by Samit Basu
And then Pygmy Lion had made a big mistake. He had fallen in love with one of his models.
Her name was Gelatina, and she was the daughter of a very important stalactroll, who’d kept the egg in his cavern instead of giving it to a stork, and brought up his daughter on his own. Pygmy Lion (whose name had been Basalto, but he had changed it after creating his first statue, one of a dead lion-cub) had been given the task of immortalizing her youthful good looks. Unfortunately, inflamed by passion, he had forgotten the difference between dead stone and live stone and hacked off half one of Gelatina’s ears with his chisel, to make it correspond to the far prettier one on the statue. No one had been amused, and Pygmy Lion had fled for his life and ended up in Bolvudis. Now he made quite a good living acting, for there was always room for a killer troll in a Muwi-vision play. He’d also done good work recently in the emotional supernatural thriller, There’s a Soul in my Troll.
The Badshah seemed to have forgotten the large, black cauldron that was steaming on the fire in the middle of the room. Pygmy Lion stomped over to it and peered at the pink, gooey mass inside. Bubbles were rising to the surface and exploding with loud, squelchy noises.
‘Um, the cauldron’s boiling over,’ said Pygmy Lion deferentially.
‘Duck!’ yelled the Badshah, not even turning around to look as he dived beneath the table.
‘What?’ asked Pygmy Lion, not one of the world’s quicker thinkers. It was as if two people had met inside his brain, were shaking hands and grinning uncertainly, wondering what to say.
The cauldron exploded. The inside of the hut was suddenly pink.
‘Never mind,’ said the Badshah a little later, emerging from under the table, unscathed. He closed his eyes and muttered for a while, and the pink slime began to slide off the roof, the walls and the instruments in the room and collect on the floor in a glutinous mass.
‘There you go,’ said Mantric happily, ‘in a few hours it’ll be cool enough to eat.’
Pygmy Lion said nothing. He was still pink.
‘Interesting,’ said Mantric, looking at him. ‘It’s sealed your mouth.’
Strange sounds began to emanate from Pygmy Lion. As he spoke, a large, pink bubble formed on his mouth. The Badshah, completely unperturbed, began to note down observations on a slate. Sweet gum that bubbles, he thought. I wonder what to call it.
Pygmy Lion blew hard and the bubble popped. ‘How do I get it off?’ he asked in a voice of thunder.
‘I have no idea,’ said the Badshah, returning to the glass tubes. ‘Roll around or something. Or start a new Muwi-vision play while it’s still there. The Pink Pashan…not bad. Or if you want a romantic twist to it, call it Pashan is Pink.’
After a while he asked ‘What was it, then?’
‘The island’s being invaded,’ said Pygmy Lion, still chewing on the gum. It was sweet and rubbery.
This time Mantric turned around. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know. The giant crocodile’s been attacked.’
‘Is that it?’ The Badshah looked relieved. ‘Is it dead?’
‘No. Stunned. We won’t be able to see Golla, Queen of the Jungle wrestling today.’
There was a slight noise outside the hut. It sounded like a cough stopped midway. Mantric showed no signs of having heard it.
‘Never mind. Go do something else. And don’t worry about the pink stuff, it’ll come off,’ he said. Hopefully, he refrained from adding.
Pygmy Lion stomped off, pink and petulant. Mantric looked out of the window.
‘I know you’re there, I heard you,’ he said. ‘You could get killed, laughing like that. You might as well stop hiding and come in.’
‘I wasn’t prepared for what you’ve done to this island,’ said the Silver Dagger as he walked in, looking a little sheepish. ‘Pink pashans and imps, by the gods. This Muwi-vision business is sheer madness, Mantric. But it’s a brilliant ploy. No one will suspect a thing.’
‘Why did you attack the poor crocodile?’
‘I didn’t attack it, I was just trying to persuade it not to eat me.’
‘I’m sure it was just being friendly, and you had to show off.’
‘It surprised me, Mantric, honestly. I was reasonably gentle.’
‘It’s good to see you again.’
They embraced, laughing. They were old friends. Then the Dagger stepped back and inspected his clothes. No stains, no burns, no strange wiggling creatures. Good. ‘So, what do you think of our hero?’
‘Definitely has potential. It doesn’t matter what I think this time. We can’t afford to lose this one.’
‘Which is why I’m here. Minimal risk.’
Mantric stopped smiling, suddenly. ‘We’ll get this one right.’
‘Which is why we have to get him the sword, Mantric.’
‘I just don’t see the reason for all this fuss about swords.’
‘Heroes have to have swords, Mantric. It’s important. It’s the first thing about being a hero.’
‘If you insist, though I still think any sword will do – but we will get Asvin the best sword in the world. The Durgan one, do you think?’
‘My men are there already. The queen should not be a problem – not for Asvin.’
‘The carpet will need a little work, though,’ said Mantric, looking at the carpet struggling in the corner. ‘It’s very headstrong.’
‘The carpet’s the least of our problems. I’m worried, Mantric.’
Mantric looked at him sharply. It was not like the Dagger to admit such things. ‘Why?’
‘The pashan I told you about – the friend of your daughter’s. Disappeared, and so did the boy. Red Pearl will find them, but she’s wounded, and the pashan is fast, as fast as a horse. I liked the boy, too, but there were a lot of unanswered questions there. I wish I could go after them myself.’
‘You could, you know.’
‘No, I promised the Civilian I would stay. The vanars fight against us, Mantric. Even the Civilian had not seen that coming. And their leader – Bali, his name is – is, I hear, not a very nice sort of ape. And his soldiers are looking for the pashan. Something strange is going on there, I can feel it. Someone’s coming.’
Not realizing that the Dagger was referring to the immediate present, Mantric started violently when there was a loud knock on the door. He opened it and went outside. It was Pygmy Lion, who said he had rolled around, but was still pink. To assure him that this in no way affected his masculine beauty was a minute’s work for Mantric.
But when Mantric returned, he didn’t even bother to look around his hut. He knew the Dagger had disappeared. He returned to his work. The carpet went on writhing in the corner.
Chapter Twenty-eight
He awoke, and the world spun around in a mad rush. ‘Are you all right?’ said Spikes, who was shaking him gently.
‘Yes,’ said Kirin. ‘I’m fine.’
He suddenly remembered vague images of motion at the mouth of the cave when he was sinking to the ground.
‘Have you been fighting anyone? I thought I saw something.’
‘It was nothing. Couple of bears. They seemed to think they owned this cave or something.’
Kirin smiled. ‘Well, perhaps they did, you know.’
‘Well, they don’t any more.’
‘I’m really hungry. Have you eaten anything?’
Spikes pointed to a little pile of fruits. ‘Breakfast,’ he said.
‘What would I do without you, Spikes?’
‘Die, probably.’
‘I didn’t know you liked fruits.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Have you eaten anything, then?’
‘Yes.’
Kirin knew better than to probe further. He quickly waded into the pile of fruits, and soon there was no pile of fruits. He was thirsty, too, and he went out for a while, to the stream, and when he returned he was fresh, clean and ready to go. Or wait, which was what he was supposed to do, he remembered.
He b
linked a few times, because the sun was bright outside and the cave was dark. Then he stopped.
Spikes was sitting on the rock, holding the book in his hands.
He looked at Kirin. ‘You haven’t told me what you were doing last night,’ he said.
Kirin sat down on the floor, at Spikes’ feet, and told him Narak’s story. When he reached the part where his father had allowed himself to be captured, and had met Katar, he faltered, and looked at Spikes. Of course Spikes was his friend. And no matter what happened, Spikes would be on his side.
Wouldn’t he?
‘Tell me the rest of the story,’ said Spikes. ‘It involves me, doesn’t it?’
His father had said pashans were stupid. He obviously hadn’t met Spikes. Well, he had met the egg, but there is only so much you can say about an egg.
Kirin told Spikes the story of Katar and the egg of stone, and the coming of his mother and the death of his father and Danh-Gem.
Spikes was silent in the darkness.
Then he said ‘So your father killed mine.’
‘Yes, and my mother killed Danh-Gem, who made your parents.’’ said Kirin, feeling a little uneasy. But pashans didn’t care about their parents.
Did they?
How could they? They never even met their parents.
He suddenly realized that he had hardly ever met his….
‘Shouldn’t I be angry?’ Spikes said softly.
‘I don’t know, Spikes,’ said Kirin. Part of him was wondering whether to run.
‘And now you will slay Danh-Gem, who created pashans like me. I am probably the only one of my kind left, just as you are the only one of yours.’
His eyes were glowing green in the darkness. Kirin watched him. This isn’t happening, he thought. But Spikes was his friend…he’d probably lost Maya, and now… Spikes?
They were both quiet for a while, looking at each other.
Then Spikes laughed. ‘So what do we do now?’ he asked.
Kirin sat down on the rock beside him. He briefly considered hugging Spikes, but abandoned the idea because he would probably get hurt.
He grinned.
‘Now,’ he said, ‘we do nothing.’
Book Two
Chapter One
‘Good! Twenty seconds this time. Now get the mud out of your eyes, and we will start over.’
They were in the Square Forest in northern Bolvudis, where the trees were evenly spaced, to allow voluptuous damsels clad in clinging saris to run from one tree to another in time to the music which would be played when Muwi-visions were eventually shown to the public. Asvin lay face downwards in a mud puddle and groaned. This was worse than the ashram. It was only the seventh day of his training, and he had already decided that he hated Gaam. Well, it was impossible to hate Gaam, but he didn’t like him any more. The kindly, friendly vaman who had told him stories about ancient heroes in the Bleakwood had disappeared, and he now faced a stern taskmaster who made his formidable kul-guru seem like a nurse.
He got up. And picked up the staff that Gaam had sent flying from his hands a moment before knocking him to the ground with a hard blow to his ankles. He started swinging it warily, whirling it around, circling around Gaam, looking for an opportunity to strike.
‘You needn’t feel bad,’ said Gaam kindly. ‘Avrantics have always been hopeless at everything except archery. You are young and strong. It’s just that your teachers so far must have been pathetic.’
Asvin, who had loved his venerable and terrifying old kul-guru, frowned and lunged. Gaam took a step back, tripped Asvin up and smiled as he went crashing into the same spot of mud as the last time.
Asvin sprang up this time, swinging his staff. He was taller, quicker, heavier, and stronger than the vaman, he told himself, as their staves clashed. All he would have to do was concentrate.
For some time, only the sounds of wood hitting wood and swishing through air were heard.
‘Much better,’ said Gaam, panting a little, as he ducked and weaved to avoid Asvin’s blows, ‘You lack patience, but that is not a problem if the stars smile on you. And you have a natural aptitude for violence that will stand you in good stead. The other thing you lack,’ he added, hitting Asvin on the knuckles and then on the back as he dropped the staff with a yell, ‘is technique. Which I can teach you.’ He knocked Asvin down again.
‘Again.’
This time Asvin didn’t get up. ‘How many weapons do I need to learn to fight with?’ he asked wearily. ‘Why can’t I concentrate on the sword and the bow, and maybe the mace? My kul-guru said I could be the best swordsman in the world. Why do I have to learn to fight with these ungainly weapons?’
‘Because you have to reach a stage where it doesn’t matter what weapon you’re using,’ said Gaam, pulling him to his feet. ‘Or even if you don’t have a weapon at all. Most of single combat is fought in the mind. I cannot teach you this in a year, but to your credit you learn fast.’
‘Can we try something else now?’ asked Asvin. ‘I like yoga.’
‘Can I have a go?’ asked Maya. She had been leaning against a tree, watching, and smirking from time to time, annoying Asvin intensely. ‘Weren’t you supposed to be having magic sessions with your father?’ he asked crossly.
‘He’s busy,’ she said, picking up a staff. ‘Come on.’
‘I don’t fight girls,’ said Asvin stiffly.
‘My family was from Durg,’ she replied. ‘Do they call Durgan warrior-women girls in Avranti? Is that why you lost those wars?’
He picked up a staff. ‘Very well, then. I do not want to hurt you, but you impugn my nation’s honour.’
‘Just like I’ll impugn your face in a second.’
Gaam stood back, watching them with a benevolent expression. Ah, young love.
They circled warily, and then leapt at each other. Asvin sent Maya’s staff flying in a few seconds. He raised his staff to strike her down, but stopped.
‘What happened?’ asked Maya.
‘Pick up your staff,’ he said.
‘That’s unfair,’ she said. ‘Gaam hit you every time.’
‘That’s different.’
‘Don’t ever patronize me again.’
Maya turned a cartwheel and picked her staff up. She’s in good shape, Gaam noted. But then they taught gymnastics and unarmed combat in Enki. Spellbinders often found themselves in situations where they couldn’t cast spells and people wanted to hit them.
Of course, no one meddled with them in Kol, but holidays in the country for spellbinders were generally fraught with danger. Anyway, if Maya had any Durgan blood in her she had probably spent most of her early years fighting.
‘Come on,’ she said. They clashed again, and soon Asvin disarmed her again. He stood in front of her, looking at her, his staff in the air.
‘What? Are you scared?’ she said. ‘Strike!’
He closed his eyes and swung his staff.
He didn’t hit anything. He opened his eyes, puzzled.
She was still standing in front of him. She hadn’t vaulted back or ducked.
‘Magic is very strong in Bolvudis,’ she said sweetly. ‘I couldn’t have done this everywhere.’
Puzzled, he looked at his staff. It wasn’t there.
He was holding a rose. She took it from him.
‘Why thank you, kind sir,’ she said. In her hand, it turned back into a staff. She tapped him smartly on the head with it, and handed it back to him. Asvin stood staring at her, and then dropped the staff with a yell. It was burning hot.
‘We spellbinders prefer to use our hands when fighting,’ she said. ‘And our heads. We don’t use weapons, because we generally don’t need to.’
‘That wasn’t fair,’ said Asvin, looking at the staff, now hissing and curling as it turned to ashes.
‘Magic isn’t fair,’ said Maya, walking away. ‘I’ll see you at lunch.’
Gaam smiled again as he watched Asvin glare at her back. He’d asked Maya to perform this little stunt.
Asvin might have to fight both women and magic-users later on, and it was important that he got some things clear right at the outset. Of course, she’d been more than willing. It was important to hammer some of Asvin’s Avrantic training out of him. Most of it was good – Asvin was very good with the sword, the bow and the spear, a skilled rider, swimmer and hunter. Very strong, very quick, excellent reflexes, excellent stamina. And his education was coming in very handy – there would be no need to teach an Avrantic prince etiquette, dancing or the art of diplomacy. Of course some things would have to be unlearned, he had an extremely old-fashioned view of the world, but what did you expect from the Avrantics? And he was proud and arrogant, but that could be forgiven, that was always a problem with princes, and more days like today would cure him quickly. Lessons in humility were Gaam’s specialty. He looked at the dashing young man sulking in the sunlight and smiled broadly. All things considered, he was very good hero material.
‘That’s enough for now,’ he said to the glowering prince, and led him away. As they walked through the Square forest, actors stopped singing and dancing just to watch them. Asvin had so much presence, and the magic in the air enhanced it. Since Asvin had come to Bolvudis, he had been inundated with offers from both imps and humans to act in the Muwi-visions. Gaam had instructed him not to accept, so Asvin had smiled at everyone regretfully and moved on.
But then Gaam, with typical vaman ingenuity, had thought of a way to keep everyone happy. Some boys from Xi’en had arrived in Bolvudis recently. None of them could speak Koli, but luckily Mantric had been to Xi’en and spoke their language. They were all incredibly skilled in the martial arts, amazingly agile, supple and swift. The imps were all swooning over them–many new Muwi-visions had been planned to show off their skills. Gaam found an imp named Atient who liked watching Muwi-visions at dawn, and every day, Atient and Gaam would watch the boys from Xi’en teach Asvin Xi’en-style unarmed combat. Of course, these boys had probably learnt to fight before they had learnt to walk, and it would be years before Asvin could match their skills, but he was learning fast. Gaam had also started him off on endurance-training exercises, swimming underwater for hours and learning to control hunger, pain and fear. He would make him the complete hero. Simoqin would have been proud. He would make Asvin as great as one of the Seven Heroes of the Age of Terror.