Attack.
The bowmen on the flanks of the cavalry discharged a volley of arrows at the solitary figure. Humming like hornets, the pinpoints of light homed in on the horseman, sitting rocklike on his mount, arms outstretched, gripping his fire swords tight. At the last moment, when the arrows were nearly upon him, the horseman swung his swords at the converging missiles, cutting and swiping, splintering the shafts and shattering the arrowheads in a coruscating shower of sparks. When the last of the burning barbs fell to the ground, Dasra saw that the rider was unscathed. And far from being cowed by the assault, the warrior spurred his horse into a gallop, riding straight at the wall of the Ashvin cavalry.
Dasra shook his head at this insane show of defiance; it baffled and frustrated him.
Charge, brothers!
Goaded into a rage by the horseman’s temerity, the devas rushed across the plain, their swords pointing straight at the charging rider. But the horseman didn’t slow down. Instead, he began flourishing his swords in broad, sweeping moves, the flames on the blades tapering and growing in length and intensity with each successive movement of his arms. The flames simultaneously changed color – from yellow-orange to a bright, malignant green. In moments, the fires had assumed the form of long flaming whips, swirling drunkenly over the rider’s head.
Dasra watched in fascination as the belts of fire detached themselves from the swords and sailed through the air, constantly growing in size as they snaked across the plain at the Ashvin cavalry. The whips descended with tremendous speed and accuracy, lashing into the vanguard of the devas’ attack, hurling the horsemen off their mounts, cutting through their armor and scorching their flesh to the bone.
Agonized screams rent the night and the Ashvins fell back – but the horseman from Ujjayini didn’t relent. He kept on riding forward, twirling his swords, sending more and more of the gleaming green whips into the air...
This time, however, instead of seeking out the Ashvins, the whips twisted and coiled like flaming helixes in the night sky. As the devas stared in amazement, the whips magically entwined to form three gargantuan, fire-breathing churails. Wailing and screaming, the fiery banshees lunged at the flanks of the cavalry, spewing green flames from their horrendous black mouths.
Dasra’s face slackened in disbelief as the rampaging churails mowed through his army, setting the Ashvins on fire before they had a chance to multiply. Slowly, he turned his attention back to the rider, who was closing in on the central column of his cavalry. As yet another blazing belt spun out and slapped into the devas, Dasra was seized with panic.
The horseman is the Wielder of the Hellfires.
Dasra shivered at the realization, his sword going limp in his hand.
***
“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
Dhanavantri’s expression was a mixture of doubt and alarm as he peered at the raj-guru in the half-light. They were crouching inside a covered stairway to protect themselves from the Ashvins’ arrows, and the physician had to shout to make himself heard over the noise of the cavalry battering against the gate underneath.
The Acharya nodded, bringing his face close to Dhanavantri’s ear. “If each horseman is essentially a twin, each capable of dividing infinitely into multiple twins, it means all the Ashvins out there sprang from one original body... and one original mind. It’s probable that the Ashvins share a common mind, which controls the whole army, deciding things like what should be done next, who should multiply how many times... If that’s the case, I want to get inside that common mind.”
“To see what they want? But that’s obvious – they want to attack us and take the Halahala.”
Vetala Bhatta shook his head. “I want to enter that mind and try and control it. I want to see if I can influence this army in some way.”
“But how are you going to do that?” Dhanavantri sounded flabbergasted.
“I don’t know. I won’t know till I use the spell and enter the mind of one of those devas.”
“I don’t like this idea,” the physician protested. “It’s one thing trying to read someone’s mind. Trying to influence it is a completely different game, Acharya. You know better than anyone else that the process can backfire miserably – your mind could end up being influenced by the other’s into doing terrible things, unspeakable things.”
“I know what I’m suggesting is fraught with risk,” replied Vetala Bhatta, wincing as the gate was rammed by the Ashvins once again. Pointing downward toward the source of the din, he pressed, “But we have to take that chance before that gate is broken down; unless you have a better idea.”
Dhanavantri stared glumly down at the depths of the stone stairway.
“Come then, there’s no time to think,” said the Acharya, rising to his feet and grabbing his spear. “Cover me while I cast my spell.”
The two councilors stepped on to the walkway, Dhanavantri in the lead. The physician planted himself firmly along the battlement, gripped his quarterstaff with both hands, and cast an eye over the wall. He swore under his breath on seeing the Ashvin cavalry amassed outside the gate, intent on breaking in.
Positioning himself behind Dhanavantri’s bulk, the raj-guru also gazed into the plain. His eyes, however, singled out one particular deva who was sitting astride his horse, waiting patiently for his companions to breach the gate. Drawing himself to his full height, the Acharya closed his eyes and brought his right hand, clenched into a tight fist, to the center of his chest. At the same time, his lips began moving to a wordless mantra.
Moments later, the skulls dangling on Vetala Bhatta’s spear, which he held in his left hand, started glowing, the red light flickering and wavering at first, then burning steadily.
In a flash, the Acharya was filled with a raging lust to destroy Ujjayini.
The Halahala will be ours before daybreak.
The Acharya sensed being at the head of a column of Ashvins who were charging at a huge gate. Arrows fell from above in murderous clusters as he threw himself against the barricade, the wood juddering and creaking against his shoulder. One more heave and the gate burst open.
The western gate has fallen. We are inside Ujjayini.
Elation washed over the Acharya like a tide, suffusing him with its warmth as he pushed the gate’s wreckage aside and hacked at Avanti’s soldiers...
“The gate is down, the enemy is inside,” a soldier hollered. “Sound the alarm bells, sound the ala...” The words were cut off abruptly as Vetala Bhatta slashed open the soldier’s throat. Then –
There... above us... on top of the wall.
Suddenly, the raj-guru saw two men staring down from the battlements. The one in front was short and obese, wielding a quarterstaff. The other was a tall, graybearded man standing motionless, holding a spear that had something red glowing near its tip. Fire arrows were being directed at the two men from below, but the fat man was using his staff to deflect the missiles, the staff little more than a twirling blur against the dark sky.
The next image to impose itself on the Acharya’s mind was of a young, athletic woman running along rooftops, rapidly shooting arrows and issuing orders as she leaped between buildings. Catching sight of her face in the firelight, he felt a sharp stab of anger.
That’s one of their councilors. She’s already brought down many of us. Kill her.
It took heroic effort for Vetala Bhatta to wrench himself free of the enthrallment. His suspicions had been proved right – the horsemen shared a common mind that registered everything that every Ashvin saw and felt. But now that Ujjayini had been breached and its citizen’s lives were in peril, he knew he had to bring all his focus to bear on projecting his own thoughts onto the collective mind of the Ashvins.
But to his horror, he found that his mind was incapable of conceiving anything other than the destruction of Ujjayini and the recovery of Veeshada’s dagger.
We shall make the king of Avanti pay for his arrogance with his life.
Wading against the
flow, he fought to channelize his thoughts. Yet the harder he tried, the stronger the minds of the devas emerged, swamping him with scenes of the devastation within Ujjayini as the city’s defense fell apart.
Then, all of a sudden, the Acharya’s vision was filled with a huge churail screaming through the night sky, her hair trailing green fire, her monstrous mouth vomiting flames. He also saw a rider charging down a plain, wielding long flaming whips in both hands. The sight struck cold fear in his heart.
The horseman is the Wielder of the Hellfires.
The thought sank in, settling like a heavy stone in the pit of his stomach. And fear gave way to terror.
Run.
As the rider with the fire whips drew nearer, the Acharya saw a broad ribbon of green flame, forked at the tip like a serpent’s tongue, scythe toward him, torching a bunch of Ashvins in the sweep of its arc. Transfixed, he watched the belt swerve and leap at him, its blazing white heat singeing his skin, sending shards of pain radiating along his limbs...
Vetala Bhatta’s eyes flew open in his ashen face. For a moment, he stood on the walkway, staring unseeingly at Dhanavantri’s broad back, which was pouring with sweat and heaving with exertion. Then, as the hail of arrows from below ceased, the raj-guru shuddered violently and collapsed on the walkway, his spear clattering loudly on the cold stones.
***
The Ashvins were stampeding through the streets of Ujjayini, a torrent of hooves pouring out from all directions and heading for the shattered remains of the city’s western gate. Soldiers of the City Watch hurried to get out of the way of the devas, pressing themselves against the houses that lined the streets to keep from coming under the horses. The horsemen, for their part, didn’t spare Avanti’s soldiers a glance, even when a spear or two was hurled into their midst.
Kshapanaka crouched on a limb of a tree, watching this frenzied ride with keen, wide eyes. She couldn’t understand it.
Unmindful of the resistance from within the walls, the devas had sustained their assault on the western gate all evening, in the hope of gaining an entry into the city. Their doggedness had ultimately paid off, and the cavalry had swarmed into Ujjayini, crushing the feeble defense of the City Watch. What flummoxed Kshapanaka was that hardly any time had lapsed since the gate had been beaten down – yet here the Ashvins already seemed intent on departing.
Perhaps they had got what they came for!
As the thought flashed through her mind, panic reared inside Kshapanaka, mingling with anger and helplessness. She swiftly nocked another arrow into her bow, even as she saw the futility of her action. If the devas had got the dagger, it was too late...
It is never too late to inflict damage on the enemy, she remembered the Acharya telling them as kids, waving his wooden sword at their faces. Every wound, every bruise you deliver makes them weaker.
Drawing the bowstring taut, Kshapanaka aimed at the head of one of the Ashvins charging down the street. She was about to release the arrow when she observed the horseman’s expression in the light of a burning house. It wasn’t one of gloating triumph, as she had expected. Instead, it was filled with manic fear.
Looking closely, she noticed that the faces of all the horsemen in the streets below were filled with mortal terror. And it occurred to her that the devas were taking flight, desperate to be rid of Ujjayini.
Vetala Bhatta’s instructions notwithstanding, Kshapanaka heaved a sigh and relaxed her arms, lowering the bow. Standing up, she balanced herself on the branch to turn and stare at the western gate, which was clogged with jostling, fleeing horsemen. Shaking her head with relief and mystification at this dramatic turnaround, she watched the Brotherhood of the Ashvins discharge into the night.
Vishakha
A
dull, leaden pain pounded through Ghatakarpara’s head every time he turned, and the muscles immediately above his eyelids throbbed uncomfortably, forcing him to blink and stretch his eyes every now and then. He had trouble even holding his head erect, and his mouth still felt rough and dry, the aftertaste of acid reflux lingering in his throat.
The prolonged bath in icy cold water had been of no help whatsoever, he decided. Nor had the three glasses of buttermilk, downed in rapid succession, worked any wonders.
Pushing himself off the bed where he had been sitting with his head hanging between his knees, Ghatakarpara cursed Amara Simha for the lousiest hangover he’d ever suffered in five years of drinking.
It had all started innocuously enough over dinner the previous night. Commander Dattaka, in a bid to get back into the good books of Amara Simha, had produced a pitcher of firewater, freshly distilled from a neighborhood brewery. Never one to refuse a drink, Amara Simha had gracefully accepted a flagon, filling one each for Ghatakarpara and Governor Satyaveda as well.
The brew was of excellent quality; one flagon had quickly increased to two, then three, then four, Amara Simha’s humor returning with each successive flagon. Before long – and Ghatakarpara couldn’t exactly recall how it had started – Amara Simha was challenging the prince to a drinking contest, and two more pitchers of firewater were called for. Flagons were emptied with much gusto, only to be promptly refilled...
Ghatakarpara’s last memory of the night was of him staring up at the ceiling of the command center’s dining room, watching the rafters swim and lurch in the torchlight.
There was a sharp rap on the door, but before the prince could acknowledge it, the door opened to reveal a soldier of the Frontier Guard standing on the threshold.
“Salutations to Prince Ghatakarpara.”
The prince nodded, regretting the movement immediately as a fresh bout of pounding began between his ears.
“Councilor Amara Simha desires your presence at Commander Dattaka’s office, your honor.”
“I’ll be there,” Ghatakarpara answered thickly, pressing his temples between thumb and middle finger to ease the pain.
He watched the soldier bow and shut the door, wondering if he had detected the shadow of a smirk on the soldier’s face. He cursed again, knowing he had made a complete fool of himself the previous night in front of the governor and Dattaka. Word had probably spread through the command center – and he feared soon half the Imperial Army would know that the prince couldn’t hold his drink.
Ghatakarpara winced at the bright morning sunlight as he stepped into the open courtyard, across which lay the building that housed Dattaka’s office. Having negotiated the courtyard without accident, the prince picked his way into the building and arrived at the commander’s office to see Amara Simha hunched at the table, back in a foul temper. Governor Satyaveda sat in another chair, drumming his fingers on his knees, while Dattaka stood to one side, his head hanging dolefully.
Amara Simha cocked an eyebrow at the prince as he entered, then turned and glowered at Dattaka.
“Make preparations to return to Udaypuri. We shall leave immediately.” Although he was staring at the commander, there was little doubt that Amara Simha had addressed the prince.
“But what about... interrogating the prisoner?” Ghatakarpara asked in confusion.
“What interrogation, what prisoner?” the burly councilor snapped. “Because of the foolishness of Commander Dattaka here, there is no prisoner left to interrogate. The Huna scout died sometime this morning without regaining consciousness.”
Not knowing how to react, Ghatakarpara merely stared at the commander, who licked his lips nervously and glanced back at the prince before dropping his eyes.
“Are you aware of how much information we could have got out of that scout?” Amara Simha continued admonishing Dattaka. “We might have learned invaluable information about the Hunas’ plans if your stupidity hadn’t come in the way.”
“True, true,” tut-tutted Satyaveda solemnly. “Very silly, very stupid.”
For all the regret that he was displaying, Ghatakarpara got the distinct feeling that the governor was enjoying Dattaka’s humiliation very much. Or was there something else here, so
mething that seemed to give Satyaveda immense satisfaction... Ghatakarpara put the thought away as the commander spoke.
“My deepest apologies to you, councilors. I regret what has happened, but unfortunately it cannot be undone. As chief of this command center, I take full responsibility. I shall abide by whatever punitive action is taken against me.”
Taken aback by Dattaka’s earnest apology and willingness to shoulder the blame, Amara Simha merely nodded.
“Have a full report on this sent to Udaypuri without delay,” he said, rising from his chair. Turning to Satyaveda, he asked, “Are you returning with us as well?”
“No, your honor. As I told you, I have some work with the town panchayat here,” the governor pointed in the direction of Sristhali. “I have to go through revenue receipts, meet local civic authorities for road repairs... Then I leave for Sarmista in the afternoon – there’s work pending there as well.”
“Yes, yes, I see,” Amara Simha interrupted, looking most relieved. “You’ll come from Sarmista by yourself. Carry on.” With that he walked briskly out of the room, appearing none the worse for last night’s excesses.
Not much later, as Ghatakarpara, Amara Simha and their escorts stood by their horses, readying for departure, they saw Commander Dattaka approach them in a hurry.
“Councilors, I have news for you,” the commander’s face shone with excitement. Seeing Amara Simha raise his eyebrows, he continued, “As luck would have it, it seems another Huna scout has been apprehended by soldiers of the Frontier Guard.”
“Where?” Amara Simha’s voice crackled with hope.
“Near the border village of Uttashi, further to the south. An hour’s ride away.”
The Guardians of the Halahala Page 21