The Sword Lord

by Robert Leader

  The search quickly located a score of bodies. Twelve of them were from the hunting party, three more scattered and pierced with arrows where they had fallen alone, and the others slain in a group where they had valiantly stood to defend themselves. The rest of the dead were wild men, naked but for a belt of monkey skin supporting the bark-cloth pouch that held their private parts.

  Within ten minutes, all of the missing hunting party had been accounted for except Ramesh. Of the young prince there was no sign.

  “They would know his rank from his apparel,” Kasim offered hopefully. “Perhaps they have taken him alive.”

  “Perhaps,” Kananda answered in a hollow voice. There was no real hope in his heart, just the crushing feeling of having lost his brother and of failing terribly in his duty. However, he knew the direction in which his duty lay now. “Bring me our huntsman,” he ordered.

  While he waited, he studied one of the dead savages. The corpse had long, tangled black hair, and its dark face and skin were painted with coloured clays and berry juices to give it a ferocious aspect. The face was coloured chalk white with large red circles drawn around the mouth and eyes. The lips were painted with black triangular teeth to give the impression of a mouth within a mouth.

  “This is a war design,” Kananda told Zela who stood beside him. “The extra teeth are painted on to frighten enemies. So this was not the case of one hunting party falling foul of another.”

  Zela said nothing, but she sensed his suppressed emotion and her hand was a comfort on his shoulder. Then Kasim returned with Hamir. The man expected to be blamed and was trembling as Kananda straightened and turned to face him.

  “The attackers have taken Prince Ramesh,”’ Kananda said calmly. “Alive or dead we do not yet know. Can you tell which way they have taken?”

  “The signs point down this valley, sire, and then into the forest.” Hamir swallowed hard and then added, “But, sire, I think we are being watched.”

  “I think so too. But only one pair of eyes, perhaps two. If there had been enough of them to attack, they would have done so.” He paused thoughtfully. “Can you track the main party at night?”

  “Tonight there will be a moon. If there is not too much cloud, I can follow the sign down the valley. But in the jungle? If there is a path, it may be easy. If not…” He shrugged and spread his hands.

  “Then let us hope for a path. We will leave here now and return at nightfall. The watchers will see us go, and they will run back to their village before dark. These wild men are afraid of the darkness. They believe that the night is haunted by the spirits of the forest and of their dead. That will be the best time to move against them.”

  Kasim looked toward the remains of the hunting party. “Have we time to bury our dead?”

  Kananda shook his head. “It galls me to leave them, but if those who watch us have sent a runner after their main party, then those who attacked Ramesh could return and surprise us before we have finished. It is best if we leave now.”

  There was no more argument. The riders swung up on their mounts and the small force began an apparently dejected retreat.

  Two hours passed before the sun began to set behind the western hills. The sky flamed briefly pink and gold, and such was Kananda’s state of mind that his imagination saw it as a dying funeral pyre for his lost brother. The flames dulled, like a glow from red embers, and then they were gone. The shadows closed in, a few stars pricked through the darkening heavens, and a half moon rose in the north. They rode for another ten minutes until a hundred stars were shining in the night sky. Kananda felt certain then that they were no longer being followed and he called a halt.

  They rested for an hour and then turned back. Some of the foot soldiers moved reluctantly, but none argued. They stayed in a close group, and in the soft moon and starlight, Hamir was easily able to retrace their route. Two more hours and they were back in the shallow valley where the dead still lay unburied.

  There was a scuffling sound, as a jackal or some other scavenging animal was disturbed from its feast, but then stillness. Kananda and his party stood motionless, all their senses alert, their hands softly muzzling the horses, but there was nothing to alarm them. There was no longer the sensation of being watched.

  Kananda nodded to the huntsman and he continued to lead them down the valley, past the scene of the ambush. The band of savages who had attacked the hunting party could be estimated at between thirty and forty and their trail was clear to follow. It led through the hills to where the forest loomed as a black, tangled wall in front of them.

  Hamir scouted ahead and came back.

  “There is a path.” His voice was caught somewhere between relief and fear. “It is narrow, but we can follow it into the forest.”

  Kananda dismounted and the others did the same. “We will go into the forest on foot,” he decided. “If the gods are smiling, their village will not be too far inside the forest and we will recover Ramesh before dawn. Two men will stay here with the horses.”

  They entered the jungle footpath with swords drawn. The huntsman led, with Kananda at his shoulder. Zela came next, then Kasim and three more of the young nobles. There were ten soldiers to follow them. They were seventeen strong. The odds against them were unknown, but at least twice their number had attacked Ramesh and his hunting party. If they were to succeed, then the elements of surprise and darkness had to weigh heavily in their favour.

  The jungle closed around them, suffocating and threatening in its almost total blackness. There would have been no room for the horses here and they kept to the footpath only because there was no other way. The path was like an invisible tunnel through the seemingly impenetrable tangles of foliage on either side. There was a constant low rustling, chirping and buzzing from the small nocturnal animals, birds and insects that hunted unseen on the forest floor. Leaves and creepers continuously touched their faces or dragged across their bodies like cold, caressing fingers.

  Their progress was slow and nerve-wracking, and for the first time Zela began to concede that Blair might have been right. Perhaps this was not a wise course of action on her part. A hand lazer might be an effective weapon in a stand-up battle between two human forces, but it would be of little use against the fangs of the cobra that might be coiled in waiting beside this jungle path or against the prowling leopard that might be even now stalking them through the lower branches of the trees.

  Her right hand tightened on the hilt of her sword, and her left hand tightened on Kananda’s shoulder. It was an involuntary shudder of apprehension, but then Kananda’s fingers reassuringly touched her own. Zela smiled then in the darkness. Blair might be right—probably was right—but this was where she wanted to be. Kananda needed her and that was enough.

  It was difficult to judge time and distance and so they could only guess at how far they had penetrated into the forest. It seemed like forever, but at last there was a break in the blackness ahead. The red glow of fires cast a flickering light and they could smell the woodsmoke. The trees thinned out on either side and they discerned the faint silhouettes of some low, conical huts.

  Hamir stopped. Kananda gently drew him back and signaled the others to wait motionless. He moved silently forward, intending to reconnoitre alone, but Zela and Kasim moved equally silently beside him.

  Kananda stopped them after a few more paces. They were on the edge of a wide clearing that contained the native village. The huts were crude constructions of grass and leaves, plastered with mud onto a framework of branches. They formed a large circle around the perimeter of the clearing. In the centre of the clearing was a large black tent, big enough to comfortably sleep a dozen men. There was a smaller tent on either side of the big one, and these were more simply constructed of wild animal skins. A large wood-fire burned in front of each tent and a few smaller cooking fires flickered in front of some of the perimeter huts. The village appeared to be asleep. The only inhabitants awake were the guards standing in pairs in front of each tent.
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  All this Kananda saw at a glance, but then his gaze was riveted upon the tall pole that had been erected in the centre of the clearing, just in front of the central fire. A body was displayed on the pole, suspended head downward by lashed feet. The arms hung limply, stained with red streaks from the spear wounds in the bare chest. The firelight played on the once-proud face, still distorted in its final agony. The body no longer looked like that of the young prince Ramesh, but Kananda knew that it was his brother.

  “We are too late,” Zela whispered softly with her mouth close to his ear. “I am sorry.”

  “It is as I expected.” Kananda kept his voice low, although he wanted to scream his fury. His knuckles gleamed white around the hilt of his sword. “But we cannot leave Ramesh there on display for the sport of these animals. I must retrieve his body and return it Karakhor.”

  “It will not be easy,” Kasim murmured. And he pointed to the black banner that fluttered over the large tent.

  “I have seen it,” Kananda answered bleakly. He turned to Zela and explained, “The black leopard banner is the emblem of Sardar. Our enemy, the king of Maghalla, is here. See the banners above the other two tents, the black monkey and the red monkey? They are the chief clans of the monkey tribes. Their chieftains are here also. This can only mean that Sardar has already made his alliance.”

  Kasim breathed fiercely between his teeth. “We must warn Karakhor.”

  Kananda nodded. “That is vital, but I will not leave without Ramesh.” He laid his sword carefully on the earth in front of him and unslung the short bow from his back. He pulled an arrow from his quiver and checked its straightness against the starlight before notching it to the bow. “We need five more of our best archers,” he instructed softly.

  Kasim moved back to the main group and returned with four of the soldiers. All had their bows unslung. Kananda pointed out each man’s target and they knelt in a line. “When my arrow flies, they all fly,” he commanded. “Then, no matter what happens, I shall cut down Prince Ramesh.”

  His five companions nodded silently. Kananda drew back his arrow and took aim on one of the guards standing outside Sardar’s tent. The Maghallan wore a black loincloth and turban and his upper torso was protected by a leather waistcoat that was partially unlaced at the chest. Kananda aimed for the spot that was a finger’s breadth to the left of the breastbone. He looked to see that the others had also taken aim, and then loosed his arrow.

  The soft twang of the bowstring was the signal that launched the other five arrows. The first Maghallan fell dead with Kananda’s arrow piercing his heart. His companion staggered a moment with Kasim’s shaft through his neck and then he too fell. The four savages guarding the monkey banner tents were the lesser danger. They were half asleep, and probably only placed there in mimicry of Sardar’s efficiency. However, three of those also fell dead. The fourth stumbled back against the tent he guarded, his eyes popping open and his mouth dropping slack as he stared dumbly at the arrow embedded in the joint of his shoulder.

  Kananda was already moving, slinging his bow across his shoulders and snatching up his sword as he raced to the centre of the clearing. He reached Ramesh in seconds, wrapping his left arm around his brother’s cold shoulders as he reached up with his sword to slash through the ropes that secured the feet. With the second stroke, Ramesh fell free from the pole and dropped over his left shoulder.

  The surviving guard found enough of his wits to scream. The sound was choked into a gurgle as Kasim’s second arrow plunged into his cheek, but it was enough. The guard’s fall against the tent had disturbed the occupant and the half-cry brought the man out to raise the alarm. He was a squat, hairy creature wearing a necklace of monkey skulls. His hair was woven into long black braids, and from each braid there dangled the skull of a bird. He carried a spear and, with a fearsome shriek, he charged full tilt at Kananda.

  Kananda noted that the monkey skulls were painted a bright red and that the man had emerged from the tent with the red monkey banner. The chief of the clan, he guessed, and there was a grim satisfaction in him as he deflected the spear thrust and skewered the man through the middle.

  He backed up swiftly, but by now the camp was in uproar. A dozen Maghallan warriors came running from behind the black tent with Sardar’s banner, armed with swords and axes, while from all sides the wild men were pouring out of their huts with clubs and spears.

  Another volley of arrows from Kananda’s small force of archers slowed the Maghallans, and Kananda glanced over his shoulder to see the rest of his soldiers rushing to join him. Among them was Hamir, the huntsman. Hamir was not a trained fighter, but a brave and loyal man and a strong, fast runner. Kananda slew another Maghallan with his sword, and then passed Ramesh back to the huntsman.

  “Take your prince back to the horses,” he shouted.

  He could only trust that he was obeyed, for there were swords and spears thrusting at him from all sides. Blows rained on his arm shield and his defending sword blade, but then he was no longer alone. Kasim was on his left and the slim silver figure of Zela on his right. As one sword became three, defence became attack, and they carried the fight back into the ranks of Maghalla.

  Kananda fought as he had never fought before, his sword whirling an avenging dance of death before him. Kasim was no mean swordsman and Kananda could have chosen no better man to stand beside him. But even in these hot and bloody moments, as their sword blades flashed and reddened in the star and firelight, he found time to marvel at the prowess of Zela. Her speed and skill were equal to his own and she fought with all the fury and splendour of a true goddess.

  The three held the foreground while their companions held the flanks, and the Maghallans gave way. This strange silver woman with the flying gold hair and the death-singing blade was beyond their comprehension. They, too, feared that she was more than mortal, a demon perhaps, in human form.

  Kananda gave an order and the Karakhorans fell back, retreating in an orderly group toward the path that led back through the forest. The lull in the battle and Zela’s unnerving presence might have given them their escape, but then the king of Maghalla and a group of his senior commanders burst from their black tent.

  Kananda recognized Sardar immediately. The short, broad body with the powerful chest and long arms was one he would never forget. Disturbed from his sleep, Sardar wore only a black loincloth, but in his hand was a long sword. His face was a startled mask of bestiality, slashed with that dreadful scar tissue from beneath the left eye and across the corner of his mouth to the cleft of his chin. He had a high, ape-like forehead and flared nostrils and his eyes burned with black rage.

  Recognition also flashed in Sardar’s eyes. At their last meeting, they had faced each other over half-drawn swords in Kara-Rashna’s palace hall, but now their blades were free and naked and the weight of sheer numbers was with Maghalla. Sardar swung up his sword and, with a mighty roar, he attacked.

  Kananda sprang to meet him. Here was a god-given chance to avenge his brother, to put an end to Sardar the Merciless, and perhaps to the whole threat of war. If he could succeed in this, then he would not have failed in his duty.

  Both sides recognized a battle of champions and stayed their hands. Steel met steel in a crash of sparks and the night air echoed with blow after blow in ringing succession. The blades of Kananda and Sardar whirled faster than the eye could see and for a full minute both men held their ground. Then Sardar slipped and drew back.

  Kananda thrust for the kill, but was foiled by one of Sardar’s lieutenants. The man hurled himself between them to protect the body of his king, and died as Kananda turned his blade, first to deflect the assailant’s axe-stroke, and then to back-cut across the man’s throat.

  The moment of single combat was past. The Maghallans threw themselves forward and surrounded Sardar. A dozen blades flashed against Kananda, but then Zela and Kasim were beside him again. Kananda strove furiously to reach Sardar and three of the Maghallan bodyguards died in as many se
conds before his wrath, but there were more Maghallans to take their place. The Maghallan camp behind Sardar’s tent was much larger than Kananda had realized. Sardar was swallowed up behind the bodies of his guards and saved from Kananda’s ferocious reach.

  The weight of the battle swung against them. Four of the Karakhoran soldiers and two of the young nobles were dead. The survivors fought for their lives against ever-increasing odds. The wild men had found their courage and pressed in from both sides to avenge their dead chieftain.

  It was now or never, Zela realized. She pressed forward with another lightning display of swordsmanship that cleared the ground before her, and then in the few seconds breathing space, she stepped back. She transferred her sword neatly to her left hand and with her right she drew the hand lazer from her hip. She fired directly into the loose knot of warriors that confronted Kananda and Kasim.

  The bright, white shaft of the energy beam lanced through the mob, killing three and scattering the rest in mortal terror. It hit the black tent of Sardar and transformed it instantly into a red burst of roaring flames. Maghallans and wild men fell back together in shock and confusion.

  Zela fired again, the beam scything through the close-packed tribesmen on their left flank and turning the tent with the black monkey banner into a second inferno. The howls of hate that had issued from the savage throats now became howls of gibbering fear. Those who did not faint or throw themselves to the ground turned and fled.

  Kananda searched for Sardar, but his enemy had disappeared. He would have launched himself in vain pursuit, but Kasim’s hand restrained his arm and Zela called on him to fall back. He ground his teeth in bitter frustration, but knew that they were right. Zela’s hand weapon could only hurl a limited number of the lightning bolts and they had to use the respite she had given them to escape.

  He gave the order and the survivors from Karakhor backed up to the path that had brought them here. Then each man in turn dashed back through the invisible tunnel into the thick darkness. Kananda held the rear, but there was no challenge. He stared at the running backs of their enemies who were fleeing in the opposite direction. Then he looked up at the black leopard banner above the burning tent and saw that it too was being eaten by the ravenous flames. It gave him a moment of satisfaction but it was not enough. Again he searched for Sardar.