The Sword Lord

by Robert Leader

  Kaseem had only understood part of what she had said. The parts of each other’s language they shared were not yet sufficient for a full exchange of such complex ideas. But he was trying hard. His ancient face was anguished as he asked, “But how can you worship a god who has no name or shape or form?”

  “Most of our people still worship the old names and the old concepts in the traditional ways. There is a human need for religious faith to be expressed, and the old ways still serve those needs. What we now understand is that behind all those old names and concepts is the same reality and purpose of that which is divine. Our philosophers hold the conviction that the universe is a balanced structure of hidden order, and that the rise and fall of men, and kings and empires, is as ordained as the cycles of the seasons. It is all part of the balancing laws of nature. This underlying belief in one God, and the Divine Purpose of hidden order has led to the development of the First Enlightened Civilization of Alpha, where we have unity and harmony in place of all the old religious conflicts. Alphan civilization has at last reached its golden age of art, music, peace and prosperity for all.”

  This ideal was again too difficult to comprehend. In Karakhor there were king and priests, lords and nobles, warriors, artisans and slaves. Beyond the city walls there were farmers and fishermen, hunters and serfs, and in the wild lands beyond the kingdom there were naked and near-naked savages. The Hindu social structure was a carefully tiered and guarded system of ranks and privileges and responsibilities, from the many-titled and jewel-bedecked glory of Kara-Rashna himself, right down to the untouchable misery of the lowest dung-collector. It was surrounded by a sea of rivals and enemies, and to imagine all of this necessary human diversity sharing in peace and prosperity and a belief in only one god was inconceivable.

  “You say that all on your world share in these things, and that all believe in only one god?” Kaseem asked in astonishment.

  It was Zela’s turn to frown. “Not all,” she had to concede. “All the people of Alpha are now united in this way, but not all the people of our world. On Dooma there is another great continent, from which we are divided by a vast ocean. The continents of Alpha and Ghedda are on opposite sides of our planet, and for thousads of years they have developed separately. Now Gheddan philosophy, if you can call it such, is the antithesis of belief on Alpha. They deny the existence of any god and see the universe as formed by only chaos and chance effect. They acknowledge no concept of a spiritual realm, or of any ideas of design, purpose or morality. To the Gheddans “Might is Right” and there is no higher power or law than their own naked swords. Theirs is a harsh, barbaric continent, where the strong rule and indulge their own selfish pleasures. For them death is the end. Nothing exists beyond this moment. They hold no hope for any life beyond this one, and consequently they are untroubled by any fear of final retribution.”

  She paused, and for the first time a note of bitterness and anger crept into her voice. “On Alpha we have triumphed over the foolishness of war and diversity, but only to find ourselves facing a much more terrible foe in the form of the Gheddan Empire.”

  She looked back into the uncertain face of the old priest and her fingers tightened painfully on his shoulder.

  “When you pray, friend Kaseem, you would do well to pray that it will never be your misfortune to encounter a Sword Lord of Ghedda.”

  Chapter Four

  Golden Karakhor had earned its far-flung fame from the beaten gold leaf which adorned the roofs of its sumptuous palaces and the rich homes of its lords and nobles. The city gleamed in the dazzling sunshine, its silhouette of yellow domes, spires and cupolas all mirrored in the clear blue waters of the Mahanadi. Its thick outer walls and ramparts were of red sandstone and the streets of its shopkeepers and artisans were shaded with bright, multicoloured awnings of red and yellow, blue and green. The great palace of Kara-Rashna overlooked the green lawns and terraced flower gardens of the river bank, while on the north side it faced the central plaza that was flanked by the three great stone temples to Indra, Varuna and Agni. Each temple soared like a man-carved mountain into the vivid blue sky, in rampart upon rampart of ascending red sandstone climbing up toward heaven and the gods. The temples were not adorned with golden tile, marble screens and silken drapes as was the palace. They were bare and spartan inside, designed for worship and not for comfort, but the walls and ceilings of the buildings themselves were sculpted with a fantastic array of friezes, panels and figures. Here were all the gods and mythology of ancient India, mingling with men and beasts in war, sport and play. The building and carving of each temple had been in itself an act of worship. The ultimate spires of the temples to Indra and Varuna reached higher than the golden dome of Kara-Rashna’s palace, while the temple dedicated to Agni was only slightly less magnificent. All around the city there were smaller temples to a score of lesser dieties, all piercing the skyline with their spires and pinnacles.

  In a secluded corner of the royal gardens, protected from common eyes by high walls on three sides but with a clear view down the lawns to the river, two young girls played with bats and a coloured ball. Both were in the first flush of womanhood, and both were richly dressed and beautiful. Their saris were of the finest silks, the older girl in white and gold, the younger in white and blue. A diamond pendant graced each dusky forehead, and golden chains linked the jeweled rings and bracelets that adorned their hands and wrists. The princess, Maryam, first-born daughter of the first wife of Kara-Rashna, wore around her throat a necklace of eight strings of alternating emeralds, diamonds, rubies and pearls. Her half sister Namita, the first-born daughter of Kara-Rashna’s second wife, wore around her throat a necklace only slightly less magnificent, of six strings instead of eight. The distinction of rank had to be observed.

  At nineteen, Maryam was the older by two years, and normally she was the better player at the many sports and games at which they passed much of their time. Today her mind was preoccupied and she missed a fast return from Namita which sent the ball flying into the shrubbery behind her. Swearing crossly she hurried after it, but by the time she had pushed through the fragrant tangles of frangipani and bougainvillea the ball had bounced down onto the terrace below and was rolling down toward the river.

  Both girls chased after it, but they were too late. The ball splashed into the river and was gently swirled away. Maryam stopped at the river’s edge and reached for the clasp of her sari. Her intention was clear for she was a strong swimmer, but then Namita restrained her.

  “’No, Maryam, not without a proper bathing suit. Look, there are young men on the far bank.”

  Maryam looked across the water. A group of young warriors stood on the far side. The young men waved, and one hero quickly threw off his weapons and dived in after the ball. Reluctantly Maryam watched him as he splashed around the curve of the river and out of sight. He was swimming strongly but clumsily, and moving no faster than the ball he pursued. His companions lustily cheered him on.

  “I could have caught it,” Marym complained. “And from that distance how could they tell whether I wear a bathing suit or just my underclothes.”

  She turned away and walked gloomily back toward the palace. Her behaviour was out of character and Namita frowned. The younger girl cast a fleeting glance across the river, where at least one of the young warriors could be considered as almost handsome, but then she ran after Maryam once more.

  “What is wrong?” Namita asked. “You do not usually play so badly.”

  Maryam paused. “Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard the palace talk?”

  Namita blushed. “It is unseemly to listen to other people’s conversations.”

  “Perhaps,” Maryam conceded. “But we are women, and if we do not we will never know what is going on. The men will not bother to tell us.”

  “But what is going on?”

  Maryam took her younger sister’s arm and led her to a shaded bench where they could sit and talk. “Kanju is aligned to Maghalla,” she whispered fierc
ely. “That is what is going on.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “Old Jahan has many spies in the capitals of Kanju and Maghalla. And in the towns of all the other kingdoms I should imagine. Merchants and traders bring him information and news from innkeepers and prostitutes and others that they meet on their travels.”

  “What are prostitutes?”

  “Women who sell their bodies for sex. They make the best spies because men are vain creatures who will always boast to the women they make love to. Everyone knows that.”

  Namita looked shocked. “I have never heard such things.”

  “You do not listen enough.”

  “But why should Kanju make an alliance with Maghalla? The king of Kanju is one of our father’s oldest friends.”

  “I do not know why. I only know that it has happened. Kanju and Maghalla are united. Together they stand against Karakhor. Perhaps now other kings and kingdoms will join them.”

  “But why should they? Karakhor has no enemies, except Maghalla.”

  “Karakhor is rich, Namita. Our wealth is the envy of all the other kings and kingdoms. While we are the stronger, they are our friends. But if enough kingdoms unite against Karakhor, then greed will sway the rest. They will all want their share of plunder.”

  “How is it that you hear so much?”

  “I listen, and I ask questions. There are many young nobles and guard captains who like to air their knowledge, especially when they think I am impressed by their bold talk and their promises to protect me and our city with their lives. It is not necessary to use sex to make a fool of a man, Namita. The coy flutter of an eyelid is usually enough.”

  “Maryam, you are shameless.”

  “Perhaps,” Maryam smiled a little, but then the smile fled and her troubled face became serious again. “Oh, Namita, this is all my fault. What am I to do?”

  “But how is it your fault?” Namita clasped her shoulders and looked into her eyes. There were tears in the gold-brown depths and suddenly Namita was afraid. “How can you be responsible for what happens in Kanju? What are you talking about?”

  “It is my fault that Karakhor is threatened. If I had not refused Sardar then Karakhor and Maghalla would be united. There would be nothing to fear from a unity between Maghalla and Kanju.”

  “But you could not forsee that Kanju would betray us.”

  “It is still because of me that Sardar has declared war, and any fool could see that Maghalla alone is not powerful enough to destroy Karakhor. Sardar would have to seek allies.”

  A tear rolled down Maryam’s cheek and splashed onto her gold–and-white sari. Her anguish was deep and overflowing. Namita clutched her older sister helplessly, not knowing what to do or say.

  “I should have agreed to the marriage,” Maryam said bitterly. “Because of my refusal all of our people—all of Karakhor and Maghalla, and Kanju, perhaps all the world—all must now suffer the horrors of war.”

  “But Sardar was so old—and ugly—his face must have been repulsive even before it was scarred. You would have been married to a cruel old monkey.”

  “It was my duty,” Maryam insisted. “To our father. To our people. To Karakhor.” She bit her lip to stop it from trembling and her teeth drew a small globule of blood. “Perhaps it is not too late. Perhaps our father could send messengers to Maghalla—to tell Sardar that I will go through with the marriage. It is a woman’s privilege to change her mind. Men can accept that.”

  “Kara-Rashna will not accept this change of mind. Not now. And neither will Karakhor. We have all seen the ugly face of Sardar. We all understand and share in your repugnance for the monster. Kara-Rashna will not send you to Maghalla. Our brothers would not allow it. There is not a noble house in Karakhor where the young men would not gladly die fighting rather than see you forced into a union which they all know you will abhor.” Namita shook her head sadly and now there were tears in her eyes also. “It is too late to change things, Maryam. There is nothing you can do.”

  Maryam bowed her head. “Oh, how I wish Kananda were here,” she cried desperately. She did not know how her brother would help or counsel her. She only knew that in times of crisis he was her truest friend and greatest comfort. But Kananda was not here, and she could only rest her head upon Namita’s shoulder. The two princesses held each other and wept together.

  In the high-columned, gold-tiled audience hall of his palace, Kara-Rashna sat on blue silk cushions on his marble and ivory throne. Two huge, elaborately carved elephant tusks, formed an arch at the back of the throne, and two smaller tusks formed its arms. The monarch wore loose robes of white, with a broad crimson sash across his chest that was emblazoned with the rising sun insignia of Karakhor set out in a thousand diamonds and other precious stones. A simple, jeweled turban sufficed for his head, the ceremonial crown being much too heavy and uncomfortable for everyday wear. He was a man of sixty-five, strong in will, but failing now in health. His physicians had diagnosed the sharp chest pains he had recently suffered as warnings from the gods. One severe attack that had rendered him temporarily unconscious had also left him partially crippled in his left leg and with limited mobility in his left arm. With his right hand he could still wield a sword, but the attacks had aged him and carved his face with deep pain lines. He tired easily and was often irritable, more with himself than with those around him, although it was those around him who bore the brunt of his irritability. A tyrant might have been removed at this weakened stage, but Kara-Rashna had generally ruled wisely and not too greedily or harshly by the standards of other monarchs. Prince Kananda, his natural heir, was strong enough to block the line of succession, but was possessed of love and a strong sense of loyalty to his father that curbed his own ambition. Also the king had staunch friends in the High Priest Kaseem, and in his senior general, Jahan, the Warmaster of Karakhor.

  It was Jahan who had brought the news that had aged Kara-Rashna’s face by another ten years in half as many minutes. The warmaster general was a man of sixty, grey and grizzled, but still as tough as teak and as sharp as the great, ruby-hilted sword that was slung at his left hip. The purple sash across his blue tunic was embroidered with the head and shoulders of a snarling tiger, and the clasp that secured the front of his purple turban was a single red gem-stone, as hot and fire-bright as a tiger’s eye. He was tested and experienced in a dozen battles, both in single combat and in the direction of a widespread military campaign. The far-flung web of his intelligence-gathering operations had always ensured that when he spoke he spoke with certainty as well as authority, and his words were rarely doubted in the palace councils. Now Kara-Rashna was torn by doubt, and the tumult of emotion within him forced him to voice it.

  “Jahan, can there be no mistake in this news you bring me? Kumar-Rao, the King of Kanju, is one of our oldest friends. I would have trusted him almost as I trust you. I cannot believe that he would align with Maghalla against us.”

  “It is true, sire.” Jahan bowed his head and his voice rumbled deferentially but firmly. “I have waited until the news has been confirmed by almost a score of my most trusted sources. It is common knowledge in Kanju and Maghalla. The prince, Zarin, oldest son of Kumar-Rao, has been married to the princess Seeva, one of the daughters of Sardar.”

  “But why would Kumar-Rao do this?”

  “I think, sire, that the king of Kanju has been tricked.” Jahan chose his words with care. The news was carried to Kanju that Sardar was to be married to the princess, Maryam. What was withheld from Kumar-Rao was the later news that Princess Maryam had refused Sardar, and that the marriage had not taken place. My sources suggest that Kanju’s king was deceived into believing that Karakhor and Maghalla were already alligned. Kumar-Rao then believed that he could safeguard Kanju, and his friendship with Karakhor, by making his own alliance with Maghalla.”

  “But how could Sardar succeed in such a deceit?”

  “Unaided, he could not succeed.” Jahan frowned and now he was angry. “There is intr
igue in the palace halls of Kanju. Bharat, Kumar-Rao’s brother, aspires to Kanju’s throne. And Bharat is the favourite uncle of Prince Zarin. In peace, Bharat can never hope to rule, but in times of war, kings and princes may die upon the battlefield, and bold men can make their own opportunities. One of my reports says that Kumar-Rao sent messengers to Karakhor to invite Kara-Rashna and his queen to attend the wedding ceremony of Prince Zarin, even though he could not understand why his old friend had failed to invite him to attend the wedding of Princess Maryam. I need not tell you that those messengers never arrived in Karakhor. It is my belief that they were slain in the jungle somewhere along the way. And I smell more than the hand of Sardar in all of this. I smell the hand of Bharat.”

  Kara-Rashna groaned and held his head in his hands. “Is there no way we can resolve this situation?”

  Jahan shrugged his massive shoulders in a hopeless gesture. “The marriage was properly performed, with all due sacrifice and ceremony. It is blessed by the gods and cannot be undone. Prince Zarin is now a prince of Maghalla, he is duty-bound to stand with Sardar, and Kanju must stand with him. Kumar-Rao will resist, he will counsel peace and reconciliation. But if Sardar is adamant, and we know that he will be, then Kumar-Rao cannot avoid entering the war. Unwittingly Kumar-Rao committed Kanju when he sanctioned the marriage with Maghalla.”