The Sword Lord

by Robert Leader

  “No!” She shouted and tore her hand from the bestial grasp that held it.

  She flung herself backward, but the crush of those behind her blocked her immediate escape.

  “No,” she shouted again, defiant and trembling. “I will not marry him.”

  There was a stunned gasp from the mass of on-lookers. Time froze. Kara-Rashna turned to stare at his daughter with a look of confusion. The face of Sardar grew black and even uglier with rage.

  “What is this?” he snarled. “You are mine, woman. In Maghalla you will learn how to behave.” He stepped forward, snatched her hand again and dragged her toward him. Maryam struggled but this time his iron grip was prepared and she could not break it.

  “Leave her,” a cold voice demanded. And suddenly her full brother Kananda was at her side. His left hand clamped upon her upper wrist, side by side with Sardar’s. For a moment she thought that her bones would be crushed between them, and she heard the scrape of steel upon scabbard as Kananda’s right hand half drew the sword at his waist.

  “Gently, Lord Prince,” Jahan hissed in Kananda’s ear. The old warmaster’s left hand was heavy upon Kananda’s elbow, preventing him from drawing his sword and pushing it back a few inches into the scabbard. But Jahan’s own right hand was resting on the hilt of his own sword.

  Sardar stepped back, his face flushed now with rage. His own hand dropped to his sword-hilt and on both sides a score of blades cleared the first few inches of their scabbards. Maghalla and Karakhor backed apart.

  “What insult is this?” Sardar roared, turning his anger against the flustered king.

  Kara-Rashna was hesitant a moment longer, and then he sighed, it seemed, with relief. He stared from the grotesque face of the man who would have been his son-in-law to the white-lipped mask of his daughter, and then to his oldest and dearest friend.

  “It seems our daughter shames us,” he said quietly. The reproach in his voice was for himself alone, and he too dropped his hand lightly on his own sword.

  Jahan nodded, and in his eyes there was a smile. He glanced upward and both Kara-Rashna and Sardar followed his meaningful gaze. The trumpeters lining the courtyard walls had vanished, and from behind them ranks of archers had stepped forward. At Jahan’s almost imperceptible nod, each man nocked an arrow to his bow. As always, the warmaster general had been ready for anything.

  “A trap,” one of Sardar’s chieftains snarled, his anger laced with fear.

  “No trap,” Kara-Rashna reassured them all. “Just a misunderstanding.”

  “I think,” Jahan said politely to Sardar, “That our daughter is unwell. You can see for yourself how pale she is, how near to fainting. We regret that, for today, the wedding must be postponed.”

  “If there is no marriage, there is no peace,” Sardar bellowed. “This insult can only be wiped out with blood.”

  He glared hatefully at his intended bride, and Kananda carefully handed his sister back to her attendants and their mother. The ranks of his brothers and uncles re-formed behind him. Maryam stared at their defensive backs and listened to Sardar’s vile threats and cursing.

  With tears in her eyes and her heart beating wildly, Maryam knew that she had won. Her father had relented and Karakhor would not force her into this marriage. She found her feet and fled back into the palace with her mother and her attendants running behind her.

  She had failed in her duty and had been reprieved, but at what terrible cost for the future she could not even begin to know.

  Chapter Two

  Kananda, First Prince of Golden Karakhor, halted his war elephant on the crest of the jungle ridge. He was less than an hour’s march from where the Tri-Thruster command vessel lay hidden in a wooded valley, although as yet he was unaware of the spaceship’s presence. The intrusion from another world was three days old, but still unknown to its local inhabitants.

  For a moment the first-born heir to city, kingdom and empire paused, soothing the slow-moving elephant with a soft word of command. The great beast stood patient and solid, its wrinkled eyelids drooping. A fearsome iron spike, its needle point tipped with red, protruded from the massive leather head harness and below that the long and powerful ivory curves of the sharpened tusks were painted with white and gore-crimson stripes. Terrifying in charge and battle, the elephant was temporarily content to half slumber. In the heat, even the effort of reaching its trunk for the nearest branch of tender green leaves was too much.

  To the south, the jungles thickened, a rising plateau of gloomy forests and wild, tangled gorges where strange beasts and strange men dwelt in half-darkness and primitive savagery. Further south rose a vastness of foreboding mountains, and beyond, the great, wild Godavari River, of which Kananda had heard but never seen. The tribes of these regions were subhuman, more like monkeys than men, shambling brutes too poor and ignorant to be worth taming, but dangerous enough to be kept at bay. An occasional show of strength was needed here on the southern edge of the lands of Karakhor.

  The real danger was to the west, far beyond the visible horizon, where the rising power of Maghalla was growing in arrogance and strength. The Maghallan tribes had begun their invasion from the northwest two generations before, forcing a route between the Great Thar Desert and the trackless foothills of the mighty Himalaya ice-peaks that formed the northern edge of the known world. They had subdued the passive plains people who lived between the Chambal and Narmada rivers and their settlements had grown into the crude but war-like kingdom which now had the boldness to challenge Karakhor.

  Kananda’s lips tightened as his gaze focused on the far hills that formed the border lands. In the cruel reign of Sardar the Merciless, the very name of Maghalla could conjure fear and trembling in the breasts of women and babes, and even for a royal prince, fearless in his manhood, youth and pride, it caused a grim bracing of both his physical and spiritual self.

  Then pride became the dominant emotion, a warm glow that filled his breast and expanded his being, and Kananda smiled as he thought fondly of his sister, Maryam. He recalled those fateful, blood-pounding moments almost a year past when the first royal princess had bravely spurned the arrangements for her marriage to Sardar and Maghalla, which their father’s soft-stomached advisers had briefly entertained. Such an alliance, it was now realized, could only have polluted the royal bloodline of the house of Karakhor and could only have been envisaged by the weak council of men who had never seen the half-human ugliness of Sardar.

  Mighty had been the wrath of Sardar, and now Maghalla and Karakhor prepared for war. Sardar saw himself as the recipient of the gravest insult that could only be wiped away in blood.

  From behind the young prince, disrupting his thoughts, came the sounds of the advancing hunt. Wild birds fled shrieking in flashes of incandescent colour and startled white-faced monkeys scattered through the sun-lanced treetops, hurrying away from the shouted voices of huntsmen, trackers and warriors. Spotted deer leaped more gracefully into the distant gloom and the crash and tear of breaking trees heralded the trampling feet of the war elephants.

  Kananda turned as the foliage parted noisily behind him, and a second war spike protruded through the tangle of green. Then the elephant carrying his brother, Ramesh, forced its way up the hill to stand beside him. Both princes wore high leather helmets, embroidered with golden thread and encrusted with jewels around the diamond sunburst insignia of their rank. They wore heavy necklaces of gold and precious stones, armbands and bracelets of gold. Bright sashes of royal scarlet supported their simple white loincloths, and on each prince, the hilt of a jeweled dagger. Their calf-high boots were of soft deerskin, fringed with red and silver tassles, and soled with hard leather. Their weapons, bows and arrows, swords and javelins, were hung on the harness of the elephants, close at hand where they were mounted on the broad necks of the huge tuskers.

  Ramesh was younger, his handsome bronzed features a more boyish and care-free mirror of Kananda. Not yet as hard-muscled in physique, as confident in manner or as s
killed in warfare as his elder, he still carried himself with all the promise and pride of a Karakhoran prince. His eyes sparkled and he was anxious to move on, his heart too joyful to be afraid.

  “Well, Kananda,” he demanded. “Where is the tiger you promised me? Our hunt is three days old and again the sun is near to noon. And as yet I have not seen so much as a whisker of a striped cat.”

  Kananda laughed and briefly touched the necklace of tiger teeth that lay upon his own bare breast. It was the only difference of apparel between them. “Fear not, little brother. Twice the trackers say that we have only just missed a cat that has escaped from our path. The third one cannot be so blessed by the gods. Soon we will find a beast worthy of your spear. Perhaps Indra is even now driving toward us the mightiest tiger of them all, especially for you.”

  Ramesh drew his hunting spear from the thong that held it against his elephant’s neck. “Mighty Indra,” he shouted to the sky. “God of thunder and of storm—God of the lightning’s flash and all the forces of thunder—send me a mighty beast that I might slay it and prove my valour.”

  “And boast of it to the fair maidens of the city forever and a day,” Kananda finished impiously for him. “May they swoon at your glory, and heap garlands and kisses at your feet—and perhaps other select parts of your noble person.”

  The two princes laughed uproariously until a third elephant toiled up to rest on Kananda’s left flank. This beast wore no war spike and carried both a driver and a passenger on a swaying seat high on its back. The driver was naked but for a brief and simple loincloth, but the passenger sweated in swathing white robes, despite the shade of the white umbrella above his balding head. The wrinkled lines of his ancient and normally gentle face were now registering deep shock and anger.

  “Noble princes, you forget yourselves,” the old Brahmin spoke fiercely. “Your mockery ill befits you, and the gods are not partial to such scorn. Rest assured that your impiety will not go unanswered.”

  Ramesh flushed with embarrassment, while Kananda bowed his head in momentary shame. “Tonight we shall make due obeisance to Mighty Indra,” the elder said carefully. “We will light the sacred flame and make due sacrifice.”

  “It may not be enough,” answered Kaseem, his tone reminding them that he was both the high priest and holiest of the holy men of Karakhor. And he voiced another grumble, “You are also both reckless with your lives and earthly duty. We hunt here in the southlands not only for a tiger to raise the fame of Prince Ramesh. Our main purpose is to show our strength to the savages and impress upon them the folly an alliance with Magahalla. Such a duty will not be served if you get yourselves slain by riding too far ahead. You must rein back and stay with our warriors and the hunt.”

  Kananda sighed. His impulse was to forge ahead, but Kaseem held their father’s mandate when Kara-Rashna was not there to supervise his own sons. They were irritated by the old man’s caution, but respected his years and his wisdom.

  “Your chastisement is deserved,” Kananda said. He briefly bowed his head again but not before Kasseem had seen that the twinkle of merriment was not quite dimmed in his eyes.

  Kaseem frowned, preparing himself to deliver a sermon, but the princes were saved by a wild cry from the right flank of the hunt. It was a cry taken up and repeated by a great swell of excitement, echoing in the hot, languid air from a hundred throats.

  “Tiger! Tiger! Tiger!”

  “Tiger!” Kananda added joyously to the sudden uproar, and upon his face there flashed a brilliant smile. “The gods are not angry, Kaseem. They forgive us. Come, Ramesh!”

  Prodding their huge mounts with javelin and spear butts, the two princes plunged together down the ridge, steering to the right where the first cry had sounded. The blare of a hunting horn now marked the centre of the chase and the whole line of mounted nobles and running warriors was swinging in that direction. Behind them Kaseem clasped his hands and offered a brief prayer to heaven, while his driver, knowing well his master’s temperament, goaded the third elephant more cautiously in pursuit of the hunt.

  On this chase only the princes and the priest rode elephants. The sons of the other noble houses of Karakhor rode horses, having left their chariots behind on the plains. Now the riders were moving out to the flanks of the long line of running warriors and huntsmen. Their task was to forge ahead and contain the great cat in the running V of the hunt, and finally when it had tired, to turn it back to the centre of the line where the fates ordained it must die upon the ready spear of the Prince Ramesh.

  The hunt had turned and reformed on the run with a fluid efficiency that gladdened Kananda’s heart. It swept down from the ridge and swept westward along a shallow valley. Three horns now answered each other with exhilarating blasts that echoed between the low hills on either side. The short, deep blasts from the head huntsman marked the path of the fleeing tiger. A succession of longer, higher notes marked the position of the young lord Gujar, forging ahead on the right flank. From the left a more vibrant fanfare attested that there Jayhad, son of the old warmaster Jahan, was boldly leading the field.

  Side by side, Kananda and Ramesh urged their thundering tuskers onward. Twice they almost trampled the racing foot warriors in their path, and only the quick wits and agility of the men in danger enabled them to save themselves. Both elephants were trumpeting fearsomely in their excitement and had become all but uncontrollable. Kananda saw the green helmet of Hamir, the head huntsman, bobbing through the shoulder high grass and foliage and turned his mount to follow on the man’s heels. In another moment he would have run the man down and he hammered the butt of his javelin desperately between the elephant’s eyes in the signal to slow it down. The tusker blundered almost to a halt, all but pitching the young prince forward over its head. Behind him Ramesh’s laughter rang wild and free.

  There was still no glimpse of the striped beast, but the keen eye of the huntsman marked the trail. Hamir moved at a fast crouch, tracking on the run with a skill that was unmatched throughout the empire. In one hand he held the hunting horn that was constantly at his lips, in the other a short-handled but long bladed spear. He swerved suddenly, taking a new course that led up the slope of the hill to the left.

  Kananda yelled at the hunt and his elephant to bring them all on the turn. There was a general confused floundering and crashing of bodies through the undergrowth. A peacock fled screaming through the grass and the elephants trumpeted again in their toiling frenzy. From the right the pursuing shouts became edged with anger and frustration as hunters and warriors realized that their quarry had broken away from them. From the left the yelling voices became diffused into gasps and panting as the men on that side turned to ascend the slope. From the top of the ridge there came a blood-chilling death scream which Kananda could not identify as coming from a man or an animal.

  Kananda froze. The blood that had pulsed hot in his veins seemed to pause in mid flow. His mind was suddenly crystal-clear, sharpening to a new alertness, and his soul quailed. Instinctively he knew the gods no longer smiled. The elephant carried him on and a moment later they crashed through a flimsy screen of small trees and onto a bare patch of the ridge top. Kananda saw a crushed circle of yellowed grass that was bloodied with gore. A black stallion was flung to one side of the circle with its throat and flank ripped wide as though Indra Himself had slashed it open with a mighty sword-cut. The crumpled body of the young lord Jayhad lay just as raw and red and obscene on the far side of the circle. Of the tiger there was no sign.

  The awful cry had been that of man and horse blended together. Kananda knew that now and he tasted his own fear mixed in with the rich, sweet smell of the fresh gore. His heart lurched, but then anger steeled his heart and mind. He and Jayhad had been boyhood friends. They had played together, and raced each other on foot, in chariots, and as swimmers across the broad Mahanadi. They had thrown dice together, got drunk together, and competed for the smiles of the same young girls. Jayhad had been almost as much a brother to him as R
amesh, and suddenly this was no longer Ramesh’s tiger. Jayhad’s blood cried out for vengeance and with a fierce cry of grief and fury Kananda answered the call.

  Hamir reached the hilltop at the same time as Ramesh and three of the horseman who had accompanied Jayhad. The old huntsman’s experienced eye swept the scene and his weathered face paled as if confirming a dark suspicion that had been forming in his mind. His trackers had flushed the big cat by chance without first finding and examining its spoor, but now he was certain that this was no ordinary beast. He shouted a warning to Kananda, but in the turmoil of angry and fear-filled voices he was drowned out. The First Prince of Karakhor was voicing his own cry in the same moment and was already urging his tusker down into the next valley.

  The hunt and the horns were behind him now and Kananda trusted blindly to fate and the gods and the charging elephant beneath him. If it was Indra’s will, he might yet catch up with the escaping tiger.

  The five-strong crew of the Tri-Thruster had learned to relax. Their mission was to make friendly contact with the largest and most civilized population of the planet, and so the great pear-shaped subcontinent of the southern hemisphere had been the obvious choice. There had been signs of habitation around the Fertile Crescent beside the island-dotted inland sea to the west, and again to the north where long rivers wound across the vast land mass that lay behind the planet’s highest mountains. But here, on the wide, lush plains below that towering white barrier, bisected by a dozen major rivers in a warm tropical climate, lay the widest areas of cultivation and the only signs of large cities and towns that they had been able to observe in seven orbits.