The Sword Lord (27 page)

No one could answer his outburst and he turned back to the hapless runners. “Answer me. What is truly happening in Karakhor? We have defied Sardar and Maghalla. How can they now sacrifice Princess Maryam to this greater evil?”

“Princess Maryam herself wishes for this marriage.” The runner could barely croak the words. “It is she who arranges it. Kara-Rashna not only desires your own return, noble prince, but also the return of the high priest, Kaseem. He seeks Kaseem's holy wisdom in this matter.”

“Kaseem is two days' journey behind us,” Kananda said impatiently. “But we are only one day's ride from Karakhor.”

He turned to face his young lords and the waiting Alphans, and now it was his right hand that closed firmly over the hilt of his sword.

“I swear by
Indra
and all the gods that while I live Maryam will not make this marriage,” he cried in ringing tones. “If it is her desire, then it must be because she is not truly aware of the inner nature of this man to whom she is betrothed. She has been blinded by a creature more cruel and merciless than Sardar of Maghalla ever could be. By
Indra
, by
Varuna
, by
Agni,
the sister I love more than my life will never be joined to this man.”

Kasim and Gujar took hold of their own swords. “By all the gods, we swear this with you,” they bravely proclaimed together.

Have no fear, Kananda
—the words were formed in Zela's mind—
for Raven will die upon my sword
. But with Blair and Kyle standing close and listening, she refrained from saying them aloud.

 

 

 

In Karakhor, the day following the brutal execution of Gandhar's lord had been a long and fearful one. No one knew nor could guess at what the strangers might do next. No one yet knew why they were here or what it was that they wanted. The speculation that they were messengers from
Indra,
which had followed their violation of the temple of
Varuna,
was now shattered by the havoc they had wreaked upon the temple of
Indra
in its turn. The mass of the city population was now facing for the first time the apocalyptic thought that there could be an even greater power than the gods they had so revered. No one knew how to pray to these new gods or what sacrifices to make. The holy priests to whom they normally looked to for guidance were mentally paralyzed.

Maryam was as dismayed as anyone, her feelings and emotions tangled and torn as though they had been trampled by a bull elephant. The noise of the preceding nights events had brought her running to Namita's apartments, where she had arrived just as the great gong had begun to boom out its fateful message. She would have gone with her father and uncles to the audience hall except that her mother had stopped her. The two queens needed help to whisk Namita into a safe place of hiding and the best opportunity would be now while the men were busy elsewhere.

So Maryam had immediately become involved in Namita's swift and secret removal from the palace. The House of Tilak could be reached by a roundabout route through the back streets and alleys of the city, and the noble lady of that household was a close friend of Padmini's. The women dressed, cloaking themselves in dark shawls to hide their finery and their faces, and with only two guards, hurried out into the night. When they were only halfway to their destination, the top of
Indra's
temple had abruptly disintegrated in the unholy burst of lightning and thunder, scattering rubble over half the city. Fragments of stone had rained around them, scaring them out of their wits, and they had finished the journey in terrified flight.

Tilak's wife had answered their knock, even though her husband was absent. Namita had been granted sanctuary, but then Maryam found that her mother and aunt intended that she, too, should remain with her half-sister. Maryam had protested vigorously. Raven was not Thorn, she told them. Raven would not harm her and while she had Raven's protection, she had no fear of Thorn. She could not add that what they so desperately feared had already happened between her and Raven and that she had welcomed it and gone to him willingly.

In the end Maryam had won her argument and had returned with Padmini and Kamali to the palace. It was only later that she had learned the full story of what had taken place in the great audience hall. That had been the real shock to her nervous system, spinning her thoughts out of balance and turning her emotions upside down. She could believe that Thorn would attempt to rape her sister but she could not believe that Raven had become a cold-blooded murderer.

She extracted a broken, jumbled and anguished account from her half-brother Nirad and had to rearrange the sequence of events back into order. The young prince had been devastated by what he had witnessed and his chief impressions were of the bravery with which Gandhar had died and the merciless cruelty of the god who had killed him. Everyone had noticed how the old man had stepped forward and to one side so that the white fire would consume him only and spare the king and the others. Such courage should have been rewarded, not despised. And everyone knew that Gandhar was innocent—a true god should also have known that the old man was blameless.

Nirad fumed and wept as he talked. His royal blood was outraged and he was suffering as much pain and humiliation as any of his elders without being able to control it. Gandhar had now to be cremated and it should be done with full funeral rites and absolutions. But no one knew whether they dared to make the arrangements. No one knew whether they dared to show their respects. Such was the deep and overpowering shame to which the blue-skinned ones had reduced the once proud city of Karakhor.

Maryam let the impassioned tirade flow over her, trying to pick out the salient facts. In her own mind, she was trying to redeem the man she hoped to marry and so she singled out the points that were meaningful to his defence. Plainly, Raven had been attacked by three assassins whom he had then killed. Those assassins had been paid to make their attempt by someone in the city. Even if Gandhar was innocent, as everyone seemed to think, the assassins had worn the colour of his household, so Raven had good cause to believe him guilty. Perhaps Raven was justified in meting out the punishment he believed Gandhar deserved.

Maryam felt the need to be alone. She made her excuses to escape from Nirad and retired in confusion to the privacy of her chamber. There, she spent several hours of in fruitless agony, trying to straighten out her own thoughts and feelings. It was all too much. Her head began to ache. The heat bothered her. Her room became a prison, too small to contain her restless pacing to and fro, and so she escaped again to the palace gardens by the river. There at least the air was more easily breathable, and the blue sky, the fresh flower blossoms and the limpid blue-green curve of the Mahanadi were all more soothing to her suffering spirit.

Until she walked aimlessly through an archway of trailing bougainvillea and came face to face with Raven.

He wore a clean white uniform and a new weapon belt. His golden chain mail shone brightly in the sun. There was not a mark on him that was visible and he smiled as though nothing at all had happened since they last met.

“Maryam, I have been looking for you. Have you been avoiding me?”

She stared at him, understanding only her own name. The strength drained out of her and she did not know how to respond. Confusion froze in her mind. All her whirling thoughts stopped and her brain was suddenly numb.

Raven laughed, took her nerveless hand and led her down to the edge of the river. There he sat with her on a stone bench shaded by a large orange tree. He pointed across the water and said calmly, “My spaceship, space—ship.”

Her brain still refused to function. She looked at him blankly.

“Space—ship,” Raven repeated slowly. He pointed again toward his black temple of steel. “Space—ship, space—ship.”

Maryam understood. Yesterday they had begun this game of exchanging words in each others languages, naming objects first with the Gheddan word, and then in Hindu. She swallowed hard to moisten her throat and then said faintly:

“Space—ship, God's temple.”

“God's temple?” Raven's brow furrowed. She had used those words before. And then he remembered their first walk in the city. “God's temple” was how she had described the carved religious buildings in stone. It struck him suddenly that these people probably believed that he and his crew were their gods, and he began to laugh uproariously.

Maryam could only wait in bewilderment for the name game to continue. She felt as though she was living in some strange dream, or perhaps it was a nightmare. Perhaps the things that were said to have happened in the great audience hall were the nightmare. She felt as though she had become detached from reality.

 

 

 

Earlier in the day, Thorn had gone back to Namita's apartments and had been furious to find that she was no longer there. The two chambers were empty and there was not even a guard on the door. He had caught a luckless female slave in the corridor outside and had tried to question her, but she could not understand his language and he could not understand hers. Despite her evident terror, it was a hopeless business and after a few minutes he gave up in disgust. He had spent the rest of the morning prowling the palace, becoming quickly aware that everyone from the lowest slave to the king himself was desperately trying to avoid him. At first he had been amused by the sounds of flight and panic that preceded his heavy-footed approach, but slowly he had become angry again. Finding Namita had become an obsession with him and he was determined to find her and have her.

At noon he returned to his own chambers in a particularly vile mood. The two slave girls who had been allotted to tend his needs shrank back against the far wall as he entered. He ignored them and looked to the food and wine that had been set out to please him. There was meat, rice and fruit. He ate hungrily, and then took a large peach and a full wineglass over to the open window. There was a seat beside the window and he sprawled there, eating the fruit, sipping the wine and glowering down into the street below.

It was a narrow street of brightly coloured awnings shading small shops and foodstalls. The rich smells of spices and sweetmeats wafted upward on the languid air. There was the bustling of voices and movement which he assumed was the haggling over prices and the displaying of wares. Thorn watched and listened and contemplated getting drunk. Surely if a man drank enough of this pale virgin's water, there must be some alcoholic effect.

Time passed. Thorn extended his arm several times for his glass to be refilled with wine. He watched the business of the street below without any real interest and yet suddenly his brooding gaze focussed on a young slave girl who was hurrying furtively through the milling throng. The girl wore her veil high and her shawl pulled low and carried a large bundle of what appeared to be fine silk clothing. Thorn leaned forward and stared sharply. He was sure he had seen her before.

As she passed directly below, recognition clicked in Thorn's mind. It was the slave girl whom he had booted away from Namita's door the previous night. His surly face split into a wide grin of triumph. There, sneaking out of the palace and obviously taking clothes to her mistress, was the highborn one's personal slave.

Thorn allowed the girl to get out of sight and hearing and then he deftly swung himself out of the window and dropped down into the street. Ignoring the startled looks and exclamations all around him, he pushed his way through the crowd and began to run after the slave. When he had her in sight again, he dropped back and followed her at a discreet distance.

The slave was moving fast, afraid of her own shadow and too scared to look back. Thorn had no difficulty in keeping pace without being seen. The short pursuit led him through a roundabout route of small streets and alleys to the rear of one of the fine nobleman's houses that faced onto one of the main avenues. Here the slave girl disappeared through a narrow, heavily studded teak door that was set in a high wall.

The door was not bolted behind her. Thorn went through and found himself in an unexpectedly spacious courtyard. A small fountain bubbled in the centre, flowering shrubs were set attractively among the flag-stones and slender columns supported overhanging balconies on either side. The only occupant of the courtyard was a strutting peacock displaying its magnificent tail.

Thorn crossed the courtyard and strode up the short flight of wide steps that led into the main part of the building. He passed down a short corridor and then came into a large central room with more corridors leading off on all sides. On his left, a wide and elegant stairway leading up to a balcony level gave access to more rooms and corridors. Everywhere the house was grandly furnished with drapes, tapestries and cushions, and the floors were either carpeted or tiled.

There was again no sign of the girl he had followed but there were other slaves here and the lady of the house reclining on a velvet sofa. A chorus of shrieks greeted Thorn's sudden entrance and brought the warriors and men of the household running to the scene. They halted in confusion when they saw the identity of their unwelcome visitor.

The frightened glances of several of the women shifted briefly to the top of the staircase. Thorn guessed that his quarry lay in that direction and turned toward it. The fat lord of Tilak appeared hastily at the top of the staircase, spreading his pudgy arms to bar the way. He was shouting hysterically. Thorn drew his lazer and, remembering Gandhar's fate, Tilak abruptly closed his mouth and moved to one side.

There was a rush of feet behind Thorn as the sons of Tilak and the bravest of his warriors surged forward. Thorn spun on his heel, crouching, lazer leveled. Tilak cried out in anguish, ordering his household to move back. They did so and Thorn laughed. He turned again to ascend the staircase, walking past the head of the house and leaving the fat man to weep with shame.