Sir Harold and the Hindu King, Part IV

SIR HAROLD AND HINDU KING

Part 4 of 5

Christopher Stasheff

Soldiers cried out in pain, and more than a few fell to the earth, pierced through. The troops gave ground, but Randhir called out, "Turn and flee! We must find a place to make our stand! Run!"

At the command, the soldiers turned and ran.

"Never argue with legitimately constituted authority, Harold," Chalmers advised.

"No, Doc!" Shea protested. "Someone tipped off the thieves' captain! The Rajah obviously didn't kill off all the robbers' spies, but he thinks he did! If they don't win this fight, he'll blame it on us!"

"Why, so he will, won't he?" Chalmers stared, thunderstruck.

So did the Rajah—but as he ran, Charya came scrambling and sliding down the cliff-face, calling out, "Hola! What kind of Rajput are you, if you run away from combat?"

Randhir churned up the grass in his haste to stop and turn around. He whipped out his sword and waited for Charya to come up. "Strike at your king, and the penalty is death!" he bellowed.

"Hung for the lamb, hung for the sheep," Charya retorted. "If you take me alive, you will slay me for one reason or another. Why not regicide?" As he said it, he slashed with his scimitar.

It was a blow that would have done credit to the Lord High Executioner, but Randhir met it with a blow equally strong, that set both blades ringing.

"Doc," Shea said anxiously, "if that blow had landed, the next rajah would have tracked us down and tortured us to death!"

"Indeed! We must protect the Rajah, and quickly!" Chalmers ripped up handfuls of long grass and began weaving them into a very rough, very clumsy fabric as he chanted,

"Weave a circle round him thrice,

That turns all blades from heart and head!

For he on royal food has fed,

And is sent to rule by Paradise!"

"Coleridge will forgive you," Shea promised.

"Let us hope that it works." Chalmers watched the fight with anxious eyes.

Randhir slashed a stroke that would have opened Charya's chest wide, if it had landed. But the chieftain leaped back, and the Rajah staggered as his own blow pulled him off balance. The captain gave a shout of triumph and leaped in again, sword whining straight toward the Rajah's head—but Randhir managed to swing his blade up in the nick of time. Shea gasped, thinking Chalmers' magic shield had failed—but Charya's blade glanced aside inches from Randhir's face. Shea relaxed with a sigh. "Your spell worked, Doc."

"Yes, but I don't think anyone else realizes that." Chalmers glanced nervously about him. "At least, I hope they do not; a reputation as a sorcerer is the last thing I need right now."

"Don't worry," Shea assured him. "To everyone else, I'm sure it looked as though Randhir parried the blow."

"I trust so," Chalmers agreed, "but I am certain that I saw Charya's sword glance off the rajah's blade and on toward his head, where the spell turned it aside scant centimeters from his skin."

"Don't tell," Shea advised.

Charya slashed another blow at Randhir, but this time the king really did catch it on his own blade. Charya shoved against it, jumping back, then advanced on the Rajah, whose sword whirled in a figure-eight that would have minced anything it met. Charya retreated and retreated, though, his own blade up and ready for the slightest opening in Randhir's guard.

Now came the real beginning of the fight; it seemed the opening rain of blows had been only a prelude. Having tested each other, the two swordsmen settled down to serious fencing. They withheld their steel and bent almost double, knees flexed, skipping in circles around each other, each keeping his eye well fixed upon the other, with frowning brows and contemptuous sneers. The battle stilled as soldiers and robbers alike stopped to watch their leaders battle.

"Ah! The king cuts a caper!" cried a soldier.

"But Charya answers with a measured leap!" cried a robber.

"Aye!" his mate cried in delight. "He springs forward like a frog!"

"And the king hops backward like a monkey!"

Then, incredibly, the king began striking his saber against his shield, a steady rhythmical beat—but Shea could see the blade never wavered much from readiness to strike. Charya, not to be outdone, began to beat on his shield, too—and Randhir stooped low with a loud cry, cutting at Charya's legs. Charya sprang into the air, though, and the blade whistled harmlessly under him. Even as he came down, though, the robber chief whirled his sword three times around his head and brought it down like lightning in a slant, toward the kings left shoulder—but the King snapped his shield up, and the sword clashed against it and bounced off. The rajah staggered back, thrown off balance by the strength of the blow. The captain followed closely, slashing and cutting, and for a moment, it was all the Rajah could do to block with his shield and parry with his sword. Then he rallied, suddenly leaping forward and striking, and Charya had to raise his shield in defense.

On and on they fought, until they were both rasping huge ragged gasps and the blows became rough and clumsy and slow. They were so well matched in courage, strength, and skill that neither could obtain the slightest advantage.

Of course, the Rajah did have Chalmers' magical shield—but Shea could see that Reed was watching the match far too intently, with drops of sweat starting on his brow, his whole body tense. "Somebody trying to cancel your spell?" he asked softly.

Chalmers gave a terse nod. "Our captain has some sort of supernatural help siding with him."

"Or against us," Shea pointed out. "Malambroso's probably in this universe too, after all, and if we can figure out that our lives depend on the Rajah's right now, so can he."

"A point well taken," Chalmers grunted. "Lend a hand, can you, Harold?"

"How?" Shea asked, at a loss.

"Something, anything, to throw that robber off balance!"

"Off balance?" Inspiration struck, and Shea dropped to one knee, patting the ground about him until one hand closed on a pebble in the darkness, an irregular lump about two inches across. Carefully, Shea stood up, lowering his foot onto the pebble and chanting,

"Beneath Charya's foot

Let this stone at once be put,

Rolling as it is discerned—

Never leave a stone unturned!"

Shea felt a sudden absence beneath his sole, and stepped down to feel nothing but grass. It was hard to tell in the half-light, but he thought he saw something small appear under the robber captain's instep—and sure enough, Charya stepped down and the stone revolved, sliding from under his foot. He cried out in rage, arms windmilling, and landed on his back so hard that it drove the breath out of him, leaving him helpless for a moment—and when he caught his breath, he found himself staring at the point of the Rajah's blade, six inches in front of his face, right between his eyes. "I am lost!" he cried. "Save yourselves! Flee!"

With a wail, the thieves disappeared into the forest. The soldiers shouted and ran after them.

"Bide, Shea and Chalmers," the Rajah grated. "Do you, O dexterous and cunning swordsman, now loose grasp from your hilt, or my point will pierce your brain."

"Strike, then!" Charya cried in defiance. "Better a clean death in battle than execution in shame!"

"While there's life, there's hope," Shea said. "Miracles have happened before."

"Not for one so guilty as I!" But even as he said it, that very hope wavered in Charya's eyes, and his hand loosened on the hilt. Shea knelt and tugged the sword away.

"You speak truly," Randhir told Charya, "for I shall do all in my power to see you executed for your crimes."

"Can you control the whims of the gods?" Chalmers challenged. "Can you read dharma so clearly as to be able to say there is no chance of this doughty knave living? For surely, he is most admirable in his skill and courage, no matter how despicable he may be in the ways in which he uses them."

"There is truth in that," the Rajah admitted. "However, though the race is not always to the swift, that is the way to place your wager. Bind this knave, then set him on his feet!"

So because of the shred of hope that Shea and Chalmers had raised within his heart, Charya of the robbers was taken alive for the Rajah's justice, not slain on the ground where the turned stone had stretched him.

* * * * *

The next morning, Shea and Chalmers presented themselves in the Rajah's private audience chamber. They found Randhir standing by the window, gazing moodily out over his kingdom.

"Your Majesty," Shea prompted, "you sent for us?"

"Indeed." Randhir turned to face them. "I wish to thank you."

Alarm shrilled in every fiber, but Shea forced a bland and uncomprehending smile. "Thank us? For what?"

"It could have been chance or fate that placed that stone under Charya's foot," Randhir said quietly, "even though we had been back and forth over the same ground before—but I doubt it. And I know his sword glanced off some invisible shield when I thought it would surely cleave my head open."

Chalmers protested, "Surely Your Majesty is..."

" 'My Majesty' knows what I saw, and knows magic when I see it!" Randhir snapped. "Since there was no magician there, I can only conclude that it was done by one of you foreigners—or both!"

"Surely we're not so foreign as that," Shea objected.

"Are you not? You do not even know the proper forms of address for a king! You can address me as nothing but 'majesty!' "

"Why, if that is so," Chalmers said quietly, "we could not be very powerful magicians, or we would have known those forms."

"Aye, if you deemed it worth your trouble! Do not deny what a Rajah knows—you are magi from Persia, are you not?"

Shea exchanged a glance with Chalmers, who sighed and turned back to the rajah. "Not from Persia, O Fount of Wisdom, but from much farther to the west."

"Much farther," Shea agreed.

"And we are not magi, for they are Zoroastrian priests," Chalmers went on. "Rather, we are scholars who study magic for its own sake."

"Then you are magicians!"

"Just so," Chalmers aid quietly, "magicians, nothing more—not sorcerers, nor necromancers, nor even magi, though the word 'magic' stems from that term."

"I knew it!" Randhir slapped his thigh in glee. "You are indeed magi, and I thank you for your help—nay, for my life! But just how far-ranging are your powers?"

Shea stared, his mind racing. They had to say enough to make themselves look important, but not enough to make Randhir want to keep them as permanent assets. Before he could decide on the right balance, though, Chalmers said, "We can work defensive magic only, O Eye of Insight—spells to protect, and spells to aid. Slaying and other evil works, we are more than glad to leave to those who are sorcerers and necromancers."

"Good, good!" Randhir nodded energetically, and Shea breathed a secret sigh of relief. Once again, Chalmers' skill at the conference table had turned the tide.

Or maybe not. "The protection you gave me during the fight," the rajah said, "can you do that for a city? For an army perhaps?"

Chalmers let his shoulders slump with disappointment. "I fear not, O Gem of Rectitude. Magic on such a scale is simply beyond my strength—or even that of our combined powers, my friend and I. It would require a virtual corps of magicians, all working together in concert—and quite frankly, it is almost impossible to persuade so many of us to acknowledge any one of our number as leader, or to work together without arguing."

True enough, Shea reflected—at least, if you substituted the word "scholar" for "magician."

"I had feared as much," Randhir said, disappointed. "Still, I will trouble you to stay near me as we take Charya out to be executed. A dozen or more of his gang escaped, and I would not put it past them to try to rescue him at the last minute, even at the cost of slaying their Rajah."

"How horrendous!" Chalmers said, with just the right amount of horror. "Be certain we shall stay close by you, O Rajah!"

Shea listened to it all with foreboding. He didn't mind staying close to the Rajah—for a day or two, or even until they managed to locate Florimel. After that, though, the Rajah's possessiveness could become a serious problem.

"Why have you come to my city of Chandrodoya?" the rajah demanded.

"We have come seeking my wife," Chalmers explained. "She was kidnapped by a wicked enchanter named Malambroso. He is old, about my height, and lean, with a graying beard and moustache and long graying hair. She is perhaps the height of my ear, slender, brown-haired, and remarkably sweet-faced."

"I should hope you think the last, if you are her husband," Randhir said with a smile. "Well, I shall have my spies seek throughout the city for any word of such folk—but I am certain that if a woman with brown hair had appeared, word would already have come to me. They are not unknown, but they are rare in Chandrodoya."

"I shall be grateful for whatever boons you may bestow, O Ocean of Compassion."

The Rajah smiled with grim amusement. "Only remember that those boons require I remain alive, O Magus. Remember it well, and guard me closely."

* * * * *

Charya's last day began with a bath at the hands of servants who were guarded by vigilant soldiers. They dressed him in fine clothes, then turned him over to the soldiers, who mounted him on a camel and led him parading around the city, followed by the Rajah with Shea and Chalmers right behind him and in front of his bodyguard. In front of the thief marched a herald who proclaimed, "Who hears! Who hears! Who hears! The king commands! This is the thief who has robbed and plundered the city of Chandrodoya! Let all men therefore assemble themselves together this evening in the open space outside the gate leading toward the sea. And let them behold the penalty of evil deeds, and learn to be wise."

"What is the penalty, O Cleaver of Criminals?" Shea called to the monarch in front of him.

"He is to be nailed and tied to a scaffold, with his hands and feet stretched out at full length in an erect posture until death takes him," Randhir answered. "He shall have everything he wishes to eat, so that we may prolong his life and misery—but when death draws near, melted gold will be poured down his throat until it bursts from his neck and other parts of his body."

Shea shuddered. "Talk about royal treatment!"

"I would just as soon die by a more lowly, but faster, method," Chalmers said grimly. "It would seem the Romans were not the only ones who practiced crucifixion."

Shea stared. "Why, that is what he's talking about, isn't it?" He turned back to Randhir. "Is that the usual punishment, O..." He swallowed, thinking up an appropriate honorific that wouldn't be too insulting. "...O Hammer of Retribution?"

"Impalement is more common," the rajah replied, "but since this man has caused so much suffering, he should endure a longer death—and since he has slain so many, the manner of his own dying should be as painful as possible."

"But why so expensively?"

Now Randhir turned back to give Shea a wintry smile. "He wreaked misery upon his victims, and slew so many for no better reason than to gain gold, Shea. Now let him drink it."

Shea had to admit that the punishment did fit the crime. That, however, did not make it any less gruesome.

* * * * *

The evening was still hot when they led Charya out to his execution. Crowds lined the streets, jeering and making obscene gestures. Their jostling and stamping churned up an amazing amount of dust, and between that and the heat of the setting sun, Charya and those who followed him were soon stifling and coughing. The air was probably rich with the scents of curry and cardamoms, but all Shea could smell were the horses of the soldiers who mounted guard on the prisoner through his long march.

Now the procession turned into a broad boulevard, passing beneath the windows of some of the wealthiest merchants in town—and the ones who had lost the most to the thieves. Revilement and abuse poured from the windows above, turning into a chant:

This is the thief who has been robbing the whole city! Let him tremble now, for Randhir will surely crucify him!

Unfortunately, the man didn't look like the villain they described—anything but. Now that he was cleaned up and riding tall, straight and proud in the ruddy light of sunset, that light showed him to be handsome, very handsome, carrying himself with pride and bravery, meeting the jeers of the people with a faint sneer. Wicked or not, everyone knew of his strength and courage, and in the silks and satins the king had put on him, he looked like a prince himself. His gaze was calm and steady as he glared with disdain at the tormentors about him.

They saw, and redoubled in their rage. "Let him tremble now! Let him tremble now!"

But Charya did not tremble; instead, his lips quivered, his eyes flashed fire, and deep lines gathered between his eyebrows. Finally, his face creased into a sardonic smile.

A scream echoed above the clamor of the crowd, a scream that pierced their noise enough so that many of them broke off, staring upward at the window in the grand house that the procession was passing. There, at a second-story window, stood an unveiled woman, very young, who was staring straight into the robber's eyes, for on his camel, he was only a few feet below her, and not a dozen feet away. She went pale, and quivered as though his glance was a flash of lightning. Then she broke away from the fascination of his gaze and turned to the old man beside her, saying something with great force as she pointed at Charya. As the procession moved on, Shea came near, and heard her say, "...go this moment and get that thief released!"

But Shea looked at the old man's face and gasped, "Malambroso!"

TO BE CONTINUED...