2 - Blades of Mars (5 page)

Betrayed!

 
          
 
The day of the great meeting dawned and Ora
Lis had not returned. Nor had the search parties that had gone seeking her'
discovered a trace of her. We all became worried, but priority had to be given
to the meeting.

 
          
 
The proud cilaks and orcilaks were arriving.
They had travelled secretly and always alone. The Priosa patrols were ever wary
for large groups of men who might represent danger.

 
          
 
Fanners, merchants, artisans, dahara trainers,
whatever their normal occupations they were all warriors. Even the Priosa
tyranny had not been able to forbid the countrymen to give up their right to
bear arms. And armed they were -to the teeth.

 
          
 
Guards were stationed in the surrounding hills
to keep a look-out for any Priosa patrol, though none was expected on this
particular day, which was why the meeting had been called now.

 
          
 
There were more than forty village-leaders and
town-leaders there, all of them looking eminently trustworthy and with
integrity ingrained in the faces. But there was independence too - the kind of
independence that would prefer to fight its own battles and not
rely
on any group effort. Their habitual looks of suspicion
changed somewhat, however, as soon as they entered the big room set aside for
the meeting in Morahi Vaja's house. They saw Hool Haji there and they said, ‘He
is like the old Bradhinak alive again!' And that was enough. There was no
bowing of the knee or servile salute - they held themselves straight. But there
was a new air of determination about them now.

 
          
 
Having ascertained that all were convinced of
Hool Haji’s identity, Morahi Vaja unrolled a large map of Mendishar and hung it
on the wall behind him. He outlined our basic strategy and proposed tactics in
certain conditions. The local leaders asked questions - very thoughtful and
penetrating ones - and we answered them. Whenever we could not answer at once
we discussed it.

 
          
 
With men like these, I realised, pitched
against the unwary
Priosa,
it would be no difficult
feat to win the capital and wrest Jewar Baru's stolen power away from him.

 
          
 
But still the feeling of disquiet was with me.
I could not shift
it,
I was constantly on my guard,
glancing about me warily, my hand on my sword,

 
          
 
A meal was brought into the hall at midday and
we ate as we talked, for there was no time to lose.

 
          
 
By early afternoon the initial talking was
over and smaller details were being discussed - how best to use certain small
groups of men with a special fighting-skill, how to use individuals such as the
local champion spearmen, and so on.

 
          
 
By dusk most of us were satisfied that on the
day set for the attack - in another three days - we should be ready and we
should win!

 
          
 
But we were never to make that attack.

 
          
 
Instead, at sunset, we were attacked!

 
          
 
They came on the village from all rides and we
were hopelessly outnumbered and out-weaponed.

 
          
 
They came in a charge, mounted on daharas,
their armour shineing in the dying sunlight, their plumes waving and their
lances, shields, swords, maces and axes flashing.

 
          
 
The noise was terrible, for it was the baying
blood-lust of men prepared - no, enjoying the prospect - to wipe out a village,
man, woman and child.

 
          
 
It was the cry of the wolverine debased in a
human throat.

 
          
 
It was a cry not only to strike terror into
the hearts of the women and children, but into the hearts of grown, brave men.
It was a cry that was merciless, malevolent,
already
triumphant.

 
          
 
It was the cry of the human hunter of the human
prey!

 
          
 
We saw them riding through the streets,
striking at anything that moved. The cruel glee on their faces was
indescribable. I saw a woman die clutching her child. Her head was sliced off
and the child impaled on a lance. I saw a man trying to defend himself against
the battering weapons of four riders - and go down with a shriek of rage and
hatred.

 
          
 
It was a nightmare.

 
          
 
How had this come about? We had been betrayed,
that was plain. These were the Priosa, unmistakably.

 
          
 
We rushed into the streets, standing shoulder
to shoulder and taking the savage riders as they came at us.

 
          
 
It was the end of everything. With us dead the
people would be leaderless. Even if some escaped, there would not be enough to
launch any sizeable revolt.

 
          
 
Who had betrayed us?

 
          
 
I could think of no one. Certainly not one of
these village-leaders, men of pride and integrity, who were even now falling
before the weight of the
Priosa
attack.

 
          
 
Night fell as we fought - but darkness did
not, for the scene was illuminated by the houses which the attackers had
already set ablaze.

 
          
 
If I had had any doubts that Hool Haji had
exaggerated the cruelty of the tyrant and his chosen supporters they were
quickly dismissed. I have never seen such sadism exhibited by one part of a
race for another.

 
          
 
Memory of it is still burned deep in my mind.
I shall never forget that night of terror - I wish that I could.

 
          
 
We fought until our bodies ached. One by one
the brave hope of Mendishar fell in their own blood, but not before they had
taken many of the better-equipped Mendishar with them!

 
          
 
I met steel with steel. My movements became
almost mechanical - defence and attack, block a thrust or a blow, deflect it,
aim a thrust or a blow of my own. I felt like a machine. The events, the weariness,
had momentarily driven all emotion from me.

 
          
 
It was later, when only a few of us remained,
that I became aware of a shouted conversation between Hool Haji and Morahi
Vaja, who stood to my left.

 
          
 
Morahi Vaja was remonstrating with my friend,
telling him to flee. But Hool Haji refused to go. 'You must go - it is your
duty!'

 
          
 
'Duty!
It is my duty
to fight with my people!' 'It is your duty to choose exile again. You are our
only hope. If you are killed or captured tonight, then the whole cause is
destroyed. Leave, and there will come others to take the place of those who
have died tonight.'

 
          
 
I at once saw the logic of what Morahi Vaja
said and added my voice to his.

 
          
 
We continued to fight, arguing as we did so.
It was a bizarre scene!

 
          
 
Eventually Hool Haji realised that this must
be so - that he must leave.

 
          
 
'But you must come with me, Michael Kane. I -
I shall need your comfort and your advice.'

 
          
 
Poor devil - he was in a strange mood and
might do something rash. I agreed.

 
          
 
Pace by pace we retreated to where two men,
grim-faced, held mounts for us.

 
          
 
We were soon riding out of the devastated
village, but we knew that Priosa would be encircling the place waiting for such
an attempt - it was a standard tactic.

 
          
 
I glanced back and again felt horror!

 
          
 
A small group of defenders stood shoulder to
shoulder just outside Morahi Vaja's house. Everywhere else were the dead - dead
of both sexes and of all ages. Lurid flames licked from the once beautiful
mosaic houses. It was a scene from Bosch or Breughel - a picture of hell.

 
          
 
Then I was forced to turn my attention to the
sound of dahara feet thundering towards us.

 
          
 
I am not a man to hate easily - but those
Priosa I hated.

 
          
 
I welcomed the opportunity to kill the three
who came at us, grinning.

 
          
 
We used warm, much-blooded steel to wipe those
grins from their faces.

 
          
 
Then we rode on, heavy-hearted, away from that
place of anger and cruelty.

 
          
 
We rode until it was almost impossible to keep
our eyes open and the cold morning came.

 
          
 
It was then that we saw the remains of a camp
and the outline of a prone figure stretched on the sward.

 
          
 
As we neared the camp we recognised the
figure.

 
          
 
It was Ora Lis.

 
          
 
With a cry of surprise, Hool Haji rode up to
the spot and dismounted, kneeling beside the woman. As I joined him I saw that
Ora Lis was wounded. She had been stabbed once with a sword.

 
          
 
But why?

 
          
 
Hool Haji looked up at me as I stood on the
other side of the prone girl. 'It is too much,' he said in a hollow voice.
‘First that - and now this.'

 
          
 
‘Is it Priosa work?' I asked quietly.

 
          
 
He nodded, checking her pulse. 'She is dying,'
he said. 'It is a wonder she has lived so long with that wound.'

 
          
 
As if in response to his voice, Ora Lis' eyes
fluttered open. They were glazed but brightened in recognition when they saw
Hool Haji.

 
          
 
A choking sob escaped the girl's throat and
she spoke with difficulty, almost in a whisper.

 
          
 
‘Oh.
my
Bradhi!'

 
          
 
Hool Haji stroked her arm, trying to frame
words which would not come. Plainly he blamed himself for this tragedy.

 
          
 
'My Bradhi -I am sorry.'

 
          
 
'Sorry?' Words came now. 'It is not you, Ora
Lis, who should feel sorry - it is I!'

 
          
 
'No!' Her voice gained strength. 'You do not
realise what I have done. Is there time?'

 
          
 
'Time?
Time for what?'
Hool Haji was puzzled, though some sort of
realisation was beginning to dawn in my mind.