RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (70 page)

“Are we going to fight now,” said the old gatewatch Somasra, “or are we going to stand around here all day talking and polishing each other’s swords?” 

This brought a few guffaws. Bejoo grinned. At least he had gotten through to them, with Somasra’s help. “Very well. We take a defensive position at the end of the valley and only show ourselves at the last moment, when they are almost upon us.”

“And then we kill them with our bad breath,” said another oldun with only one arm and one eye. He had lost the limb in the Last Asura War and the eye in a childhood fight, and while he had once been able to wield a sword with his good arm better than most men with two good arms, he now had to use a lighter shortsword because it was all he could manage to lift. The man would probably not survive his first clash with the enemy yet here he was, tossing off a quip as if he were teaching new recruits on the training field. 

“You do that, Yuddhajit,” said one of the others, stuffing a fresh plug of tobacco in his mouth. “You’re armed for it!” 

Guffaws all around. Then they disbanded and descended into the valley. Barely had they entered the tree line when Bejoo made out the distant thunder of approaching hooves. Soon after, he had turned back and peered cautiously through a gap and saw the familiar half-shaved half-bearded face of the Captain of the King’s Guard.
See you at the end of my sword,
he thought, then continued working his way through the undergrowth with greater stealth. The element of surprise—if even that—was about all they had on their side. 

That, and two young boys with big bows and even bigger hearts.
 

But he had fought and lived long enough to know that even the biggest of hearts couldn’t overcome odds like these. 

It’s just not possible,
he thought morosely.
Once they knock us down, there’ll be nothing to stop them barging into that canyon and finishing the slaughter they began yesterday. 

All the more reason why his olduns and he had to do whatever damage they could. Perhaps if they caused enough casualties, Aarohan would withdraw and leave the regular army to flush out the rebels. If they did that, then at least there might be a chance, however slender, that the commanding officer would honor kshatriya dharma and not cut down brahmins, women and children out of hand. 

It wasn’t much but it was all that he could think of and hope for. 

And die for. 

Time now,
he thought, as he glimpsed and heard the frontline of Aarohan’s Guard approach his position. He glanced to right and left. Somewhere over there in the shade of those trees was the old gatewatch Somasra. Yes, there he was, a hulking shadow no less a tree trunk in his own right. The man must have been formidable in his youth. Bejoo nodded at the shadow, not sure if Somasra saw him. 

Then he raised his sword and launched himself at the nearest trio of approaching King’s Guard. 

FIVE

“Jai Shree Shaneshwara!”
Bejoo cried as he launched himself at the closest trio of King’s Guard. 

Somasra had seen the grama-rakshak’s sign and was prepared. Even as Bejoo leaped out, shouting loud enough to send cockatoos screeching in panic from the trees overhead, Somasra stepped from his hiding place and began slashing with his double-sided sword at the next trio. 

They were momentarily distracted by Bejoo’s cry—which was the reason why the grama-rakshak had shouted a battle cry in the first place. It served to inform his own men that the attack had begun, and to distract the approaching enemy frontline for that brief instant. Somasra took full advantage of the distraction. 

He leaped into the center of the triangle formed by the three King’s Guard, slashing sideways at the first. He caught the man completely unawares and had the satisfaction of striking aside the man’s drawn sword and feeling his own blade bite deeply. The man collapsed, gouting blood. 

But that was all the advantage Somasra got. The other two immediately moved to take up positions on either side of Somasra, forcing him to fight on two fronts at once. That was a deadly game. It had been a long time since he had seen active combat. Most of his decades on gatewatch had been spent breaking up brawls, dealing with angry traders and offensive foreigners who thought it their birthright to enter any city they pleased and act as they desired. But there had been a fair share of good fights as well, mostly with armed and dangerous men, some drunk, others just mean enough to take satisfaction from gutting a guard or two, even though they knew they would be caught at once and thrown into the dungeons. Casualties among gatewatch  guards weren’t high but they did occur and Somasra had seen a fair number of fellow gatewatch guardscut down on the job. Enough to make him stay relatively well enough in shape and practice every chance he got. 

Now, he had to work for his life. The two King’s Guard were shrewd and young and experienced enough to have taken down men like him before. They made him dance, toying with him, one coming in and pretending to get past his guard, forcing him to turn and swing to defend himself, the other doing the same on the other side, until all he was doing was swinging this way and that like a dancer at a king’s court. He would tire soon like this and sooner or later, one of them would get a point in and then the other would finish the job. Already he felt his old lower back injury protest as he swung from the hip, trying to keep both in sight at once and failing because they were smart enough to know just how far apart to stand. 

There was only one way to end this dance and he resorted to it. When one of them feinted, grinning with the knowledge that he was a foot closer than the last attempt, Somasra lunged at the man. They were prepared for this move—it was the cue for the other fellow to step in fast from behind and run his sword through Somasra’s kidney—but what they weren’t prepared for was what he did next. He grabbed the first man’s sword hand, then the man’s neck and shoulder, turned and swung the man towards his oncoming comrade. The other man, rushing in to aim at Somasra’s kidney from behind, realized what was about to happen and tried to turn away but was too late. His thrusting blade punched into his own fellow’s belly, running the man through. The first man collapsed on the ground, heaving in his death throes. The second fellow’s sword, trapped in the man’s stomach, required a moment to be pulled free. That moment gave Somasra’s aging muscles and feet enough time to cover the few yards of ground and hack at the man’s exposed neck with the power of his bunched arms. He nearly took the man’s head off. 

Leaning on his bloody sword, gasping for breath, he heard the cries and shouts of outraged men from all across the valley. It seemed the element of surprise had worked for them after all. Those sounded like King’s Guard dying to him—the olduns would just grunt and die, they wouldn’t waste their fading breath trying to shout. Some of them probably couldn’t shout, their throats hoarsened by over-use and chewing too much supari. They were old enough to know when a man died he died alone even if he was on a battlefield surrounded by a dozen akshohini of his own. Only the young mercenary fools would shout to warn each other and call for help. Somasra grinned at the screams that rang through the noonday stillness. Maybe old gold was as tough as young steel after all. 

He heard a sound behind him and turned to see two men in King’s Guard uniforms approaching. They had blood on their anga-vastras and swords and since there were only two of them, he could only presume they had met one of his comrades and come off victors. They approached him cautiously but confidently, secure in their youth and knowledge of superior numbers. He sighed. Now he would be obliged to kill these two in order to avenge his fallen fellow as well as defend his own life. Oh well. If he hadn’t wanted to dance he wouldn’t have come to the wedding feast. 

“Come on, littleuns,” Somasra said, forcing his tired shoulder and back muscles to heave and raise the lowered sword. “Time for your bloodbath. Don’t forget to wash behind the ears.”

***

Bejoo finished cutting down his second trio of enemy and took a brief moment to catch his breath. He leaned against a tree trunk spattered with the gore from a slashed throat. He looked back and found himself unable to believe that those six corpses were his work. Six young men of the King’s Guard? Really? Either these mercenaries were out of practice or they had grown too accustomed to easy pickings. Although, he admitted ruefully as he worked a broken tooth loose from a socket and examined it, they hadn’t seemed out of practice when he was surrounded by them, three at a time and fighting for his life. In fact, come to think of it, they had been quite good. Perhaps he simply had more experience and knowledge of swordcraft? Or perhaps—and this was more likely—he had more reason to fight than they. 

The cries and shouts from across the valley had ceased. Only the cries of the birds remained in the still afternoon air, calling out in plaintive tones as they circled the valley, wanting to return to their roosts if the wretched humans below had finished killing each other.
Not yet, winged brothers, but soon it will all be over. Very soon.
He was old and experienced enough to know that killing those six men had taken everything he had. Now, he would be lucky if he was able to keep the next trio at bay for more than a few minutes before succumbing. 

A sudden silence fell upon the valley. He frowned. That was odd. Then he tilted his head and listened. The faint sounds of clashing weaponry had ceased as well. That could only mean one thing: the enemy had retreated. And since he knew that his old veterans, however bravely they might have conducted themselves in the first clash, were not enough cause for a force of a thousand King’s Guard to retreat. No. They were simply regrouping and changing tactics. They would attack again soon and this time, they would cut through Bejoo and his dirty dozens in a matter of minutes. 

He wiped his face clean and held his sword ready, taking up a position which afforded him cover on at least one side. It meant he would be boxed in if they came at him in numbers but this was likely to be his last stand anyway. He would rather be taken from the front than from behind. 

A sound came to his ears. 

He frowned but it was gone as quickly as it had come. 

He waited and listened. 

There it was again. 

And again. 

And yet again. 

Then it continued almost non-stop, a rhythmic repetition. The same, or similar sounds, repeated over and over again, like some distant drummer’s beat. For an instant, he wondered if it was a drummer’s beat. But that was no drum beat. It was…something else. Something he had heard infinite times before and knew intimately well. He clenched his free hand, frustrated at not being able to identify the sound. 

Then a man sound came on the still afternoon air. A choking wet cry, as a man might make if struck in the throat with a blade. A quick explosion of air before the blood rushed up and spurted out the hole. 

A few minutes later, there was another man’s sound, this one a distinctive death rattle in a dying man’s throat. As if he had been cut down but the message that he was dead had yet to reach his flailing limbs. It ended with another repetition of that sound. The first sound. 

After a few more moments, Bejoo understood that men were dying across the valley. Not his men, not the dirty dozens. The sounds of dying men were coming from several yards further out, from the enemy frontlines. So the men who were dying were King’s Guards. No mystery to that. The question was: Who was killing them and how? 

He didn’t think his olduns would have gone after the retreating frontline. They wouldn’t have had the energy for one thing. And they might be suicidal but they were not stupid: at best, they had dealt with four score or five score of the enemy. There were still the better part of a thousand more out there, across the valley. To hold them off was madness enough: to try to push them back was ludicrous. No. Bejoo was dead certain that all his men were to his left and right, spread out in a long ragged line across this end of the valley. The sounds and death rattles were coming from farther down. It had to be King’s Guard men dying. 

Then it came to him. 

The sound. 

It was the sound of a weapon being deployed. One so familiar he berated himself for not recognizing it at once. 

“Arrows!” 

That was the sound of an arrow whickering through the air across a long distance. It should have been almost silent except to the bowman himself but the sound was amplified by the bowl-shape of the valley, which was why he heard it at all. And those death rattles were the ones that hadn’t killed their targets instantly. Which meant all the others had struck home dead to rights. It had to mean that because if the arrow passing overhead was so clearly audible then the same bolt striking the wood of a tree trunk or passing through a clump of bushes. This was the sound of arrows being shot from somewhere behind him and at the King’s Guard soldiers spread out across the valley. Being shot with deadly accuracy and lightning speed.

He began to count the rhythm of the loosing and was astonished to find himself unable to keep up. How fast were they shooting? How was it possible to shoot that fast and with such accuracy? Then he understood:
there are two of them. They shoot alternately, so at any given instant, there’s always an arrow in the air. That way, they cover each other during the moment between shots.