The Sword Lord (12 page)

Rena, the nurse-housekeeper who had looked after them since their mother's death, was always busy, and as Larn and Logan became more agile and adventurous, and Lorin more capable and responsible, they were all left much to their own devices outside the hours of schooling. So they had played hunt and chase on the beach, climbed as high as they dared on the rocks, bathed at the edge of the lake, and finally, tiring of all the land-bound games, they had launched their small boat with its bright disc of orange sail.

They had been told never to sail more than fifty paces from the shoreline and they had no intention of disobeying the rule. Lorin had cast out a large, roped stone that served as an anchor and they had commenced fishing. The sail disc had been tipped to its horizontal position above their heads so that it now provided them with shade instead of catching the wind, and they became absorbed in their sport. The lake was filled with a rich variety of fish. The most plentiful and the most delicious to eat were the red-finned silverbacks and today they were close inshore in shoals and they were hungry. The slippery pile of fish grew quickly in the bottom of the boat, wriggling and sliding over their bare feet and filling them with excitement and enthusiasm. With their attention concentrated on their hand-held lines, they failed to notice that the sail had tilted slightly and was catching some of the strengthening breeze from the shore. The crude anchor was dragging on the lake bottom and inexorably they were being carried out to deeper water. The silver, solar-panelled dome of their father's house was growing darker as the storm clouds gathered, becoming smaller in its nest of blossoming fruit trees.

It was then that Lorin's line had hooked a blackfin. The blackfins were a much larger fish, less pleasant to eat, but vigorous fighters. The blackfin was a true sporting fish and Lorin fought and played it while the others cheered and all but fell overboard in their misguided efforts to help. The small boat began to rock dangerously, partly from their reckless movements and partly from the increasing size of the waves.

Several things happened almost simultaneously. The water became deeper than the length of their anchor rope, and suddenly the stern of the boat was dipping because the stone was pulling them down instead of dragging on the bottom. The boat began to move even faster and further from the shore and the squall hit them in a violent lashing of wind and rain. The sail tilted almost to the vertical to catch the full force of the wind. Lorin's line broke, the blackfin escaped, and all four of them became abruptly aware of their position of danger.

In moments they were drenched and terrified. Lorin struggled manfully with the sail, fighting the wind in his efforts to get the sail-frame back and secured in the horizontal position. Zela hauled in the now useless anchor, while Larn and Logan huddled together in the bottom of the boat. By the time Lorin had the sail made fast, they had been blown another hundred paces from the shore and the waves had slopped into and half-filled the tiny boat.

Lorin took up the oars and tried to row them back to the shore, while Zela found a drinking cup and desperately tried to bale out the water that was sloshing around their ankles. The squall had become a gale, the waves towered fearsomely all around them and lightning split the black sky with a deafening crack of thunder. Larn began to cry, but his whimpering was quickly lost in the nightmare of falling water.

Lorin's efforts with the oars were futile and Zela's frantic baling even more so. The boat was water-logged and sinking. Suddenly it tipped with the thrust of a wave and they were all tossed helplessly into the lake. Zela saw Larn and Logan still clinging together, their faces agonized and screaming then the waves sucked them down. She was sure she was going to drown with them, but then Lorin's arm was around her waist and he was pulling her with him as he swam bravely for the shore. Only Lorin could swim and he could only try to save one of them. And, Zela realized in anguish, he had chosen to try and save her.

It seemed to Zela like forever that they were in the water, and a thousand times it seemed that she must have choked and drowned in the roaring black tumult of the waves. Each time, her head somehow emerged again and, despite her bursting heart and lungs, she managed to gulp down enough air to keep her alive. Lorin was tiring, his struggles becoming weaker, but still he would not let her go. Zela tried to beg him to save himself but her mouth filled with water and she could only splutter and gasp. In that moment she would have preferred to go with her mother and her brothers, but Lorin's hold on her was unbreakable.

She closed her eyes and stopped fighting. She stopped fighting to live and she stopped fighting to break Lorin's hold. It was all irrelevant because they were both going to drown anyway. And then she was aware of another voice screaming above the storm. It was Rena, screaming encouragement to Lorin. She had seen the boat sink and waded out from the shore into chest-deep water to try and reach them. Her voice spurred Lorin to one last, final effort as a wave pushed him forward, and then the old woman's hands were clutching at them. She caught Lorin's arm and dragged them both close to her breast.

Somehow the old nurse had pulled them both into the shore, and there Zela lay, sobbing and choking in her arms. The old woman wept. Lorin lay sprawled on the sand, gasping for breath, his strength gone, his body exhausted. Then in anguish he pushed himself up and stared out onto the rain-lashed wildness of the lake. Their brothers and the boat had vanished. Lorin called their names in heart-broken despair and staggered back toward the lake. He would have thrown himself into its water and gone back for them if Rena had not left Zela on the sand and run to stop him at the water's edge. They struggled before Lorin collapsed again and Rena had to drag him clear of the lake for the second time. Zela could only watch and weep, and weep and weep…

 

 

 

There were tears on her cheek now as she relived those awful moments. Her words died away and she became silent. Kananda put his arm around her shoulders but said nothing. He sensed that there was more.

“Lorin saved me,” she continued at last. “But our brothers perished. After that there was only Lorin, and because I owed him my life, I worshipped him all the more. We were closer than any other brother and sister could be.”

Kananda nodded in understanding, thinking of his own affection for Maryam.

“When he was old enough, Lorin joined the Alphan Space Corps,” Zela said quietly. “He became a first class pilot and a natural leader in everything. He was their star and champion in every kind of sport and skill. He rose faster through the officer ranks than any man before him. He was a member of the expedition that established the first base on our largest moon. And later he commanded the first manned expedition to the fourth planet. It was a dead planet, a red and hostile world of no practical value, but it was a vital stepping stone to this planet which you call Earth.”

She stopped again. Telling how her younger brothers had died had been hard, the memory almost too painful to bear. But this was harder still, the memory pure anguish and undying rage, and when she next continued her voice was bleak and bitter, with the cutting edge of steel.

“Our first expedition to the fourth planet clashed there with a Gheddan expedition. Both sides had raced for the prestige of putting the first man on the red planet, and the race was a tie. Lorin was killed there, in a sword duel with the Sword Lord who commanded the Gheddan spaceship. Sword-play was the one skill which Lorin had not thought it important to master. He accepted a challenge because he was the kind of man who could do nothing else, but his death was ritualized murder.”

She turned grim eyes upon Kananda. “From that day forward I vowed that I would take Lorin's place in the Space Corps. And from that day forward I have trained and practised with the sword. One day I shall meet with my brother's murderer and it will be my greatest pleasure to slay him with his own chosen weapon of honour and by his own chosen code. It is both my prayer and my destiny—something I sense with every fibre of my being—that one day I shall face and kill the Gheddan Sword Lord named Raven.”

Chapter Seven

The lush green lawns between the palace and the limpid waters of the Mahanadi were filled with feasting tables, with altar and cooking fires, and a vast, colourful throng of nobles, warriors, priests and ladies. The women wore their most gorgeous saris in swirls of patterned silks, while their men were almost as resplendent in bright tunics, trousers and turbans. All of them dripped gold and jewelry in intricate chains and necklaces and pendants, all dazzling with precious stones. The royal princes sat like brilliant peacocks at the central table where Kara-Rashna's gold-and-ivory throne had been carried out of the audience hall and placed at the head of the table by a dozen slaves. The princes sat on the monarch's left, while Raven and four of his crew lounged nonchalantly on his right.

The sweet scents of roasting meat, burning sandalwood and incense drifted in the air. A priest recited the Vedas in a low, monotonous voice beside one of the altar fires, although no one seemed to listen. Other priests in their white robes dispensed flower garlands and soft prayers. The fierce heat of the afternoon had passed, but the evening was still warm. Sitars and flutes played trembling background music and there were subdued murmurs of conversation. There were pigs, deer, pheasant and an ox roasted whole, a variety of spiced eggs, grilled fish, platters of hot rice and bread, bowls of honey and small mountains of vegetable and fruit.

However, it was not the rich abundance of food and wine which slowed the hub-bub of talk that was normal on such occasions. The banquet and festivities had been ordered by Kara-Rashna to provide fit and royal welcome for the strangers from the stars. Every noble house of Karakhor was represented here—none had dared to ignore the invitation—but the visitors were greeted with as much apprehension as honour. The sardonic amusement with which they viewed the proceedings had not earned them any affection, and the general atmosphere of nervousness was growing.

Only Maryam seemed blind to it. She sat between her father and Raven, glowing with more radiance and beauty than any other woman present and smilingly indicating to the Sword Lord the select morsels and delicacies she thought he would enjoy the most. The queen Padmini, Kara-Rashna's first wife and Maryam's mother, sat at the monarch's other side, and twice she risked raising her eyes to signal her cautious disapproval to her daughter, but Maryam pretended not to notice. Kara-Rashna looked most uncomfortable and toyed fretfully with his food. His brothers felt that, although they could not communicate with their guests, it would still be impolite to exclude them by talking between themselves, and so they remained mainly silent and ill at ease. Only the Gheddans talked carelessly and ate with hearty appetites.

There was almost a sense of relief when enough food and wine had been consumed for it to be deemed proper for the entertainment to begin. A small orchestra formed and began to play and a group of slave dancing girls began to perform. They danced slowly at first, their supple movements graceful and teasing. Then gradually they moved faster, bare thighs flashing beneath their swirling skirts, hips undulating, and their almost bare breasts vibrating erotically with their exertions. Now even the Gheddans were silent, watching for the first time with interest and without a sneer.

Raven reclined on his chair, a goblet of wine in one hand and the fingers of the other resting lazily in a fruit bowl. He watched with his eyes but his mind was far away, comparing the scene before him with similar occasions on Ghedda. There in the rock-bound stronghold that his male ancestors had ruled for ten generations, the food had been as filling and the wine as plentiful, but the surroundings more spartan. The massive stone walls had been built to withstand siege in the days before air and space travel. The tables in the long eating hall were bare wood, knife-scarred and wine-stained, and there was no white lace and silken cloths. On Ghedda there was no incense, no altars and no priests. There were none of the pathetic rituals and pointless sacrifices that these people seemed to find so necessary. Religion was a dead relic of the distant and decadent past. There were no gods on Ghedda. There, man was supreme, and if he was strong enough and skilled enough, then nothing ruled over his own strength and his sword. Also there were few dancing girls, to be found only in cheap bars and drink dens. There was bloodshed enough in a Gheddan stronghold without inciting the swordsmen and masters to more with the cavorting of half-nude females.

At this stage of a Gheddan feast, the sword duels would begin. With other weapons, a duel could end in injury or first blood, but with the sword it was always to the death.

Raven thought back to his own duels with satisfaction. Few males on Ghedda were without sword scars. All of his crew had their fair share. Even Thorn, with the skills and the rank of swordmaster, bore the scar on his wrist with pride. But Raven had never been touched by an opponent's blade. His pale blue body was perfect and unblemished beneath his white uniform.

He remembered the day that Gaunt, his father, had died. The old tyrant had fallen drunk down three flights of stone stairs, cracking open his bald skull and spilling half his brains, but still he had taken five more days to finally expire. The stronghold had waited, almost in silence, but not the silence of respect. Instead it was a silence of grim anticipation, as though even the shadows watched and waited. Then at last Raven's mother had walked slowly out into the courtyard where the fighting men were assembled, wearing the red robes of grief. Under the cowled hood, her face was daubed with grey ashes, but her eyes were dry and there were no tear streaks. In a hollow and emotionless voice she announced that her husband was dead. All that had been Gaunt had ceased to exist. There was only the corpse to be disposed of.

There was another pause of silence, but not of mourning. The waiting was over, the first long phase of tension had snapped, but the second phase quickly tightened. The disposal of the corpse could wait, for immediately there were more serious matters to be settled. Volkar, Raven's eldest brother, did not spare a single glance for their mother. Instead he drew a deep breath to prepare himself and then walked into the centre of the duelling ground. He was one of the largest warriors in the stronghold, a battle-scarred giant in a laced black leather tunic and breeches, with bronze breast plates and arm guards. His helmet was a fearsome bronze hawk's head. He drew his sword and the long blade flashed in the harsh mid-winter sun. He looked around the stone-faced assembly and declared grimly, “I, Volkar, claim mastery of this stronghold.”