The Vengeance of Indra

by Shatrujeet Nath

  A moment later, the thing that was in store for him revealed itself.

  It appeared from one of the side roads bisecting the avenue, and at first sight, Harihara was so thrown by its bulk that his mind failed to make sense of what he was looking at. It wasn’t until the beast turned to face the wave of riders that Harihara realized they were hurtling towards a gigantic, white, woolly mammoth. The animal was so large that it towered over its surroundings, its big ears blotting out the view down the street. But for the fact that it had been concealed behind a pair of tall, three-storey buildings, they would surely have got a glimpse of it sooner.

  Responding to some mysterious, atavistic instinct, the horses pulled to a dead halt, rearing up and whinnying in distress, forelegs kicking, nostrils flared, eyes wild with fear. Everyone fought to get their mounts under control while keeping an eye on the mammoth that stood in the middle of the street, massive legs splayed and braced to charge, its head and trunk swaying threateningly to a rhythm only it could hear. Six huge tusks the size of tree trunks sprouted from the mammoth’s upper jaw, each capped with iron and sharpened to a point, curling dangerously into the air as the beast tossed its head. Harihara gaped as the animal raised its trunk and trumpeted a bestial call that mauled the morning, its echoes sending roosting pigeons into spirals of panic.

  As the elephant lowered its trunk, Harihara, for the first time, took note of the hulking figure seated atop the beast. Broad shouldered and heavily muscled, the figure had a luxuriant crop of golden hair and a luscious golden beard that came down to his chest. Harihara could almost imagine the radiance of authority forming a nimbus around the figure, who he rightly guessed to be Indra.

  Vikramaditya’s mount, which had been ahead of all the others, was not immune to the mammoth’s terror, but Harihara saw the samrat whisper into the horse’s ear and stroke its neck, soothing it and bringing it under control. It still nickered and danced around a bit, but Vikramaditya was able to urge it forward gently, narrowing the distance between himself and the mammoth ever so slowly. Harihara held his breath on seeing the samrat cross his arms and draw the swords that hung at his waist, the weapons coming free of their scabbards with the sibilant seeng of metal scraping against metal.

  Kshapanaka and Shanku instantly nudged their mounts after their king, flanking him on both sides, Shanku with a chakram in her hand, poised for a throw, Kshapanaka with her bow drawn, arrow in place, ready to let fly at any sign of trouble. Emboldened, a few riders of the Palace Guards and City Watch also pushed forward, weapons drawn and ready. Harihara didn’t move, his eyes transfixed on the blades in Vikramaditya’s hands, which seemed to turn red hot under the sweltering sun. Moments later, small blue-green flames began dancing in loopy patterns along the swords’ edges and surfaces.

  The wind died down and the street fell deathly silent, as time stood motionless in dreadful anticipation. Ujjayini’s bells tolled mournfully in the distance as Vikramaditya drew closer and closer to the mammoth, until he was in the beast’s shadow. The beast loomed over him, its sinuous trunk twisting and coiling, ears flapping as it watched him intently. The samrat and Indra were locked in a relentless stare, and Harihara realized he was quaking in fear, his heart hammering in his chest, as if seeking to break free of the ribcage and flee from the spot.

  Indra rose on the elephant’s back and put one foot on the beast’s head. Arms akimbo, his broad chest thrust out, head thrown back haughtily, he surveyed the samrat with a smile that only turned the corners of his lips.

  “We meet at last,” he said. His gaze dropped to the swords in Vikramaditya’s hands. “The Wielder of the Hellfires. Very impressive!”

  The samrat stared up at the deva lord, his face set in stone.

  “Turn back, deva. You are not welcome in my kingdom.”

  Harihara winced at Vikramaditya’s lack of nuance, and when the mammoth curled its trunk upwards and over the samrat’s head, Harihara cringed and let out a gasp, expecting the worst. The councilors and soldiers tensed as well, ready to spring to their king’s defence, but the samrat stayed firm on his saddle, watchful as Indra stepped forward and balanced himself expertly on the raised trunk so the elephant could lower him to the street, in front of the samrat.

  “I said you are not welcome here,” the samrat repeated in an icy tone.

  “But I am here in peace.” Indra’s smile became more genial, and he spread his hands wide, turning a full circle where he stood. “I carry no weapons, see? And there is no army hiding anywhere, awaiting a signal to attack. I give you my word. We are here in peace.”

  A murmur broke out among the soldiers, and though the surprise and relief showed in the way bunched up shoulders and tense muscles relaxed, no one dropped their guard. Vikramaditya inclined his head to look around Indra and the elephant, and Harihara did likewise to notice the chariot partly concealed behind the bulk of the mammoth. The chariot was drawn by a pair of white horses, and Harihara could tell that it was a fine specimen of workmanship, crafted from sturdy wood and tastefully decorated with carvings. Curtains of sheer lace fell from its canopy, veiling the chariot’s box, so it was hard to determine anything about the shadowy figure seated within. A splendid horse stood beside the chariot, but the horseman’s face was concealed from view by a cotton shawl draped loosely over his head.

  “You are still not welcome,” Vikramaditya strained to keep his hostility in check. The flames on the Hellfires were bright, long licks of fire on old iron. “You brought death and destruction to my people for no fault of theirs. You sent your minions to force me to yield to your will. The misery they inflicted on my people was on your behalf, so I hold you responsible for what they did. Then you sent the yaksha to attack my beloved wife, and break me…”

  “I regret what happened, but I did not send the yaksha after your wife,” Indra butted in, all earnestness. “Believe me, I only asked the yakshas to take what you loved the most, what you would protect until your last breath. I had no inkling how precious your wife was to you. Had I known…”

  “Stop right there.”

  In his eagerness to convince Vikramaditya, Indra had taken a couple of steps forward, but the samrat checked the advance by pointing a sword at the deva. “Stop.”

  Harihara observed Indra frown in exasperation, and as Vikramaditya dismounted, for a fleeting moment, the mask of amiability slipped, and Harihara saw the calculative ruthlessness in Indra’s eyes. The next instant it was gone, and as the samrat approached him, burning swords in each hand, the deva smiled, barely moving to defend himself against a possible attack. Behind Indra, the mammoth watched the showdown with its small, pink, primitive eyes. With hardly any distance separating them now, Harihara saw that the deva was a little taller than the samrat, who himself was no small man.

  “How do you even dare to pretend you care?” Vikramaditya stepped closer and stared fiercely into the deva’s bearded face, his voice a growl that barely carried to Harihara and the circle of soldiers. “Had you known it was Vishakha the yaksha would come after, would it have made any difference? No. Because my wife means nothing to you. Nothing. Keep your lies to yourself, deva — especially those that pertain to my wife. I want none of your deviousness to taint my Vishakha. Do I make myself clear?”

  Harihara would never wager on it, but he imagined he saw Indra back away from the samrat in a tacit concession of authority. Vikramaditya, though, was not done yet.

  “You do realize that the only thing holding me back is this city, which has already suffered enough on account of war,” he said. “But that doesn’t mean you can test my patience infinitely.” Taking a deep breath to keep a hold on himself, he spat out in a hoarse, strangulated voice, “Leave my city now. I will not ask you again.”

  Sensing the tautness in the atmosphere, the elephant tossed its head and trumpeted, rocking back and forth while it waited for a command from its master. Harihara could see the citizens of Ujjayini hanging around the fringes of the street, half out of sight, curious and terrified
at the same time, keen to learn what was happening, yet ready to bolt at the slightest hint of danger.

  “You don’t understand. I am here to make amends, right all the wrongs.”

  The samrat studied Indra with narrowed eyes. “Amends? You?” Seeing the deva nod, the king cocked one eyebrow. “How?”

  “By acknowledging you as my blood, and accepting you as one of my very own.”

  The lord of the devas had been loud enough for everyone to hear, and there was a split-second delay before people got the significance of what had been said. The astonished gasps that followed sounded like the very earth letting out a stifled groan, followed by a silence deeper than the night, deeper than death itself. People leaned in and inched closer, straining to stay quiet, so they wouldn’t miss what came next.

  “What do you mean, deva?” Vikramaditya hissed under his breath, his eyes boring into Indra’s. “What new trickery is this?”

  “No trickery, none whatsoever.” Placing a hand on the samrat’s shoulder, Indra bent his head and spoke in solemn tones. “It is the absolute truth. Deva blood runs in your veins. You are a deva by birth, Vikramaditya.”

  The samrat shrugged Indra’s hand roughly off his shoulder and took a step back. “I am no deva,” he snarled. “I am a human and proud of being one.”

  Indra sighed and gave his head a patronizing shake. “You cannot deny being a deva just because you wish it so,” he said. “These swords of yours, these Hellfires… Where do you think you get the powers to wield them? In the hands of humans, they are entirely ineffective. But look at you. You are deva blood, and the Hellfires can tell that. These Hellfires show who you really are — son to my son. My grandson.”

  There was an intake of breath all around, sharper and louder than before.

  “Son to your son? Are you saying…father was a deva?” The samrat stared at Indra in confusion.

  “Not was. Is. Your father is a deva.” Indra turned and gestured, and Harihara’s gaze darted to the chariot where the shadowy figure waited.

  Vikramaditya too looked at the chariot before his eyes travelled back to assess Indra. Conscious of what the deva seemed to be implying, he shook his head. “My father is no more. He died in battle with the Sakas…”

  “No, no,” the deva lord shook his head with vehemence. “Mahendraditya might have been a brave king, but he was never your father. That is your father.”

  Every soul present craned its neck in the direction of the chariot, where the breeze lightly ruffled the drawn lace curtains. Looking over a rider’s shoulder for a better view, Harihara too watched the chariot, waiting for the figure inside to alight. However, it was the horseman who responded, spurring his mount forward, hooves clinking loudly against the stone-paved road. The breeze tugged at his shawl, but his face remained hidden until he had almost drawn up to Indra’s side. Swinging a leg over the saddle, he dismounted, and Harihara saw that the mysterious rider was tall and graceful. As the horseman took the last few steps to join Indra and Vikramaditya, he reached up and slipped the shawl off his head. Harihara was immediately struck by his sharp, handsome features and his soulful eyes the colour of honey.

  Once the newcomer had drawn up by his side, Indra put an arm around his shoulders and pulled him a little closer to both himself and Vikramaditya. A smile lit up the deva lord’s face, but more than joy, there was an element of triumph, a gloating, a subtle glint of vindictiveness that reflected in Indra’s eyes. The samrat, meanwhile, scrutinized the new arrival, his eyes thin slits of suspicion, disbelief and shock. He began shaking his head adamantly, but Indra, who guessed what was coming, nodded.

  “This is my son Gandharvasena, and he is your father.”

  “No. No. These are all your lies. Lies. My father is Mahendraditya. I recognize no one else as my father. Enough of your lies, deva. Enough.” The Hellfires blazed in the samrat’s hands, the flames like fingers, seeking out things to burn. “For the last time, leave my city before I…”

  “You do not believe me, fine,” Indra virtually roared to make himself heard over the king’s voice. Vikramaditya paused, and when Indra saw he had the samrat’s attention, he said, “I can see why you won’t believe me. But a son would believe his mother, wouldn’t he? Tell me, will you or will you not?”

  Vikramaditya stood glowering up at Indra, the Hellfires hanging limp by his sides as he was finally confronted by the reality of what the deva was saying.

  “Let us both agree that your mother’s word will be final,” said Indra, his voice ringing in the hushed silence of the street. “Let us ask Queen Mother Upashruti who your father is — her dead husband King Mahendraditya, as you claim, or my son Gandharvasena, as I insist.”

  * * *

  When they had set out from Avanti, there had been fourteen of them, including the guide. Now they were down to seven. Six any time soon, Vetala Bhatta knew, when the old soldier — the oldest in the bunch, almost as old as the Acharya himself — would finally give in to weakness and the fever that was radiating off his skin, burning him from inside. The Ghost Marsh is toying with us, Vetala Bhatta thought, looking at the straggling line of survivors behind him, all still tied to one another by a vine, the veteran helped along by two others who themselves weren’t far from exhaustion. The marsh is stalking us like a predator, picking out the weakest, one by one…

  Stop. I must stop this. I must be careful. I must think positive thoughts. For my sake. And theirs. I can’t let the men see what I fear…

  The mood had turned despondent once it had been established beyond doubt that the party was lost and clueless about how to get out of the marsh. Sourness and grumbling had set in, first over the hopelessness of their situation and the rationing of food, then over little things. As hunger, fear and fatigue began gnawing at them, tempers frayed over the silliest of reasons and arguments broke out every now and again. The raj-guru invariably ended up playing peacemaker, and they had carried on roaming the marsh, searching for a way out.

  Then, the lights had begun to appear.

  The first one had taken all of them by surprise, a smoky, little, yellow-white globe, the size of a man’s fist, floating a little above the swamp and at the very edges of the mist. They had gone to investigate it, only to find that it drew away as they approached. Then, some of them thought the light had disappeared, while the others argued it was still there, leading them on, perhaps even showing them a way out. They fought over this adamantly until the light somehow vanished from everyone’s sight, leaving them all surly and angry with each other. But it appeared intermittently through the day, showing itself to a few of them but not the others, then revealing itself to those who hadn’t seen it the first time while staying hidden from those who had. On one occasion, three soldiers insisted the light was glowing over the swamp to their right, two others maintained it was straight ahead on their path, while the rest, the Acharya included, saw nothing anywhere. The lights began pulsing in and out of sight with greater frequency, tugging everyone in different directions, gradually tearing the party’s sanity — and its unity — apart.

  Realizing there was something hallucinatory about the lights — and possibly something more sinister at play from the way the lights were dividing the group — the Acharya had laid down the rule that none of them would follow the lights unless every member in the party saw the same light in the same place. This had restored a semblance of order and normalcy, but the raj-guru sensed the men were being drawn to the lights in strange and uncontrollable ways; even he had to force himself to stop being mesmerized whenever one of the lights pulsed into his sphere of vision. The men were soon constantly haunted, their eyes scouring the mist and the marsh for a glimpse of the lights, and in no time, all they were talking about was the lights, obsessed by them, held utterly in their thrall.

  There was no way to tell if the lights had played a role in the loss of the first soldier, for no one knew exactly what had happened to him. With no real need to set a watch, they had all gone to sleep, and on waki
ng, they had discovered that one of them had cut himself free of the vine and walked into the dark of the night. After regrouping, they had resumed their futile wandering of the marsh when, unexpectedly, a vicious fight broke out between two soldiers. Before anyone could even intervene, one of them stabbed the other in the chest repeatedly with his knife, killing him on the spot. The killer was overpowered with some difficulty, and when questioned, he kept raving that the man he had killed had denied seeing the light the previous day, and this had infuriated him. On Vetala Bhatta’s orders, he was trussed in vines for everyone’s safety.

  That night, the killer also disappeared, much like the soldier the night before.

  The Acharya had found the second soldier’s vanishing strange, as a watch had been set that night to prevent precisely such an occurrence. The two men who had been on watch apologized for what had happened, saying they had both been overcome with sleep and had dozed off, each assuming the other was awake. Convincing though it sounded, the raj-guru was still suspicious. So, that afternoon, as they had rested after a meagre lunch, he had surreptitiously reached into the minds of his escorts — the first time he had attempted this since that morning by the palace bath, when he had read the Healer.

  What he discovered had shocked him. Sometime during the previous day, the men had all conspired against the killer, and after nightfall, when the Acharya had gone to sleep, they had untied the man and forced him into the misty darkness, condemning him to a lonely and dreadful death. Vetala Bhatta understood that the need for crude justice might have fuelled the punishment, but the men had also acted to preserve themselves from a lunatic who could potentially harm them.