The Sword Lord (25 page)

“You!” He indicated Rajar. “Come here and continue this.”

They did not understand the words, but the gesture and the offered hammer carried his meaning. Rajar came closer to take the padded drumstick with tentative fingers. The young prince was white-faced and sweating.

Raven drew his sword from the weapon belt that was still slung over his shoulder. “Strike!” he commanded and unceremoniously jabbed the sharp point at Rajar's flinching ribs.

Hastily, Rajar took up the task of beating mightily upon the gong.

Raven seated himself in Kara-Rashna's throne and watched. When he heard the sound of more footsteps approaching the hall, he transferred his sword to his left hand and drew his hand lazer with his right. Thorn stood solidly to one side of the throne, feet apart and ready for anything. He too held his sword in one hand and a lazer in the other.

They entered in a group, the king, his general, and his brothers. All of them, by mutual agreement, had taken the time to complete their formal dress. They could not ignore the urgent summons that filled the night, but they were too proud to attend in the disarray of their night clothes. All were sashed and jeweled and turbaned. Behind them was a gathering crowd of priests, slaves and warriors, but these stayed wisely outside the vast double entrance doors.

“Rajar!” The king was suddenly furious as he saw his son at the gong. Even the lowest night soil child should have known that the great assembly gong could only be sounded on the order of the king and then only when the king was already present and seated to receive an audience.

The luckless prince stopped his efforts and looked up with an anxious face.

“Continue!” Raven barked.

The command was in another language but Rajar understood. He cast an appealing glance at his father and uncles and then resumed his frantic beating as energetically as before.

There the tableau froze for more long minutes: Raven languishing indolently on the king's throne, Thorn standing and threatening, and the rulers of the city huddled in a tight, confused and angry knot. The two hand lazers held them at bay, while the monotonous booming of the great gong continued to deafen them all.

At first Jahan could only stand and stare balefully at the sardonic figure of Thorn. Here was the vile, blue-skinned creature he sought, the one who had dared to defile his princess, whose actions had dishonoured them all and who was now showing a mighty contempt that brought shame to all Karakhor. Jahan could barely control himself. His honour, his pride, his great senses of duty and loyalty, all demanded in one almost overpowering scream inside his head that he should defy death and charge forward to attack this sky-monster with his sword.

What held the warmaster general back was not the fear of his own death—that was an indifferent price to pay—but the fact that Kara-Rashna and his two brothers were in the same direct line of fire. All that Jahan had seen and heard indicated that one bolt of white lightning from the weapon in Thorn's hand would destroy them all. The old warrior would happily fling himself into hell to restore all that had been lost, but to carry with him almost the entire royal House of Karakhor was a decision he could not make.

The others were staring at the pile of bodies at Raven's feet, and now even Kara-Rashna's kingly fury had been replaced by confusion and uncertainty. Events were moving too fast for all of them, but they sensed that there was more here at stake than ruffled dignity and palace protocol. After his initial protest to his son, the king was too stunned to speak. His bodily weakness swept over him again and Devan and Sanjay had to support him on either side. The princes too were shocked into silence.

In any case, any words they might have uttered would not have been heard while the great gong continued to boom. Raven showed no hurry to commence whatever he had in mind and gave Rajar no sign to stop. The young prince hardly dared to look for such a sign and devoted himself to his task. The gong beats were remorseless and began to seem unending. But one by one the heads of the other great noble houses of Karakhor were hurrying to the palace to join the assembly.

The fat lord of Bulsar stumbled into the room. On his silk waistcoat was embroidered the blue raven that was his banner emblem, and a raven in blue gemstones fastened his blue turban. However, his whiskers were uncombed and his sword belt was askew. He stopped beside his king and princes and gaped.

Tilak came next, puffing and gasping, having run all the way from his own house. He had forgotten his sash and sword belt. His waistcoat was only partly buttoned and the black turban on his head was at an unseemly angle. Raven's cold eyes noted the black orchid emblem that Tilak wore but he made no move.

The back end of the audience hall and the corridors outside were now packed and crowded, the sons and warrior guards of Bulsar and Tilak having pushed in to join the palace inhabitants. The press of bodies made passage difficult for the last of the ruling elite, and several more minutes passed before he could force his way to the front. There Gandhar's ancient lord took his stand with the rest, his rheumy eyes blinking, his creaking knees almost buckling beneath him.

On his breast Gandhar wore the emblem of a double-bladed axe on green silk. Green was the colour of his turban and the livery of his soldiers. At last Raven leaned forward on the throne and showed interest.

“Enough,” Raven commanded.

The Gheddan word had no meaning for the Hindus, but it caused Rajar to hesitate and turn his head. He saw that the blue-skinned god was looking directly at him and correctly guessed that he was to stop beating the gong. He held back the next hammer blow until he was sure and then sank exhausted onto his knees.

The great gong hung still. The last reverberations slowly faded away, receding sound waves of dark foreboding in a nightmare that was not yet ended. Silence seeped over the audience hall and the city, more awesome and terrifying than the noise had been. None dared move or breathe.

Raven rose calmly to his feet. All eyes were fixed upon the grim figure of the Sword Lord. Even Jahan moved his frustrated glare from Thorn.

That the blood-spattered god had been engaged in battle was plain for all to see, and the corpses at his feet testified to his triumphant victory. But now Jahan's eyes began to narrow a little. He began observing small points and filing the information carefully away in his brain. First, there was damage to the golden chain mail, just below the god's left shoulder. Second, there was a neat cut across the fabric of his left sleeve. Could it be that some of the god's own blood mixed with the bloodstains from his enemies? Did the god bleed as a mortal man would?

Raven extended his sword arm, pointing the still red blade directly at the old lord of Gandhar. With a curt motion of the sword, he indicated that the old man should come forward.

Gandhar was bewildered and afraid. He looked beseechingly toward his companions, but none could aid or advise him. Raven repeated the ferocious motion with his sword.

The old man gulped down a deep breath and rallied his failing courage. He was almost at the end of his years. It would soon be time to die anyway. Perhaps it was better to die with a little dignity than to endure dribbling in his dotage. He shuffled forward, held his head high and waited.

Raven laid down his sword on the vacant throne. With his free right hand, he reached down for one of the corpses, and grasping it by the rags at the neck, he hurled it forward to slither to a stop at the feet of the old lord. Angrily he heaved and kicked the remaining two corpses to join it. He picked up his sword again and stabbed the blade first toward those already dead, and then at the one about to die.

“These carrions are yours,” he accused.

Gandhar looked blank. The actions and the anger of the strange god were more revealing than his meaningless words, but still the old man was slow to understand. Behind him, the gathered assembly was equally uncomprehending.

Raven stepped forward. He thrust his swordpoint down at the outflung arm of the dead hunchback, pushing between flesh and the leather armband with the three ribbons of green silk. The blade cut through the leather; the point flipped the incriminating insignia upward to where Gandhar could catch it clumsily in his feeble hands. The old man stared at it and understood.

“But these men are not servants of mine,” he protested. “They are not even warriors. They are common cutthroats from the gutters of the city.”

Jahan risked a step forward, looking closely at the dead men for the first time. The hunched back and the diseased face fitted descriptions he had received from reports on other incidents. He had not been aware that this unwholesome trio was back in the city, but he knew their trade and their reputation. He added his own bold voice of angry dissent.

“These men are paid assassins. They could have been hired by anyone. The ribbons are a false identification. Everyone here knows that these men are not from Gandhar's household.”

Raven ignored him. Even if he could have understood the language and the argument, he would have cared nothing for it. What mattered was that someone in this city had launched an attack upon his person, and such daring clearly indicated that another demonstration of Gheddan power was now due. Whether the old man with the matching green colours was the true culprit or not was a matter of lesser relevance. The point would be made, the warning underlined, so the old man was best suited to serve Raven's purpose.

Without emotion, the Sword Lord leveled his hand lazer. There were mutters of anguished protest but no one moved forward. Gandhar blinked at his executioner and then deliberately moved himself two unsteady paces to one side of the hall. His back was now against one of the high stone pillars. His king and his friends were no longer behind him in the direct line of fire. He looked heavenward and began to recite a prayer to
Indra
.

Raven cut short the pathetic babbling with one short blast from his lazer. The white hot beam punched a blackened hole where the double-bladed axe emblem had decorated the left breast and the old lord of Gandhar was flung dead against the pillar.

Jahan erupted with a roar of rage. His hand dropped to his great sword and pulled it half free. Raven turned lightly to face him, the hand lazer leveling again on its next target. Behind Jahan, the king wrenched himself free from the support of his brothers and lunged to catch hold of his friend's sword arm with both hands. In the heat of the moment, Devan and Sanjay both reached for their swords.

For a deathly moment, it seemed as though Karakhor would sacrifice all her rulers but then Thorn made a dramatic move.

“Hold!” the Swordmaster bellowed. His lazer never wavered, but his sword arm moved to point through the arched window to the open sky where the upper ramparts of
Indra's
temple were silhouetted clear and black against the moon and starlight.

They all turned fearfully to watch.

Raven smiled. He stabbed his sword into the dead hunchback to hold it upright, and then took his communicator from his belt.

“Now, Caid,” he ordered briefly.

From the Gheddan Solar Cruiser on the far side of the river, a beam of blinding white light lanced forward. It was aimed high above the city, but low enough to slice the topmost spires from the temple of
Indra,
its tallest and most sacred building. In a thunderclap of sound and an explosion of white light, the carven stone pinnacles simply vapourized and disappeared.

The ship's main battle lazer could have been re-targeted to demolish the temples to
Varuna
and
Agni
and then the great dome of the palace itself, all within a matter of split seconds. But nothing further was necessary. The majority of the assembly had dropped on their knees, begging and crying for mercy. The rest were groveling on their faces and bellies.

Only Jahan remained standing, but Kara-Rashna was dragging at his weakened sword arm and forcing his sword back in its sheath. Bitterly, the old general allowed himself to be pulled down onto one knee beside his king. If resistance meant the possible destruction of the entire city, then they had to accept that it would be folly to resist.

The two Gheddans grinned at each other, sheathed their swords, and walked out. The Hindus blocking the exit crawled and squirmed frantically to clear a path and get out of the way. The humiliation and demoralization of this conquered city was satisfactorily complete.

On the raised dais that supported the throne, the young prince Rajar still crouched in mortal terror beside the great gong. He had remained there like a doe hypnotized by a cobra ever since he had been permitted to cease from his labours. He had prayed that his presence was forgotten, prayed that he would no longer be noticed, prayed almost that he might become invisible. His stomach threatened to rise up and choke him with his own vomit, his heart and soul were locked in ice, and he dripped sweat more profusely than all of the appalled and horror-struck assembly put together.

When he had first entered the audience hall with Nirad, Rajar had immediately recognized the faces of the three corpses that had been so callously dumped on the dais and he had almost fainted with fright upon the spot. Each succeeding event had proved a catastrophic shock upon his nervous system and when Gandhar's lord had been executed he had all but died.

Now he was little more than a trembling jelly and he could only thank the gods and his lucky stars that he had been clever enough to divert suspicion from himself by disguising the assassins he had hired.

Chapter Thirteen

To return to Karakhor with the entire hunting party, including the war elephants, the foot warriors, the trackers and the slaves and all the princely baggage, would have taken at least four days. Both Ramesh and Hamir were too sorely wounded to survive any more fast travel. Time was of the essence and so again Kananda handpicked a small but efficient force and they had set out in all the available racing chariots with the hope of reaching the city by the second night.