The Vengeance of Indra

by Shatrujeet Nath

  “If all it takes is for the king of Avanti to tell King Chandravardhan what to do, let me make myself clear for the last and final time, sister. As long as I am king of Avanti, I will not tell King Chandravardhan what to do with his throne and his crown. He is free to do as he pleases.”

  If looks could kill, Dhanavantri was certain the glare Pralupi offered would have reduced Vikramaditya to cinder. Brother and sister faced each other off, Pralupi’s lips lifting in a cold, contemptuous sneer. Spinning around, she headed for the door, but checking herself halfway, she turned back to the samrat.

  “Let me also make myself clear, brother,” she said. “Even without your help, Ghatakarpara will become king of Vatsa. I will find a way to make it happen.”

  * * *

  Amara Simha and Varahamihira had barely stormed out of the darkness and into the firelight, screaming and waving their weapons at the savages, when he leaped to his feet and burst from the thicket where he and Vikramaditya were hiding.

  “Let’s go, Vikrama,” he called as he made a dash for the cremation ground, now packed with Huna tents and bristling with fortifications.

  He shot a glance over his shoulder and saw his friend emerge from the thicket, King Mahendraditya’s old sword gripped tightly in his hand. The thicket spewed Avanti’s soldiers by the dozens, and they slipped after him like whispering spectres as he turned to face the ground, where the Hunas and the attackers led by Amara Simha and Varahamihira were already in the snarl of battle.

  He wears a headdress made of vultures’ feathers. That’s what Vikramaditya had said of the droiba, whom he was meant to find and kill. And his face is painted blue.

  Tightening his hold on his long-handled axe, Kalidasa tried to imagine what the Huna shaman would look like. Absurdly, his mind threw up the hilarious image of a vulture with a blue face, sitting hunched and looking silly on a rock. Dismissing that picture from his head with a chuckle, Kalidasa concentrated on what lay ahead — hundreds upon hundreds of battle-hardened Huna warriors protecting their droiba, who had taken the Ghoulmaster prisoner with the purpose of gaining control over Borderworld.

  Vikramaditya caught up with him, and they made for the near edge of the cremation ground, crouching low as they drew closer to the ring of firelight but hardly breaking their pace, intent on getting as close as possible before some lookout inevitably noticed them and raised an alarm. Fortunately for them, Amara Simha had led such a blistering foray on the far flank that the barbarians were too busy fending him off to observe Kalidasa and Vikramaditya come up from the rear, and they reached the ground’s periphery without incident. Here, they had to split up, one lot going after the shaman, the other attempting Betaal’s rescue. With a quick nod, Vikramaditya turned and peeled away to the right, leaving Kalidasa to swerve left and follow the natural curve of the cremation ground.

  Despite his gigantic build, Kalidasa was nimble and fleet-footed, and he slunk easily and silently from shadow to shadow, all the while keeping an eye on the Huna camp to his right. All the soldiers behind him laboured to keep up, with one exception — a tall and tough young man nearly the same age as Kalidasa, with a curling moustache and a pointed beard. The soldier almost matched him in speed and came after him like a shadow, his sword nicely balanced in his grasp. Kalidasa circled the encampment, not quite knowing what he was looking for. Spying a break in the trees that allowed him to close in on the Hunas, he turned into the gap, and the big soldier followed him. A moment later, the break funnelled the rest of Avanti’s warriors in as well.

  Keeping low, the attackers moved in, dodging behind trees and tents, scouting ahead to try and get a fix on the shaman’s whereabouts. Off to the other side of the ground, the battle was at its harshest pitch. Already, the scent of blood was in the air, lifted high by the night wind blowing from the Kshipra.

  As soon as he caught sight of the thirty-odd Huna warriors ranged around a dense cluster of tents, Kalidasa knew he had found his target. A battle was raging less than half a mile from where they stood, but this set of Hunas displayed no intention of joining that fight — which meant that they had been tasked to stay where they were.

  And that could only be because they were guarding something. Or someone. Someone important, who was inside one of those tents. The droiba.

  Running desperately short of time — Vikramaditya couldn’t free the Ghoulmaster while he was under the shaman’s influence, and the new moon wouldn’t wait for any of them — Kalidasa could think of only one way of taking on the Huna guards. He charged out of the trees screaming at the top of his lungs, and his men came screaming and howling after him. When they crashed into the wall of Huna warriors, the air rang with shouts and the clanging of metal against metal.

  Kalidasa cut down four Huna warriors in that first rush, and such was the impact of their charge that the attackers were able to dent the wall, throwing the Huna warriors back. Kalidasa pushed hard, swinging his axe, mowing through the cordon, and for a moment, it looked as if the defence would wilt under his sustained onslaught. But a fresh crop of savages issued from behind the tents, and before Kalidasa knew it, the tables had turned and he was beset from all sides. He took a slanting blow from a spiked mace on his back, while a sword slashed the outside of his forearm from elbow to wrist, causing the warm blood to run down his fingers and make his grip on the axe slippery.

  He cursed and heaved at his assailants, beating them back, but they were too many and they kept coming at him. It crossed his mind that he could have brought a shield along, but then, he needed both hands to wield his axe and inflict maximum damage. The axe was as good as its promise, though, and Huna after Huna buckled from a barrage of withering blows that opened up skulls and ribcages. Another sword dipped past Kalidasa’s defence, cutting him in the stomach, and the thought struck that this fight was a lot harder — and could last a lot longer — than he had anticipated.

  All his doubts came traipsing out — he might not make it to the droiba before the new moon rose; the Ghoulmaster would be sacrificed after all; Borderworld would come under sway of the Hunas; he might die here fighting. The doubts clouded his judgement, and taking advantage of his lapse in concentration, the Hunas moved in, their swords inching closer with every stab, every swipe…

  From somewhere to his left, there was a fierce rush, and the savages surrounding him were assailed by someone who fought with both hunger and relish. The Hunas were forced to face this fresh attack, and the press around Kalidasa loosened — which was all he needed to free his arms, swinging his axe high and wide and bringing it down hard. Between him and the soldier who had come to his rescue, the Huna defence was decimated. When there were no more than five savages left standing, Kalidasa saw that his rescuer was the big man with the curling moustache.

  As the last remaining Huna guards were disposed of by Avanti’s soldiers, Kalidasa caught the big warrior’s eye. “You fight well,” he remarked. “What’s your name?”

  “Udayasanga,” the man replied with a smile, leaning on his bloodied sword as he caught his breath.

  “We should fight together more often,” Kalidasa said.

  Before the soldier had a chance to respond, a contingent of Huna reinforcements appeared out of the darkness.

  “Men,” Udayasanga shouted, drawing the attention of Avanti’s troops to the new threat. “To your right, now!”

  Turning to face the arriving savages, the big soldier flicked a glance at Kalidasa. “You go ahead,” he said, tilting his head at the tents. “We’ll take care of this bunch.”

  Udayasanga strode away to meet the onrush of Huna warriors, his big sword solid as a rock in his strong hands.

  Kalidasa turned the other way and made for the tents, but he was challenged by a pair of Huna guards who came at him with their spears, one aimed low at his groin, the other at his face. Kalidasa kicked and flipped a fallen shield into the air, catching it expertly in time to block and deflect the lower spear. Ducking under the second spear, he spun full circle on his heel,
and using the momentum gained to his advantage, he drove the axe into the first guard’s midriff in a scything blow that almost cut him in two. In the same fluid movement, Kalidasa then hooked the shield’s rim into the second guard’s face, shattering his cheekbone, nose and front teeth. Dropping both axe and shield, he grabbed the fallen spears and broke both staves on his thigh. Armed with a shortened spear in each hand, he strode to the first tent.

  More guards met him as he moved from tent to tent, but he was unstoppable, kicking, stabbing and punching his way forward as he hunted for the shaman. Sweat poured down his body and mixed with the blood from his wounds, and he glistened in the firelight, a golden avenging angel. All doubts and apprehensions had been put to rest, washed clean by the bloodlust that now filled his head; he knew what to do, where to go, how to find the droiba. The scent of blood had awakened something predatory in him, and he trusted his instincts to find his prey now.

  The droiba was in a tent right at the back. When Kalidasa stepped over the bodies of the two guards and pushed aside the tent’s flap, the first thing he saw was the shaman wrapped in smoke, swaying and whirling to some inaudible beat. He was mumbling incantations in his desert tongue, eyes closed and ears shut to the sounds of battle, his face streaked in blue paint that had run with the sweat and flowed down his neck in eerie blue rivulets. Kalidasa approached through the smoke, bloodied spears in both hands, but the shaman seemed not to notice, not to care. When he was almost upon him, the droiba opened his eyes and looked straight into his… and Kalidasa saw fear lurking there. Yet, the droiba swayed and worked his sorcery, fighting the urge to turn and flee, perhaps knowing that flight was futile. He raised a scrawny hand at Kalidasa, as if meaning to stop him or utter some dreadful curse, but Kalidasa brushed past the hand, stepping in close…

  Hunched over the low fire, the droiba considered him with small, suspicious eyes that reminded Kalidasa strongly of the other one — the one he had killed. There was apprehension in this droiba’s eyes too, but here there was wonder as well, possibly at what he was divining. The smoke from the fire curled and twisted around the shaman’s lean frame, snakelike and oddly sensuous, hugging him, and Kalidasa marvelled at the man’s ability to harness and channel the smoke any way he wanted. Around them, the rest of the warriors and male folk of Mun’h stood in respectful silence, while on a raised platform, Khash’i Dur sat on the Huna chieftain’s traditional seat, a low stool made of tanned goatskin and adorned with beads and tassels of horsehair. They were in what passed off as the town hall of Mun’h, a wide and airy chamber within the fort’s premises. From time to time, everyone from the shy’or downward gave him a disapproving glance.

  The droiba fanned the fire, and as a wisp of smoke escaped from the burning twigs, the shaman caught it in his fingers and rolled it into a ball, which he then casually flicked at Kalidasa. As the ball exploded on his face, Kalidasa flinched, not bothering to hide his irritation, but the droiba had shut his eyes and lapsed into another incantation. Ignoring the cold stares from all around, Kalidasa let his mind wander back to the night of Betaal’s rescue.

  He thought about Udayasanga, who had come to his assistance, and had later become a friend and joined the samsaptakas as one of its best and bravest warriors. Udayasanga was dead now, killed in war against the very people he was sitting with. In another life, he had sworn to avenge his friend’s death, but now, old enemies were new friends. He wondered what happened to old promises when enemies became friends.

  Sensing a sudden stir, Kalidasa extricated himself from his thoughts to find that the droiba was on his feet. Encouraged by a few sharp glances, Kalidasa stood up as well, the tallest man in the room. He watched the shaman go up to Khash’i Dur and whisper in his ear. The shy’or kept looking his way every now and then, and finally, he rose and beckoned Kalidasa forward. As Kalidasa took a step towards the platform, Khash’i Dur and the droiba got down to meet him halfway. Standing face to face, the chieftain smiled and put his arms around Kalidasa.

  “The droiba is satisfied that you are who you claim to be, Thra’akha,” he said, looking up at the giant. “The droiba says you don’t lie. Welcome to the house of Dur. Welcome back to your Huna family.”

  Kalidasa nodded, relieved, suddenly at a loss for words.

  A murmur rose and spread through the hall. Even though the shy’or had spoken in Avanti, the men around Kalidasa were now smiling at him and at one another; the chieftain’s embrace had been understood. Someone even cracked a joke, and laughter flared and crackled. The weight of doubt had been lifted off the men’s shoulders.

  The droiba came up to Kalidasa, and this time Kalidasa bowed his head — even so, he towered over the shaman. Placing a hand on his shoulder, the droiba smiled up at him.

  “Oi zuh k’yar hriiz e’te,” he said. ‘You must wear a hriiz now.’

  “Ma le’a,” Kalidasa said softly, with another bow. ‘I will.’

  His hand still on the giant’s shoulder, the shaman pushed to the front and faced the gathering. “Gha’ar,” he boomed, banging his staff on the stone floor to get everyone’s attention. As the voices dropped in deference and faded into silence, he turned back to Kalidasa. “Bai’khi zuh si tei’sha,” he said, his voice carrying to the far end of the hall.

  ‘Tell them why you have come back.’

  The hush around the hall was both deafening and demanding, and Kalidasa stiffened as he glanced at the faces turned to him in hope and expectation. Clearing his throat, he stepped forward.

  “Ma’a iti bun zuh te Sindhuvarta,” he spoke slowly so he could be heard by everyone. “Te zaa’ri ulla.”

  ‘I am here to lead you into Sindhuvarta, the land of plenty.’

  Bangle

  Aaai… aaaaaa… aaaaa…”

  “Not now, Dveeja.” Shaking her head distractedly, Aparupa pulled her arm free of the man’s grasping fingers without even sparing him a glance. “We’ll go later.”

  “Uuu… ai… ai… aaaa.” Dveeja kept up his insistent nagging, now shaking Aparupa by her shoulder, making her frown in mild frustration. “Aaai… uuuuu…”

  The girl ignored him, trying her best to focus on the little clay pot she was painting to keep her mind off her missing soldier.

  Six days had passed since she had seen him — five since he had last written to her — and despite regular sorties to the garrison and vacant wanderings through the streets of Udaypuri, she had found no sign of him. Hope was already ebbing away, and she was slowly reconciling to the fact that she would never lay eyes on him again. Instead of bringing her relief, that thought only got the hot tears to flow even harder, the weight of grief in her chest threatening to submerge her. The previous night, she had decided she wouldn’t go to the garrison any more, and so far, all morning, she had stayed at home, mixing paints over and over again and getting the shades wrong every time. She knew she was very close to setting the pot and paints aside, getting up and going anyway. She was tempted by the irrational belief that he would be there on guard duty, smiling and apologetic; she was scared by the certainty that she wouldn’t find him and would return home broken and disappointed.

  “Uuuuu… aaaau… aaau… ai…” Dveeja continued shaking her, more forcefully now, and all of a sudden, all the turbulence inside Aparupa erupted in a concentrated stream of anger.

  “No,” she snapped, her eyes flashing at Dveeja. “No means no, don’t you understand? I said later, and I will not go now. Wait until the afternoon.”

  Rattled by this sudden burst of temper, the man shrank back, his eyes wide in alarm. He stared at Aparupa, who stared back at him defiantly for a moment, before turning back to the half-painted pot. Seeing she was no longer looking at him, Dveeja slowly rose and slunk out of the room in his silent, shambling gait.

  Almost immediately, Aparupa felt a pang of remorse at having shouted at the man, but she knew she couldn’t have helped it. When Dveeja got something into his head, he failed to understand the notion of patience. Last evening, as they had roa
med around Udaypuri, he had met and befriended a stray near the old brick kiln on the town’s outskirts. Dveeja and the dog had taken to one another instantly, and Aparupa had had a hard time getting Dveeja to return home with her. On waking this morning, he had started pestering her to take him back to the kiln, not willing to listen to her promises to take him later in the day.

  Sometimes, Dveeja could be very difficult.

  “Aai… aaai… aaaau… uuuu…”

  And he was back, barely a minute after being shouted at. Louder and more stubborn in pitch, not willing to compromise or listen, throwing a tantrum like a child… Aparupa, her own nerves frayed, her patience thinning, put the pot down hard and swung to him with her eyes blazing, her lips peeled back in rage, ready to light into him. She stopped short, staring in surprise at what Dveeja was holding in his outstretched hand.

  The bamboo bangle that Ghataraja had gifted her. Yesterday, in a fit of petulance, she had taken it off and put it away in her dresser, never wanting to see it again. For some reason, Dveeja had now gone and rummaged her dresser and brought it back to her.

  “Uuuu…” he said, waving the bangle around to show her what this was all about.

  “What is it, Dveeja?” Aparupa asked, stretching her hand out for the bangle. She took hold of it, but Dveeja didn’t immediately release his grip, holding the bamboo ring delicately between two fingers and thumb.

  “Aaaa… aaa…ai…” he said, pointing with his free hand at the bangle, then pointing over his shoulder.

  “Who is it?” Aparupa asked, looking behind Dveeja, trying to figure out what was in his mind. “Is someone… outside?”

  “Uuuu…” Dveeja nodded vigorously, relieved at having finally been understood.

  Even before she realized it, Aparupa’s spirits had soared and her face lit up in delight, as the thought of the soldier having come looking for her entered her mind. Maybe he was in the street outside, waiting for her, and that’s what Dveeja had been trying to tell her all this while… Checking herself quickly, she looked at Dveeja.