though he did his best to appear relaxed, there was still a certain anxiousness to his movements. “Lord Bhima must be my champion.”
Urmi sucked in her breath. “That tears it. You can’t go against the likes of him.”
The prince narrowed his eyes as he studied the swordmaster. “He’s much older than when he taught me.”
“His reflexes may be a bit slower, but he knows too much,” Urmi argued. “And how often have you been able to practice while you’ve been gone? That man trains every day. He’s married to his sword.”
The prince glanced sideways toward Sulu. “To paraphrase someone else, this may still be a time when one must survive by one’s wits as well as one’s sword.”
[258] “This is more witless than wit,” Urmi blurted out. She paused and then added a bit more contritely, “I didn’t really mean that. It’s just that ... that I’ve grown rather fond of you.”
The prince smiled as if pleased. “And I’m rather fond of you too. That’s why I’m doing this.”
“Can’t we discuss this first?” Urmi said meaningfully. “The glass cage doesn’t have to fit just one, you know.”
But Rahu wouldn’t give them the time. “What’s your decision, Vikram?” Puga was jerked straight by the knife that now hung beneath his throat.
The prince shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry, Urmi. You see how things are.”
“Honestly, sometimes I think you’re bound and determined to become a ghost before your time.” She nuzzled him quickly on one cheek and then stood back, embarrassed and defiant.
“I promise not to haunt you as you threatened to do to me.” The prince took his pistol from his sash and handed it to her before he looked toward Rahu. “No tournament rules?”
“It would be beneath me to fight that way,” Lord Bhima scowled.
The prince gave a tense laugh. “But it’s not beneath you to defend an assassin and usurper?”
The swordmaster sheathed his sword abruptly and stepped away from Mr. Spock. “I suppose it really doesn’t matter how you die.”
Rahu clapped his hands together as if he could not quite believe his luck. “Then it’s agreed?”
“Yes,” the prince shouted and then held up his arms. “Help me off with this armor,” he said to his orderly. “I have to be able to move fast.”
Sulu shook his head in amazement as he finally [259] realized what the prince was up to. “That quick draw was only a movie stunt. You can’t risk your life on that.”
The prince stood stiffly while his orderly undid the straps to his cuirass. “Of all the people here, Sulu, I thought you would at least understand me. I’m tired of letting other people die for me. I refuse to let that happen again. And if I’m a romantic fool for feeling that way, then so be it.”
Sulu was torn between logic and his own natural impulses; but in the end, he decided that the least he owed his friend was some kind of encouragement. “Well, you’ll only be a fool if the trick doesn’t work.”
“Your Highness—” Mr. Spock started to say.
“There’s no need to thank me, Mr. Spock.” The prince removed the armor plate from his left thigh while his orderly removed the plate on his right. “So you might as well save your breath.”
“I can’t see any reason to thank you, when you’re behaving like some irresponsible schoolboy.” Though Mr. Spock’s voice was high and thin, the disapproval was plain.
“Mr. Spock, you are as charming as ever. But the only choices that you have are whether to walk or to be carried to safety.” The prince looked at his rival. “Rahu, I will start forward at the same time as Puga and Mr. Spock—if he can walk.”
“I can walk,” Mr. Spock said in a dignified voice. “But slowly.” He reached a hand up to Puga’s shoulder and rose carefully.
“Then I will stroll just as leisurely.” The bells attached to the ribbons rang faintly as the prince set his right foot in front of him.
Lord Bhima helped lower Mr. Spock to the ground [260] and then helped Puga climb down before he jumped down himself with the sinha.
Leaning on Puga, Mr. Spock took short, measured steps, his face a blank mask as if he were doing his best to conceal the pain he felt. The sinha kept pace with them, dagger still drawn.
The prince walked calmly into the light of the sun, his shadow sliding backward over the trampled grass as if it now had a life of its own. And as it stretched itself across the field, the dark silhouette no longer seemed to belong to the prince but to some giant instead.
As they neared one another, Puga croaked, “I knew you had it in you, lad. You’ll make a good emperor.”
“If he lives that long.” Mr. Spock frowned.
“Yes, it should be interesting,” the prince agreed cheerfully as he waited at the halfway point. Once Mr. Spock and Puga were past, he followed the sinha back to Rahu.
Lord Bhima had never been a person to give an advantage to anyone and so he was waiting with his back to the sun. Still clad in his armor, he was turned sideways, his legs already spread, the knees slightly bent, his back and head erect in a straight line. He looked as if he had sunk invisible roots within the ground so that the prince seemed to be walking across the shadow of a giant tree rather than a man. “So you think you can beat your old master, do you?”
The prince did his best to control his own mounting excitement. “I certainly intend to try.”
Lord Bhima shook his head. “I think you’ve counted too much on your luck.” He lowered his hands so that they were clenched near his sides.
The prince had to squint into the last of the sunlight. [261] He said nothing, but slowly slid his left foot back and let his body slip into its own rhythmic pattern. He was aware of the weight of the sword in its sheath and his left hand hovered slightly behind him. But he concentrated his att
ention on Lord Bhima’s eyes—as his former instructor himself had taught him to do.
It was silent in that one spot, though in the distance they could hear occasional shouts as the prince’s army continued its pursuit. The sides of the wagon boomed and flapped in a sudden breeze like some pompous politician getting ready to speak; and the sun, setting in the gun smoke, began to turn a bright red, hanging like a raw, bloody wound in the sky.
And still they watched one another and waited for some break in the other’s attention, some slight surrender to impatience that would give the other the edge.
And in the end—perhaps because he was a little more tired, or a bit overconfident, it was Lord Bhima who gave in. His right hand darted across his stomach and his fingers closed round the hilt and then the sword was sliding with a hiss out of its sheath in that old familiar motion.
And for once he was glad that an opponent was going to die. The young fool with his peasants and his guns and his bells had made a mockery of the Code of the Warrior. His army had met the sinha, not like warriors, but like factory hands processing so many gaya for the slaughter. Lord Bhima was killing not just to save his own life; he was fighting for an age and for all the ancient and true ways of doing things.
His sword seemed to leap out of the sheath like a living thing. He had never felt so much a part of his sword before. It was almost as if his sword were part of [262] him now, or he was part of the sword. His left hand was drawn to the hilt almost by magic and the blade whipped over his head and then down all in one smooth motion.
He had expected to see the prince’s eyes widening in fear the way all the others had and see the desperate, fumbling attempt to draw the sword out faster or, if by some slight chance the sword was already drawn, to see the prince trying frantically to bring the blade around for a parry or to step back away from the slash.
In all these years of battles and tournaments and challenges and countless practices, Lord Bhima had seen only variations on those two basic reactions.
So he was a bit surprised to see the prince lunge forward from such a low angle. His face seemed to be at about the level of Lord Bhima’s chest. And the surprise changed to fear when he heard the ringing of the bells but could not see the sword rising above the prince’s head.
