RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (69 page)

Luv shrugged, making a face that suggested he would never understand the ways and minds of grown ups. “We know they’re coming. We’re ready for them.”

Bejoo stared at him. “Ready? My boy, from what I saw, you and your brother are very good with your bows but these are armed, armored, mounted and trained mercenaries. More of them than even I have seen together in my life. There are over a hundred mounted men in the King’s Guard, with another full company of about one thousand on foot. And they know what they’re doing from the looks of it. Don’t under-estimate that Captain Aarohan. He’s a brute but he’s an experienced brute. When he comes at you with over one thousand armed killers, he means business. And that’s not counting the Imperial Army at his back for whatever support he needs. You cannot fight these men with just your bows, lad!”

Luv looked undisturbed by Bejoo’s speech. “Why not? It’s been done before. There’s the famous battle of Janasthana where a band of outlaws stood against a horde of thousands of rakshasas. Berserkers too! And still they won.”

Bejoo realized the boy was referring to the battle led by Rama himself, against the last survivors of the clan of rakshasas that had come to avenge the humiliation of their sister-rakhsasa Supanakha, twenty three years ago. He wondered if Luv and his brother knew that the leader of that ‘band of outlaws’ had been none other than their own father. He wasn’t going to be the one to tell them. Especially not here and now! The boy had a grandiose enough opinion of his and his brother’s abilities as it was. 

“Forget tales and legends,” he said gently, “this is real. These men are worse than rakshasas. They have the power and might of the kingdom backing them. They will not stop until they get what they want.”

Luv nodded. “We have the royal stallion. We kept it safe. We think they mean to kill it and blame it on us.”

Bejoo spread his hands. “Yes! That is exactly what they mean to, I have no doubt at all. You see? That’s why I must take the stallion back to Ayodhya myself. I have the ear of Pradhan Mantri Jabali. He will listen to me. I will take the horse to him and attempt to sort out this entire situation. It’s the only way.”

Luv looked at him with a strangely intense expression that belied his years. “And what of the ashram slaughter? The extermination of the outlaw camps? The killing of Nakhudi’s friends? We thought the bear-killers were monsters but these men are the real demons. They are asuras in human guise. We cannot let them walk away unpunished.”

Bejoo sighed. “What do you want me to say, youngun? They are authorized by Jabali himself under Rama’s authority. If I try to accuse them, I would be clapped in chains before I could finish explaining. They are too powerful to bring to book right away. But at some point in time, once this is all over, we can try our best to see that justice is done—Where are you going?” 

Luv had risen to his feet and turned away. He stopped and looked back at Bejoo darkly. “There is no other point in time. This is the time. This is the place. This is the day they come to justice.” He raised his bow. “And this is the instrument of their danda.”

Bejoo rose to a half-crouch, his aging knees and joints protesting. “Boy, listen to me.”

Luv’s face was caught by a beam of sunlight shining through the dense dappled tree cover as he looked back. Bejoo was struck by how much the boy resembled his father at that moment, in that angle and light. Despite his boyish voice, his tone was as stern and forbidding as Rama himself: “Bejoo-chacha, thank you for everything you have done for us. Leave the rest to Kush and me and me now.”

And before Bejoo could say another word, he was gone, vanished like a deer into the dark woods. 

FOUR

The men of the Captain’s Guard were confident of themselves. They were a ragtag band of ruffians who had lent their swords out for hire in half a dozen different kingdoms across the civilized world. Most of them were Mlecchas, barbarians from foreign lands beyond the great Kush mountain ranges or across the great oceans that bounded the sub-continent. Their mixture of skin color and appearance betrayed their worldly mix as did their accents and languages and customs. They were a motley bunch with only three things in common: They knew how to kill. They enjoyed doing it. And they had no compunctions about who was at the receiving end of their blows or thrusts. Brahmins or merchants, kings or serving girls, soldiers or other sell-swords, they had killed all kinds. Often enough to know that all living creatures died much the same way and were as easy or hard to kill. They had turned execution into an art, assassination into a craft, murder into a thriving trade and now, as their youth soured into mature manhood, they sought to secure their futures, build a nest for themselves where they could indulge their varied vices and live out the rest of their lives in opulence and luxury. They had seen their numbers ebb and flow any number of times in the past decade itself, for the mortality rate in their business was the highest imaginable and it was time now to settle down and reap the fruits of their adventuring. 

As the ancient jest went: What happens to criminals when they retire? They become politicians. Politics would do very nicely, thank you. And the totalitarian regime that dominated Kosala now made Ayodhya the ideal place for such men to settle and make their homes. After all, the courts of kingdoms across the world were filled with over-dressed overweight nobles and aristocrats who had risen through much the same means: by doing whatever they had to in order to get there. To them, the end always justified the means and today, their end was to kill the woman named Vedavati and her twin sons Luv and Kush…by any means necessary. It was a mission simpler by far than most they had undertaken until now. Even the handful who had been with the band since the beginning—Aarohan and his aides—could not recall an assignment that had seemed less daunting and which promised greater rewards. The mood was good, morale high, and an air of certain victory reigned among the company as it poured into the valley. 

They moved through the valley in a familiar pattern they had executed several times before, laying out a grid on which men moved in trios, each one positioned diagonally to the other two at all times, thereby enabling them to watch one another’s flanks and rear. The valley was perhaps a mile from the highest point of the eastern hill to the peak of the western hill bounding it, most of that distance at ground level. It was a little more than a mile long, the two hills converging in a series of wadis and gullies that wound and crisscrossed until they led to the box canyon surrounded by sheer crumbling rock faces. It was impossible to climb over those rock faces and there was no way to ride or walk or climb around them. Once a person entered the wadis and gullies from any point, they would either end up going in circles until they came back into the valley or enter the box canyon and be boxed in. Aarohan had deployed the full thousand men at his command into the valley at once, determined to flush out and finish off the prey within the day rather than prolong this hunt. He and his hundred horse-mounted cavalry stayed on the hill rise overlooking the valley, watching from above. It was difficult to see much with the dense tree cover but unlike the jungle outside the valley there were gaps in the trees here and even a few small clearings and he could glimpse the reflection of noon sunlight on weapons and armor and buckles and helmets as his warriors moved in threes. He smiled as he watched the frontline cross the halfway point. There was less than half a mile between them and the box canyon now. Already the prey was trapped. It was only a matter of time now. 

***

Bejoo waited until the last possible moment before ordering his men into action. He knew from experience that a larger company attacking a smaller target would be more cautious and wary when they first entered the new environment. The further they went into hostile territory without encountering any resistance, the more complacent and less alert they grew. In this case, he could hear the occasional gruff laughter of Aarohan’s men and see the flash of their teeth as they jested and laughed their way up the valley. It was evident that they did not think much of the target they intended to acquire and were already assuming that the target was probably skulking quietly, sweating it out and hoping not to be found. It was a common mistake made when fighting outlaws and refugees. It was true that these were people who had run away or chose to stay away from civilized society. But that did not mean they were all cowards or that they could not fight. Push them too hard, invade their territories,
slaughter their loved ones and friends
…and they would fight back more fiercely than trained soldiers. He knew that these arrogant mercenaries were in for a surprise once they finally came face to face with their quarry. But he also knew that once that happened, the fight would be over very quickly. Short and fierce. Because there were thousands of these brutes. And only a handful of defenders. And of those defenders, very few could actually fight. Which was why most of the bear-killers and Nakhudi herself were in the box canyon, protecting the survivors of the ashram massacre. And the sacred horse. 

So Bejoo had positioned his small band of grama-rakshaks with their backs to the canyon, at the end of the valley. In order to get to the defenders, Aarohan’s men would have to get past them. And that would only happen when Bejoo and every last one of his men were down. 

He had spoken briefly to his men before they deployed into the valley. His scouts told him that Aarohan’s company would be here in moments, so they did not have much time. They were barely a few hundred yards ahead of the enemy. Still, he needed to say what he had to say—and to give them a chance to respond, should they choose to do so. 

“You are all olduns like myself,” he said gruffly. “So I won’t unload the usual wagon load of uks offal on your heads the way they do with younguns. If nothing else, we’ve all earned the right to hear things said plainly and directly.” 

There was a chuckle or two at his colorful reference but for the most part the band of grizzled, white-bearded, white-haired and bald-headed veterans gazed back with apparent indifference at him. These were men who had seen too much to get excited over anything anymore. The fact that they were here was enough. 

“What we are about to do is foolish and heroic. We are likely to die doing it. And even if some of us survive, they will either be killed on the spot or be executed later. Not to put too fine a point on it, we are going up against suicidal odds and our action will probably be termed treasonous.” 

He looked around to see if there was any reaction to those words. One oldun hawked and spat a mouthful of supari juice, another with his hair tied behind his head with a cloth band scratched his backside but mostly everyone just looked old and disinterested. Only the newest man in the group, that big-built fellow who had joined them only a few days earlier, seemed to display a modicum of reaction. The man had been a gatewatch sentry all his life, Bejoo recalled, a familiar face at the first gate for as long as Bejoo could remember. He had been retired involuntarily, he had said, yet another modern development brought in by the new regime. In Bejoo’s time the only way a soldier ‘retired’ was when he died in battle. There was no other form of retirement.
So long as I can raise my sword…
went the old kshatriya tavern song, with a second line that descended into ribaldry…
And so long as I can raise my
sword
…The gatewatch retiree was the only one whose face showed some semblance of emotion and that emotion was a familiar one.
He wants to fight the bastards who retired him, the new order that seeks to change the old ways and bring in a ‘better’ Ayodhya for all. He wants to show those young idiots backed by venal old war-mongers that real soldiers don’t retire and don’t go out looking for trouble: they just do their job quietly and when trouble comes, they don’t back down.
What was the man’s name again? Somasra. That was it. Old gatewatch Somasra. 

“I am going to fight for these people because I believe they are being unjustly hunted down and slaughtered without cause or provocation. That goes against everything I know about kshatriya dharma. It is an affront to Ayodhya that these so-called King’s Guard wear our national colors and claim to be acting in our national interest. They represent everything that is wrong with our kingdom and has been growing steadily wronger over the past decade. With all due respect to Samrat Rama Chandra, I think he does not know the half of what some of his people are upto and if he did he would not condone their actions or endorse them. But since they act in his name, and since there is no time to seek out the Samrat or his advisors and beg for this action to be halted, the only way is to stand and face them down.” 

He looked around, indicating their numbers. “Or at least hold them off as long as possible. Now, I do this out of my own choice. You don’t have to. Those who wish to turn back can do so now, before the King’s Guard arrive. Slip out through the forest and go farther north or south or wherever you please. Those who wish to stay and die with me today…well, all I can say about those who do stay…” he shrugged then raised his voice to heckle them furiously: “
…is that you’re a bunch of farting old fools with more pride in dharma than love of life.
”

At this, they perked up a little, some snorting, others rubbing mustaches and slapping arms and thighs. Old Somasra showed his teeth: they were quite yellow and the front two were missing.
Sign of a man who stuck his face where it doesn’t belong—or where it does
, Bejoo’s wife used to say when she saw a kshatriya like that. Then she would look at him as if to say silently:
Like yourself.