Sword Destiny (12 page)

Except that today there was no enemy. No chariots came storming out from the drifting smoke of the dying campfires to oppose them. No elephants lumbered into view. No massed ranks of warriors marched out to form the Karakhoran battle lines. There were a few small groups of warriors still sitting or standing around the visible campfires, but suddenly, at some unseen signal, they too turned away and simply disappeared into the low mixture of fading wood-smoke and the dawn mist above the river.

Sardar drew his sword, ready to give the sign that would start the battle drums pounding, the blare of the trumpets and conch shells, and then launch the initial charge of the day. He hesitated, and then looked from Kamar to Tuluq. A mystified silence had now fallen over the vast horde behind them.

The morning breeze rippled the broad surface of the Mahanadi, blowing away the last shreds of smoke and mist along the full length of the riverbank. The rising sunlight gleamed on the high walls of the city, walls that were now fully manned by the massed defenders of Karakhor. The plain had been abandoned, the bridge stood bare and empty, and the gates beyond were closed.

Sardar understood and roared his rage and frustration. He had calculated that eventually the pride of Karakhor would be humbled and that they would then retreat behind their walls. However, he had hoped for that haughty pride to hold until he had slaughtered all of their champions and enough of their forces to make his victory certain, and he had not been prepared for such a silent and complete withdrawal. He cursed long and loud and his vilest obscenities were directed at his own night watchmen who had been so completely fooled.

On either side and behind him, the cries of anger and insults again rose to full volume as they all realized how the enemy had deceived them. The clamour became deafening and, although their chariots were side by side, Kamar had to shout to make himself heard.

“I smell the hand of Jahan in this, my Lord. You cut him down but did not kill him. He cannot take the field himself, so now he pulls back.”

Sardar scowled and nodded. After Nazik, Kamar was his most able ally, a general who was well aware of the importance of understanding both the strengths and weaknesses of the enemy. “With the cut I gave him, Jahan cannot ride. Perhaps he cannot even walk. So who would lead them now?”

“Probably Prince Devan.”

Again Sardar nodded in agreement. He was hearing what he already knew, but he liked to be sure that he had missed nothing. “Devan is a good fighter and a proud man. He could be tempted to open the gates for a challenge of champions.” With the blade of his sword, he touched the thick bandages that now swathed the upper part of his wounded left arm. “Sadly I am not yet fit for single combat.”

Kamar grinned, his face that of a gleeful wolf behind the steel bars of his helmet. He hefted the spiked steel ball of his dreaded battle mace and brandished it toward the city. “Then I will draw him out, my Lord. Signal the charge and I will cross the bridge.”

Sardar laughed, raised his sword again and cut down sharply through the air. Immediately the battle drums began to beat and the trumpets and the conch shells shrieked their shrill challenge into the sky. The crescendo of catcalls and war cries increased as Sardar slowly raised his sword again, and when he slashed it down the charge began.

 

 

 

On the wall above the gates, an elevated litter had been placed, and from there Jahan watched the horde of Maghalla pouring down from the plain. Beside him stood Devan and the other princes and house lords, and behind them more trumpets and battle drums sounded the warning call to arms. Archers moved forward and nocked arrows to their bows. Swordsmen and spearmen still waited.

For most of the yelling multitude, the charge ended at the edge of the river, in a spirited exchange of arrow showers and insults. Two chariots failed to brake in time and overshot the banks, crashing straight into the Mahanadi to howls of delight from the ramparts. The chariots quickly sank, pulling down the struggling horses. The riders also sank out of sight, pulled down by the weight of their weapons and body armour.

A small vanguard of chariots raced straight for the bridge, hurtling across the slender approach in a whirling clatter of hooves and wheels and drawing behind them a swift stream of foot soldiers. Kamar's chariot led the way, streaming his proud banner of the red leopard's claw. He and the other charioteers knelt low in their cars as they came within range and held their shields aloft to protect themselves from the rain of arrows that slashed down from the top of the wall. Another chariot slewed sideways and crashed into the river as an arrow skewered one of its straining horse team through the eye. The foot soldiers were decimated and toppled by the fast-falling feathered shafts as they ran. Then the first chariots were skidding to a halt before the great gates of the city. The surviving foot soldiers ran close to the walls, where the archers above had to lean far out to target them, and thus became easy targets themselves.

The situation was stalemate, and for a moment both sides paused, waiting to see what would happen next.

Slowly Kamar straightened up. He turned his horse team away from the closed gate, circled them back a few steps toward the bridge, and then stopped again where he could clearly be seen from the top of the wall. A score of nocked arrows were aimed at his chest, but he had demonstrated his bravery and now no archer would loose a shaft without a direct order. Kamar deliberately removed his helmet and shook loose his long black hair. He stared straight up at the watching faces on the top of the wall and bared white teeth in a wicked grin.

“Have you no honour left in Karakhor?” he taunted them. “Why do you hide like women behind your walls? Have you no champion left who dares to come out and face me?”

Laying almost helpless on his litter, Jahan silently cursed the raw pain of the leg that would not let him stand and he understood the fury and frustration of the men around him. Devan and Ranjit were leashed tigers ready to explode, but he could only try to restrain them. Devan took a step to the wall, gripping the raw stone parapet until his knuckles turned white, then looked back. Bitterly, Jahan shook his head.

“He only wants the gate to open, Lord Prince. This is not a matter of honour.”

Below them there were chuckles of laughter. The two chieftains who had crossed the bridge with Kamar were made bold by his example. They too stood tall in their chariots and took off their helmets. From the far bank, the massed army of Maghalla hooted and jeered.

Kamar let the moment draw out, allowing the tumult of taunting to swell. Then slowly he raised his right arm, swinging the massive battle mace up to the sky. He turned around slowly to face his own forces, and the act of turning his back to the defenders on the walls was also a calculated insult. “They dare not face my face,” he shouted.

Safely out of arrow range, Sardar of Maghalla roared with laughter, a signal for the entire horde to follow suit.

Kamar turned to grin up at the walls. Then faced his own army again. “They dare not face my mace,” he bellowed, and brandished the weapon again toward the walls.

Again all of Maghalla roared with laughter.

He paused, lowered the weapon and leaned it against the side of his battle car. There was silence as he stood with hands on hips and they waited with bated breath for his next words. Kamar knew how to please them and finally he bellowed, “Will they dare to face my arse?” With that he bent forward, lifted up the leather flaps of his war skirt and showed his bare buttocks to Karakhor. The applause and laughter from the Maghallan ranks were hilarious and hysterical.

The gross crudity was too much for Devan. He gave a bellow of rage, spun on his heel and ran down the flight of stone steps on the inside of the wall. Jahan called after him but then saw the futility of words. The old Warmaster's face was suddenly haggard as he looked toward the captain of his personal guard, who moved forward questioningly with a dozen hand-picked warriors at his back. Devan had his own personal guards and they too made a warning move to intervene. Jahan drew a deep, uncertain breath.

Then Gujar said swiftly. “Show him a dozen swords and he will fight. Let me try to speak with him.”

As Devan descended the steps, he shouted for his chariot, which stood harnessed and ready with his favourite pair of white stallion and mare between the shafts. An alert groom quickly ran the horses forward and handed him the reins. With another bellow, Devan commanded the guards to open the gates.

The gate guards moved instantly to obey. Three ran to each of the great teak bars and heaved their shoulders beneath them. The first gate bar lifted from its massive iron catches and would have been thrown aside, but then Gujar threw his full weight on top of it and dragged it back into place. The three men who had been thwarted stared at him, and then looked back uncertainly to their prince, the bull-tempered hero whom most of them now thought of logically as the practical ruler of Karakhor. The guards on the second gate bar also paused and waited.

Devan had faintly heard Jahan shouting behind him and then two pairs of fast-flying feet pursuing him down the stone staircase. One man he now realized was Ranjit, who had followed him in support and was now shouting for his own chariot. The other was Gujar, who now blocked his way. “Stand aside.” Devan was still blind with fury, the blood coursing hotly through his veins. “The gate will open.”

“My Lord Prince, the Lord Jahan commands that the gate must not open.”

Devan dropped the reins of his horses and drew his sword, the blade rasping out of its scabbard. “Stand aside,” he repeated, and to the shocked and hesitant guards, “Open the gates.”

Gujar placed his shoulders firmly against the upper gate bar and folded his arms across his chest. “Lord Jahan did not order me to fight you, my Lord Prince. Only that for the good of Karakhor, the gate must not open.”

Devan's knuckles gleamed white around the hilt of his sword. He stood furious as a goaded bull buffalo and twice as dangerous. Beside him Ranjit, just as large and hot-headed, now stood uncertain.

Then Ramesh ran lightly down the steps and halted beside his uncle. His slight figure was over-shadowed by the two glowering giants, but tentatively he placed a hand on Devan's sword arm.

“Uncle, usually it is I who listen, and you who offers me good advice. Always I have tried to obey you and follow your example. Is this such a good example for me?”

Devan lowered his eyes and stared at the ground. Time froze as he considered and then he squared his massive shoulders and pushed his sword back into its sheath. He looked down at the boy beside him and then put his arm around Ramesh's shoulders. With his free hand, he tousled his nephew's hair, teasing his fingers through the thick black curls. “We are in a war and you should be wearing a battle helmet,” he said at last. His tone was gruff and he pushed Ramesh gently away. Then he looked up slowly to meet the eyes of Gujar. “And we should be on the walls.”

“Yes, my Lord Prince.” Gujar nodded, breathing a deep sigh of relief as he too slowly relaxed.

As they all climbed back up the stone staircase, Devan shouted back over his shoulder at the guards. “Make fast those gates.”

 

 

 

Kamar was still playing to the crowd and the host of Maghalla was still writhing in mass merriment. The child-like mentality of the monkey clans had them leaping up and down and gibbering with delight or else rolling on the ground in convulsive spasms of glee. It was a display that the men of Karakhor could only watch with stony faces. On the far bank, Sardar had moved his chariot up close to the bridge and was leaning forward in good humour.

“Kamar,” he shouted. “If you show your arse again, perhaps they will come out and kiss it.”

There was more vulgar hilarity as the soldiers of Maghalla took their cue and clamoured for a repeat performance.

Jahan signed to Kasim to come close and said softly. “You could kill him?”

Kasim had an arrow ready fitted and drawn back to his bow. He nodded. “Easily, Lord, I and a score of others. Now that he has taken off his helmet, his neck is an open target.”

Jahan smiled. “But right now we do not want to kill him, only to humiliate him a little. Could you just—” he smiled again “—kiss his arse with an arrow?”

Kasim smiled in return, then stepped swiftly to the wall. Below him, Kamar was standing tall in his chariot. Like a performer on a stage he was inviting applause with upward motions of his spread hands. The army of Maghalla responded in raptures and finally he gave them their reward, another deep bow and another upward flick of the tails of his skirts.

As the white flesh showed, Kasim leaned forward, sighted his arrow and loosed the shaft, all in one split-second, perfectly coordinated movement. The arrow sped straight and true, the razor sharp point just nicking Kamar's left buttock before it buried itself with a solid thump in one of the floorboards of the chariot. Kamar yelled with the sudden sharp, smarting pain and stumbled forward, slamming into the front of the chariot and almost pitching face first on to the tails of his horses. He looked back in amazement at the quivering arrow and the blood running down the back of his leg.

Maghalla roared with indignant rage, but now it was the turn of Karakhor to roar with laughter.

Jahan signaled for those who managed his litter to push him nearer the wall. There, he leaned forward beside Kasim and shouted down, “General Kamar, you have had your fun. We honour your courage and you have our permission to go back across the river. When you return, come prepared to die.”

Kamar glared upward and then spat at the closed gates. Then he turned his back on them once more and slowly drove his chariot back across the bridge. Those who had followed him did the same, spitting their contempt before they turned away.

Kamar moved to confer with Sardar and then the whole group of battle chariots moved away for a full war council. The soldiers simply withdrew from arrow range and then most of them sat and waited, some of them playing dice or cards, until commands from the rear pulled them back from the river's edge. By mid-day, the solid sounds of axes cutting into timber could be heard from the nearest forest.