He turned on his heel, ready to storm out in search of Thorn. Namita realized what was happening and a new panic filled her fearful breast. She struggled up on her pillows and desperately called him back.
“No, Uncle! Do not follow him. He will kill you with his white fire.”
“Then I will die.” Jahan’s fury was unstoppable. “But I will not stand by when you have been dishonoured.”
He pushed through his warriors, scattering them from his path, but then found the doorway blocked by the king’s two senior wives who had donned their night robes to hurry to the scene of commotion. Padmini, the mother of Kananda and Maryam, laid a restraining hand upon his arm. Kamali, the mother of Namita, Rajar and Nirad, hastened to the side of her daughter. Both queens were pale and trembling.
“Wait, Jahan,” Padmini begged him. “At least let us find out what has happened.”
Jahan hesitated, torn between the different pulls of duty. A command from the queen carried only slightly less weight than the command of Kara-Rashna himself. He found himself ushered tactfully but firmly out of the doorway and into the outer chamber where his warriors still crowded.
“Truest and most loyal friend of ourselves and our husband, please wait,” Padmini pleaded with him again, and then she too disappeared quickly into the bedchamber, closing the door behind her.
Jahan could only stand fuming, frustrated by the delay. The minutes passed. The princes Devan and Sanjay arrived together with drawn swords and more warriors from their respective palace guards. Then the king appeared, distraught and confused, half supported by his guard, but bravely clutching his sword. Jahan reported what he knew, which was no more than he had been told by the young warrior whom Thorn had chased away from Namita’s door.
They debated the outrage with hot tempers rising, and were upon the point of marching in a mass upon the chambers occupied by the Gheddans, when the door to the inner bedchamber opened and the First Queen emerged. All voices and movement stopped as they faced her anxiously.
“Princess Namita has not been dishonoured.” Padmini gave them that vital reassurance first in an effort to calm them and restore some sensible order. “The one called Thorn was here, but a voice spoke to him in his own language from the little box they carry on their belts, and he hurried away.” She chose not to tell them that their princess had been struck across the face or that Thorn had started to remove his clothing. These things were best left unsaid if she was to prevent them from destroying themselves. “Princess Namita is distressed,” she admitted. And then repeated with emphasis, “But she has not been dishonoured!”
“Even so,” Jahan growled, “for any man to enter her bedchamber is punishable only by death.”
The royal princes nodded grim agreement. Even if their niece had not been bodily violated, the honour of them all was still besmirched and would remain so until Thorn had paid the price.
“How can you kill a god?” Padmini cried in anguish, addressing the question directly to her husband. “You all know their power. How can you stand against the white fire of the gods?”
“If we do not stand, then how can we prevent this god from returning to complete what he so clearly intended?” Kara-Rashna asked helplessly. “How can we protect our daughters?”
“Kamali and I have discussed this.” Padmini risked her husband’s disapproval. “With your permission, sire, Kamali will take Namita secretly to one of the noble houses. There she will be safe and can be kept hidden until these strangers depart.”
“What if the gods have the vision or other means to find her?” Devan asked slowly.
“Or if the strangers do not depart?” Sanjay added with equal doubt.
“We can only pray that they will not find her and that they will depart.” The queen clasped her hands together and bowed her head as she spoke.
“Pray!” Jahan drew himself up to an unsurpassable height of apoplexy, forgetting that he was garbed only in his nightshirt. His knuckles were white around the raised hilt of his sword. “Pray, and hide our women while we are afraid to act. It is better to die first.”
The princes nodded their grim confirmation and looked to their older brother. The will of Kara-Rashna would decide.
The ailing king drew himself up and raised his own sword. He opened his mouth to speak, but then a vast, hollow, booming sound rolled throughout the palace. It came again and again and all ears recognized it.
The sound was the beating of the great gong in the king’s audience hall, which was only used to summon the city’s rulers to a meeting of great emergency.
Raven had returned to the palace with one of the dead assassins draped across his unwounded shoulder. Behind him marched Thorn, stolidly carrying the corpses of the other two. Raven had already made up his mind how he would act and he carried his burden straight to the king’s audience hall. Torches burned in brackets attached to the high central pillars but the hall was empty and unguarded.
Raven went inside and deposited the dead man at the foot of the splendid, elephant-tusked throne. The head lolled back over the edge of the raised dais and the wide-open, rolled back eyes stared at him blankly from the ravaged face. Thorn allowed the bodies of the hunchback and the third man to slide down from his aching shoulders so that they all sprawled in a piled heap. Blood stained the white uniforms and gold body armour of the two Gheddans. More blood began to seep from the freshly killed bundle of limbs to run between the brilliant green and blue mosaic tiles that covered the entire floor of the great hall.
Behind the throne, suspended between two only slightly smaller tusks gilded with red and gold, hung the great gong. Raven had seen it used and had noticed its purpose. Now he walked up to it and took down the large, leather-padded drumstick that hung beside it. With both hands wielding the hammer, he struck the centre of the gong with all his strength. Its deep, resonant boom filled the vaulted hallway, echoed through the palace corridors and carried out into the still night air to awaken and alarm the whole city of Karakhor.
The magnificent dome above the dais that supported both the throne and the gong acted as a huge amplifier for the dreadful sound. There was no corner of the city, alleyway, cellar or dungeon, that its repeated reverberations did not reach. Like a knell of doom, it shattered the rest of princes and peasants, warriors and priests, merchants and artisans. Raven continued to pound at the gong until his arms ached, and by then the summons had brought its first responders.
The young princes Nirad and Rajar had heard the earlier disturbance in the women’s quarters but had delayed to dress themselves properly before seeking to investigate. They had been on their way when the first gong beat sounded, and after staring at each other in frightened stupefaction for a few minutes, they had reluctantly turned their faltering steps toward the audience hall. They entered warily, almost on tiptoes, but Raven’s hearing was sharp. He turned and faced them.
“You!” He indicated Rajar. “Come here and continue this.”
They did not understand the words, but the gesture and the offered hammer carried his meaning. Rajar came closer to take the padded drumstick with tentative fingers. The young prince was white-faced and sweating.
Raven drew his sword from the weapon belt that was still slung over his shoulder. “Strike!” he commanded and unceremoniously jabbed the sharp point at Rajar’s flinching ribs.
Hastily, Rajar took up the task of beating mightily upon the gong.
Raven seated himself in Kara-Rashna’s throne and watched. When he heard the sound of more footsteps approaching the hall, he transferred his sword to his left hand and drew his hand lazer with his right. Thorn stood solidly to one side of the throne, feet apart and ready for anything. He too held his sword in one hand and a lazer in the other.
They entered in a group, the king, his general, and his brothers. All of them, by mutual agreement, had taken the time to complete their formal dress. They could not ignore the urgent summons that filled the night, but they were too proud to attend in the disarray of th
eir night clothes. All were sashed and jeweled and turbaned. Behind them was a gathering crowd of priests, slaves and warriors, but these stayed wisely outside the vast double entrance doors.
“Rajar!” The king was suddenly furious as he saw his son at the gong. Even the lowest night soil child should have known that the great assembly gong could only be sounded on the order of the king and then only when the king was already present and seated to receive an audience.
The luckless prince stopped his efforts and looked up with an anxious face.
“Continue!” Raven barked.
The command was in another language but Rajar understood. He cast an appealing glance at his father and uncles and then resumed his frantic beating as energetically as before.
There the tableau froze for more long minutes: Raven languishing indolently on the king’s throne, Thorn standing and threatening, and the rulers of the city huddled in a tight, confused and angry knot. The two hand lazers held them at bay, while the monotonous booming of the great gong continued to deafen them all.
At first Jahan could only stand and stare balefully at the sardonic figure of Thorn. Here was the vile, blue-skinned creature he sought, the one who had dared to defile his princess, whose actions had dishonoured them all and who was now showing a mighty contempt that brought shame to all Karakhor. Jahan could barely control himself. His honour, his pride, his great senses of duty and loyalty, all demanded in one almost overpowering scream inside his head that he should defy death and charge forward to attack this sky-monster with his sword.
What held the warmaster general back was not the fear of his own death—that was an indifferent price to pay—but the fact that Kara-Rashna and his two brothers were in the same direct line of fire. All that Jahan had seen and heard indicated that one bolt of white lightning from the weapon in Thorn’s hand would destroy them all. The old warrior would happily fling himself into hell to restore all that had been lost, but to carry with him almost the entire royal House of Karakhor was a decision he could not make.
The others were staring at the pile of bodies at Raven’s feet, and now even Kara-Rashna’s kingly fury had been replaced by confusion and uncertainty. Events were moving too fast for all of them, but they sensed that there was more here at stake than ruffled dignity and palace protocol. After his initial protest to his son, the king was too stunned to speak. His bodily weakness swept over him again and Devan and Sanjay had to support him on either side. The princes too were shocked into silence.
In any case, any words they might have uttered would not have been heard while the great gong continued to boom. Raven showed no hurry to commence whatever he had in mind and gave Rajar no sign to stop. The young prince hardly dared to look for such a sign and devoted himself to his task. The gong beats were remorseless and began to seem unending. But one by one the heads of the other great noble houses of Karakhor were hurrying to the palace to join the assembly.
The fat lord of Bulsar stumbled into the room. On his silk waistcoat was embroidered the blue raven that was his banner emblem, and a raven in blue gemstones fastened his blue turban. However, his whiskers were uncombed and his sword belt was askew. He stopped beside his king and princes and gaped.
Tilak came next, puffing and gasping, having run all the way from his own house. He had forgotten his sash and sword belt. His waistcoat was only partly buttoned and the black turban on his head was at an unseemly angle. Raven’s cold eyes noted the black orchid emblem that Tilak wore but he made no move.
The back end of the audience hall and the corridors outside were now packed and crowded, the sons and warrior guards of Bulsar and Tilak having pushed in to join the palace inhabitants. The press of bodies made passage difficult for the last of the ruling elite, and several more minutes passed before he could force his way to the front. There Gandhar’s ancient lord took his stand with the rest, his rheumy eyes blinking, his creaking knees almost buckling beneath him.
On his breast Gandhar wore the emblem of a double-bladed axe on green silk. Green was the colour of his turban and the livery of his soldiers. At last Raven leaned forward on the throne and showed interest.
“Enough,” Raven commanded.
The Gheddan word had no meaning for the Hindus, but it caused Rajar to hesitate and turn his head. He saw that the blue-skinned god was looking directly at him and correctly guessed that he was to stop beating the gong. He held back the next hammer blow until he was sure and then sank exhausted onto his knees.
The great gong hung still. The last reverberations slowly faded away, receding sound waves of dark foreboding in a nightmare that was not yet ended. Silence seeped over the audience hall and the city, more awesome and terrifying than the noise had been. None dared move or breathe.
Raven rose calmly to his feet. All eyes were fixed upon the grim figure of the Sword Lord. Even Jahan moved his frustrated glare from Thorn.
That the blood-spattered god had been engaged in battle was plain for all to see, and the corpses at his feet testified to his triumphant victory. But now Jahan’s eyes began to narrow a little. He began observing small points and filing the information carefully away in his brain. First, there was damage to the golden chain mail, just below the god’s left shoulder. Second, there was a neat cut across the fabric of his left sleeve. Could it be that some of the god’s own blood mixed with the bloodstains from his enemies? Did the god bleed as a mortal man would?
Raven extended his sword arm, pointing the still red blade directly at the old lord of Gandhar. With a curt motion of the sword, he indicated that the old man should come forward.
Gandhar was bewildered and afraid. He looked beseechingly toward his companions, but none could aid or advise him. Raven repeated the ferocious motion with his sword.
The old man gulped down a deep breath and rallied his failing courage. He was almost at the end of his years. It would soon be time to die anyway. Perhaps it was better to die with a little dignity than to endure dribbling in his dotage. He shuffled forward, held his head high and waited.
Raven laid down his sword on the vacant throne. With his free right hand, he reached down for one of the corpses, and grasping it by the rags at the neck, he hurled it forward to slither to a stop at the feet of the old lord. Angrily he heaved and kicked the remaining two corpses to join it. He picked up his sword again and stabbed the blade first toward those already dead, and then at the one about to die.
“These carrions are yours,” he accused.
Gandhar looked blank. The actions and the anger of the strange god were more revealing than his meaningless words, but still the old man was slow to understand. Behind him, the gathered assembly was equally uncomprehending.
Raven stepped forward. He thrust his swordpoint down at the outflung arm of the dead hunchback, pushing between flesh and the leather armband with the three ribbons of green silk. The blade cut through the leather; the point flipped the incriminating insignia upward to where Gandhar could catch it clumsily in his feeble hands. The old man stared at it and understood.
“But these men are not servants of mine,” he protested. “They are not even warriors. They are common cutthroats from the gutters of the city.”
Jahan risked a step forward, looking closely at the dead men for the first time. The hunched back and the diseased face fitted descriptions he had received from reports on other incidents. He had not been aware that this unwholesome trio was back in the city, but he knew their trade and their reputation. He added his own bold voice of angry dissent.
“These men are paid assassins. They could have been hired by anyone. The ribbons are a false identification. Everyone here knows that these men are not from Gandhar’s household.”
Raven ignored him. Even if he could have understood the language and the argument, he would have cared nothing for it. What mattered was that someone in this city had launched an attack upon his person, and such daring clearly indicated that another demonstration of Gheddan power was now due. Whether the old man with the matc
hing green colours was the true culprit or not was a matter of lesser relevance. The point would be made, the warning underlined, so the old man was best suited to serve Raven’s purpose.
Without emotion, the Sword Lord leveled his hand lazer. There were mutters of anguished protest but no one moved forward. Gandhar blinked at his executioner and then deliberately moved himself two unsteady paces to one side of the hall. His back was now against one of the high stone pillars. His king and his friends were no longer behind him in the direct line of fire. He looked heavenward and began to recite a prayer to Indra.
Raven cut short the pathetic babbling with one short blast from his lazer. The white hot beam punched a blackened hole where the double-bladed axe emblem had decorated the left breast and the old lord of Gandhar was flung dead against the pillar.
Jahan erupted with a roar of rage. His hand dropped to his great sword and pulled it half free. Raven turned lightly to face him, the hand lazer leveling again on its next target. Behind Jahan, the king wrenched himself free from the support of his brothers and lunged to catch hold of his friend’s sword arm with both hands. In the heat of the moment, Devan and Sanjay both reached for their swords.
For a deathly moment, it seemed as though Karakhor would sacrifice all her rulers but then Thorn made a dramatic move.
“Hold!” the Swordmaster bellowed. His lazer never wavered, but his sword arm moved to point through the arched window to the open sky where the upper ramparts of Indra’s temple were silhouetted clear and black against the moon and starlight.
They all turned fearfully to watch.
Raven smiled. He stabbed his sword into the dead hunchback to hold it upright, and then took his communicator from his belt.
“Now, Caid,” he ordered briefly.
From the Gheddan Solar Cruiser on the far side of the river, a beam of blinding white light lanced forward. It was aimed high above the city, but low enough to slice the topmost spires from the temple of Indra, its tallest and most sacred building. In a thunderclap of sound and an explosion of white light, the carven stone pinnacles simply vapourized and disappeared.
The Sword Lord Page 19
