The Sword Lord (23 page)

His thoughts drifted to Namita. The other highborn one had passed him twice during the day, each time accompanied by the puffed-up, self important and grandiose little man-imitations whom he guessed were her brothers. Each time, she had smiled at him, but it had been such a pale and ghastly little smile that he had decided the creature must be sick. His interest had decreased rather than strengthened, but now, in the crushing boredom of the empty night, he began to speculate again on how she might perform in bed.

He made up his mind abruptly. The girl could not be any less inspiring than the two he had already experienced, and there was nothing else to amuse him in this dead rat-hole. He kicked the other slave girl off his bed and swung his feet to the floor. He was a Gheddan Swordmaster, accustomed to taking anything that he wanted, even if he only half wanted it. He buckled his weapon belt with his sword and lazer about his waist and went out of the chamber. The two slave girls lay terrified on the floor behind him and dared not move until he had gone.

The time he had spent in the city, like Raven's, had not been without purpose. Together they had made note of the city's defences and the strength and morale of its warriors. Like Raven, Thorn was not impressed. The city walls and the river could only protect it from the most primitive form of land assault and all resistance would collapse at the first flash of a lazer. One minimum-yield pulse bomb would obliterate it within seconds. However, the survey had been completed as a matter of trained routine and had included noting the residence and sleeping quarters of all the key figures in the opposing military and power structure. Thorn knew where the king, his general and all his brothers could be found and assassinated at night. He had also noted the private apartments of the two princesses.

He marched carelessly down the high-vaulted corridors, lit by moonlight
shining through the stone-latticed windows or by torchlight where the shadows were thick. He passed several doorways where sentries stiffened fearfully, their knuckles whitening on the shafts of their spears, but he disdainfully ignored them. He came at last to the double doorway where earlier in the evening he had seen Namita take leave of her brothers and disappear inside.

A single warrior guarded the door. Thorn faced the man squarely and motioned him to move aside. The guard went pale. Sweat beaded his forehead, but he knew his duty and he was loyal. His hands trembled as he shifted his feet and his spear into a more threatening stance. He spoke a hoarse denial.

Thorn shrugged his shoulders, stepped back a pace and drew his lazer.

The guard's nerve broke. He had heard of these white fire weapons that destroyed even the gods, and among his companions, the tales had grown more lurid with every telling. Before the weapon could be leveled, he had lowered his spear and fled.

Thorn's roar of laughter echoed, loud and cheerful, along the corridors. Then he pushed open the double doors and went inside. He was in a room furnished with rich carpets and drapes, a cushioned couch and chairs. It was empty except for a startled slave girl crouching beside an inner door. She had obviously been sleeping there, but now her eyes were wide and bewildered.

Thorn crossed the room and kicked the slave girl out of the way. He was getting good at kicking slave girls and his booted foot connected neatly with her plump buttocks, tumbling her in precisely the direction he intended her to go. He laughed again and went into the inner room.

As he expected, it was a bedroom. Moonlight filtered through an arched window and showed a large bed with white silk sheets beneath a shrouding canopy of white muslim. Thorn tore the flimsy curtaining aside as Namita sat bolt upright among her pillows. She wore a brief nightdress that hid nothing of her slim beauty. Her face, even without its veils and jewelry, was still young and lovely. Her dark eyes were petrified.

Thorn reached forward and casually ripped open the nebulous material of her nightdress, revealing curved young breasts with dark brown nipples. Namita screamed.

Thorn grinned happily and began to unfasten his tunic.

 

 

 

Raven had also found the night air in his bedchamber too warm and too close for comfort and so he had strolled down to the riverbank in the hope of finding a cool breeze. He walked alone. Maryam had again made love with him earlier in the evening, but for some reason he could not fathom, she had preferred to return afterward to her own apartments. It was not important and he did not want her always under his feet anyway. He needed time to think and so he had let her go.

His thoughts, however, were mainly about Maryam. Her ideas of sexual sporting were far removed from the wild abandon of a Gheddan woman, but there was an eagerness and novelty about her approaches that he found wholly satisfying. Her willingness was more than a raw desperation to please him. It was somehow warmer and more personal, both more vulnerable and more valuable than anything he had ever known. Despite himself, he was warming toward her. Sex was an animal act, a mutual pleasure, and yet he sensed that for her it was something more profound and that somehow she was giving him more of herself than any Gheddan woman ever would, or could.

She had made him understand that the marriage ceremony she wanted would have to wait for a few days. He did not understand why. Probably she was bound by some law of her menfolk. He could break it, but there was no need. It would be several days before his ship was ready for its next space flight. He could not escape the delay so there was no hurry.

He stopped at the river's edge, the dark water swirling softly at his feet, gazing at the distant silhouette of the Solar Cruiser that stood stark and dominant against the star bright sky. If necessary, the ship could return with a crew of three, which meant that he could safely leave two or three behind. He had already decided that the ship would make three more Earth orbits, a final search for Alphans or for any advanced Earth civilization which might have passed this one. Then it would head for home. It would carry his recommendation for two fighting ships and a troop carrier with fifty men to be stationed here as a permanent garrison.

The three man crew would have to include one of the engineers, one of the lazer gunners, and either Thorn or himself in command. Who should go and who should stay? That was the final decision he had yet to make. He was tempted to give command of the ship to Thorn and to remain with Maryam. Their marriage would place him in the stronger position to maintain control. That might be important, for without the ship, there would be no power to recharge the fuel packs for their lazers and so there could be some risk if the earthmen ever realized that their fire-power was not unlimited. Unlike Thorn, Raven was not prepared to dismiss the people here as total cowards. They were temporarily demoralized and held in check, but he had noted flickers of defiance. Some, like the old man with the purple turban, needed careful watching.

There was logic in remaining here himself, but on the other hand half a year would pass before the garrison force would reach Earth and perhaps a whole year before he could hope to make his own return to Dooma. In a year, many things could happen in the City Of Swords. There were constant power struggles, sword challenges, and shifts in the empire command structure. He needed to be there to protect his own interests and to forge his own opportunities. It was also too long since he had visited his own stronghold. He had no fears that Bhorg or Scarl would betray him, but there were neighbouring Sword Lords who might grow bold and ambitious from his continued absence.

He made his decision. If anyone remained it would be Thorn, with Landis and perhaps Taron. His own time was too valuable to waste cooling his heels where there was no action.

He turned away from the river, breathing the soft breeze deeply before plunging back into the city with its night-smoke and incense and its unguessable combination of foul and fascinating odours. His pace was unhurried and his thoughts were still far away on Dooma.

He had followed the curve of the river for some way below the palace and now he followed his instinct in search of a more direct way back. He entered a narrow alleyway which he thought would lead him toward one of the main avenues which all converged on the central square behind the palace. The lanes were empty between the close-pressed houses, the doors all closed and bolted. They were lit by torches on the balconies above his head where the sounds of voices and laughter and sometimes music filtered out from the open upper windows. In places, the starlight was blotted out altogether, leaving only the smoky flicker of the torches. There were puddles and squashed things underfoot which he preferred not to think about.

There was a movement to his left. He whirled with his hand on his sword. A scavenging dog slunk past him cringing with downcast eyes and he laughed at his own reaction. He pushed on into the twisting maze.

He passed an even narrower side alley and did not even feel the nimble fingers that reached up to pluck at his weapon belt from behind. But the belt leather was thick and stiff, resisting the thin, razor-sharp blade that sliced through it, and he felt its pull against his stomach as it came away. Again his hand flashed with a lightning instinct to his sword. The belt was ripped away from his waist, his holstered hand lazer and the sword sheath disappearing with it. But the sword blade slipped free of the sheath and the hilt was held fast in his practised hand.

He spun round in time to see the child thief still crouching at his feet. He stayed the sword. One dirt encrusted infant face peering horrified out of a bundle of rags was hardly worth the bother of cleaning the blade. The boy shrieked, flung the weapon belt hard to one side and then scuttled off frantically down the alley.

Raven did not give chase, for suddenly the night offered better sport. Two men, as ragged and dirt streaked as the child, had dropped neatly down from the balcony in front of him. One of them crouched, with a drawn short sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other. His lean face was a ravaged mask in the dim glow of the nearest torch, pitted and scarred by some unknown skin-eating disease. His companion was a hunchback who whirled a rope weighted with a spiked iron ball.

A soft thud from behind warned him that a third assassin had dropped down from one of the balconies to block his retreat.

Even as he heard the sound, Raven was spinning on the ball of his right foot and the heel of his left, bringing his back against the wall, crouching and drawing a knife from his left boot with his left hand. A steel discus whizzed past his head, flung with such force that it smashed through one of the wooden struts supporting the nearest balcony. If Raven had not moved, it would have decapitated him from behind.

The thrower was a broad, squat man, hulking almost shapeless in the gloom. He cursed softly, but his eyes glittered and he too drew a short sword from the rags at his waist.

Raven flicked a glance in search of his weapon belt and his lazer. It had landed beyond the two men on his right. Until he had dealt with his attackers, it might as well have been on another planet. Their gazes were watching his. They seemed to understand his thoughts and laughed. Without the lazer, he was reduced to their level of sword and knife, and they were three against one. This was their chosen ground, assassination was their profession. They were more than confident.

The two swordsmen attacked together, rushing him from both sides. With his longer blade, he could keep the diseased face at bay, but there was no room to turn in the narrow alley. He was trapped too tightly to make full use of his superior sword skill, and here the short swords favoured by his opponents were the more useful weapons. He knew he had to reduce the odds quickly.

He blocked the squat man's sword with his knife and kicked savagely sideways at the man's groin. The man swore and backed off. Raven flung himself at the man with the diseased face, the sudden, furious clash of their sword blades violating the still night. Sparks flew like bright fireflies and the startled man gave ground, his attack faltering into defence. Block, parry, feint, thrust and kill—the ritual sang in Raven's mind and he almost brought it to completion. As he thrust, something caught at his right ankle and hooked his leg from under him. Cursing, he tumbled down onto his left knee and elbow, sliding on something revolting in the gutter.

The squat man had a second weapon that Raven had not been aware of, a simple hooked stick like a shortened shepherd's crook. He gave it another fierce wrench, dragging Raven face down and then lunged for the fallen body with his sword. Raven was rolling out of the way but it was his chain mail that saved him, deflecting the sword thrust that would have killed him. The squat man followed through too violently, falling heavily on his intended victim. Raven turned the knife in his left hand, slamming the blade upward as the squat man crashed on top of him, driving the blade deep behind the breastbone. The man screamed once and Raven felt the heart's blood pumping over his fist.

Raven continued to roll in a flailing embrace with the dying man, spinning into the man with the diseased face and forcing him to stumble backwards. The second man hacked desperately at the entwined bodies at his feet, but succeeded only in half severing the arm of his now dead companion. Raven thrust the corpse away from him, still using it as a battering ram to defend himself and succeeded in regaining his feet. He had cut the odds to two, but he had lost his knife which he had been unable to wrench free.

He was breathing heavily and he knew that so far he had been lucky. The way behind him was now clear and he was tempted to back up, to hope for a small square or courtyard where there might be room for some real swordplay. But the men in front of him were enraged by the death of their friend and were too experienced to give any quarter.

The man with the diseased face stepped back but only to give room for his friend to act. The hunchback stepped forward. The rope whirled in his hands and Raven tilted his head sideways as the iron ball shot straight for his face. It sped past his cheek, but then the hunchback flicked his wrist and the ball was spinning back on itself, winding the rope twice around Raven's neck. If the spiked ball had smashed into his face it would have finished him, but instead on its final twist it slammed into his right shoulder, the spikes penetrating and embedding in his chain mail waistcoat.