The Sword Lord

by Robert Leader

  Thorn crossed the room and kicked the slave girl out of the way. He was getting good at kicking slave girls and his booted foot connected neatly with her plump buttocks, tumbling her in precisely the direction he intended her to go. He laughed again and went into the inner room.

  As he expected, it was a bedroom. Moonlight filtered through an arched window and showed a large bed with white silk sheets beneath a shrouding canopy of white muslim. Thorn tore the flimsy curtaining aside as Namita sat bolt upright among her pillows. She wore a brief nightdress that hid nothing of her slim beauty. Her face, even without its veils and jewelry, was still young and lovely. Her dark eyes were petrified.

  Thorn reached forward and casually ripped open the nebulous material of her nightdress, revealing curved young breasts with dark brown nipples. Namita screamed.

  Thorn grinned happily and began to unfasten his tunic.

  Raven had also found the night air in his bedchamber too warm and too close for comfort and so he had strolled down to the riverbank in the hope of finding a cool breeze. He walked alone. Maryam had again made love with him earlier in the evening, but for some reason he could not fathom, she had preferred to return afterward to her own apartments. It was not important and he did not want her always under his feet anyway. He needed time to think and so he had let her go.

  His thoughts, however, were mainly about Maryam. Her ideas of sexual sporting were far removed from the wild abandon of a Gheddan woman, but there was an eagerness and novelty about her approaches that he found wholly satisfying. Her willingness was more than a raw desperation to please him. It was somehow warmer and more personal, both more vulnerable and more valuable than anything he had ever known. Despite himself, he was warming toward her. Sex was an animal act, a mutual pleasure, and yet he sensed that for her it was something more profound and that somehow she was giving him more of herself than any Gheddan woman ever would, or could.

  She had made him understand that the marriage ceremony she wanted would have to wait for a few days. He did not understand why. Probably she was bound by some law of her menfolk. He could break it, but there was no need. It would be several days before his ship was ready for its next space flight. He could not escape the delay so there was no hurry.

  He stopped at the river’s edge, the dark water swirling softly at his feet, gazing at the distant silhouette of the Solar Cruiser that stood stark and dominant against the star bright sky. If necessary, the ship could return with a crew of three, which meant that he could safely leave two or three behind. He had already decided that the ship would make three more Earth orbits, a final search for Alphans or for any advanced Earth civilization which might have passed this one. Then it would head for home. It would carry his recommendation for two fighting ships and a troop carrier with fifty men to be stationed here as a permanent garrison.

  The three man crew would have to include one of the engineers, one of the lazer gunners, and either Thorn or himself in command. Who should go and who should stay? That was the final decision he had yet to make. He was tempted to give command of the ship to Thorn and to remain with Maryam. Their marriage would place him in the stronger position to maintain control. That might be important, for without the ship, there would be no power to recharge the fuel packs for their lazers and so there could be some risk if the earthmen ever realized that their fire-power was not unlimited. Unlike Thorn, Raven was not prepared to dismiss the people here as total cowards. They were temporarily demoralized and held in check, but he had noted flickers of defiance. Some, like the old man with the purple turban, needed careful watching.

  There was logic in remaining here himself, but on the other hand half a year would pass before the garrison force would reach Earth and perhaps a whole year before he could hope to make his own return to Dooma. In a year, many things could happen in the City Of Swords. There were constant power struggles, sword challenges, and shifts in the empire command structure. He needed to be there to protect his own interests and to forge his own opportunities. It was also too long since he had visited his own stronghold. He had no fears that Bhorg or Scarl would betray him, but there were neighbouring Sword Lords who might grow bold and ambitious from his continued absence.

  He made his decision. If anyone remained it would be Thorn, with Landis and perhaps Taron. His own time was too valuable to waste cooling his heels where there was no action.

  He turned away from the river, breathing the soft breeze deeply before plunging back into the city with its night-smoke and incense and its unguessable combination of foul and fascinating odours. His pace was unhurried and his thoughts were still far away on Dooma.

  He had followed the curve of the river for some way below the palace and now he followed his instinct in search of a more direct way back. He entered a narrow alleyway which he thought would lead him toward one of the main avenues which all converged on the central square behind the palace. The lanes were empty between the close-pressed houses, the doors all closed and bolted. They were lit by torches on the balconies above his head where the sounds of voices and laughter and sometimes music filtered out from the open upper windows. In places, the starlight was blotted out altogether, leaving only the smoky flicker of the torches. There were puddles and squashed things underfoot which he preferred not to think about.

  There was a movement to his left. He whirled with his hand on his sword. A scavenging dog slunk past him cringing with downcast eyes and he laughed at his own reaction. He pushed on into the twisting maze.

  He passed an even narrower side alley and did not even feel the nimble fingers that reached up to pluck at his weapon belt from behind. But the belt leather was thick and stiff, resisting the thin, razor-sharp blade that sliced through it, and he felt its pull against his stomach as it came away. Again his hand flashed with a lightning instinct to his sword. The belt was ripped away from his waist, his holstered hand lazer and the sword sheath disappearing with it. But the sword blade slipped free of the sheath and the hilt was held fast in his practised hand.

  He spun round in time to see the child thief still crouching at his feet. He stayed the sword. One dirt encrusted infant face peering horrified out of a bundle of rags was hardly worth the bother of cleaning the blade. The boy shrieked, flung the weapon belt hard to one side and then scuttled off frantically down the alley.

  Raven did not give chase, for suddenly the night offered better sport. Two men, as ragged and dirt streaked as the child, had dropped neatly down from the balcony in front of him. One of them crouched, with a drawn short sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other. His lean face was a ravaged mask in the dim glow of the nearest torch, pitted and scarred by some unknown skin-eating disease. His companion was a hunchback who whirled a rope weighted with a spiked iron ball.

  A soft thud from behind warned him that a third assassin had dropped down from one of the balconies to block his retreat.

  Even as he heard the sound, Raven was spinning on the ball of his right foot and the heel of his left, bringing his back against the wall, crouching and drawing a knife from his left boot with his left hand. A steel discus whizzed past his head, flung with such force that it smashed through one of the wooden struts supporting the nearest balcony. If Raven had not moved, it would have decapitated him from behind.

  The thrower was a broad, squat man, hulking almost shapeless in the gloom. He cursed softly, but his eyes glittered and he too drew a short sword from the rags at his waist.

  Raven flicked a glance in search of his weapon belt and his lazer. It had landed beyond the two men on his right. Until he had dealt with his attackers, it might as well have been on another planet. Their gazes were watching his. They seemed to understand his thoughts and laughed. Without the lazer, he was reduced to their level of sword and knife, and they were three against one. This was their chosen ground, assassination was their profession. They were more than confident.

  The two swordsmen attacked together, rushing him from both sides. With his longer blade,
he could keep the diseased face at bay, but there was no room to turn in the narrow alley. He was trapped too tightly to make full use of his superior sword skill, and here the short swords favoured by his opponents were the more useful weapons. He knew he had to reduce the odds quickly.

  He blocked the squat man’s sword with his knife and kicked savagely sideways at the man’s groin. The man swore and backed off. Raven flung himself at the man with the diseased face, the sudden, furious clash of their sword blades violating the still night. Sparks flew like bright fireflies and the startled man gave ground, his attack faltering into defence. Block, parry, feint, thrust and kill—the ritual sang in Raven’s mind and he almost brought it to completion. As he thrust, something caught at his right ankle and hooked his leg from under him. Cursing, he tumbled down onto his left knee and elbow, sliding on something revolting in the gutter.

  The squat man had a second weapon that Raven had not been aware of, a simple hooked stick like a shortened shepherd’s crook. He gave it another fierce wrench, dragging Raven face down and then lunged for the fallen body with his sword. Raven was rolling out of the way but it was his chain mail that saved him, deflecting the sword thrust that would have killed him. The squat man followed through too violently, falling heavily on his intended victim. Raven turned the knife in his left hand, slamming the blade upward as the squat man crashed on top of him, driving the blade deep behind the breastbone. The man screamed once and Raven felt the heart’s blood pumping over his fist.

  Raven continued to roll in a flailing embrace with the dying man, spinning into the man with the diseased face and forcing him to stumble backwards. The second man hacked desperately at the entwined bodies at his feet, but succeeded only in half severing the arm of his now dead companion. Raven thrust the corpse away from him, still using it as a battering ram to defend himself and succeeded in regaining his feet. He had cut the odds to two, but he had lost his knife which he had been unable to wrench free.

  He was breathing heavily and he knew that so far he had been lucky. The way behind him was now clear and he was tempted to back up, to hope for a small square or courtyard where there might be room for some real swordplay. But the men in front of him were enraged by the death of their friend and were too experienced to give any quarter.

  The man with the diseased face stepped back but only to give room for his friend to act. The hunchback stepped forward. The rope whirled in his hands and Raven tilted his head sideways as the iron ball shot straight for his face. It sped past his cheek, but then the hunchback flicked his wrist and the ball was spinning back on itself, winding the rope twice around Raven’s neck. If the spiked ball had smashed into his face it would have finished him, but instead on its final twist it slammed into his right shoulder, the spikes penetrating and embedding in his chain mail waistcoat.

  Raven felt the sharp pain and the warm blood seeping down his chest. Then the hunchback yanked on the rope, trying to bring him staggering forward onto the other man’s sword.

  The rope was strangling him. Raven knew that if he tried to pull back, it would choke him to death. The blood was already pounding in his temples as he gasped for air. It was as though a red cloud had enveloped his brain. He knew his life expectancy could now be counted in seconds.

  He refused to fight the rope and instead allowed himself to be catapulted forward. Again the swords rang and crashed as he engaged the man with the ravaged face. The hunchback had danced back out of the way to get another heaving pull on the rope. Raven couldn’t think. He couldn’t breathe. He fought with Gheddan instinct and the stubborn Gheddan refusal to face oblivion.

  His sword arm hewed with a ritual will of its own. Block, parry, feint, thrust—but his opponent had learned, the thrust was parried in turn and the dagger in the assassin’s left hand was striking for Raven’s heart. Raven hooked the blade away with his left arm, the point slicing through his tunic sleeve and the skin over his bicep. For a second, they were chest to chest, arms apart, and Raven used the last of his failing strength to headbutt the ravaged face before him.

  The swordsman fell away, blood streaming from his shattered nose. Raven’s head was yanked sideways in the same moment. The hunchback had taken up the tension on the rope and was hauling him hand over hand up the alleyway. Raven swung his sword in a gleaming arc. The blade seemed to move in extreme slow motion. Raven was blacking out and he no longer knew what he was doing. In a red dream, the sword blade faltered at the top of its curve, and then fell limply. The cutting edge struck the taut rope, severed it, and the hunchback went flying backwards.

  With his left hand, Raven clawed at the strangling coils round his neck, his desperate fingers gouging deep into his own flesh as he pulled the rope loose. He gulped air, gagged and gulped again. His chest heaved. The red mist partially cleared in his brain, his reeling senses fighting to focus.

  The hunchback was on his feet, screaming obscenities. He was surprisingly nimble for such a grotesque shape and he had produced another short sword from his own ragged robes. He charged full tilt at Raven.

  The Sword Lord met the headlong attacks and again, the long blade keeping the shorter one at bay. Raven gulped down more air. The adrenaline flowed. He felt strength returning to his body and arm. Slowly and terribly, his lips peeled back to bare his teeth and at last he smiled.

  The hunchback had no more tricks. Death stared him in the face. Again he screamed in frustrated rage. Then the long blade swept the short one aside and flung it against the alley wall. The hunchback froze, perhaps he prayed. His eyes tilted up in final horror to watch the long blade fall, and then it smashed through flesh and bone as it split open his skull.

  Raven turned. The man with the diseased face still slumped with his back to the wall, still dazed and only half conscious. Raven deftly ran his sword through his body.

  There was silence. Raven withdrew his sword and stood back, panting. His senses were still alert but the night held no more threat. The very air seemed hushed and fearfully listening. Cautiously, Raven moved to pick up his severed weapon belt, hanging it lightly over his sound shoulder. The hand lazer bumped solidly against his chest, but he let it hang in the holster. There was no longer any need for it.

  With grudging respect, he examined the three dead assassins. They had been good, as excelled in their trade as any he might have met in the back alleyways of Ghedda. They had clever techniques and they had worked well as a team. Such men, he knew, did not select victims at random and never worked unpaid.

  He did not expect to find any clue as to who might have paid them, but as he turned them over he found, to his mild surprise, that each man wore a leather armband with three short ribbons of fine green silk. He had seen that identifying mark before, on the warriors of the House of Gandhar.

  Chapter Twelve

  Thorn had thrown his tunic aside and was removing his weapon belt. Namita had recoiled on her pillows, clutching her sheets around her and was still screaming hysterically. Thorn’s grin slowly dissolved into a scowl. He had not wanted quite so much fuss. He could deal with any interruption—if anyone dared to interfere—but it would be an embarrassment to be interrupted. He told her curtly to be quiet and moved around the bed to smack her hard across the mouth with the back of his hand.

  Namita was a royal princess. Apart from the gentle chastisement of her mother and her aunts, no one had ever dared to strike her before. The violence and effrontery of Thorn’s blow shocked her into a frozen silence. Suddenly she dared not even whimper.

  Thorn grinned again and took off his weapon belt. He hung it carefully at the head of the bed where his sword and lazer would be within instant reach. Before he could remove the golden chain mail of his codpiece, Raven’s voice came sharply and clearly from his belt communicator in the pouch behind the lazer holster.

  “Thorn. I am on the far side of the main square of this miserable city—about one hundred paces along the central avenue. Join me here. There has been treachery and we have work to do. Acknowledge.�
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  Thorn stopped in mid-movement. His face darkened with anger and frustration. He mouthed a vile string of obscenities that would have flushed Namita crimson if she could have understood them.

  “Thorn!” There was a cutting edge to Raven’s voice, a dark impatience. “Respond.”

  May the fangs of a Silurian lizard chew on your balls, Thorn thought bitterly, but this was one interruption he could neither defy nor ignore. With the thought still in mind, he reached for the communicator and flipped the speak-switch.

  “Thorn, commander. I acknowledge.”

  There could be no delay. Even if Raven had not been a Sword Lord of superior skill, he was still the Mission Commander and representative of the empire and that one-hundred-foot high steel blade in the City Of Swords to which Thorn had sworn his own sword and his allegiance.

  Still cursing, Thorn buckled his weapon belt back into place, snatched up his tunic and body armour and hurried out of the room.

  Namita was still sobbing wretchedly when the door crashed open again a few minutes later. Jahan burst in with a dozen warriors at his heels, still in his nightshirt and without his turban, but with his ruby-hilted sword grasped firmly in his right hand. The face of the old warmaster was thunderous and he came ready to fight and die, but he could only stand baffled when he saw that she was alone.

  “Where is he?” he cried angrily and blended in with his rage was the awful fear that he was too late.

  Namita could not answer. She only wept more loudly.

  “Where is the defiler?” Jahan roared. “By Indra and all the gods, for this I will kill him.”