The Vengeance of Indra

by Shatrujeet Nath

  “The opportunity to get to know the Samrat better,” she replied, the mildest hint of seduction in the velvety folds of her voice.

  Departure

  Amara Simha and the samsaptakas had advanced towards the settlement of Ki’barr at a crawl, literally inching along under the night sky, chary of alerting any lookouts that the town’s guardians might have posted.

  The moment they had spotted the town on the horizon, Amara Simha knew it wasn’t going to be easy taking it. To begin with, Ki’barr was situated in the middle of a flat stretch of desert, with not a single knoll, dune or straggle of desert trees to offer him and his men concealment. They had had to stay out of the town’s field of vision, baking in the desert heat and waiting for night to fall. But as soon as the sun set, the moon had sailed out, so again, they hadn’t dared to get too close for fear of being sighted.

  They had waited until the middle of the night to make a move, but because they were still too far out in the desert, rushing the town was useless as the beat of the hooves and the dust that the horses kicked up would effectively serve as an alarm, giving the townsfolk enough time to mount a defence. Amara Simha feared the Saka arrows in particular; caught in a hail of those lethal missiles, he knew they stood no chance of breaching Ki’barr. Thus, they had shuffled forward, careful not to give themselves away.

  When they were no more than half a mile from the stockade that surrounded the town, the burly councilor reined in his horse. Hefting his broad battle-axe, he cast a sideways glance at Angamitra, who nodded in response. Amara Simha turned and looked at the samsaptakas riding behind him, raising his axe high and giving it a fierce shake. Even in the tepid moonlight, his eyes blazed and his lips mouthed a silent battle-cry. In response, the samsaptakas raised their own weapons, all silent but volcanic in their readiness to do battle.

  Amara Simha turned and faced Ki’barr. Behind him, the Warriors of the Oath did the same. The councilor suddenly dipped his head and spurred his mount into a gallop, and the attack on Ki’barr got underway.

  Whether it was complacency on the part of the Sakas — who had never anticipated an attack on them so deep in the desert — or plain providence, the fact that they had managed stealing so close to the town unseen gave the raiders an upper hand early in the battle. The Huna scout they had with them had given them a broad idea of what to expect in a Saka fort’s layout, and Amara Simha and the samsaptakas made a beeline for the one main gate in the stockade. The gate was manned by a pair of guards who were easily brushed aside, and before they knew it, the attackers were inside Ki’barr.

  Conscious of the fact that he had no idea where to look for Ghatakarpara in an alien town — assuming Satyaveda had not lied, and Ghatakarpara was still here and had not been moved elsewhere — Amara Simha’s strategy to get to the prince was simple. He had instructed the samsaptakas to be merciless on the Sakas, hitting them hard, stunning them into submission, so that they would be happy to part with their hostage as long as they were left alone. And that was what the attackers did.

  From street to street, building to building, the samsaptakas slipped freely, not caring in which direction they went as long as they found Sakas to kill. Most of the townsfolk and soldiers were still rubbing the sleep from their eyes and wondering what had happened when they were cut down in their doorways and in the streets outside their homes. The raiders were ruthless in their efficiency, and soon, the alleyways of Ki’barr were full of people running for their lives, the air over the town shivering with the screams of the dying.

  Knowing that the biggest house in the village is invariably the headman’s, Amara Simha made for the largest building in Ki’barr, a two-storey structure at the town’s centre. His approach was noticed; the four Saka guards who came out to stop him fell trying. Onwards he pressed, but the closer he got, the more resistance he met with. The attack had started a while ago, and the Saka warriors had had time to regroup. They now came out screaming, their long swords waving in the moonlight. Amara Simha was beset by six of them, and this lot was hardier and fought with more purpose, cutting and slashing at the councilor, halting his march.

  Amara Simha parried their attack and countered it with a fierce push of his own. Swords met the axe, causing sparks to fly, and blood splattered to the ground as blades slipped past defences. The Sakas lost three men to the councilor’s fury, but reinforcements arrived to take him on. More and more men joined in, trying to cut him down from all sides, and one of the swords succeeded in opening a long gash down his left shoulder and across the back.

  Pain blossomed and rushed to Amara Simha’s head. At that instant, he felt a hot flush on his cheeks and sensed a surge of something wild and deeply primitive in his veins — a sudden taste for blood, an overriding desire to hunt and kill prey.

  In a flash, he realized that the prey was right in front of him. Cowering. Frantically backing away. Moaning in terror.

  The Saka warriors were now staggering away from him, tripping and stepping over one another in desperation, scrambling and clawing to stay out of his grasp. Their eyes were fixed on him, petrified, their resolve to fight giving way in a most abrupt and unbecoming fashion, so that they either dropped their weapons in dread or forgot all about using them in their fright.

  Vaguely puzzled by their behaviour — and puzzled that his canines were suddenly long and sharp in his mouth — Amara Simha stretched a hand to grab the savage closest to him. That was when he noticed that his arm was covered in fine golden-brown fur, while at his fingertips, long, curving black claws had sprouted again. Before he knew it, his hand struck the warrior he had been reaching for in the back, the claws digging deep, mauling and mangling the flesh. The soldier screamed in pain.

  The scent of blood, hot and freshly let, came to Amara Simha in a blooming tide, and the councilor felt his mouth salivate as he struck the soldier a second time, in the back of the head. The man’s head caved in under the force of the blow, and even as he went down, Amara Simha leaped towards his next victim. With a primal snarl, he ripped the second warrior’s legs from under him, bringing him down hard before driving his claws into the man’s neck and snapping his vertebra. Blood sprayed from the wound, drenching the councilor’s rough, dark mane in fine droplets.

  Amara Simha roared in pleasure at the exhilaration of the hunt. The roar of a lion.

  The Sakas were now fleeing at the sight of him, clearing a path to the large house. Axe in one hand, his transformation into man-lion complete, the councilor leaped and bounded to the door of the house. With another hearty roar, he hammered the door down and stepped inside, only to be assailed by a pair of guards. The first Amara Simha smote with his left hand, sending him flying; the second he grabbed by the neck, lifting him into the air, before bringing him down to the ground hard on his back. As the man cried out in agony, the man-lion bent over him, pinning him to the ground and snarling into his face in acute rage. The lust for blood thrummed and keened in the councilor’s ears, matched by a gnawing, gluttonous urge to maim and dismember.

  There was an outbreak of panicked voices from overhead, followed by the frenzied rush of feet down a flight of stairs. Amara Simha sprang to his feet and faced the stairs, his axe in a half-swing, ready to meet the next wave of attack. But instead of soldiers, two young women came into view, both scared and trembling so hard that they could barely stay on their feet. Behind them came a middle-aged man carrying a child of about three, and after him, an old man with a long, white beard. Five pairs of eyes stared at the man-lion in abject fear — and then the women slowly came down the last few steps, quaking and sobbing. Dropping to their knees, they joined their hands in supplication, words tumbling out of their mouths, none of which made sense to Amara Simha though he understood their intent. The two men joined the women in beseeching him, the middle-aged man making the small child get down on its knees and put its hands together in a pathetic plea for mercy.

  The sight of the child kneeling before him, its hands joined, staring up at him in wonder
and incomprehension, filled Amara Simha with shame and revulsion. Unable to look the child in the eye, unwilling to do what the mad voices in his head were urging him to do, he let his arm drop reluctantly and turned wearily away from the terrified family.

  For now, the killing was over. The town’s surrender was complete.

  * * *

  The asura army numbered a couple of hundred, their solemn faces lit by torchlight, their horns polished black and shiny with oil, the jagged javelins they carried twinkling with fire, their shadows splashed on the walls of the large cavern where they were assembled. Before them, on a rising piece of granite that served as a platform, stood Hiranyaksha, his face flush with pride, eyes glowing with hope and anticipation.

  “You have put yourselves in the hands of the mahaguru,” he said, surveying the army. “Have faith in him and he will guide you into Borderworld and bring you back. Fight well, brothers and sisters. Fight for Patala.”

  “For Patala,” the crowd roared back, banging their spears on the floor and dislodging the bats roosting in the darkness. As the cavern filled with skittering and screeching, the asura lord turned to Shukracharya.

  “Veeshada’s dagger will soon be ours,” he said, with a smile on his face. “I wish you could be back with it before brother returns, so we can gift it to him.”

  “I shall try,” the high priest replied. “Though I can’t say for certain because our entry into Borderworld might take a while, whereas Hiranyakashipu is due to return any time now. Still, I will try.”

  “I am sure you will,” Hiranyaksha paused. “Brother will be eager to meet you.”

  “I am keen to see him as well. It has been so long. But our meeting might take longer than expected.”

  “Why is that, mahaguru?” Hiranyaksha peered curiously at the high priest.

  Shukracharya stepped in front of the asura lord and faced him.

  “If Hiranyakashipu returns in my absence, I have an urgent errand for him. This errand might delay my meeting him. If I am not around, I want you to tell him what I want done.”

  Hiranyaksha bowed. “What is it that you want of him, mahaguru?”

  “I want him to go to Devaloka.”

  Seeing the surprise on the asura lord’s face, Shukracharya nodded, his eye flashing in cold anger as a bitter memory was stoked. “There is a small matter of my prestige at stake, and I want the score settled.”

  * * *

  “Is this some sort of a joke?” Amara Simha fumed. “Does this fool expect me to fall for his tricks? Tell him he has one last chance to tell us the truth.”

  The interpreter who had accompanied them turned to the Saka, the shy’or of Ki’barr. The two conversed for a while, the man frightened but insistent in his tone, shifting from foot to foot, shooting uneasy glances at the councilor, as if half-expecting him to turn back into the man-lion at any moment. Finally, with a helpless shrug, the interpreter looked at the councilor.

  “He maintains he has no clue about what has happened to the prince. He says the prince has been in this cell ever since they brought him here, and he swears the prince was here earlier in the night. They checked on him, it seems.”

  “He was locked up in this cell?

  “Yes.”

  “So where is he now?” Amara Simha peered theatrically into the shadows of the cell, which was empty except for the goat-hair blankets, a mud pitcher and the unlocked fetters lying on the floor. “I don’t see him here… or there.” He looked up at the narrow window and the rectangular patch of night sky outside. “He couldn’t have gone out that way either. And he definitely couldn’t have slipped out of the keyhole.” He swung around to glare into the Saka chief’s face, which was sick with fear in the torchlight. “Where is the prince, my friend? I see you have one tooth missing, so I can ask you that question another thirty-one times. I promise you it will be very painful.”

  If not from the words, the man understood the threat from the councilor’s expression. He grabbed the interpreter’s arm and babbled desperately, trying his best to convince him that he was telling the truth.

  “He swears the prince has not been moved out and that he was here a few hours ago.”

  “Yet, he is not here when we walk in, and the door is locked from the outside.” The councilor eyed the Saka suspiciously. “And the two keys to the cell were where they were supposed to be.”

  “Your honour,” the interpreter paused, then decided to continue. “If he were lying, why would he bring us to this empty cell, knowing fully well that the situation wouldn’t make him look good in our eyes? He would have to be really stupid to bring us here if he knew the prince was not in the cell.”

  Exasperated, Amara Simha drew a deep breath. “If he doesn’t know where the prince is, who is supposed to know? He is the chief of this godforsaken place, isn’t he?” Shaking his head, he snapped angrily, “I’ve had enough. I want some answers, and I’m going to get them one way or the other. Let us string this fellow up in the courtyard.”

  As a couple of samsaptakas took him by the arms and started hauling him away, the Saka let out a stream of protests, pleading and yowling at the top of his voice. Amara Simha and the interpreter followed, and the small group eventually emerged into a small courtyard, where a stake was driven into the ground. The samsaptakas were still tying the shy’or to the stake when an old woman appeared at a door, flailing her hands at Amara Simha as she beat her chest and pointed at the man.

  “Stop,” the interpreter said to the two samsaptakas.

  He posed some questions to the woman, for which she had ready answers, wailing and gesticulating all the time she spoke. On hearing what she had to say, the Saka chief sagged with relief and even managed giving Amara Simha a broken, conciliatory smile. At last, the interpreter turned to the councilor.

  “She says a Saka soldier was found lying unconscious outside the stockade. He’d suffered a bad stab wound, it seems. While it looked like he had been injured in our attack, he’s just regained consciousness and says that he was struck while trying to stop the prince from escaping.”

  “He tried to stop Ghatakarpara? Where? When?”

  “In the middle of the night. Near a gap in the stockade. It seems they had a scuffle, and the prince stabbed him.”

  Reaching over his shoulder, Amara Simha probed the bloodied bandage covering the cut on his back. A samsaptaka with rudimentary skills had washed and treated the wound with a crude turmeric preparation that had helped staunch the bleeding, but the cut hurt very much, especially when he strained his back muscles.

  “How did the prince get out of his cell?” he asked, bringing his hand away and examining it closely, relieved to see there were no traces of fresh blood on his fingers.

  “No idea, but this man is certain it was the prince.” The interpreter exchanged a few words with the woman and nodded. “He is certain because he was one of those who brought the prince here from over the Arbudas and through the desert.”

  “Does he know what happened to the prince after he was stabbed?”

  The interpreter and the woman spoke again.

  “He says the prince left him bleeding on the ground and ran into the desert.”

  Amara Simha looked up at the sky, slowly growing lighter from the east. In a short while, the blazing desert sun would be up. He looked down at the prince’s sun-crest medallion lying flat on his palm, which they had recovered from the chief’s possession.

  “Ghatakarpara is smart enough to head in an easterly direction,” he said, closing his fingers over the medallion and tucking it into his waistband. “He has a few hours’ head start, but I gather he is on foot, while we have horses.” He flicked his fingers at one of the samsaptakas, urging speed.

  “Find Angamitra and ask him to get everyone together quickly. Load up on food and water. We begin our ride to save the prince before the sun fully clears the horizon.”

  * * *

  A small puff of mist detached itself from the larger pall hanging over Lake Alaka and d
rifted towards a patch of wooded land on the other side of the stretch of placid water.

  As it drew near land, its composition changed. It grew denser and more angular, transforming from within, and once it was on firm land, feet emerged from its opacity, followed by the knees, a waist, two hands and then the rest of the body. Moments later, a fully formed yaksha strode away from the lake and down the misty pathway, the last few trails of mist running out from between his fingers and blowing away into the wind.

  The yaksha entered another bank of the mist, so it was impossible to tell which way he was headed, but he strode confidently along, until the mist suddenly parted and fell away like a veil to reveal a large glistening pool at his feet. The pool was made of nacre, and at its centre was an alabaster pavilion, connected to the pool’s rim with swinging bamboo bridges. Inside the pavilion, Kubera sat in the company of two other yakshas, both playing a morning raga on their vamsis. The melodious notes of the two flutes sprang and riffled the air at the precise moment the curtains of mist had parted for the visiting yaksha.

  The yaksha waited for the music to finish before clearing his throat to let his master know of his arrival. Kubera turned his heavy, bearded face in the yaksha’s direction, and recognizing his visitor, waved a fat hand, calling him over. At the same time, the yaksha lord inclined his head at the two musicians, who got to their feet and withdrew soundlessly. Only when he and the newly arrived yaksha were alone did Kubera nod.

  “Tell me what you have learned about the human king.”

  The yaksha spoke for long and without interruption, and by the time he was done, a mild sunlight was nudging its way through the mist and little arcs of rainbows flashed here and there like colourful illusions. Kubera listened to the yaksha’s account, latching onto every word. When the narration was finally over, he leaned back on the white silken bolsters and stroked his beard pensively.