PRINCE IN EXILE (69 page)

He forced back the tears that threatened to obscure his vision and put every ounce of skill and talent he had into his shooting. His hands blurred as the cord took, tautened and released arrow after arrow, dropping rakshasas on the bank below until those behind had to clamber over the corpses to get to Rama. 

And yet they kept on coming, like an ocean. Wave after wave of inhuman hatred and rage. 

Rama did not feel the wounds on his body, but he knew he was being cut too often. He did not fear injury or pain. He only dreaded being hamstrung too badly to continue fighting. The pile of rakshasas around him was three deep, forming a natural defensive circle. But the ones clambering over those bodies had the advantage of extra height, in addition to their natural tallness, and their heavily downslashing weapons were growing too difficult for him to hold back. He would have to fall back in a moment, to the edge of the trees, and then make his way uphill slowly, fighting every step of the way. He had expected that. Had been prepared to fight them all the way until his back was to the wall of his hut. If that was what lay in store for him, he would accept it. 

Even through the haze of combat, he sensed the sky darken. The snouts of rakshasas pressing him in were shadowed suddenly, their feral eyes gleaming in the dimness. He could not chance a sideways look, but he could tell that the sun was low in the sky, almost at the horizon. But not yet set. Then he remembered that morning, when a similar shadow had fallen upon him, and a surge of hope sprang to his heart. 

A screel came from above, piercing through the roar of battle and the shouts of rakshasas clamouring for their chance to fight Rama. 

A howl of outrage rose from the collective throats of the rakshasas on the far bank and on the bridge. Those on the north bank made the fatal mistake of looking back to see what ailed their comrades, and it was the last sight they saw. Lakshman’s arrows and Rama’s flashing sword cut down the dozen or so rakshasas before they had a chance to raise their weapons. 

Only then did Rama get an opportunity to raise his head and look up, as all the rakshasas were doing. 

When he did, a smile came to his face. He wiped at his eyes, smearing more blood and rakshasa offal across his forehead. ‘Jatayu,’ he said softly. ‘Welcome back, old one.’ 

Jatayu cried out again, wheeling over the Godavari, trying to make sure it timed its descent exactly. It was important it made no errors. It had taken a long time finding a suitable boulder, and twice as long getting airborne with the damn thing clutched in its claws. Every flap of its wings had felt as if it would be the last. When the Godavari came into view, it felt so relieved, it could have fallen into the river itself, going down with the boulder. Ah, that would be bliss. To die doing such a good deed. But alas, it had much more to do to redress its past wrongs. Much more karma to balance. 

It settled for swooping as low as it could above the narrow log-bridge. From this height, the bridge looked like a stick of straw placed over a little stream. 

Jatayu released the boulder, feeling one of its claws snap off with a wrenching pain as it caught on a sharp edge. It was jerked sideways, losing its balance, and began to wheel around in a spiral. It took it several heart-stopping seconds to regain control of its flight and catch a current sufficiently strong to lift it high, high above the arrows that the rakshasas on the south bank were sending towards it. They fell too low to hurt Jatayu. 

Then again, Jatayu didn’t need to be struck by any arrows to die. It knew it was dying anyway. 

Supanakha saw the boulder fall from the clutches of the man-vulture and leapt backwards to safety. She had only just reached the branch of the nearest tree, clinging to it with all four claws, when the enormous rock struck the bridge. The double row of logs lashed together were hit squarely in the middle, at their weakest point. The rock ploughed through them, snapping them like twigs. It crushed several rakshasas who were directly beneath it as well, the impact throwing those who were also on the bridge into the flowing river. The bridge sank into the water, the wood snapping and cracking as it broke free, and then there was just so much flotsam and shards floating downriver, along with about a hundred of Supanakha’s brethren. 

She watched the mayhem from her vantage point, her eyes dancing with glee. Khara was beside himself with rage, yelling curses at the flying beast above, now rising well out of range of the puny arrows that Dushana and his soldiers were firing up at it. Ah, what a stroke of genius. It would take the rakshasas another two hours to rebuild the bridge, and she would wager everything she had that if and when they did, the jatayu would be back, carrying another boulder. 

She wished Khara had the guts to cross the bridge himself, as he had started to do. But the oversized fool had egged his soldiers on, while falling back himself, moving aside to let the rank and file cross. Now he was still on this side of the river, yelling himself blue in the face without any effect. 

She looked across the river and her heart sank. Rama! He was so covered in blood, he looked red. She hoped it wasn’t all his blood, but knew better. She had watched the way he had stood his ground, giving no quarter and taking none. He must have a dozen wounds, some deeper than others. She watched him ignore the hail of arrows that Dushana was ordering his soldiers to fire, the piled corpses of the rakshasas he had slain giving him sufficient cover to stand and recover his strength. He swiped at his face, smearing more blood across his brow instead of clearing it. 

She licked her chops. Suddenly she wanted Rama more than she had ever wanted him before. 

Rama and Lakshman sat beneath the banyan tree in which Lakshman had been ensconced. They were both exhausted. Lakshman had taken an arrow to the thigh too, a lucky shot or perhaps a very good one. They sat with their backs to the trunk, lines of sweat running down Lakshman’s body, lines of sweat and blood down Rama’s. 

‘They will find a way across eventually,’ Lakshman said finally. ‘They can build three bridges at once instead of one. Or five. Or ten. They have enough numbers to do it. Jatayu will not be able to stop them all at once. One way or another, they will get across.’ 

‘Yes,’ Rama said. 

‘And once they have crossed in large enough numbers, they need not come at us in ones and twos as they are forced to do now because of the bridge. They will regroup on this bank, then launch an assault on a wider front, surrounding us completely. We cannot fight on all sides at once, even if we stand back to back.’ 

‘Yes,’ Rama said. 

‘And once they have us surrounded, it is only a matter of time. How many wounds can we sustain and still fight on? How many slashes can we deflect? How many corpses … ‘ Lakshman trailed off, as if he had lost the thread of his argument. 

‘Yes,’ Rama said again, wearily. 

Lakshman rose to his feet. ‘Rama.’ 

‘Yes,’ Rama said. He did not look up. 

Lakshman reached down and shook Rama’s shoulder. ‘Bhai.’ 

Rama looked up. He saw only Lakshman’s arm and his face. Lakshman was looking uphill. 

Rama heard a sound and was on his feet in an instant, sword in hand. He gazed up the path, peering through the lengthening shadows. The sun was at the horizon, the air suffused with the golden glow that presaged the purple glamour of dusk in Chitrakut. 

He saw figures moving through the trees, coming down the pathway. He gestured to Lakshman, who was already setting an arrow to his bow in readiness. 

Rama looked around for Sita, remembered that Lakshman had told him she had left soon after the crossing began, running uphill, and bit back an exclamation. He prayed that these rakshasas, however they had managed to get across the river, had not stopped to check the hut. 

The first of the figures stepped into view. This time Rama spoke the exclamation that had leapt to his tongue just a moment ago. Lakshman lowered his bow. 

Somashrava strode forward, his white dhoti tied at mid-thigh in the wrestler’s fashion. He carried a bow and a quiver. Following on his heels came a line of men and women, all armed with bows and quivers, several carrying swords and other weapons. None of them was young, and they were a motley bunch. Their clothes were as ragged and worn as their faces, their weapons cracked and rusted, and their bearing unlike any Kshatriyas either Rama or Lakshman had seen before. But their faces were well fed, if lean from exertion and activity, and their eyes were sharp and alert. 

Somashrava embraced Rama warmly, uncaring of his blood-smeared body. ‘Rama,’ he said. ‘It is good to see you again. And you, Lakshman,’ he said, embracing Lakshman too. 

‘And you as well, Somashrava,’ Rama replied. ‘But what does this mean?’ 

Somashrava gestured upwards. ‘Our mutual friend from the skies came this morning. It spoke to Sage Agastya and told him of your plight. I entreated the sage to let me come to your aid. We marched all day without rest, and I feared we would be too late. But we saw the jatayu drop the rock on the bridge as we reached the crest of Chitrakut hill, and we saw how bravely you two fought. Truly, Rama, all that they say about you is too little praise. You fight like all the great heroes of legend combined into one man.’ 

Rama shrugged off the compliments. ‘Who are your companions, Somashrava? They do not look like brahmacharyas.’ 

Somashrava gestured to the others to come forward. They came slowly, reluctantly, as if shy of making Rama’s acquaintance. He noticed the way none of them would meet his gaze. Strange. And one or two of them even looked vaguely familiar. If he did not know them personally, he was sure he knew their type. Yes. As the last one stepped into view, Rama knew beyond doubt who these people were. 

‘These are friends of my late father and my late brother. All good men and women. All of them have suffered losses to the demons of this region. All share one common goal. To see every last asura in this part of the world exterminated or driven away for good. It is no mere coincidence that they were passing by the ashram at almost the same time that Jatayu brought its message. For all things serve Brahma’s purpose.’ 

‘Yes,’ said the last man, sauntering forward with a sardonic smile on his face. Rama heard Lakshman’s sharp intake of breath as he recognised the man as well. ‘Even such things as this, a partnership of princess and poachers. Strange, is it not, Rajkumar Rama?’ 

And the man that Rama knew as Bearface bowed with a flourish, his mutilated face split in a wide grin. 

TWENTY-TWO 

Before either Rama or Lakshman could say a word, the sound of another pair of feet came to them. Sita burst into sight, her hair wild and windblown, her manner agitated. 

She blinked in surprise at the gathering but ran straight to Rama. She clutched his hand. ‘Rama, they are gone.’ 

He frowned. ‘Sita. What—’ 

‘The Bow of Vishnu, the Arrow of Shiva. They are not in the place where they were kept. They have vanished.’ 

‘Why were you seeking them?’ 

She hesitated. ‘Watching you fight … I could not bear it. If we are to die defending ourselves against the rakshasas of Chitrakut, surely we can use the bow and the arrow as well, can we not? I was going to fetch them and urge you to use them. I was the one who held you to Anasuya’s warning the strictest, so it’s only right that I should be the one to release you of that hold. But I could not find them, Rama. They’re gone!’ 

Rama shook his head. ‘Yes, I know. Anasuya told me they would. She spoke to me in my mind besides the words she spoke to us aloud. She told me that the celestial weapons were not meant to be used just for our personal defence but to uphold dharma in a righteous fight. They will return to me when that time comes. I did not wish to tell you or Lakshman earlier because I knew you both believed that we could not fight the rakshasas without those weapons. They were your last hope. I could not bear to take that from you.’ 

She stared at him in the fading daylight. ‘But then, how will we—’ She stopped and looked around, remembering the crowd surrounding them. ‘Who are these people? Somashrava? You, here?’ 

‘Yes, my lady,’ he said gravely. Briefly he explained for her benefit how he had come to be here. ‘There are more of us gathering. We have sent word for all to assemble on this north bank of the Godavari. We will make our stand here with Rama and Lakshman and yourself, rajkumari.’ 

Sita turned to Rama. He nodded. ‘You see now? We thought it was hopeless. But it isn’t. Where there was one, there were three. And where there are three, now there are many. And more will come. We will stand together and fight, my love. We will fight them with all our wit and skill and strength. And in the end, we will triumph.’ 

Bearface stepped forward. ‘Moving words, my lady. And sound ones. I can’t say as your husband and I have met on friendly terms before. But this here fight is our fight as well. We have long waged war against the demons of this region; even before Ravana’s troops came, there were always demons here. Viradha, whom I am told you killed, was one of them. But never have we dared to risk open war with them.’ He gestured at the river. ‘What we saw while coming downhill earlier, that kind of fighting, alone against that multitude … ‘ He shook his head. ‘Never have I seen the likes of it. We are not all Ayodhyans. Not even fit to call ourselves Aryas, most of us. Back in the civilised world we would be considered brigands, outlaws, poachers, thieves, vagrants. But here we are all human. Like yourselves. And this has now become a war between mortals and demons. Because as you saw, they will not rest until they have wiped us out. And so we cannot rest until they are all wiped out. If you will have us, my lord Rama, I will be proud to fight beside you. I do not speak for these other men, for we consider ourselves free men and servants of nobody, not even princes of Ayodhya, begging your pardon. But I think they too will be inclined to help balance the odds in this battle.’