The Sword Lord

by Robert Leader

  Raven reclined on his chair, a goblet of wine in one hand and the fingers of the other resting lazily in a fruit bowl. He watched with his eyes but his mind was far away, comparing the scene before him with similar occasions on Ghedda. There in the rock-bound stronghold that his male ancestors had ruled for ten generations, the food had been as filling and the wine as plentiful, but the surroundings more spartan. The massive stone walls had been built to withstand siege in the days before air and space travel. The tables in the long eating hall were bare wood, knife-scarred and wine-stained, and there was no white lace and silken cloths. On Ghedda there was no incense, no altars and no priests. There were none of the pathetic rituals and pointless sacrifices that these people seemed to find so necessary. Religion was a dead relic of the distant and decadent past. There were no gods on Ghedda. There, man was supreme, and if he was strong enough and skilled enough, then nothing ruled over his own strength and his sword. Also there were few dancing girls, to be found only in cheap bars and drink dens. There was bloodshed enough in a Gheddan stronghold without inciting the swordsmen and masters to more with the cavorting of half-nude females.

  At this stage of a Gheddan feast, the sword duels would begin. With other weapons, a duel could end in injury or first blood, but with the sword it was always to the death.

  Raven thought back to his own duels with satisfaction. Few males on Ghedda were without sword scars. All of his crew had their fair share. Even Thorn, with the skills and the rank of swordmaster, bore the scar on his wrist with pride. But Raven had never been touched by an opponent’s blade. His pale blue body was perfect and unblemished beneath his white uniform.

  He remembered the day that Gaunt, his father, had died. The old tyrant had fallen drunk down three flights of stone stairs, cracking open his bald skull and spilling half his brains, but still he had taken five more days to finally expire. The stronghold had waited, almost in silence, but not the silence of respect. Instead it was a silence of grim anticipation, as though even the shadows watched and waited. Then at last Raven’s mother had walked slowly out into the courtyard where the fighting men were assembled, wearing the red robes of grief. Under the cowled hood, her face was daubed with grey ashes, but her eyes were dry and there were no tear streaks. In a hollow and emotionless voice she announced that her husband was dead. All that had been Gaunt had ceased to exist. There was only the corpse to be disposed of.

  There was another pause of silence, but not of mourning. The waiting was over, the first long phase of tension had snapped, but the second phase quickly tightened. The disposal of the corpse could wait, for immediately there were more serious matters to be settled. Volkar, Raven’s eldest brother, did not spare a single glance for their mother. Instead he drew a deep breath to prepare himself and then walked into the centre of the duelling ground. He was one of the largest warriors in the stronghold, a battle-scarred giant in a laced black leather tunic and breeches, with bronze breast plates and arm guards. His helmet was a fearsome bronze hawk’s head. He drew his sword and the long blade flashed in the harsh mid-winter sun. He looked around the stone-faced assembly and declared grimly, “I, Volkar, claim mastery of this stronghold.”

  As the first son of Gaunt, it was his right to make the first claim, but not to go unchallenged. Raven glanced toward Taynor, his second eldest brother. Taynor matched Volkar for size and weight and ferocity of appearance, but he made no move. Volkar was an accomplished swordsman with eighteen kills. Taynor had only twelve to his credit and was biding his time. Raven smiled a bleak smile of understanding. There were two more sons of Gaunt, Bhorg and Scarl, third and fourth in line above Raven, but they too made no move. Raven shrugged and moved out to face Volkar. Calmly, he drew his own sword.

  They were brothers, but there could be no quarter between them and they both knew it. Because they were brothers and the sons of Gaunt, they were destined to be rivals and mortal enemies. At the end of this day, only one of them could live.

  Volkar laughed briefly as they faced each other, but his contempt was for Taynor and the others. His careful gaze shaded beneath the sharp beak of his helmet, never left Raven’s.

  “So, I must fight the boy before I can fight the men,” he jeered.

  “You will never fight again,” Raven answered. And there was both certainty and finality in his voice.

  Volkar scowled and spoke no more.

  They were an ill-matched pair: Raven still a slender youth of nineteen, Volkar massive and bear-like and twelve years his senior. Raven wore black-laced leather similar to his brother, with a minimum of armour. His helmet and arm guards were of plain but highly polished steel. The thin sunlight flashed from his helm and arms as well as from his blade as they slowly circled each other, causing Volkar to curse and squint his eyes.

  The elder began to twirl his blade slowly, cutting circles in the air. Raven matched the intricate movements and the swords whirled faster as they built up to the moment of impact. Then, with a bull roar, Volkar sprang.

  Raven defended against the initial attack, moving fast and light on his feet as Volkar blundered to and fro in his efforts to strike a death blow. In a savage symphony of steel, the long blades clashed and echoed as the two men fought their way around the courtyard. On all sides, the watchers alternately pushed forward or drew back as the duel moved closer or away from them. At some points they cheered or jeered, but mostly they were silent. It would be unwise to have jeered at the victor and, for the moment, the outcome was uncertain.

  Volkar was tiring, cursing with rage and frustration, and slowly Raven shifted from defence to attack. Sparks flew from the hammering crescendo of sword clashes and Volkar fell back. Raven was not fooled. Suddenly Volkar made a cart-wheeling dive sideways, his left hand scooping up a handful of dirt to hurl at Raven’s eyes. Raven was already spinning neatly away. The dirt hit him in the back of the neck. A split second later, Raven faced his brother again. Each of them had used that split second to draw a hunting knife from his boot sheath. Volkar cursed. Raven laughed.

  They menaced each other, breathing heavily. Then Raven made a half turn and calmly threw the knife away. It was a left hand throw, but practised and accurate. On the far side of the courtyard was a target that the men used for sport, and the hunting knife stuck dead centre. A cheer went up, for the sword was the weapon of honour, and this contest could not be settled with a knife thrust. Volkar scowled and threw his own knife. It thudded home an inch further out from centre than Raven’s. Volkar cursed and charged again.

  The sword blades crashed again and again and Volkar’s fury gave him a momentary advantage. Against Raven’s measured cut and thrust, Volkar was swinging madly, hacking and chopping with all his strength while Raven nimbly ducked or blocked every blow. Volkar made one final, stupendous effort, a mighty stroke that might have shattered Raven’s blade and split him from neck to crotch if it had landed. But Raven was not there. His movement was too fast and before Volkar could recover his balance, Raven had lunged forward again with the death thrust.

  Volkar froze, his eyes wide and staring as his gaze locked on Raven’s. His bulk was fixed and held up by Raven’s sword. Without a word, Raven used his boot to push Volkar off his blade and the big man collapsed dead on the ground.

  While Raven stood for a moment to regain his breath, two of the spectators dragged Volkar to one side. Then the silence returned, tense and still expectant.

  Raven squared his shoulders and then raised his eyes and sword to the assembly. He echoed the fatal words of the brother he had just killed. “I, Raven, claim mastery of this stronghold.”

  Now all eyes turned upon Taynor. The second son of Gaunt had already lost face by allowing the first challenge to pass, but here was his chance to take the stronghold and avoid disgrace. Raven had already fought one duel and should be tired. Taynor was fresh and at full strength. All in one swift movement, Taynor drew his sword and rushed headlong into the attack.

  Like Volkar before him, Taynor calculated that his s
uperior weight and sheer fury would crush his younger brother down. But Raven had faith in his own skill and speed. He gave ground in defence as before, but there was no fear in him to instill panic. He still had total control of his own movements and the combination of quick feet and lightning blade again turned the tide of attack. Taynor found himself on the defensive, floundering before Raven’s attack. Raven was tired but adrenaline-powered. He had never felt better in a fight and was almost reluctant to finish it. Then Taynor slashed at Raven’s neck with his sword, missed and left himself wide open. Raven returned the compliment with a back-hand cut that did not miss and his sword edge sliced home deep just below the edge of Taynor’s helmet. Taynor was cut, spinning to the earth, where he lay with his life-blood forming a thick red pool around his shocked face.

  It was over so quickly that the watchers were stunned. They had expected to see Volkar kill Raven and then to watch Taynor kill a weakened Volkar. This turn of events had them all gasping but then they began to cheer. The noise was deafening and Raven waited for it to subside.

  When the echoes faded, Raven was still standing in the centre of the duelling ground with his bloodied sword still in his hand. They expected him to walk away, for after two duels the code allowed him to rest for twenty-four hours before issuing his challenge again. But Raven was in no mood to rest. His blood was hot and singing and the sword felt like a natural extension to his arm. He smiled slowly as he looked around the respectful circle of faces, and his eyes rested on his brother Bhorg. He said again, “I, Raven, claim mastery of this stronghold.”

  Bhorg swallowed hard. He was a tall man, his face deeply scarred from his sixth duel which he had barely survived. He was an able fighter but he knew when he was outmatched. Almost imperceptibly, he shook his head.

  Raven looked to Scarl. The fourth son of Gaunt also declined the challenge.

  Raven’s gaze moved from face to face, resting briefly on each man in the circle. No one moved.

  Finally Raven reversed his sword, stabbing the point into the earth at his feet and holding the blade just below the hilt. “Then kiss the sword,” he commanded.

  Bhorg came forward slowly. He knelt and his tight-lipped mouth briefly brushed the hilt of Raven’s sword. It was enough and he rose again and walked away. Scarl came next, and then one by one, every fighting man in the stronghold made the brief gesture of allegiance. From now on they were honour-bound to fight for Raven and never against him. When the last man had kissed the sword, Raven was the undisputed master of what had been Gaunt’s stronghold. If Raven had sons then he would have forced them to kiss the sword, just as he and his brothers had been obliged to kiss the sword of Gaunt as soon as they were old enough to know the meaning of the act. It was for that reason only that he had been obliged to suffer the old tyrant while Gaunt was still alive. Now he was obliged to suffer no one.

  Raven cleaned and sheathed his sword, then collected and sheathed his boot knife. Only then did he mount the steps to enter the castle. His mother was no longer there. Whether she had watched either of the two duels before she had turned away he did not know, but it was not important. There was nothing here that was important now.

  The bodies of Gaunt and his two sons were removed and hurled over the convenient lip of a thousand-foot cliff. There the bones were picked clean by scavenger birds on the rocks below. There was no ceremony for death was oblivion. On Ghedda, the only power was in life, strength, and the sword. When life ended, there was nothing.

  Raven remained for another year to consolidate his position. After two months, he fought another duel. On attaining the age of eighteen each youth in the stronghold faced a choice; to show allegiance to his Sword Lord, or to challenge. One youngster who believed he had perfected a new trick of swordplay chose to challenge. Raven despatched him neatly within two minutes.

  A few more weeks passed and Raven fought another duel. The Law of the Sword was simple in that all differences between men were settled by the sword, either by drawing first blood or by death, depending on the severity of the difference. However, a man could choose whether to fight for himself, to pay a champion to fight for him, or petition his Sword Lord. In most strongholds, a sense of rough justice prevailed whereby the Sword Lord himself would defend a deserving case. In this instance, the wife of one of the older men had been raped by one of the young hot-heads. Raven had accepted the old man’s petition and killed the young offender. It was not only justice but a means of keeping order. No stronghold could exist for long in anarchy.

  There were no more duels, the men of the stronghold having learned that there was no future if they risked having to face Raven’s blade. Bhorg and Scarl both accepted their positions as his administrative lieutenants for neither of them had ever hoped to rule, and finally Raven decided that he could safely leave the stronghold under their joint control. His brothers were honour-bound to hold the castle on his behalf, and any who tried to supplant them would know that they would have to face Raven on his return.

  He had to wait impatiently for spring, for during the long months of winter the vast northern mountains of Ghedda were icebound and snowbound, buffeted by sleet-filled winds and roaring storms, and almost impassable. At last the weather cleared and he was able to leave, riding a sturdy mountain horse and heading south through the first of a series of high mountain passes. He did not look back.

  It took him five months to cross the vast continent, through mountains, forest, swamp and desert. And in his passage he killed five more men who foolishly considered a mere northern Sword Lord something to be trifled with. He also slew a variety of wild beasts that crossed his path. Occasionally he took shelter in a village or stronghold, but most nights he slept out in the open, close to his horse for warmth, and with one hand on his sword. On these nights he would lay awake for a long time before sleeping and gaze up at the glittering canopy of the heavens. There, he knew, was his future.

  Burning inside him there was an ambition and a sense of destiny that could never be fulfilled in the medieval world of a northern stronghold. Raven yearned for power and glory, and most of all for the stars. They were a magnet to his mind, an enticement to his very being. His visions carried him up into the dazzling patterns of the constellations and into the great star streams of the galaxies.

  And it was all there to be taken. In a land where might was right, martial and military traditions were the only traditions. The sword was still the only weapon of honour, but now there were new weapons of greater power and new paths to greater glory. Gaunt’s stronghold was a forgotten backwater in the vastness of the mountains, but to the south was the new Gheddan Empire that had begun the conquest of space and was forging its way to the stars.

  His destination was the City Of Swords. It was built upon the shore of a great bay where the Sword Lords of the coast had first united to pitch their camps and build their ships to attempt the conquest and plunder of Alpha three hundred years before. Now it had grown into a city of steel, still ruled by the Council of the original twelve Sword Lords. There were twelve gates to the city, each one surmounted by a fifty foot steel sword. And in the centre of the city, in the parade ground of the Space Corps Centre, was the giant sword, a towering one-hundred-and fifty foot edifice of steel, the symbol of the Gheddan Empire and the only sword to which Raven would ever bow allegiance. He would bow because he was determined to widen his world, to become part of the greatest military power that had ever been known. And most of all because he wanted to lead that journey to the stars.

  Raven’s memories faded as the succulent scent of a roast pigeon breast touched his nostrils. The meat was held on a golden fork close to his lips and he became aware of Maryam smiling at him anxiously. He had made that first journey to the City Of Swords fifteen years before, but this fascinating Hindu princess was tempting him here and now. He permitted her to feed him and smiled his thanks. Maryam looked relieved and blissful in return.

  The orchestra was playing faster and faster. The dancing girls were whi
rling into the high point of their performance, their lithe young bodies glistening with the sweat of their exertions. Swordmaster Thorn watched them with seemingly his full attention, and yet he was aware of his commander’s behaviour. When they had been presented to Kara-Rashna at the beginning of the evening, Thorn’s counsel had been that they should simply lazer-blast the old king and that Raven should take his throne. But Raven had answered that there was no need and that their earlier demonstration of their ship’s fire-power already had the city suitably subdued. Now Thorn had it worked out that the young woman fawning over Raven was probably the old king’s daughter and he wondered if Raven had been influenced by that fact.

  Thorn’s opinions on the matter were mixed. The girl was ripe and pleasing enough and it had been a long time since any of them had enjoyed a woman. Space flight forced an unnatural abstinence on a man and Thorn was already beginning to wonder how these third planet women would perform sexually. But if Raven wanted the girl, then he should simply take her. That would be more fitting for a Sword Lord. There was no need for concessions.

  Thorn watched Maryam smiling at Raven, whispering something in her alien language, trying to communicate. Raven was smiling in return, understanding her eye and body signals even though the words were meaningless. Thorn made an effort to shift his attention away. It would not be wise to be caught staring too critically. The dancing girls were still spinning to the frenzied beat of the music, their flesh gleaming in the firelight. Thorn watched them for a moment, and then slowly became aware that he too was being watched. He turned his gaze to the next table and looked directly into the wide and wondering eyes of another dusky, Hindu beauty.