Sword Destiny (14 page)

She had to quickly consider her options. If she just fled blindly into the heart of the forest, she would end up lost and probably doomed to wander until she died of starvation or thirst, or became a meal for some wild beast. Also, there was no future for her in fleeing any further from Karakhor. Her only hope was to hide and wait for the cover of darkness. Then she might be able to slip past the Maghallan lines and reach the city. Her heart was beginning to pound again and her mouth was dry. She heard the sounds of pursuit coming ever closer.

She stared around her like a trapped animal, looking for a cave, a hollow or a hole in the ground. In final desperation, she looked up. It was possible to climb up into the branches. She could see the footholds and handholds that would take her up into the canopy. She drew a deep breath and, silently and swiftly, she began to climb. She took the blue sari with her. When she was well clear of the ground, she rolled the soft silk into a tight ball and stuffed it down into the cleft between a stout branch and the trunk of her chosen tree. She climbed higher, finally lying herself gingerly along another stout branch like a hunting leopard in waiting. The branch creaked alarmingly as she moved, but once she lay still the creaking stopped.

Now she could only freeze and wait and pray that the gods would spare her. The shouting voices and the crashing of clumsy bodies in the undergrowth grew nearer and at last she saw the soldiers below her. They had formed a long straggling line, each man a few paces apart from his neighbours, and were pushing purposefully deeper into the forest. With spears and swords, they were stabbing and slashing at any tangle of greenery large enough to hide anything more than a small deer.

Maryam held her breath and lay still. The harsh bark of the branch around which she had wrapped herself gouged cruelly into her flesh and disturbed ants or some other unseen insect crawled over the back of her bare thigh.

Not far from her face, something small rustled the leaves. It was probably a bird but in her fevered imagination she could only see snakes. Every sound and discomfort was now horribly magnified, but there was a Maghallan warrior immediately below and she had to hold back the almost overpowering urge to sob or whimper.

The Maghallan was a big man with a totally hairless head. He carried a sword and shield, and with the sword, he was idly slicing a path through the foliage and undergrowth in front of him. On either side, she could see the silhouettes of his nearest companions and she could clearly hear the line of continuing men who searched for her in the gathering gloom. They had stopped shouting now, having fast become bored with their task.

The bald man stopped and Maryam's heart seemed to fly up into her throat. For a second, she was convinced that she had betrayed herself with some small sound and that he was going to look up and discover her. Instead he transferred his sword to his shield hand and began cursing as he slapped at the jungle insects that were now beginning to irritate him. After a moment of vigorous flapping and scratching at his own skin, he took up his sword again and moved on.

Maryam waited until the sounds of the hunt faded and then breathed a sigh of relief. She sat up on the branch and indulged in some grateful brushing and scratching of her own. She realized that she was as safe here as anywhere else and made herself as comfortable as she could, sitting astride the branch with her back against the trunk of the tree. Patiently, she waited for darkness.

After a while she heard the sounds of the hunt coming back and froze again. The light was fading fast and the men who searched for her had given up. They walked by, grumbling, in small groups, obviously becoming more fearful of the night terrors of the jungle than the wrath of their captains.

She let them pass and waited until the jungle was silent again. The darkness was now almost complete and she deemed it time to make her move. She stretched her cramped limbs and gently massaged some life back into her thigh and arm muscles. Then her keen ears caught the soft shuffling and rustling as something else approached on the earth below.

Again she tried hard to become silent and invisible. At first she thought it was an animal, a predator cat or a buffalo, but then a misshapen figure emerged from the gloom. She realized that it was a man, a near-naked savage, clad only in a rough cloak of what might have been sewn monkey skins. He was crouched forward, as though sniffing the earth, and with a shock she realized that he was smelling her trail.

The creature shuffled closer, pausing with every step to inhale and peer at the ground. In a faint ray of starlight his wide, flared nostrils twitched like those of a grotesque hunting dog. As he reached the tree where Maryam was hidden, he stopped again and stared all around into the shadows. Then he bent his head low to stare at the telltale marks of disturbed earth and leaves. He straightened up slowly and lifted his face upwards to stare directly into her eyes. He gave a last triumphant sniff and grinned widely.

He was renowned as the greatest tracker in his clan, the forest tribe who flew the banner of the red monkey. He could follow a spoor anywhere by scent and sight and had never been known to fail. But he was over-confident. He was too pleased with himself and delayed to enjoy the moment before shouting to attract attention. Maryam used that delay to draw the sharp Gheddan knife from her belt, swing one leg nimbly over the branch, and launch herself feet first at his chest.

She smashed him flat on his back and landed with her knees astride him. She clamped her left hand onto his grinning mouth, and for a few moments they writhed desperately as he fought to bite her hand and claw at her back, while she fought to hold him still. She succeeded in slashing the knife across his throat. His eyes bulged up at her and she felt his hot blood spraying the underside of her wrist where she still held tight to his mouth. Slowly he went limp beneath her.

Maryam lay gasping on top of him. The corpse stank like a dead animal and she quickly scrambled away from it. She knelt for a long minute, listening for any other sounds of her pursuers, but there was nothing except the normal nocturnal sounds of the jungle. It was now almost pitch black under the trees.

Already she was becoming unsure of her direction and she knew that she had to move now if she was going to find her way back to the edge of the forest. She began to creep back the way she had come, but paused as she again remembered that she was nearly naked. There was no hope of escaping the attentions of the Maghallan army in just her underclothes, and so she went back to the dead tracker and quickly robbed him of his monkey-skin cloak. Throwing the stinking garment over her head and around her shoulders, she gagged for breath, and then resumed her stealthy crawl back to the jungle's edge.

She had come further than she realized and after a few minutes, panic gripped her. She felt sure the jungle was growing deeper and thicker and that somehow she had missed her direction or was going round in circles. She was lost in tangled black curtains of foliage and she had only her instinct now to guide her. She kept going because there was no real choice. Another few minutes passed of blind groping, with her heartbeat accelerating again and her breathing becoming more ragged and fearful. Then mercifully the darkness dimmed a little in front of her and she heard the murmur of voices to her left.

Even more cautiously, she covered the last few yards, slinking down on to her belly and pulling the tangle of monkey skins close as she reached the edge of the tree line. She guessed that the group of men on her left were waiting for the return of the native tracker she had killed and instinctively began to inch her way to the right. When the sound of voices had faded, she rose to a crouch and began to move faster.

She could see the lights of the Maghallan campfires to her left, and across the river, the bright torches flaming in their brackets on the walls of Karakhor. When she judged herself well clear of the vast sprawl of the Maghallan camp, she left the shelter of the forest and headed directly for the river. Here the severed stumps where the forest had been felled gave her plenty of cover as she moved from one jagged white wound to another. Most of the trees had been cut off at around waist height, so there were enough of them left for her to crouch behind.

When the tree stumps ended, she dropped down on to her stomach again and with the monkey-skin cloak over her head and shoulders, began to wriggle the last few hundred yards down to the riverbank. It seemed to take an age, and when she finally reached her goal, she was smothered in mud and the borrowed cloak was even more torn and tattered. She stared into the broad black flow of the Mahanadi and contemplated the idea of swimming across. The river was fast and deep but she was sure she could make it.

Further upstream, the soldiers of Karakhor were still clearing away the day's dead from the foot of the walls, pushing the Maghallan corpses unceremoniously into the river. Two of those bodies floated past now and suddenly there was a fast swirl of moving water, a snap of jaws, and one of the floating bodies was dragged down out of sight. Maryam stared in horror. Never before had there been crocodiles this far up the Mahanadi, but now she realized that the flesh-eaters had been attracted by the plentiful feast. Swimming the river was abruptly no longer an option.

She began to move warily upstream. She was a hundred paces below the network of log rafts that spanned the whole length of the river along the western wall, but as she approached, she was also being forced dangerously close to the edge of the Maghallan camp. She could see the circles of men sitting or sleeping around the nearest campfires and could only hope that they were too exhausted by the day's fighting to post any really alert sentries.

Again she was reduced to worming her way forward on her belly. The night was bright with stars and now there was no cover at all. As she inched her way forward, the log bridge and the Maghallan lines came closer. She could smell the wood-smoke, the stench of sweat-stained leather and burned meat. The crackle of sparks and burning embers and the low chatter of voices came ever closer. She crawled with her head tilted to one side, watching the nearest campfire which was now only twenty paces away. One of the lounging soldiers suddenly stood and turned towards her and she tried desperately to shrink into the soft mud of the riverbank. The Maghallan walked a couple of paces from the firelight and stopped there to urinate. She did not dare look up at his eyes, but after a moment he was finished and turned abruptly away.

Maryam shuddered, and the movement was too soon. As the monkey-skins rustled, the departing soldier spun on his heel and stared directly toward the spot where she lay. He was uncertain but Maryam knew that his next move must be to come closer and investigate. She leaped to her feet and raced for the bridge.

There was a shout from behind her, but already the rope-lashed logs were underfoot. The platform lurched and dipped under her weight but she was fleet and agile and ran out without hesitation toward the far bank and the city wall. More shouts of alarm went up and then the sounds of hot pursuit. She risked a glance over her shoulder and saw that a dozen men from the nearest campfire were now sprinting after her. The log platforms bucked and jerked as their combined weight crashed down on them.

Maryam flung her cloak aside and kept running. As she did so, she drew the sharp Gheddan knife, although she knew that it would be hopeless against a dozen Maghallan swords. A badly thrown spear flashed past her and then a small shower of hastily fired arrows.

The western wall of Karakhor now reared high on her right, its ramparts cracked, damaged and crumbled, but she still had to run further down the river to reach the first sizeable gap. Now the defenders had been alerted and were looking down from the top of the wall, while all along the riverbank the soldiers of Maghalla were streaming down from their campfires to intercept her. There were warriors behind her, others running parallel along the bank beside her, and more trying to cut across in front of her.

She ran with all her speed and strength and a storm of arrows flew out from the walls to hold her pursuers at bay. One of her sandals came off as she stumbled over a rope knot and her ankle twisted. She cried out with pain and ran on limping, but already she could see that she was not going to reach the breach in the wall before the first of the Maghallan warriors running toward her.

Then a spear flew out and took the first Maghallan in the chest. As he fell, a score of Karakhoran warriors launched themselves down the piles of rubble that filled the lower part of the opening in the wall. They were led by a tall young captain who carved his way into the front ranks of the leading Maghallans. His men followed him and there was a moment of fierce fighting while Maryam reached the wall. A few seconds later willing hands were pulling her up to safety and the small rescue force withdrew in a fighting half-circle. A fusillade of well-aimed arrows covered their final scramble back up through the break in the wall.

Maryam stood gasping for breath, waiting for the tall young captain to come up and question her. He was a lean, grim-faced man, with a helmet and shield that bore many dents and scrapes and scars of battle. As he approached, he smiled suddenly and recognition and amazement burst over her in the same moment.

“Nirad,” she said in disbelief. He was no longer the laughing boy she had left behind, but he was still her half-brother and he sheathed his sword and greeted her with a warm embrace.

“Maryam, it is good to see you. It is my good fortune to be captain of the watch tonight.”

“Nirad,” she said again and hugged him tight. “But you were only a boy.”

His face saddened and darkened, suddenly old beyond its years. “There are no boys left in Karakhor,” he told her. “We have all grown up.” He held her at arm's length and smiled again. “You are lucky that we knew that you were coming. Otherwise, with that big knife in your hand, we might have mistaken you for the Tigress of Maghalla, come to butcher us all.”

His men chuckled, but Maryam was puzzled. “The Tigress of Maghalla?”