Sword Destiny

by Robert Leader

  Tuluq signaled the charge as Kaseem sped like a streak of invisible lightning across the cheering battlefield. He sped back to the watchtower above the gate and to the feeble old body that was all that he had.

  The shock of his sudden spiritual return almost tumbled Kaseem off his seat. His eyes shot open, he gasped, and his poor old heart thudded as though it was about to explode. The sudden surge of his blood pressure hammered in his temples. He clung on to his staff with both hands while his senses reeled.

  His head cleared and he knew why he had come back. With an effort, he used the staff to push himself upright and staggered out of the watchtower and on to the wall. He plunged down the steep flight of stone steps and by some miracle did not trip and fall until he was almost to the ground. As his staff skidded out from under him, he hit hard enough to almost knock himself senseless again, but his terrible fear for Laurya drove him on. He used the staff to pull himself to his feet and scuttled through the gateway. The hindquarters of the last two war elephants that Jahan had placed to block the bridge reared up in great grey, thick-skinned barriers before him.

  He pushed between the two huge beasts, careless of whether they might move to crush or trample him. One of them was half hamstrung and crippled anyway and he ignored it. The other could still run. Kaseem grabbed a hold of the elephant’s huge ivory tusk to steady himself and whacked his staff heavily behind its front knee. He shouted the command to kneel, his voice hoarse and cracked. The great head half turned and one lazy eye blinked at him blearily through layers of wrinkled flesh. Nothing else happened.

  Kaseem used his staff to hit the animal again and again behind the knee, shouting shrilly, almost hysterically. The elephant did not seem to feel the blows or did not seem inclined to obey anyone who was not its recognized driver. Kaseem was almost sobbing, when suddenly it decided to comply. The great knee bent, the elephant’s head dipped down. Kaseem clawed at the huge flapping ear and hauled himself up into a sitting position astride its neck. With his staff, he banged the top of its head to get it moving.

  The elephant lumbered along the bridge with Kaseem hitting it furiously to increase its speed. As they came off the bridge, he succeeded in turning it to the right with a blow to its left ear. Then he was slamming into it from both sides with his bony knees as he continued to rain blows on the top of its head to spur it on. The blows might have been flea bites but the beast understood. The blood smell of the battleground leaped into the sensitive nostrils and it lifted its trunk high, gave an almighty trumpeting bellow, and charged.

  Gujar and his companions had just completed their wide circle around the two facing armies when Sardar fell. The rapturous reaction from their own side told them that it was Kananda who had proved victorious and they exchanged delighted grins as they paused to listen. Then Gujar flipped lightly with his reins again and the chariot moved on down the wide gap between the turned backs of their cheering warriors and the river.

  Two things happened simultaneously. They heard the sudden thunder of hooves as Tuluq’s chariots swept into view behind them and a Karakhoran war elephant was hurtling down on top of them from the opposite direction. Gujar heaved on the reins and almost ran his horse team into the backs of the last ranks of men who were standing on tip-toes as they strained forward to get a glimpse of Kananda in the centre of the field. He cleared the way with only seconds to spare, with Kasim and Kyle scrambling to escape behind him.

  The elephant was only half-controlled by its rider and only swerved at the last moment. It thundered past in a storm of dust and for most of the on-coming chariots of Maghalla there was nowhere to go. Two of them wheeled on to the floating logs that covered the Mahanadi, but the horse teams instantly lost their footing and the chariots simply crashed into them and spilled out their riders. A third swung into the close-packed ranks of Karakhor and killed and crushed a dozen helpless warriors. The rest took the full impact of the great war elephant as it ploughed straight through their centre.

  Tuluq stared, horrified, as the great tusks and the sharp war spike loomed over him. He hauled on his reins and tried to turn his horses aside. The elephant’s head was down and the massive spike crashed through the rearing neck of the left hand horse of the pair. The chariot crashed into the solid wall of impaled horse and stopped elephant and Tuluq was thrown clear. By the time he had staggered to his feet, half of his chariots were wrecked and the rest were milling around helplessly. He tried to rally those that remained, calling on all who survived to follow him to the bridge.

  Gujar saw what was happening and quickly swung his own chariot and team broadside across the gap to bar the way. He leaped down, sword in hand, to meet Tuluq’s charge. While they met in furious swordplay, Kasim fought to defend his back. Kyle crouched by the chariot to protect Laurya and used his hand lazer to deadly effect. Meanwhile behind them, Kaseem was wheeling the elephant in lumbering circles, trampling and smashing the remaining chariots and scattering screaming men and horses.

  The advantage to the Maghallans was short-lived. Now that they were stopped, they were at the mercy of the standing army as the Karakhorans realized what was happening and the rear ranks turned to take up their weapons. As the Maghallans fell back and died beside their broken chariots, Gujar struck a fatal blow, and Tuluq, the last champion and war leader of Maghalla, died.

  The second wave of Maghallan chariots had appeared, sweeping round the far end of the Karakhoran battle lines. But the element of surprise was gone and Tuluq’s force was not there to join them. Devan had been alerted and led the Karakhoran princes and their remaining chariots back through their own ranks to swiftly meet the new threat.

  The Maghallan chariots turned back and fled.

  Those who remained of Sardar’s once proud army were defeated and demoralized, and in steady streams and trickles were once more melting away. The great war between Karakhor and Maghalla was effectively over but in the last few seconds of furious fighting it had claimed one more noble life.

  The last war elephant now stood patient and still amongst all the carnage it had wrought. Its tusks and war spike were red with blood, but the battle lust and the squealing excitement had all drained away. It stood alone and riderless.

  A Maghallan spear, hurled in dying desperation, had crashed through the skinny chest of Kaseem, the High Priest and Holy One of Karakhor, piercing his faltering heart and tumbling him dead to the ground.

  Chapter Eleven

  Kananda stood unsteadily in the centre of the great plain between the two standing armies, leaning upon his sword for support. He was bleeding from the cut across his ribs, the deep gashes to his temple and cheek and from his broken nose. He felt sick and dizzy and his entire face radiated agonizing waves of pain. He wiped the blood from his eyes and stared down at Sardar who sprawled lifeless before him, almost unable to believe that he was the one who was still alive. The bestial, scarred face of his enemy was even more contorted in death but he felt no remorse. The greed and ambition of Sardar had caused all the death and destruction that was around them. Sardar had never shown pity in his life and he deserved none now in death.

  Slowly Kananda became aware that the silent, watching ranks of Maghalla were breaking up and turning away. The disheartened warriors of Sardar had no one left to lead them and were beginning to retreat and disappear back into the hills and the forest. The war was truly over.

  He turned to look for his own friends. The cheering behind him had stopped, to be replaced briefly by shouts of alarm and swirls of movement. He was surprised and mystified to find that the small vanguard of Karakhoran chariots had vanished. An open avenue between the lines of warriors showed where they had sped back toward the city and the river. However, they were not detained for long and as he watched they returned just as swiftly in triumph.

  He recognized the leading banners, the proud lion’s paw, the silver boar and the silver panther, and his eyes flooded with more tears. His emotions were as raw as his face.

  He stumbled forward to
meet them as they reined in and sprang down from their battle cars, all of them eager to greet and embrace him. Devan met him with a fierce and loving hug that was almost as dangerous to his aching back as Sardar had been. Ramesh and Nirad were pumping his hand and slapping his shoulders in gleeful welcome.

  Then, to complete this joyful and ecstatic reunion, they all parted to make room for a stranger, a beautiful raven-haired woman in the laced shirt and black trousers of a Gheddan warrior, who was still sheathing a bloodied sword as she approached.

  Kananda stared, and for a second he did not recognize her. She smiled and the smile and the eyes were familiar. To his absolute delight, he realized that this adult, capable and confident young woman was in fact the beloved little sister for whom he had searched for so long. Despite all that had happened she was alive! And she was here!

  “Maryam!” he cried aloud, and they met in a passionate embrace. With his damaged face, he could not even kiss her cheek but he hugged her close and again he wept.

  When they broke apart and held each other at arm’s length, she too had tears in her eyes. “Kananda,” she began, but choked on the rest. They hugged each other again, trembling like the two children they had once been. “Kananda,” Maryam gasped at last when they withdrew again, although they could not stop holding hands. “There is someone you must meet. I have found the love of my life, and he is now my husband.”

  Kananda laughed. “And I, too, have found the woman of my dreams. As soon as I can arrange the ceremony, she will be my wife. You must meet her, too.”

  Their cup of happiness was full. Kananda had found his long lost sister and Maryam could at last present her fabulous blue god lover to her favourite brother.

  They both looked around to search for Zela and Raven.

  Zela had watched Kananda’s last battle on her viewscreen, knowing that this time she could do nothing to intervene and help him. She had almost collapsed with relief when Sardar had fallen and the impulse had been strong to rush out to Kananda and throw her arms around him. She fought it back and instead hung her head and allowed the relief and pent-up emotion to slowly drain out of her. At last she began to breathe deeply and slowly raised her head again. She stared at her viewscreen where Kananda was now delighting in his reunion with his uncle and his brothers. She touched the controls and panned the scene along the front ranks of the watching men of Karakhor.

  She found the blue body of a Gheddan amongst the fallen and bit her lip as she studied it intently for a moment. The corpse was face down and she had no way of knowing if this was the man she sought, but somehow she could not believe that he would have been slain so quickly and easily. She moved the camera control and then found a single blue face still standing.

  This Gheddan was unusually handsome for his race, his features clean-cut and firm under the tight, dark black curls of his hair. He held his sword with the blade resting lightly in the palm of his left hand. He had an air of confidence and control in his stance and a slight sardonic smile on his lips. She had only caught a fleeting glimpse of him when he had fled Karakhor, but she knew that this had to be the same man, the man who had killed her brother. She had found the Sword Lord who called himself Raven.

  She moved the picture closer and stared for a long minute into that mocking blue face and felt her heart and her resolve harden. Her own last, great battle was here. She turned away from the viewscreen and buckled on her weapons belt. Then she checked that both her sword and her hand lazer moved freely in their sheath and holster. The hand lazer she did not really expect to use, for it was unlikely that anyone else would interfere with her progress now that the war between Karakhor and Maghalla was over. She swept back her long golden hair with both hands, tucking it down the collar of her silver suit, out of the way. Then she left the spaceship.

  As she jumped down to earth, she felt calm and relaxed. She was walking to meet her destiny, to defeat her brother’s killer at his own ritual art. Lorin would at last be avenged by the sword and that would be the sweetest vengeance of all. She strode across the battlefield, unhurried but unhesitating. Her viewscreen had shown her exactly where she would find her quarry.

  Raven watched her approach. His curiosity was aroused, but this had been a long day full of surprises and he was beginning to take them in his stride. When she stopped in front him, he merely raised an inquiring eyebrow.

  “You are Raven.” It was a statement which only demanded confirmation.

  He nodded. “I am Raven, Sword Lord of Ghedda.”

  A circle had started to form warily around them. There was a tension within this strange golden woman, a restrained menace which showed every man within hearing distance that here was another confrontation.

  “You led the first Gheddan expedition to the red planet. There you killed an expedition leader from Alpha.”

  Raven shrugged and nodded. “I remember.”

  “His name was Lorin. He was my brother.”

  Raven thought back. “I remember the sword duel. I do not recall the name. It was not a very difficult kill.”

  “This time it will be different.” Zela drew her sword and waited.

  Raven stared at her and laughed. “If this is a challenge, then I do not have to bother. Only a man deserves death by the blade. I do not kill women.”

  “Then stand still and die,” Zela snapped, and with a flash of her sword, she scored a swift, shallow cut across his cheek.

  Raven sprang back and for a second his expression was one of amazement. After a full morning of killing, he had become momentarily bored with the whole gory business and after the events of the past thirty minutes he had assumed it was all over. Now this insane Alphan woman had drawn blood from him, the first time he had ever been touched by a blade. His mouth hardened, the look of weary boredom vanished and his sword flashed up.

  Zela attacked and again the ringing of steel upon steel pealed out in the ferocious symphony of battle. Raven defended and turned the attack and then there was nothing to choose between them as they circled and fought back and forth. The two blades whirled in a dazzling display of speed and skills that had never before been witnessed on either of the two planets. Those who watched widened the fighting circle and stared in awe and wonder at this sudden and terrible dance of death. After almost two months of continuous warfare, and seemingly endless gladiatorial combats, they had never seen anything like this. The blades were blurs of light, the moves of the participants too fast to follow. They spun and weaved with all the power, symmetry and brilliance of two gods, the Blue God and the Golden God, in awesome magnificence.

  Kananda and Maryam arrived together, pushing through the watching circle and stopping side by side as they recognized the two contestants. For a few moments they too were both bewitched by the thrilling exhibition of swordplay, but Maryam clutched fervently at her brother’s arm.

  “Kananda, this is Raven, my husband. You must stop this.”

  Kananda stared at her. In his mind, Raven was the man who had kidnapped his little sister and dragged her away by force to face nameless and unthinkable shame and horror. He could not believe what he was hearing. He said hoarsely, “Zela is the woman I love. I cannot stop it.”

  “He fought for Karakhor,” Maryam begged with tears in her eyes.

  “I still cannot stop it,” Kananda said helplessly.

  They stared at each other in a sudden anguish of torn loyalties as they each realized the awful truth, that they each truly loved one of these sworn and deadly enemies.

  Then slowly Maryam straightened her shoulders and pulled away from him. Her pride would not let her plead any further, not even to her brother, and she was confident that Raven would eventually triumph. “Then he will slay her,” she said simply. “He has fought more sword battles than you can even imagine and he has never been defeated.”

  They stood side by side, no longer touching, and watched. Devan and the other princes came to join the circle of spectators and they too stood spellbound. Previous battles between
champions had always been trials of strength, bursts of hot temper or struggles of desperation and defiance. Rarely were they such demonstrations of pure speed and dexterity. Between these two combatants, swordplay was an art form, a refined ballet of supple muscles, lightning reactions of eye and mind, and the quicksilver of darting blades.

  Maryam’s confidence slowly began to waver and her torment increased as she realized that Zela was at least the equal of Raven.

  Zela had spent much of her life preparing for this moment and she had always known that her determination and her sword skills had to be honed to the same brilliant sharpness as her blade. Now her commitment showed and she was relatively fresh.

  Raven had fought all through the long, bloody morning and his sword arm was weary. Maryam began to fret that perhaps Raven could lose after all. He was tired and there was blood on his blue cheek from that first cut, which Maryam now saw as a bad omen.

  Kananda, too, began to fear for Zela. He could see that Raven had complete mastery of his blade and that he was a practiced swordsman who could not be rattled or panicked even though he was fatigued. Zela had mastery of her sword and had killed with it, but she did not have that complete, cold killing nature which favoured her opponent. The hot zeal of her passion was fading as Raven refused to give her an opening.

  Kananda and Maryam were both becoming more uncertain. Zela and Raven were so perfectly matched that there was only two ways for this to finish. One of them had to make a fatal mistake, which seemed highly unlikely. The other was that one of them had to be the victim of a cruel piece of luck, a twist of fate or misfortune, which meant that the decision was in the hands of the gods.

  Silently they both began to pray.

  The misfortune was Raven’s. The field on which they fought was a charnel house soaked in blood. Most of the churned and red-stained earth gave good footing, but here and there were small patches of grass that had not been cut up by chariot wheels or trampled away. As Raven circled, he inadvertently stepped on one of those blood-streaked tufts. His heel slipped and skidded and he stumbled backwards.