Sword Empire (20 page)

Raven climbed in silence, but several times she heard both Taron and Garl curse and swear. Those sounds and the rattle of dislodged debris were the only noises for most of the long climb, but as they drew near to the base of the man-made wall there were other sounds, louder shouts and curses, and above all the clash and ring of steel.

There was a battle taking place above them. Maryam stopped and clung tight to the rock face, staring upward. Above her Raven, Taron and Garl were now climbing faster, almost carelessly as they kicked down greater quantities of dirt that showered into her face. She had to squeeze her eyes shut again and hang there blind as they scrambled to the base of the wall. Their blood was up and they were missing a fight.

There was a narrow ledge at the top of the cliff-face, and there they gathered while Raven cupped his hands to his mouth and bellowed loudly for attention. The massive squared blocks were too large and too closely jointed to provide a continued ascent without help, but eventually a startled face appeared at the top of the wall and gaped down at them. Raven stood, face up-turned, hands on hips, and shouted out his identity and his commands. A few minutes later a rope was brought and tumbled down toward them.

As soon as the rope was secure, Raven was hauling himself up hand over hand and disappeared over the top. A second rope snaked down and Taron and Garl ascended together.

Maryam waited until they were all out of sight and then wearily completed her last stretch of the climb to the base of the wall. She stood there panting for a moment, and then tested the pull of the nearest rope. Still refusing to look down, she drew a deep breath, leaned backward and began to walk up the wall, pulling herself with her arms as she had learned from watching the others. The three men had been helped over the top by rough but willing hands, but she had been forgotten and no one had even noticed her presence as she had crouched helplessly lower down the cliff-face.

Maryam had climbed walls before, but only the garden walls of Kara-Rashna's palace. She had scrambled after her brothers as they escaped the confines of their playgrounds and had proved herself as nimble and daredevil as any of them. This was different and she had never climbed so high before and never been so tired. Her arms ached and her hands burned from gripping the rope, but once she had started she knew that she could not go back. If she tried to lower herself the rope would slip and burn through her hands. She gritted her teeth, closed her eyes and kept pulling upward.

That final part of the climb seemed to last forever. The pain in her hands and arms became agony. She began to think that she must inevitably fail and fall, but eventually she was able to haul herself over the top of the wall and dropped down thankfully onto a parapet a few feet below.

There were three discarded sword belts on the parapet. Maryam dropped her own belt on the pile, first withdrawing the blade from its scabbard, but then she simply leaned her back against the supporting edge of the wall. She was exhausted and lacked the strength to do any more. Looking down, she saw that there was a large open courtyard below, and on the far side, the massive stone walls of a solid hall and keep. The stone-paved courtyard was filled with the song of steel and a mass of furiously cursing and fighting barbarian men. One half of the wooden double gates which had barred entry to the stronghold was smashed and smouldering and had obviously been set on fire. A large assault force had broken in, but now Raven, Taron and Garl were at the forefront of a ferocious counter attack, their swords flashing and dancing in the sunlight.

Even as she watched, the tide of battle turned. The invaders were falling quickly under the combined cutting power of three fresh blades, and now they began to fall back toward the gates. Raven seized the momentary lull to turn aside and run swiftly to a flight of stone steps that brought him back to the top of the parapet. From one of the defenders, he had commandeered a curved battle horn which he now raised to his lips with his free hand. He blew into it with one long, savage blast which would not have disgraced an angry bull elephant. The men below him flinched as the signal note deafened their ears, and both sides lowered their sword blades and stared upward.

The battle horn had served its purpose and Raven tossed it to one side. He raised his bloodied sword blade and allowed it to rest casually in the palm of his left hand.

“I am Raven,” he said loudly, his voice carrying crisp and clear above all their upturned faces. “Sword Lord of this stronghold. I am told that I have received a sword challenge, from something called Brack.”

There was a moment of silence. Maryam realized that now she could distinguish the defenders from the attackers. The former displayed sudden wide grins of triumph and delight. The latter showed faces of grim shock and dismay. A huge man with a bald blue head, carrying his own reddened blade, slowly stepped forward. He planted his feet wide apart and made a cutting motion in the air as those around him backed away to clear a circle.

“I am Brack,” he said harshly. “Sword Lord of Stronghold Brack.”

“Your father was a disgusting old rock toad,” Raven said pleasantly. “I can see that you have inherited his fine features.”

“I will kill you for that,” Brack roared. His voice was positive and powerful but his eyes lacked certainty.

Raven laughed and ran down the steps again and into the fighting circle.

Maryam watched the duel begin and again there was a swift flowering of fear in her heart. The long climb had drained her to the point of collapse, and Raven had made that same climb. He must surely be tired, and his sword arm must weigh as heavily as her own. Brack, by comparison, must be fresh and strong. Again it was hammered into her heart and mind that if Raven died, she would be alone on this savage planet, and she hardly dared to think of what might befall her without his protection.

The two circled each other for a long minute, and then Brack gave a mighty bellow and charged. His technique was that of a battering ram, swinging his sword ahead of him in great sweeps that would have carved him a swift path through a wall of lesser men. But he was no match for a master swordsman. Raven weaved left and right, giving ground but deflecting every blow. Then his sword tip snaked forward and sliced Brack's left cheek just below the eye. Stung with pain, the big man flinched back, and Raven deftly opened his other cheek.

Brack knew then that he was doomed. This was no duel, but simply an execution.

When Brack had made his loud challenge to Stronghold Raven, it was with the firm assurance that its reigning Sword Lord was absent on another world. He had hoped to meet Bhorg or Scarl, who were a better match, but they had refused. He had jeered at them with scorn, but now there was only the sour taste of death in his mouth. Still, he was a Gheddan Sword Lord, and he attacked again with heavy-handed fury. He never knew exactly how it happened, for Raven's blade-work was too fast for his clumsy eye to follow. There was just the sudden, violent stabbing pain in his heart, and he died impaled upon Raven's sword.

Raven stepped back to let the hulking body fall. His chest rose and fell slowly as his body sucked in oxygen, but he showed no other sign of his recent exertions. His sword arm was aching now, but he held the blade as though it were weightless. He looked around the circle of watching men and said softly: “So that was Brack. Which is Raige?”

Brack's ally stepped slowly forward. He was a tall man with a great hooked nose under an iron helmet. He carried a sword and a black wolfhair shield. He, too, knew that he was looking into the eyes of death, but his gaze was steady.

“I am Raige, Sword Lord of my stronghold.”

Raven smiled, a wicked, thin-lipped smile. “You chose your friends badly.”

For a moment he said nothing more, considering his options. Then he allowed his sword point to drop and touch the rough flagstones that paved the courtyard. He clasped both hands around the top of the blade, just below the hilt.

“I have the right to challenge, but it is my decision. Would you prefer to kiss my sword?”

Raige hesitated, but he had seen how quickly Brack had died. If he accepted a challenge, it would mean his own certain death, and Raige was not yet ready to die. He swallowed his pride and crouched slowly on one knee. Leaning his head forward, he briefly kissed the hilt of Raven's sword.

Raven chuckled, gave Raige a friendly slap on the shoulder and helped him to his feet. “This time you chose wisely. Now gather your blades.”

Raige looked around the crowded courtyard and nodded. The men who were his followers came forward and gathered round him. They had all kissed his sword and were bound to him, and through him they were now all bound to Raven. The defenders of Stronghold Raven stood fast in grinning ranks behind Bhorg and Scarl. The group that was left also drew more tightly together, exchanging grim, uncertain glances. The swift turn of events had left them leaderless and outnumbered, and there was fear in their eyes. Most of them expected to be massacred.

Raven let them stew for a moment, as though he was again pondering his options. Then he stepped forward to face them. His sword blade again rested casually across the palm of his left hand.

“Your stronghold has no Sword Lord. I suggest you go away and chose one. He will have the same choice as the Sword Lord Raige. If the man who emerges to lead you does not return to kiss my sword within two hours, then we are still at war.”

He waited while his words were considered in silence. Brack's men shifted uncomfortably and exchanged glances amongst themselves. Finally one of them nodded agreement. Without looking back, they all turned and marched away through the shattered gates, dragging their dead and wounded with them.

From the parapet wall, Maryam watched them depart, with a huge sense of relief now that Raven did not have to fight another immediate duel. However, it was also very clear that dueling was a way of life on this primitive planet, and she knew that someday Raven must fall. No man could live forever, and no man could remain a champion for all of his days, no matter how skilled he might be at his chosen profession. Raven lived by his sword, and with a cold chill around her heart, she knew that some day he would die by the sword.

 

Taron's thoughts were in a similar vein. He too was a competent swordsman and he had acquitted himself well. The blood of at least three of their enemies still dripped from his reddened blade. He had followed Raven over the wall and into the battle without question, and he had watched Raven kill Brack with expressionless eyes. However, deep in his private thoughts there had been a moment when he was unsure whether he had truly wanted his commander to emerge victorious.

There had been no doubt in his mind of Raven's skill. But they were all weary from that back-breaking climb up the cliff, and he knew that a tired man might make mistakes. Sometimes it needed only one small slip or miscalculation and even the most brilliant of swords could fall.

If Raven had died, then Taron knew that he would have claimed Maryam for his own. He wanted her, and with Raven gone, he would have her. But he also knew that his claim would not have gone long unchallenged, perhaps by Garl. He wondered how long he might hope to survive in that situation. And then, seriously, whether the delight of having the brown woman today would be worth the pain of dying for her tomorrow.

CHAPTER TEN

To Maryam, it seemed that every other man on this accursed planet had his already ugly face slashed by dueling scars, and Bhorg, Raven's eldest living brother and his nominated holder of the stronghold, was no exception to the general rule. Bhorg was even taller and uglier than Raige, although Raven's second brother, Scarl, was without doubt the most loathsome Gheddan she had yet encountered. He was broad and squat, with a broken nose and a black leather patch over one eye. He leered at her constantly from the other, a pale grey orb that was watery and unblinking. On her private scale of revulsion, he was only slightly preferable to Sardar the Merciless or a Whitejaw ape.

They gathered at a table in the Great Hall where food and drink were quickly brought, and although Maryam determinedly joined them without invitation, she was not introduced. Raven had more important things on his mind.

“How did it happen?” he demanded, his eyes fixed on Bhorg. “How did they break in?”

Bhorg tugged off the heavy, bronze hawk's-head helmet he had worn during the battle. It was the same helmet that their unlamented brother Volkar had worn on the day he had died on Raven's blade. Bhorg had taken the helmet for his own and now he slammed it down on the rough wood of the table top and wiped the sweat from his temples before he answered angrily.

“They sneaked up with piles of brushwood and oil and fired the gates just before dawn. We would have driven them back and extinguished the flames from above, but the moment we appeared above the gates they fired on us with lazer weapons. Several of the fighting men were cut down. We were kept back until the gates burned through, and then they charged in with swords.”

“We have held the stronghold through six weeks of siege and attack,” Scarl added belligerently. “We could have held it forever against men and swords.”

Raven swung his gaze onto Raige. “Lazer weapons are weapons of the empire. All power weapons are forbidden to all except Empire soldiers and guards. The law decrees death for anyone to own such a weapon who has not kissed the Empire Sword. Where did these weapons come from?”

“Brack acquired them.” Raige spoke freely and promptly, for he was Raven's man now. “About a week ago, he disappeared overnight with two of his best men. I only know that he went south down the main trail. When he returned at dawn, he had obtained a dozen hand lazers, each with three spare power packs.”

“Two nights ago, our night camp was attacked on the main trail, initially with lazer fire.”

Raige nodded. “That would be Mace, Brack's Second Sword. He left three days ago with a dozen swords. Less than half of them came back last night, nursing their cuts and wounds. Mace was not with them. When they returned, Brack knew that you were still alive and on your way here. That was when he decided to fire the gates and use the power weapons to make sure that they continued to burn. He swore that our swords would take the stronghold at dawn. If you had kept to the main trail, there would have been another night attack. If you had arrived at all, you would have arrived too late.”