Sword Destiny

by Robert Leader

  The four horses neighed and plunged together in a rearing tangle of tearing harness and snapping shafts. Both carriages were smashed asunder and the two occupants thrown out of the wreckage. Ramesh rolled, stunned, on the ground, but Seeva landed more lightly on hands and knees, with Zarin’s sword still clenched in her hand.

  “I am Seeva,” she screeched at him. “Daughter of Sardar, wife of Prince Zarin.” She rose to take a two-handed grip on her sword and swung it up above his head.

  Ramesh struggled to one knee, groping for his own sword. He saw her distorted face staring down at him, her fragile beauty ruined by the blaze of madness in her eyes and the drool of spittle on her lips. He remembered all the stories he had heard of the Tigress of Maghalla, of the score of men she had butchered. Her rage was a terrible thing and she was a woman. Ramesh had killed many men since this war had begun, but he had never killed a woman. His hands faltered and his bowels turned to ice. He understood how all those men before him had fallen to her vengeful blade.

  Seeva swung her sword in a stroke that should have split his helmet and his head like a ripe pineapple. The blow only fell halfway before a second sword parried and turned it aside.

  Seeva turned with a wail of frustration—and faced another warrior who was her equal.

  “Men die before you because they will not fight a woman,” Maryam told her with contempt. “But I am not a man. I do not have that weakness.”

  Seeva screamed with fury and flung herself into an attack. Maryam gave ground before the onslaught and a circle cleared around them to give them room.

  Maryam turned Seeva’s blade again and kicked her hard in the groin, a typically Gheddan assault. Seeva gasped and staggered back, both with surprise and the sudden crippling pain. No one had ever kicked her there before.

  As Seeva reeled away, Maryam pursued her advantage with a series of swinging sword blows that hammered down her defence. Seeva made one last attempt to rally, spinning full circle and coming back with a thrust that would have disemboweled her opponent if it had scored home. It was a play that had to kill one of them. Maryam stepped nimbly to one side and Seeva impaled herself on the lunging Gheddan blade. She screamed horribly as she died, more in hysteric fury than in agony.

  Maryam stood breathless for a moment, watching with a strange feeling of hot elation as the corpse of the Tigress of Maghalla slid slowly from her blade. When she killed Sylve, she had felt shame and nausea, but that was many weeks and many battles ago. Now she felt only satisfaction.

  Behind her there was a roar of anger from Maghalla, and immediately the two nearest warriors hurled themselves at Maryam’s back, but now it was the turn of Nirad to intervene. He had recovered his wits and the use of his sword arm and he met them with a whirlwind of steel that cut both of them dead in their tracks.

  The moment of triumph was short as the tide of battle turned swiftly against the struggling fighters of Karakhor. As Maghalla took heart, the whole front line of the defenders was pushed back. The Gheddan swords were taking a terrible toll, but despite their ferocity and skills in swordplay, the Gheddans wore no protective helmets and they had never been trained in the defensive use of arm shields to fend off enemy blades and arrows. A sword slash to the skull killed Landis and in almost the same moment a second fatal arrow pierced Caid through the neck. With two more of the blue gods down, the massed voices of Maghalla howled in triumph.

  Taron was close enough to see Landis fall, and with a bellow of rage, he leaped down from his chariot and carved a bloody path through to where his dead companion lay. He took swift and immediate revenge, slicing the perpetrator’s head from his body and then kicking it high above the heads of all the rest. But now the big, ugly Gheddan was alone, a lion at bay, trapped and surrounded by a swarming pack of Maghallan jackals. They fell upon him from all sides and Taron went down fighting beneath the storm of blades.

  In all that deafening, soul-destroying insanity, Gujar could barely tell friend from foe. He had become separated from his chariot and fought on foot, hacking and slashing almost blindly, with the vague assumption that those behind him were friends and those before were foes. He knew that it was only a matter of time before he felt the hot cut or thrust of death and until then he was only determined to kill as many of his enemies as was humanly possible.

  He was tiring when a Maghallan arm shield suddenly smashed into his face, its edge opening up a deep cut above his left eye. He was pushed backwards, his heel caught on a fallen corpse and he sprawled heavily on to his back. He rolled instinctively, escaping the first of the downward hacking sword blows that rained toward him. With an effort, he struggled to one knee, still retaining his sword, but he was half-blinded by the blood pouring down into his eyes.

  Three Maghallan warriors formed a half circle around him. He saw them through a thin curtain of dripping red and knew that in this handicapped moment he could not kill them all. Then behind them a chariot abruptly loomed. Gujar recognized the tall figure of Rajar, reins in one hand and a bloodied sword in the other. Rajar hauled his horses to a stop and for a moment their eyes met. Then Rajar deliberately flicked his reins and his chariot just as swiftly disappeared back into the whirl of battle.

  Gujar had known for a long time that it was Rajar’s scheming that had caused the death of his father. Now he also knew that by his aloof attitude he had betrayed himself. Rajar knew that he knew. The young prince could easily have attacked his assailants from behind, but had chosen to leave him to his fate. As the thoughts flashed through Gujar’s mind, the three Maghallans came in for the kill.

  They were too late. An eye-dazzling blur of flashing steel cut through them and in less than a minute all three had died on a single blade. As the last one fell away in a spray of blood, Raven turned and casually offered his free hand to the still unsteady house lord.

  Gujar stared at the blue hand that was extended toward him, the hand of Maryam’s blue god. This was the man who had fired the beam of white light that had murdered his father, but the deed had been done openly and the blue god had been tricked. All of Gujar’s hatred now was directed only at Rajar. After only a moment’s hesitation, Gujar took the blue hand and allowed Raven to haul him to his feet.

  “You are a useful blade,” Raven said calmly. “Fight on.” With that the Sword Lord moved forward, rejoining Maryam and seeking out his next victims.

  Gujar stood dazed for a moment as the battle surged momentarily away from him and then heard his name called. He turned as two chariots pulled up beside him, side by side. He recognized his own horse team and Kasim in the second chariot, holding both sets of reins. Slowly Gujar climbed back into his chariot and took the offered reins. Kasim flashed him a smile and then returned to the bloody work at hand. Gujar had not understood Raven’s parting Gheddan words, but after wiping the blood out of his eyes, he too took a renewed grip on his sword, followed his friend and fought on.

  Jahan and Devan were the two mighty rocks on which the tide of Maghalla broke and foamed and foundered. They fought side by side in their chariots and the Maghallan dead piled up around them. Then slowly, under the surging pressure of the battle, they were pushed apart. Each champion was isolated and alone.

  Jahan’s sword was growing heavier and swinging more slowly in his hand. Every blow seemed to require more effort as the old man weakened. The sweat was pouring down his face and his helmet had taken a blow that had knocked it to an uncomfortable angle. His damaged leg threatened to collapse beneath him and he knew that if he was to be forced down from his chariot, then he would not last for more than seconds.

  Still he fought on stubbornly, determined to wield the great ruby-hilted sword until his last, dying breath escaped him. He hacked and slashed until suddenly he became aware that those who were baying for his blood were falling back. He paused and watched as a Maghallan chariot pushed through the parting mob. The banner of the red fist on a black background fluttered against the blue sky, the flag of the Prince of Kanju, and the grinning driver was B
harat.

  Bharat had held back and waited, watching from behind an almost solid wall of his own warriors until it became evident that the old man had tired. His own sword had hardly moved in his hand all through the long, bloody morning, but now it was time to wield the blade. He came forward for a single combat battle of champions which was already decided. The defeat of Jahan, the Warmaster General of Karakhor, the glory and honour of victory, were all his for the taking.

  “We meet again,” he said cheerfully as he reined his chariot alongside.

  “We meet again,” Jahan agreed, and swung the first blow with deadly ferocity, knowing that this was his best and only chance.

  Bharat almost died. He was over-confident and not yet ready and barely succeeded in blocking the cut in time. He was forced back in the small fighting space that his chariot walls allowed and found himself defending against a hurricane of blows. However, it was a short-lived storm. Jahan’s strength was failing and Bharat was the younger man and still fresh. Also, he was nimble and fast, able to make full use of his confined space while Jahan was hampered by the throbbing pain of a stiff and crippled leg.

  Slowly Jahan’s movements became weaker. He only just ducked a swinging cut that caught the top of his helmet and toppled it from his head. Another crushing blow shattered his arm shield and left him with fresh blood pouring down from his elbow. He could only defend now. His breath was coming in struggling gasps and grunts and his eyes glazed with his efforts. The proud old heart was drumming and a red veil formed in front of his eyes. The ruby-hilted sword would no longer obey his mental commands. It was too heavy to lift. His crippled leg was dragging him down. Bharat struck the deathblow and clove him through the side of the neck, crushing the top of his breastplate and chopping through his collar bone. Jahan’s eyes closed and the blood flowed in a red wave as he fell.

  Bharat cried out in triumph and waved his bloodied sword aloft. His men cheered and applauded, but Bharat had celebrated too soon. Thirty yards away, Devan’s great, wrathful bellow thundered over the cheers. Devan charged his chariot straight for Bharat’s, bouncing and flying over both the dead and the living who blocked his path. His chariot was almost airborne as he heaved his horses round and swung it crashing into Bharat’s. With one massive sweep of his sword, he struck Bharat’s head from his shoulders and sent it spinning above the battlefield.

  It was too late, for already the black news was spreading across the plain, sending shockwaves of despair through the weary hearts of Karakhor.

  “Jahan has fallen.”

  “Lord Jahan is dead.”

  Kaseem had taken up a position on top of the watchtower above the main gates into the city. Below him was the bridge, only a symbolic entrance now that the unbroken expanse of lashed logs covered the river along the whole length of the city walls. However, in a token gesture, Jahan had blocked the bridge and the gates with the last two war elephants left to the city. They stood side by side, silent and unmoving, presenting their daunting tusks and head-harness spikes toward the enemy. They would be a last, if ineffective, obstacle to Sardar’s chariots.

  From his high vantage point, the old priest had watched the surge and thrust of the battle, the sun beating down upon his bared head and shoulders and the tears flowing unimpeded down his brown and wrinkled cheeks. Karakhor was being slaughtered before his eyes and there was nothing he could do to help. Raven and his crew had failed to make any real difference to the final outcome. They had only delayed the inevitable. Slowly and pitilessly, the forces of Karakhor were being pushed back toward the river, their numbers shrinking as the army of Maghalla tightened around them.

  The noonday sun blazed hot and as merciless as the blood-dripping swords. Then the dreaded cry went up that Jahan had fallen. Kaseem felt as though a spear thrust had found his own heart and clutched at the wall in front of him for support. The tears flowed hotter and faster down his face and he turned to look for Sahani who had kept vigil beside him. “It is over,” he said bitterly. “There is no more hope. Let the Juahar begin.”

  The young priest nodded. His face was as white as his robe, his whole body trembled and he too wept freely. He could not speak but turned and hurried from the tower to carry his fateful message. The Juahar fires had been kept burning bright in the temple courtyards, while the waiting women and priests had kept up a continuous murmur of prayer. Now there was no longer any cause to postpone the rites of Sati.

  Kaseem could hardly bear to look, but with a huge sigh he raised his head to gaze back upon the plain. The hordes of Maghalla were poised now for their long-denied kill. With Jahan dead and their numbers more than halved, Devan could no longer rally any last show of defiance. There was no resistance left. The Karakhoran front was crumbling as the bone-weary survivors lowered their swords, stepped back, and waited to be slain.

  And then the last Alphan Tri-thruster appeared in the eastern sky.

  Long after the brilliant white light had faded from the solar system, Zela sat stiff and numb with shock. Her viewscreen returned almost to normal, except for the dispersing embers of red-hot core material cooling slowly into millions of fragment asteroids. The distant stars and galaxies began to faintly glitter again, star dust slowly brightening in the black void. She saw none of it for her eyes were screwed tightly shut. Even after all the warnings, she still could not believe that her homeworld was gone. It was an impossible event that should not have happened. Her mind had been drained of all thought, hope and reason. Her heart was hollow, her soul in dreadful limbo. She was an empty husk, robbed of everything.

  Kyle had turned away to go and tend as well as he could to Laurya.

  Kananda remained with his hand on Zela’s shoulder. After a while, that too seemed an empty thing to do but he did not know how to comfort her.

  At last, after what seemed an eternity of grief and silence, Zela opened her eyes. She stared then at her viewscreen where Dooma no longer existed and heaved a long, shuddering sigh. She looked up at Kananda but still could not speak.

  “What happens now?” he asked quietly.

  Zela scanned the heavens around them for any signs of Raven’s ship. There was nothing. They were alone in space and she looked next to her fuel and power readings. They were almost zero. The solar panels that should have automatically started to recharge her lazer banks and most other systems were obviously damaged and no longer functioning.

  “It seems we have only two choices,” she said at last. “We can just drift here until we die in space or we can try to land on Earth.”

  “I think I would prefer to land,” he admitted simply.

  Zela forced a thin, white smile. “Then I will try to take you home, to your city of Karakhor.”

  They strapped Laurya into her bunk, using pillows and blankets to insulate her as much as possible from the stress and pull of entry into the Earth’s atmosphere. Kyle and Kananda then took up their flight seats and Zela piloted them down. She made one orbit of the planet before the distinctive sub-continent of India took shape through the swirls of broken cloud. Kyle plotted in the recorded co-ordinates for the location of Karakhor and Zela banked the Tri-thruster and began their descent. With a pilot’s natural skill and instinct, she was conserving their last dregs of power as much as possible.

  As they approached, Kyle was able to bring a close-up image of the plain and the city on to their viewscreens. The full horror of the battle and the destruction of the city were revealed to them and now it was Kananda’s turn to suck in his breath and realize that the world he had known was destroyed. He stared at the awful scenes of total carnage and mass slaughter and now he could fully understand Zela’s grief and anguish at the death of Dooma. If anything, this was worse, for the fifth planet had died in one clean burst of brilliant white light, while Karakhor was being systematically butchered before his eyes.

  “Can we help them?” he asked, and then in desperation, “we must help them.”

  For a moment it seemed that Zela had not heard him. She too was
staring at her viewscreen. The gory scenes of battle had registered, together with the fact that the defenders were on the very edge of defeat, dying helplessly with their backs to the river. However, her gaze was glued to the city itself, to where the black needle of the Gheddan Solar Cruiser thrust up from the city square and the circle of surrounding stone temples. The last Gheddan ship had landed and instinctively she knew that this had to be Raven’s ship. He was the leader of the enemy expedition, their most experienced space pilot and commander. Simple logic said that the one ship most likely to survive would be Raven’s.

  Raven, the Gheddan Sword Lord she had sought for so long. The man she had sworn to kill, the murderer of her brother, Lorin. He was down there somewhere and he was alive. Because she so desperately wanted to kill him, she could convince herself that he was alive. Suddenly what was left of her life had meaning again. She could still avenge Lorin. The opportunity might still come to challenge Raven, to see him die as Lorin had died, by the sword.

  Slowly she became aware of Kananda’s question and the urgent pleading in his eyes. She blinked to clear her mind and forced her concentration back to the immediate task at hand. She checked her instrument readings and made swift mental calculations. “We could make one pass over the battlefield and fire one burst from the ship’s lazers. But then we would have no power left to bring the ship’s nose up again and land in the conventional way. We would have to make a crash landing.”

  “Please,” Kananda begged her. “Let us leave the rest to the gods.”

  Zela smiled wryly. “Then pray that your gods will be more merciful than mine.”

  She brought the ship in low over the up-turned faces of the struggling mass of men, aiming for the line of contact where the two opposing forces struck together. The line parted as they approached, with both sides trying to break away and run back. Screaming men trampled each other in their haste, fear and panic spreading through them in a bursting flood. The warriors of Karakhor backed up frantically on to the log rafts floating along the Mahanadi. Those of Maghalla tried to flee back across the plain toward the forest.