Sword Destiny

by Robert Leader

  Chapter One

  The hosts of Maghalla filled the plain. They swarmed down from the hills and out from the forests like a vast plague of locusts, a heaving mass of bodies, all bristling and bright steel flashing from the arms and weapons of war. The smoke of their thousands of campfires stained the dawn sky a sultry, dark-veined red. The stench and sound of their horses, elephants and men carried clearly to the very walls of golden Karakhor.

  For weeks, the vast conglomeration of Sardar’s armies had been on the march. Slowly they had moved down from the north, killing and devouring all that lay in their path, while the mobile forces of Karakhor had contested every inch of the way.

  Kasim, the undisputed Master of the Bow, had taken a force of hand-picked archers and attacked the enemy at every river crossing, every narrow ravine, and every possible bottleneck where an ambush could be launched. They had killed hundreds with volleys of swift arrows before melting away to re-form at their next chosen battle line.

  Gujar, the young Lord of Gandhar, with a swift force of speeding chariots had harassed the enemy repeatedly on the open plains. He had cut off sections of the far-flung horde with merciless hit-and-run attacks, slaughtering with javelins and swords. Like lightning bolts, they came storming out of the sun, struck, killed and were gone in a brilliant, blinding whirl of hooves and wheels, blood and dust.

  The Princes Ranjit and Salim of the House of Bulsar had circled to the rear of the enemy host with a group of their father’s horsemen to savage Sardar’s supply columns and slow his advance. They left fire and terror in their wake, burning food stocks and destroying the supply camps. They succeeded in scattering and driving off large sections of the cattle herds that had been destined as meat for the monstrous horde.

  Hamir, the head huntsman, had infiltrated into the intervening forests with a handful of his best trackers, all of them skilled in wood lore and masters of stealth and cunning. They poisoned the rivers and drinking places, and set a multitude of traps and snares that broke enemy ankles, legs and spines, or pierced their feet with sharpened, poison-tipped spikes of bamboo. They filled large straw baskets with trapped cobras and hurled them, spitting, into the circles of enemy firelight. Once, they captured a live leopard, starved it for a week, and then loosed it into a narrow valley where the Black Monkey Clan had made one of their overnight camps.

  Kaseem had flown the astral heavens, night after night, reporting back to the uncertain and puzzled Jahan the latest advances of the enemy positions. Always he was alert for his astral enemies, but Sardar and Nazik were either both exhausted by the massive and complex task they were undertaking in the physical world, or else they were complacent and feared no threat or observation from the higher plane. Kaseem even wondered whether they might perhaps be afraid of him. In the physical world, they were surrounded and protected by hundreds of mailed guards and champions. In the astral, they were only two against one, and that one was Kharga, his previous incarnation as a swordsman of Ghedda now fully restored in his spiritual form with all his ancient skills and memories. It might even be that they believed him to be still in the company of Laurya, in which case they would fear that they were more than evenly matched. Whatever the reason, he did not fully trust their absence and maintained his guard.

  The awesome advance of the forces of Sardar and Maghalla had been frustrated and harried with every mile, but it could not be stopped. Every delay was only a brief postponement and never a reversal. Sardar had lost several thousand of his men, a thousand head of cattle and scores of his food carts and wagons. Yet when his forces pitched their camps within sight of Karakhor, it looked as though every King and fighting man between the East and Western oceans had all aligned themselves beneath his unfurled banners.

  Jahan, Warmaster of Karakhor, stood upon the ramparts of the white walls and watched them gather. He wore golden mail and the great ruby-hilted sword was belted at his side. His hair was tied back at the nape of his neck and he was bare-headed. His golden helmet, decorated with a snarling tiger on each cheek guard and with a high plume of purple horsehair, rested on the wall before him. Immediately below him lay the river which circled the city, and beyond, the ranks of his own forces, the foot soldiers, chariots and elephants. They were a formidable army in their own right, but they were outnumbered by the huge sprawl of Sardar’s ranks on the far side of the open plain.

  Jahan turned, squinting against the sun-dazzle from the golden roofs and white walls of the palaces and temples within the city walls. That blinding glare was behind them and gleaming in the eyes of Sardar’s warriors. Until noon, that small advantage was theirs. His best archers lined the walls, bows in hand, with piles of sharpened arrows at their feet.

  Kara-Rashna stood behind him, leaning against Kaseem. The two old men, king and priest, almost seemed to be holding each other up. They were both now so frail. On either side of them stood the Princes Sanjay and Devan, grim-faced but rock-solid. The younger Princes and House Lords were ranged in a half circle, all of them silent and subdued. Kasim and Gujar stood side by side, now battle-hardened young men who had proved themselves again and again. Kasim had been offered the command of the archers on the walls, but had chosen to drive his father’s house flag and chariot into battle. The brothers Ranjit and Salim had returned during the cover of darkness with the last of their surviving horsemen and were still covered with dust and blood. Ramesh and Nirad were both pale-faced boys who were still hardly trained. Both had begged to take part in one of the raiding parties and both had been refused. Rajar too was pale-faced, although most of his pallor was hidden by the black beard he had recently grown for that purpose. Rajar had not yet sought to place himself in danger.

  “It begins,” Jahan said, his voice a sombre growl. “Noble King and Noble Princes, we must take up our chariots and take our places.” He reached for his helmet and led the way.

  The others followed. Sanjay and Devan stayed close by Kara-Rashna, but the defiant king waved them aside. He dragged his left leg slightly, but descended unaided to his waiting chariot, where his sun-burst banner fluttered bravely in the breeze.

  “May the Gods go with you,” Kaseem called after them. All through the night he had led the prayers and sacrifices, but now it all seemed pointless and his words rang hollow. Outwardly he was still High Priest and Brahmin, but inwardly all his senses raged against the looming horrors of the war. His faith in the gods and in all the calm philosophies had ebbed and drained. He pulled his white robe around the dry husk of his numbed and useless body and wished that he was Kharga again and that he could go with them.

  Slowly he turned to take the place Jahan had vacated at the wall and looked down, despairing at the coming battle. His ancient eyes closed and the bitter tears squeezed through.

  The bridge that Raven had destroyed had been rebuilt and the cavalcade of battle chariots drove swiftly across the river to take up their positions in the vanguard of the Karakhoran lines. Jahan and Kara-Rashna formed the centre, side by side. On either side of them, Devan and Sanjay reined their chariots into place. Rajar placed his chariot beside his most powerful uncle, staking his claim to be a Prince of senior rank. Devan glanced at him doubtfully, and then gave an approving smile. Rajar smiled bravely in return. He had trained hard with his sword and he knew that now it would be impossible to run away from the daily battles that faced them all. So he had decided that somehow he must swallow his fear and fight as ferociously as he was able in order to survive.

  Gujar, Kasim, Ramesh, Nirad and the Bulsar Princes lined their chariots up in a second row, and looked for the banners of the younger princes in the opposing ranks. They all had strict orders from Jahan and their fathers to leave the older champions of Sardar’s forces to their own seasoned fighters.

  Kara-Ra
shna peered forward through dim and blinking eyes. His heart was also beating painfully as though at any moment it might betray him with the final stab of death. He searched the far, fluttering battle banners for the bright Golden Bear of the King of Kanju, and finally saw it flying proudly, close to the Black Leopard of Sardar of Maghalla. Kara-Rashna needed one hand to hold on to the brawny shoulder of his charioteer, but with the other he drew his sword.

  On the far side of the plain, Sardar of Maghalla straightened his squat bulk, squared his shoulders under his coat of steel mail and raised a javelin in a glittering spear thrust toward the sky. At the given signal, trumpets blasted and the massed war drums began their beat. Horns blared and conch shells sounded. The great mass of men roared in one voice and smashed their sword hilts against their shields.

  Jahan raised his sword and from the walls of Karakhor came a return blast of more trumpets and war drums. The two waves of sound met in one mighty thunderclap in the centre of the still empty field, and then the ranks of Maghalla began to advance and the massed chariots of the Maghallans charged.

  Jahan let them come and cover half of the open field before he roared his own command, slashed his sword down in signal and whipped up the reins of his horses. The sky overhead was suddenly black with the vast cloud of arrows fired from the walls, sailing over their heads as Jahan led the counter-charge with the chariots of Karakhor thundering beside him. On the flanks of both armies, the war elephants screamed and trumpeted as they began their own lumbering advance, urged on by their drivers with kicks and screaming cries. The warriors and foot soldiers on either side hurled their own curses and challenges and ran in the wake of the chariots and tuskers.

  The merciless rain of arrows hit the leading ranks of Maghalla seconds before the main clash of battle struck. The descending shafts bounced off the mailed coats and steel helmets of the leading princes and chieftains, but skewered the less protected flesh of the rank and file, who fell screaming to be trampled by the mob behind. The front ranks of chariots swerved at the last moment to avoid headlong collisions, and then all was confusion as the two forces met. The champions of either side had each tried to swing alongside a worthy opponent, but most of them had been foiled almost immediately by the instant, swirling melee of the battle.

  Ranjit of the House of Bulsar had crashed his chariot with Tuluq, the son of Sardar. Both chariots overturned and the proud standards of the blue raven and the coiled cobra were trampled together in the dust. Ranjit was first on his feet, sword in hand, seeking his marked enemy, but already Tuluq had been hauled back to safety behind a dozen Maghallan warriors. Ranjit might have died then under those Maghallan swords, but the Black Raven of Bulsar crashed through the field as Salim forced his own chariot to his brother’s rescue. Ranjit swung up behind his brother and the two fought together for the rest of that hot and bloody day.

  Sanjay halted his chariot on a small knoll of raised ground and his personal guards formed a ring of steel around him. His dead fingers could not grip the reins and so he lashed them to his withered wrist. Now, with his sound left hand and arm, he began hurling the great bundle of javelins at his feet with deadly accuracy. Heavier than an arrow, the razor-bladed javelins could smash through chain mail, and Sanjay’s eye sought out the Maghallan chiefs and captains who dared to come within his range. Kasim, more mobile in his fast-flying chariot, was doing equally dreadful work with his bow.

  Amid the fearful noise and bloody slaughter, Kara-Rashna was still searching for Kumar-Rao, the King of Kanju, with the chariots of Jahan and Devan stoutly blocking him in and protecting him on either side. Foot soldiers parted before them or were crushed or trampled beneath their pounding hooves and flying wheels. Prince and Warmaster deflected the hails of arrows aimed at their King with their shields, and with their swords cut down any challenger who tried to stop their path.

  The earth shook beneath the heaving tumult and the blood flowed all around them in gory streams.

  Suddenly the proud banner of the golden bear rose before them, sharp and clear to Jahan and Devan, but swimming as though in a darkened mist to the smarting eyes of Kara-Rashna. On its left side flew the black-mailed fist of Prince Zarin, and on its right, the red fist of Bharat. Kanju’s monarch also had his protectors.

  The two old Kings halted their chariots to face each other. Their champions also reined in their horses and reluctantly held back. The warriors of both sides withdrew around them, yielding to the signs of single combat. A circle formed, an oasis of sudden deathly hush and stillness in the raging battle all around.

  Kumar-Rao wore a mail coat of gold over his blue tunic, but he wore no helmet, favouring instead his white turban with a golden bear clasp above his forehead. His beard was equally white and his eyes were sad and rheumy. In his right hand he gripped a sword, but held it as though it were too heavy for him, pulling at his aching arm even though the point rested on the floorboards of his chariot. His jowls drooped and it seemed he had no words to say.

  Kara-Rashna was not sure whether it was tears or dust that stung the back of his own eyelids. Slowly he removed his own helmet, revealing hair as white as Kumar-Rao’s beard. When he spoke his voice faltered.

  “Kumar-Rao, King of Kanju. Oldest friend of Karakhor. Once we were brothers, united in peace. Many times have I come to Kanju as your honoured guest. Many times I have welcomed you in Karakhor. When you were young, I came to celebrate your wedding, and you came to celebrate mine. Noble King of Kanju, oft-honoured guest, beloved friend—why are you here now, among the ranks of my enemies?”

  Kumar-Rao flinched with every word as though each one stung his heart. But he was a king and answered with an almost steady voice. “Prince Zarin, my beloved son, is now a prince of Maghalla. He stands with the father of his bride and my duty binds me with my son.”

  “Withdraw from the field,” Kara-Rashna begged him. “Take your unstained banner home and so will I. Let younger men settle this battle. We are grandfathers and have no place here.”

  “I cannot.” Kumar-Rao lifted his bearded chin with struggling pride. “I am here and I must stay. You cannot ask me to turn like a jackal and slink away with my tail between my legs.”

  “Not like a jackal, you were never that. Go like a lion, old friend, proud and regal. Hold your head and standard high. I yield my honour to beg it of you.”

  “A lion does not leave the field of battle. I cannot go.”

  At last a tear trickled slowly down Kara-Rashna’s cheek. He raised his sword slowly, as though it were heavy lead instead of burnished steel. “Then one of us must die,” he said sadly. “Old friend, I salute you.”

  “May the gods be with you,” Kumar-Rao acknowledged.

  Both monarchs touched the shoulders of their charioteers. The drivers whipped up their horses and the two chariots surged forward, skidding alongside each other with a scraping crash. Both old kings almost fell, recovered themselves feebly, and then began to hew ineffectively at each other with their swords.

  It was a half-hearted contest, as though each willed the other to make the killing blow. Jahan and Devan glared at Zarin and Bharat, and those two stalwarts glared balefully back, but there was a code of conduct to be obeyed. Battles between champions were to be decided by the champions alone. They were subject to the will of the gods.

  Finally Kumar-Rao made one last despairing swing, as though at last he had decided to try and end it. His blade missed and cut deep into the side of Kara-Rashna’s chariot. For a moment, there it was wedged. Kara-Rashna swung his own blade at his opponent’s head, but either he was still aiming to miss or his arm was now too weak and unsteady to take advantage of the opportunity. He succeeded only in knocking Kumar-Rao’s turban from his head, and then the still wildly swinging blade chopped into the bare shoulder of Kumar-Rao’s charioteer. The unfortunate man howled with pain, swung away from the blow and inadvertently hauled hard on his reins. Both of Kumar-Rao’s horses reared high in sudden panic, the chariot was tilted backwards and Kumar Rao
tumbled out to land sprawling on the grass. Somehow he had retained his grip upon his sword and pulled it clear as he fell.

  There was silence, except for the panting and scuffling of the horses as the wounded driver tried to control them. Kumar-Rao pulled himself to his knees, and then crawled painfully away from his grinding chariot wheels. After a few yards, he stopped and looked up pitifully at Kara-Rashna.

  Slowly Kara-Rashna dismounted from his own chariot, using a spear from the rack beside him as a crutch to steady himself. Sword in hand, he limped toward his fallen opponent, and then stopped and leaned on his makeshift staff. He was breathing heavily and had to gasp his final pleas. “Kumar-Rao, friend and brother, again I beg you—leave the field.”

  “You know I cannot.” Kumar-Rao used his sword to push himself upright. In doing so, he pressed the point deep into the earth and then had to struggle to free it. Kara-Rashna waited, still in hope, until Kanju’s panting monarch was again erect with his sword upraised. Then Kumar-Rao charged blindly forward. He made no more attempt to swing his sword, simply holding it aloft like a banner standard. He deliberately impaled himself on Kara-Rashna’s out-held, unmoving blade. The links of golden chain mail parted and the blue tunic and the soft flesh below the heart yielded just as easily. The blade plunged deep and Kara-Rashna stared in horror into Kumar-Rao’s dying eyes.

  Kara-Rashna pulled back his sword, staggering as he did so, and then, like something foul and distasteful, he threw it aside. He knelt beside his fallen opponent and cradled Kumar-Rao’s head against his chest. The tears welled in his eyes and he could not see whether Kumar-Rao was still alive or dead. “Why, old friend?” he asked bitterly. “Why did we have to come to this?”

  “I had no heart for it,” Kumar-Rao croaked weakly. “But perhaps now Kanju’s honour is saved. I give Zarin and Bharat my leave to withdraw.” He coughed up blood and his last gasp was almost inaudible. “Let them take Kanju’s warriors home.”