Sword Empire (16 page)

Time froze. Every man in the room was rigid, many of them tensed to fight. The silence lengthened, and then Kananda laughed and lowered his sword.

“My girls only dance,” he told them all cheerfully, and then, remembering what Jayna had taught him of Gheddan manners, he booted the last man he had disarmed casually in the crotch to send him staggering back into the crowd. “But no more tonight,” he finished. He looked at Jayna still holding her knife, and at Zela in a fighting stance with both knife and sword. “I think their blood is too hot.”

There was more laughter and the mood relaxed. The fight was over and no one had been killed. For a bar brawl in Corrion it was not really an exceptional affair. The bald-headed innkeeper moved to throw out the losers and the rest went back to their drinking.

Kananda sheathed his sword and finished his ale. Rona went reluctantly back to her serving work, and Zela and Jayna pulled on their fur cloaks and sat beside him. The atmosphere around them returned to normal, and then Lars appeared again, grinning as he sat down for a moment to join them.

“A fine performance,” he praised Jayna. And then to Kananda. “You fight well. It was all neatly done.”

“Sometimes it is necessary,” Kananda said flatly. He harboured the thought that it would have been preferable if it had been the face of Lars that he had been obliged to smash, but he had to remember they still needed a passage to the City of Swords.

The big boatman grinned again. “Be on the quayside at noon tomorrow, and we will resume our journey together. You can me pay me then.”

After a few more minutes of idle talk, he left them, and Kananda deemed it was prudent to retire. Neither of his companions wanted to argue and followed him meekly up to their balcony and their room.

“Lars was right,” Jayna remarked when Kananda had closed the door behind them. “You do fight well. I do not think I have ever seen such skillful swordplay. Perhaps we should make it a regular part of our dance routine.”

She was clearly impressed and there was a new sparkle of interest in her eyes. It was as though she was seeing Kananda clearly for the first time.

Zela could not fail to notice, and her blood suddenly flushed hot with a quick surge of jealousy. The intensity of the emotion, and her hostile new appraisal of Jayna, caught her by surprise.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The assembly gong had once again boomed out its solemn call, and the great, many-columned audience hall of Karakhor was filled to capacity with the grim-faced Lords and Princes who had gathered for the Council of War. Kara-Rashna sat in the elephant tusk throne with a gleaming, gold-hilted sword in the red silk sash at his hip, adding to the dazzle and sparkle of the jewels that encrusted his white tunic and his turban. On his left, he was flanked by Jahan and Kaseem, his Warmaster and his High Priest, and on his right by his brothers Sanjay and Devan. Facing them were the younger princes, the Lords of the great houses, and then the stalwart ranks of all their sons and captains and champions.

All the might and men at arms of Karakhor were here, ready to stand and fight, to slay or die, as the Gods decreed. None showed fear. Fear was only for the night, for the dark hours when they might lie alone or in the company of their wives. It had flickered when they faced the blue gods, but now they tried hard to ignore those memories and the damaged columns and the cracked tiles where the fire-blasted masonry had rained down. The hordes of Maghalla were only mortal, and in this war Council, honour demanded that they show only fierce pride and determination. Maghalla would never conquer. Karakhor would never fall. The alternatives were unthinkable.

When the last shufflings and movements had subsided, Devan raised his hand for silence. There was stillness too, a tension like a cold fist clamped around every slowly-beating heart, and all eyes looked to the King.

“Maghalla is on the move.” Kara-Rashna announced gravely. “The armies of Sardar are marching now upon Karakhor.” He nodded for one of his advisors to continue and elaborate, and to the surprise of many, he nominated Kaseem.

The old priest squared his frail and bony shoulders within his simple robe and spoke softly but clearly. “The forces of Maghalla began to break camp shortly before dawn. They advance toward us from the west. Sardar and his generals lead from the centre with four hundred war elephants in the vanguard. On their right flank march the forces of Kanju behind one hundred elephants. On their left, Bahdra fields fifty war elephants. Their combined chariots and foot soldiers are uncountable. The warriors of the monkey tribes are split into two groups. The red monkey clan marches between Maghalla and Kanju. The black clan between Maghalla and Bahdra. If they all stay disciplined and maintain the march, they will reach our walls within three days.”

“The combined force of war chariots is almost twelve hundred,” Jahan said with some satisfaction. The old Warmaster still could not fathom how the priest was receiving his “holy visions” but everything Kaseem reported was still being solidly corroborated by his own sources. Jahan could not deny that the old man had some secret means or power, but the picture Kaseem gave was a general one without specifics. “The combined weight of foot soldiers ranged against us, archers, spearmen and swordsmen, is over fourteen thousand.”

“Then we face double our own numbers.” The Lord of the House of Tilak sounded stunned.

“We will meet them on the plain before the west wall of the city.” Jahan explained his strategy, his hand resting heavily on his great, ruby-hilted sword. “For most of the day, they will have the sun in their eyes. Our archers will line the city wall where they can shoot over the heads of our own forces. We have dug pits and traps that will bring down many of their elephants and chariots. Our captains all know the safe ways through. As the sun swings round, we will withdraw early within the walls. We have the defensive position that will cost them dearly.”

“We also have the blessings of the Gods.” Kaseem remembered his earthly role. “Our priests have prayed and made all the sacrifices that Indra, Agni and Varuna could desire. All the signs and portents are that the Gods themselves will aid us in this mighty struggle. Sardar and Maghalla cannot defeat the Gods. Karakhor will prevail.”

“We are well prepared.” Devan added his solid weight of reassurance. “Kanju is soft. Bahdra is only a token force. The monkey tribes will probably disappear back into their forests as soon as they realize there is to be no quick and easy victory. Sardar's allies are nothing. The only real battle is between Karakhor and Maghalla, and we will defeat them.”

“It may be a long and bloody road to victory.” Jahan rumbled a reluctant warning. He did not want them to become too complacent. “Nothing will be decided in a day, perhaps not for many days. But Prince Devan speaks truth, Karakhor will stand to see the broken armies of Maghalla turn and withdraw, never to come back to our lands. They will learn their lesson in blood and steel.”

They were good speeches, caution tempered with a stiffening of backbone, but Kaseem felt it necessary to put in sadly: “Some of us here will die. But all who die will die in glory. Our prayers have already assured their souls an elevation in the Great Stream of Samsara. All will be reborn to better lives than before. All will be blessed by Indra.”

The sobered gathering bowed their heads respectfully, while Sahani and the other priests in attendance obediently placed palms together and murmured more consoling words of prayer. Kara-Rashna briefly closed his watery eyes, and his one good hand closed tightly in a blue-veined fist, as though for a moment he felt all the pain and anguish of all his people and his threatened city.

“We need to know our enemy.” Jahan brought them back onto the practical track once more, taking his own firm grip on the proceedings. “We must all recognize his banners so that we know where on the battlefield are his rallying points and our greatest dangers. Sardar himself is our greatest foe. His chariot flies the banner of the Black Leopard. From his chariot, he prefers to wield the axe. If he dismounts, he will use the sword. He is a mighty swordsman and one to be feared.

“His generals are Durga and Kamar. Durga flies the banner of the Black Leopard's Claw, and his weapon is the axe. Kamar flies a Red Leopard's Claw and wields a battle mace. He has known a sword blade to break in the fury of his attack, and an axe blade to get hooked in the hard leather of a dead enemy's armour, so he always favours the mace. Prince Tuluq, the son of Sardar flies the banner of the Coiled Cobra. These four must be marked and met by our strongest champions.”

Jahan paused to let his words sink in and burn upon their memories. Then he continued, “Kumar-Rao, the King of Kanju, flies the banner of the Golden Bear. His son, the Prince Zarin, who is now also a prince of Maghalla, flies a black mailed fist on a red background. The Prince Bharat, the brother of Kumar-Rao, flies the banner of a Red Fist on a black background.”

Sanjay permitted himself a smile to lighten the grim formality of their list of opponents and remarked casually, “A snake in the political grass with a silver tongue would be a more fitting banner. Bharat will prove a cunning if not a heroic fighter.”

There was laughter and Jahan nodded agreement before he finished. “The Prince Vijay flies the Blue Sea Serpent of Bhadra for his absent father. The monkey clan generals have their own banners of red and black monkey skulls, but I do not know if they will honour the general code of seeking out champions of their own standing, or whether they will just butcher indiscriminately.”

There was a moment of silence, and then Kaseem stepped forward to add the formal list of their own star fighters. “To command the forces of Karakhor, we have the Lord Jahan, our most mighty warrior and our Warmaster General. As you all know, Lord Jahan's banner is that of the Snarling Tiger. On his left in the front rank of battle will fight the Prince Sanjay, our Master of the Javelin, with the banner of the Golden Hawk. On his right, the swift sword of the Prince Devan, with the banner of the Lion's Paw. We also have Prince Rajar of the Silver Falcon, Prince Nirad of the Silver Boar, and Prince Ramesh with the Silver Panther.”

Jahan winced inside as his young princes were proudly named, although he allowed nothing to show on his face. He saw Ramesh and Nirad stiffen themselves and hold their chins higher, their eyes unblinking. It was their right to be listed, but if he could have his way, they would not fight at all. He had already nominated three of his best captains to shadow and protect his young nephews with squads of hand-picked warriors, and he had threatened to have all their heads if any one of the young princes should fall.

For a moment, they were all flushed by pride and most of their faces showed flickers of smiles. Then Jahan brought them back to grim reality again. “If the Gods will that I should fall, then Prince Devan will command the battlefield. The next in line will be the Prince Sanjay.”

They were sobered again, but there was one more thunderbolt to come. Kara-Rashna leaned forward to grip the narrowing point of the elephant tusk that formed the arm of his throne with his one good hand, and with a huge effort hauled himself upright. He fixed a now glittering eye on Kaseem and announced angrily, “You forgot one name. You did not speak of Kara-Rashna, Light of the Sun, Sword of the Gods, and King of Karakhor. The chariot of Kara-Rashna flies the golden banner of the Rising Sun, and it will be there.”

There was an uncomfortable silence. All were caught by surprise. Then Jahan turned to face his friend and King and said slowly, “Sire, surely you cannot intend to take the field. Can you not trust this battle to younger men?”

“I am no older than you are,” Kara-Rashna told him irritably. But he could see and understand the concern in the eyes of his old comrade and some of the anger went out of him. However, he continued, “You have listed Kumar-Rao among the enemy champions. Do you think I could leave another old friend to be cut down by younger and stronger men? If Kumar-Rao takes the field, then so must I. It will be my task to seek out Kanju's king on the battlefield. I must try to persuade him to withdraw his forces, and if I cannot, then we must cross swords and one of us will die. If it is my fate to fall in the first battle, then you Jahan, and you Kaseem, will hold my joint mandate to rule until the return of the First Prince Kananda.”

Jahan bit his lip to hold back more argument. Kaseem took a step forward, his hands coming up in the stance of prayer and supplication, but then he too faltered. Both saw that no words could hope to sway their King. The decision of Kara-Rashna was not an invitation for public discussion, it was a royal decree.

Almost all were unhappy with their King's decision, and some of the older faces were positively distressed. The ancient Lords of House Tilak and House Bulsar were not only grieved at the prospect of their friend and King risking his life, they now had to reconsider whether their own dotage was still sufficient reason for allowing their house banners to be carried into battle by their sons.

The old Warmaster General was not the only one chewing his lip, but one other was even more furiously holding his tongue. The face of the young Prince Rajar flushed hotly as he struggled to hold his temper. It was not the thought that his father might be easy prey for the enemy champions which bothered him, but the delegation of Royal authority. Kananda was not here. Kananda had abandoned Karakhor in her hour of greatest need. He, Rajar, was next in line. He was now the First Prince. He had already argued in private with his father for the right to carry the Rising Sun banner into battle and been refused. Now he knew why, and here was a second insult.

Kara-Rashna should have named Rajar as his successor. Instead, he had clouded the issue by giving his mandate to a dog-head of a soldier and a dithering priest, to be held for a lost son who would never return. Rajar was furious with the senile old fool, but still he bit down on his tongue. He did not dare challenge or defy Kara-Rashna openly while he still lived.