Prince of Dharma (92 page)

The result was an army so efficient, so powerful that no human nation would dare an act of aggression against it. In the old days of his ancestors, it was customary every ten years or so to hold an ashwamedha, the horse ritual. A white stallion was sent forth across the kingdom, to roam freely over the lands of smaller lords and nobles, rajas and ranis, self-ruling clans and insular districts. The king and his army followed close on its heels. Anyone who dared stop the horse, be he a solitary Kshatriya stupidly seeking a good mount or a leader of a dozen clans, would have to contend with the army following in its wake. 

In this manner, the ashwamedha would sweep the entire kingdom, ensuring that every last lord, raja and clan chief was still loyal and obedient to the maharaja. Dasaratha had performed the horse ritual too, a long time ago, but today, his democratic parliament was attended by representatives of every clan, tribe and district of the kingdom. There was no need to lead an army out to ensure the loyalty of all his people: they were glad to come to him and offer their vows as often as he summoned them. 

Right now, it was all he could do to stay upright on the massive sunwood throne. 

Even though he had been able to sit up since this dawn, he was already depleted and feeling through for the day. The early-morning incident with the drugged fruit punch had exhausted him further. He still didn’t understand how Sumitra could have accidentally mixed vinaashe root into the punch. The Third Queen was soft-hearted, not soft-headed. 

As he took a moment to settle himself on the throne and clear his throat to speak, he wondered for the umpteenth time if there had been an element of sabotage involved. Not on Sumitra’s part of course, but on the part of some serving girl perhaps. Every employee of the palace was regularly screened and blindly loyal to the throne, but such things did happen in every house where power, wealth and glory lived beneath the same roof as mortal beings. It didn’t bother him that Guru Vashishta and Rani Kausalya had dismissed his suspicions. They were more concerned about his recovery than about anything else. If they had known he was coming here to the parliament hall to meet this courier, they would have restrained him with their own hands. 

Fortunately for him, when a court messenger had brought him the news, he had been alone for a brief spell—alone except for the confounded quad of guards that were now placed within his sick-chamber! 

The guards had protested but he had overruled them by ordering them to carry him to the hall on the travelling seat. Only now had they been compelled to let him out of their sight, and only for the brief time it took this Kshatriya to deliver his vital message. 

He mustered as much dignity as his condition would allow and leaned forward. 

‘Go ahead, Kshatriya. Speak your message.’ 

The Vajra lieutenant named Bheriya—Shatrugan had briefed his father on the way down—bowed and knelt at the foot of the royal dais. ‘My lord honours me with this audience. Forgive me if I have caused any offence to Pradhan Mantri Sumantra, Mantri Jabali, or to anyone else in the commission of my duties. I was only following the explicit orders of my captain.’ 

‘Yes, yes,’ Dasaratha said impatiently. ‘I understand perfectly. You are forgiven for any lapses and hereby absolved of all charges levelled against you. I command you now, speak your message.’ 

The man rose to his feet once more. He lifted his head until he could stare up at his king. Dasaratha was briefly startled by the man’s directness. It was not customary for a common Kshatriya to meet the eyes of his sovereign when enthroned or otherwise. 

He had already noted the Kshatriya’s dishevelled condition and minor injuries. He had seen far worse. Couriers often delivered their missives with their life-blood staining the floor and their bodies gaping with mortal wounds. This man seemed quite robust and able in comparison. He was young too, and not unattractive to look at. Dasaratha knew that if Bejoo had entrusted this warrior with the second-command of his prized regiment, then Bheriya must be a Kshatriya to reckon with. 

But all that was of no matter now. Right now, all Dasaratha cared about was the message the man carried. This was the reason why he had made this short but excruciatingly difficult journey in his present condition. 

When the man didn’t speak again for another long moment, Dasaratha frowned down at him. 

‘Kshatriya,’ he said, ‘I commanded you to speak. Deliver your message without further delay.’ 

What happened next took Dasaratha completely by surprise. Had he been in good health and alert, he would have sensed something amiss even before the hall doors thundered shut. But the Vajra lieutenant gave no sign of treachery until those massive doors were closed. And when the man began to change, he acted so swiftly that Dasaratha barely had time to register what was happening let alone react to it. 

The man named Bheriya looked up at Dasaratha with eyes as crimson as the wine of the angoor-grape. The grimace on his face was as white and as wide as the eternal grin on the face of a bleached skull. 

‘Aja-putra!’ said the Kshatriya in a voice so eerily familiar that it made Dasaratha’s heart thud as though a hammer was striking his chest. ‘We meet again. This time you will not escape the field as easily! I shall finish the job I began that day on the plains of Kaikeya!’ 

Dasaratha gripped the arms of the sunwood throne and watched in horrified amazement as the Vajra lieutenant began climbing the steps of the royal dais, coming directly at him with outstretched clawing hands reaching for his throat. 

*** 

Bejoo watched as Rama leapt, rolled and ran through the clearing, hacking down bandits like a tiger let loose in a sheep pen. Most of the outlaws barely had time to raise their weapons before the rajkumar cut them down. The light of Brahman shakti shone in the prince’s eyes, and his sword reaped a terrible harvest. 

Rajkumar Lakshman had joined the fray. He was slaying as fiercely as Rama, if not as fast. The two black-clad mercenaries were in the fight as well. Taking advantage of the distraction caused by Rama’s attack, they were ridding themselves of the five bandits who had ringed them in. 

And almost as if she understood that this was her best chance at freedom, the bear made her move, charging forward to swing mightily left, then right, impaling two screaming bandits on her claws. She howled in rage, biting deep into a third man’s neck, his blood gushing into her open jaws and splashing across her shoulders, dyeing her black coat shiny red. Her cubs followed, staying close behind their mother while clawing in all directions. One lucky swipe tore through a female bandit’s thigh, the same woman who had compared Rama’s leap to that of the vanar Hanuman. She fell screaming to the ground, her leg gouting blood. 

Bear-face scanned the clearing, taking in the shocking speed with which his band was being decimated. It was barely a few seconds since the bandit leader had last spoken. Already, half his followers lay butchered. And Rama was wheeling through the air, cutting bloody swathes and terrible arcs of destruction, hewing trees and limbs alike, filling the air with splashes of blood, bright jugular sprays that made dappled patterns across trunks and leaves, slicing through flesh, punching through bone, severing muscle and sinew, piercing, hacking, chopping, jabbing, slashing, a one-man war machine. 

Bejoo’s sword was raised and he wheeled his horse around, keeping a tight hold on her reins. No matter how many battles she might have been through, the scent of freshly spilled blood and the chaos of violent combat always made her skittish. It was only her superb training and character that made her stay in the thick of things. He got in a few blows, bringing down one bandit who was trying to impale one of the rksa cubs with a rusty spear. But the fight was ending before it had begun, the bandits shaken by the rajkumars’ fighting power. 

Bear-face looked furious, his mangled features contorted into a mask of screaming frustration, ‘Kill them! Kill them!’ he screamed over and over again, shoving men and women into Rama’s and Lakshman’s paths, but only succeeding in adding more victims to the slaughter count. 

Bejoo had felt the trembling of the earth beneath his seat for several moments, but now he heard the familiar conch-shell signal and the shouted exhortation from behind. His Vajra riders had arrived. He swung his mount around, waving his sword in a circle above his head. His acting lieutenant, a young lad with the totem of the golden leopard named Sona Chita, understood the signal, and led the Vajra riders around the main action, fanning out to surround the clearing and fence in the enemies. Usually Bejoo would have ordered them directly into the thick of the fray; Vajras were trained for instant hit-and-run action, not protective or defensive manoeuvres. But it was obvious that the rajkumars needed no aid in finishing off the bandits, and Bejoo feared that in his current trance-like state Rama might even dispatch a few Vajra riders before realising that they were friend not foe. He waited as his men rode around the clearing. The outcome of the fight was now inevitable. 

Seeing the arrival of reinforcements, Bear-face responded at once. The bandit leader knew when he was outnumbered beyond hope. Yelling to his surviving fellows to retreat, retreat, retreat, he ran as fast as his heels would take him, heading for the end of the clearing away from the approaching Vajra riders. The two enormous brutes who had flanked him escaped as well, their sheer bulk unmistakable as they followed their leader. Bejoo guessed they were the bandit chief’s personal bodyguards. 

Bejoo watched, chagrined, as the leader and a handful of his quicker-footed followers slipped into the woods while the Vajra reinforcements were still some twenty yards short. He considered sending them after the fleeing bandits but decided there would be time for that later. First, he had to focus on his primary responsibility. 

In moments, the Vajra riders had completely closed the ring. The dust in the clearing began to settle, sunlight catching the motes and reflecting off blood-spattered metal and leaves. The rajkumars slowed and grew still at last, realising there were no more opponents left to fight. 

As Bejoo watched with continued fascination, Rama’s eyes slowly lost their blue and gold light and returned to their natural black once more. The prince lowered his sword and scanned the clearing, examining the destruction he had wrought. Bejoo turned to look at what the rajkumar was gazing at, trying to gain an insight into his mind. What was it like to experience such power? To have the divine shakti of Brahman flowing through your body? To be possessed by the ability to face and defeat any foe? This was only the second time he had seen the rajkumar fight, but already he respected his prowess as highly as any of the greatest warriors he had seen in action. 

The two black-clad mercenary Kshatriyas also lowered their swords. They seemed stunned by the sheer extent and speed of the destruction. Looking around, the short, slender one appeared shocked by the number of bandits killed. 

‘How?’ said the Kshatriya, his voice husky with emotion. ‘How did you do all that? So fast?’ 

Rama glanced around. The question was directed at him. ‘My brother and I were inducted with the mahamantras Bala and Atibala.’ He added tersely, ‘By Brahmarishi Vishwamitra, whom we are oath-sworn to serve.’ 

‘Vishwamitra,’ said the larger Kshatriya, his voice low and strangely accented. ‘The legendary one? Then the rumours are true. The Seven walk as One again. And the land will be bathed in fire until such time as either the Lord of Lanka or the Lord of Light remains. The Last Battle approaches.’ 

Lakshman and Rama exchanged glances. Rama replied: ‘I do not know what you mean by that, friend. We are rajkumars of Ayodhya, heirs to the kingdom of Kosala. We were recruited by the sage to rid the Southwoods of asuras, which we did. We don’t know anything about Seven walking as One.’ 

‘Who is the Lord of Light?’ Lakshman asked curiously. 

Bejoo decided it was time to step in. 

‘Rajkumars, we have not yet been introduced to these two strangers. You ought not to converse with them until I have questioned them and established their credentials. They could well be allies of the bandits who fell out with their leader.’ 

Almost as if to confirm his words, the larger of the two Kshatriyas roared with fury and strode forward, brandishing his sword. 

TWENTY-ONE 

‘Allies of bandits?’ The larger Kshatriya pointed his sword at Bejoo menacingly. ‘Get off that horse and say that, Kshatriya! I will show you whose allies we are!’ 

‘Nakhu!’ The shorter one barked the single word sharply, stepping forward. ‘These are our friends. The captain meant no offence with his words.’ 

So the smaller one leads the pair. Bejoo was surprised. He gestured to the two Vajra riders who had galloped up behind the larger Kshatriya, ready to defend their captain. They backed up their horses a yard or two, still eyeing the large warrior suspiciously. 

The short Kshatriya caught the arm of his companion and spoke into his ear. 

The difference in their sizes was so immense, the shorter one’s head only came up to the taller one’s midriff. Bejoo estimated the shorter one to be at best five feet and seven inches of height, fairly below average for a grown Kshatriya. The taller one was easily seven and three-quarters, or even more than eight feet tall. His head was almost at Bejoo’s shoulder level, and Bejoo was mounted! Bejoo, himself substantially shorter than the six-foot average Kshatriya height and overly sensitive about his lack of stature, found himself taking an instant dislike to the tall mercenary. From the glint in the veiled man’s eyes, the disaffection was mutual.