The horses needed no further urging as they raced away from the smoke and sparks. A flurry of spears and arrows followed them but most were deflected by the branches of the forest and the rest were poorly aimed. The shouts of rage and pain faded behind them, but in the echoes Kananda faintly heard the commands of a Maghallan officer ordering a mounted pursuit.
They let the horses run in blind panic, crouching low to avoid being swept from their backs. The first pale rays of dawn were filtering through the broken gloom, slowly forcing back the shadows, and mercifully the undergrowth here was not too densely tangled and the trees were tall and not too thickly crowded. The riders gathered a painful assortment of cuts and bruises in their headlong flight, but none of them were thrown from the saddle. They emerged at last onto a plain of tall grass, and here they reined back and paused to let the panting horses recover their wind. They also needed to unwind their own frayed nerves.
“Where did they come from?” Kasim demanded, his voice both angry and anguished. “We must have been well ahead of any pursuit from Sardar’s camp.
“I too thought we were safe,” Kananda said wearily. “Perhaps the monkey tribes were able to supply trackers who can track faster than we expected. But I did not see Sardar there, so perhaps we had the misfortune to cross the path of another Maghallan force.”
“But we set guards.” Kasim was still at a loss to understand.
“Our guards were killed by stealth. They were tired—as we all are— perhaps they were not as alert as they should have been.” Kananda was too heartsick to debate the matter any further. He looked to Zela and said gratefully, “Again we have to thank you for saving our lives. Your lightning bolts got us out of Sardar’s camp, and now they have saved us again.”
Zela had drawn her lazer and ejected the spent fuel pack. She took another from her belt and showed it to them briefly before pressing it into place. “I have only two more of these,” she warned them. “I am using them up much faster than I anticipated. When they are dead, there can be no more lightning bolts. We shall have only our swords.”
“Then we must move on,” Kananda said. “The Maghallans have a strong leader. I heard him trying to organize a pursuit.”
No one argued and they started the horses at a steady trot. Ahead of them was largely open terrain, with scattered tumbles of piled rock and patches of scrub trees breaking up the grassland. It made for fast progress, but there was no real cover. This was good hunting country for a predator, and so they avoided the rock piles where a leopard or tiger might lie in the shade. The sun was climbing steadily overhead, its power beating down on them from the burnished blue of the sky. The horses, and then their riders, began to sweat.
They were still just within sight of the treeline when faint cries caused them to look back. The Maghallan force had emerged from the forest, some fifty strong, all of them mounted.
Kananda cursed for he knew the Maghallans rode a different breed of horse to their own. The Maghallan horses were smaller but more sturdy, reared on the fringes of the Great Thar Desert where they had adapted to crossing long distances without water. The Karakhoran horses had been bred in the Ganges plains. In a short race they would beat a Maghallan horse every time, but over long distances the Maghallan breed had the greater endurance and stamina. Before the end of the day, Kananda knew, the Maghallans would run them down.
The chase lasted through the fierce heat of midday until at last the Kharakoran horses were flagging, their nostrils flaring as they snorted painfully, their great chests heaving, and their flanks lathered and slippery with sweat. The yells and shrieks of the pursuing Maghallans became gradually louder and closer, filling with triumph and exultation, and the first wildly fired arrows began to fall just short of the fleeing riders.
Zela looked back over her shoulder, through the spray of dirt and grass blades churned by their own pounding hooves, and saw the Maghallan riders spread out in a gaining line behind them. She drew her lazer and fired at the nearest rider. It was difficult to aim from the swaying back of her struggling mare and the scorching beam did nothing more than set a patch of grass ablaze. The rider she had missed swerved in panic to collide with one of his fellows, but the pursuit was checked for only a moment before it resumed at full tilt.
Zela tasted her first moment of fear as she realized that she had placed too much faith in a single hand lazer. It was not enough to terrify their pursuers completely. Another arrow passed by her shoulder and she began to wish that she had listened to Blair.
Kananda also knew that their situation was desperate. He looked ahead and pointed out one of the larger outcrops of rocks. “We will take refuge there,” he shouted hoarsely. “It is better to stand and die than to be pulled down from behind, or to die like cowards with arrows in our backs.”
No one disputed his command. They whipped their horses to one final effort and raced for the hill of rocks. As they reached it, they reined in hard and sprang down from their saddles, whirling to face their enemies with drawn swords.
The Maghallans were on top of them in seconds, but as they closed the gap, they made the mistake of pulling into a tight packed force. Zela was again able to use her hand lazer to good effect and three fast shots cut down the first three riders by blasting their mounts from under them. The rest came to a confused stop in a melee of rearing and fallen horses. The shrieks of men and animals made a fearsome din, and only one of the Maghallan riders was quick enough to dismount and challenge the small group of Karakhorans as they stood with their backs to the rocks. He was too rash for his own good and Kananda dispatched him in an instant with a deft parry and thrust of his sword. He paused to cut the rope holding Ramesh to the back of the spare horse, and Kasim and Hamir again took the limp form of the young prince between them. Then, taking advantage of the confusion, they all turned quickly to scramble up into the rocks, aiming for the strongest defensive position at the top of the hill.
They were halfway there when the first flight of arrows followed them. The warrior on Kananda’s right gave a strangled cry and pitched forward with an arrow through his upper arm. Kananda picked him up and half dragged and half carried him to the top of the hill. Behind him, Zela turned and fired two more energy bolts to kill another of their enemies and cause the rest to take cover. The respite gave them all a chance to reach the comparative safety of the hill-top where they crouched behind a wall of boulders with their enemies fifty feet below them. Kasim and three of the warriors still had their bows and quivers full of arrows, and Zela grimly fitted the last fuel pack into her lazer. They could repel a few attacks but soon they would be fighting sword to sword.
“At least we will sell our lives dearly,” Kananda declared grimly.
“Perhaps,” Zela answered. “But if we can hold out for long enough we may still have a chance.” She was taking another device from her belt pack as she spoke and continued in explanation. “I think we may now be close enough for me to communicate with my ship.”
Raven had completed his casual exploration of the city, finding little of military interest, and had returned to his chamber in the palace. He was better acclimatized to the savage winters of Northern Ghedda and found the midday heat of this sickly and spice-smelling city to be uncomfortable and oppressive. He took off his chain mail and his uniform tunic to wash his face and arms in the basin of cool water that had been provided, and was amused when a Hindu slave girl, averting her eyes, dried him gently with a soft towel.
He took off his belt with his sword and lazer and lay back on the bed. He was ready to rest and he needed time to think over his next moves before he discussed them with Thorn and the others. He had to decide how long he should remain here and whether he should make a closer inspection of the other cities of the subcontinent or other parts of the planet. He doubted whether any other Earth humans could be any further advanced technologically than the people of this city, but his mission was to be sure. Another part of his mission was to search for any traces of Alphan exploration, t
o deny Earth to Alpha, and to secure anything of value for Ghedda. Those were his primary instructions from the Imperial War Command.
He lay with his hands clasped behind his head and was aware that the slave girl was still hovering on the edge of his field of vision. He guessed that she was fascinated by the naked torso of his blue body, and her furtive scrutiny helped to remind him that it was a long time since he had pleasured himself with a woman. Again he wondered why he had refrained from the opportunity that had been offered last night. He could have had the slave girl, or he could have taken Maryam—he had at least learned her name—for there was no power here that could have stopped him. He had wanted Maryam, and never before had he hesitated in taking any woman he had wanted. But there had been times when taking a woman had also meant accepting a challenge to the sword. This was an unknown world, its codes and customs also unknown and so rationality had decreed a degree more caution that he would have shown on Ghedda.
He had been overcautious, he knew that now. This morning’s inspection had shown that these people possessed nothing more advanced than their simple bows and arrows. He looked to the slave girl, noting that she was young with firm breasts and a slim waist. Her manner was half fearful but her interest in him was undisguised. He felt his manhood begin to harden and turned onto one shoulder to study her more critically.
A Gheddan woman would have been bolder or she would have withdrawn. On his home planet, when a woman wanted a man she let it be known. If she didn’t she kept out of his sight. The latter course would not necessarily save her from his attentions, but it was the best chance she might have. This girl could do neither. She did not have the courage to come closer, or the sense to go away. If he took her, he felt that she would be a disappointment, and yet he had a powerful need.
Before he could make up his mind, there was an interruption. Maryam entered with a tray bearing fruit and wine. She spoke a curt word of dismissal to the slave girl, who promptly fled.
Raven watched as Maryam carefully poured the wine. She wore a sari of red silk and a gold lace shawl. One shoulder and part of her waist were bare, and suddenly he wanted to see much more of that warm brown flesh. He smiled, the lazy smile of a man who had suddenly made his decision and was fully confident of his ability to carry it out.
Maryam’s hand trembled and a splash of the sweet golden wine spilled onto the tray. She had been instantly aware of the sexual tension that hovered invisible in the room, and they had been the cause of her brief flare of anger toward the slave girl. She had been intuitively jealous, but now she in her turn was afraid for the tensions were still there and were growing stronger.
She handed him the glass, willing herself not to spill any more. She was afraid to fully meet his gaze but in avoiding them her gaze was drawn like the slave girl before her to take in the hard muscles of his beautiful blue body. She too was half fearful, half attracted, and fully fascinated. She felt her heart beat faster. Almost beyond her control, her gaze flickered further down the length of his body, resting on the now definite thrust beneath the chain mail armour at his groin. The crescendo of her heartbeats almost became an explosion.
Raven put down his glass and casually unfastened the last of his constricting armour. He threw it aside, and with a firm hand on each of her shoulders, he drew her down onto the bed where he lay. She came wide-eyed and wide-lipped, but unresisting. The cry of protest that struggled to be born within her throat was smothered and suppressed by a confusion of different reasons. She believed that he was a god and that therefore she was honoured, and that it was his right to take her and her duty to submit. She was also afraid of his power and she did not want her uncles and her brothers to all die on her behalf. She knew that one cry for help would be enough to bring Jahan and a dozen others rushing to her rescue, but she also knew that they could only die in vain.
Stirred in with her belief and her fears were her own pulsing desires, flooding through her in a hot cascade of violent feelings and emotions. Shocking visions of those explicit amorous couples, locked together in stone on the temple walls, tumbled hotly in her mind. She knew what was expected of her and she wanted all of it with all her being. All the restraint and decorum of her royal upbringing was being washed away in the heat of these fateful moments. He was a god, and so nothing could possibly be wrong.
Raven’s mouth was hot and fierce on her own moaning lips, and then on her throat, and then, oh ecstasy, on her bared and heaving breasts. Her shawl had disappeared and his practiced hands were deftly unwrapping her sari. To be loved by a god was a priceless gift, beyond the dared hope of any mortal woman, and yet he was about to love her—or at least to take her. The distinction and the doubt caused a flutter of anguish in her mind, to be followed by another thought of such brazen magnitude that she was shocked by her own impious audacity: she would make him love her by loving him with all the woman’s arts of which she knew or could imagine.
Raven had expected submission and to slake his own physical needs, but nothing more. Thus, to suddenly find the girl taking an active and eager part in their lovemaking was an added pleasure, and after his initial caresses, he relaxed and allowed her to set the pace. Always a connoisseur, he was intrigued by new techniques and a new planet seemed a likely place to offer new surprises.
He was definitely not disappointed, and when finally they reached the erotic peak of mutual fulfillment, they both cried out aloud. From Raven, it was a laughing shout of lustful triumph, and from Maryam, a rapturous cry of exquisite pain and joy.
Behind the closed door of the next chamber, Thorn listened to the faint but umistakable sounds, his face sullen and brooding as he sprawled back on his own bed. The two slave girls he had used the night before were still with him and one of them dutifully tried to arouse him. Thorn pushed her angrily away. He had found both slave girls tame and boring. A dozen of them together could not add up to one good Gheddan woman.
He heard and recognized Raven’s climatic shout and felt pure envy. He knew that Raven was with Maryam and obviously the highborn women on this planet had more fire and spirit than the dullards who had been offered to himself and the others.
Thorn would have liked to try Maryam for himself, but she was to remain inviolate for as long as she retained Raven’s interest. However, there was another highborn one. His lascivious thoughts centred on Namita. She was younger, not quite so ripe for plucking, but Thorn enjoyed despoiling virgins and it was just possible that she might be as lively as her sister.
While Raven and Maryam made love, and while Kananda and Zela fought desperately for their lives, the distraught rulers of Karakhor met hastily in secret council. It was a measure of Kara-Rashna’s fear and uncertainty that he did not dare to call them together in the high vaulted audience hall, which had too many approaching corridors and access points. Instead they gathered in one of the smaller anterooms in the royal apartments. The king made do with an ordinary cushioned chair in place of his ornate throne. In a half circle before him stood Jahan, his brothers Sanjay and Devan, his sons Rajar and Nirad, and the titular heads of the three great houses of Gandhar, Tilak and Bulsar. There was no one else present. The priests were in such total disarray after the desecration of one of their temples that they were worse than useless. The warriors who guarded the closed and locked door did so from the outside.
“If they are messengers from the gods, then why should they attack a temple to the gods?” Kara-Rashna asked the question in confusion. It seemed to him that his mind was growing feeble in its efforts to wrestle with these startling new events, and that like his body, it was failing him when he needed it most.
“They cut the head from Shiva at the temple of Varuna,” Sanjay reminded them. “Perhaps this means that these strangers come from Indra. Or perhaps there is an even greater god than either Indra or Varuna—a god as yet undreamed of with power as yet unimagined.”
“A greater god than Indra.” The king’s mind reeled. “How can this be?”
“We are not
priests,” Devan said slowly. “We cannot answer such questions. Not even the priests can answer them.”
“But what does it mean? What must we do?”
Devan shrugged. “I would say that we must face the things that we know as they are. We have as our guests a group of very powerful strangers. Perhaps they are gods—perhaps they are not. All we know is that they are here. They came in a temple from the sky and they possess a power that can melt rock, burn whole forests, and cut the heads from our known gods.”
“Then we must not anger them.”
“No, brother, but we must consider more. We know also that we face an inevitable war with the forces of Maghalla. With these strangers as our allies, our cause is secure. We must befriend them and secure their aid to defeat Maghalla.”
Sanjay frowned, the expression making his face seem even leaner and sharper. Where Devan saw the issues as clear-cut, Sanjay saw deeper into their complexities.
“This course could be dangerous,” he argued. “If the blue-skinned ones are messengers from Indra or some mightier god, then their violation of Varuna’s temple could bring down the vengeance of more messengers from Varuna. If we seek their aid in our battle against Maghalla, then it might be that we will find ourselves involved in an even more terrible war between the gods. Such a war would destroy Karakhor more swiftly and with more finality than any conflict with Maghalla.”
The noble heads of Gandhar, Tilak and Bulsar made varying signals of agreement. They would fight if it became necessary, but they were all older men. The fire of youth no longer burned in their blood and so they counselled caution.
Kara-Rashna closed his fist and chewed on his knuckles, something he only did when extremely agitated. He felt that he was receiving good advice from both his brothers, and yet their reasoning conflicted. He finally looked, as always, to his warmaster general.
The Sword Lord Page 12
