The Guardians of the Halahala

by Shatrujeet Nath

“Are they sure he’s a Huna scout?”

  “No, your honor. The man speaks the local dialect well, but the soldiers are certain he’s not from these parts. He claims to be a traveling carpenter, but he was caught snooping around the Frontier Guard post last night. Of course he insists he had only lost his way in the dark.”

  “Hmmm... suspicious,” Amara Simha twirled his big red moustache as he processed the information. “Maybe he’s lying, maybe he’s not. There’s only one way of knowing.” Looking from the Dattaka to the prince, he added, “Let us ride to Uttashi and meet this carpenter.”

  “I will get my horse right away, your honor.” The commander wheeled around, but he’d barely taken three steps when Amara Simha hailed him.

  “Wait... Has the dead scout’s body been disposed of yet?”

  “No, your honor. I was about to give the orders...”

  “Then I have a better idea,” Amara Simha interjected. “I want you to take twenty of your best men to Uttashi and bring this man to Sristhali. We shall find out the truth about him here. But make sure there are no mistakes this time.”

  “Yes, your honor.” Dattaka nodded, looking befuddled at the sudden change in the councilor’s decision.

  “But before leaving, instruct your men not to dispose of the dead Huna’s body. This is very important. Now hurry up, commander. I’m very eager to meet this traveling carpenter.”

  Ghatakarpara frowned as he watched Dattaka depart. Turning to Amara Simha, he said, “I don’t understand this.”

  “You will, my boy,” Amara Simha smiled mysteriously, throwing an arm around the prince’s shoulder and shepherding him into the shade of the buildings. “Let’s go inside. You have two hours to get rid of that hangover of yours.”

  “Why do you want to preserve the dead scout’s body?” Ghatakarpara asked irritably, hating the fact that the hangover was so obvious to everyone around.

  “Because I believe a dead Huna might also be able to reveal great secrets to us.”

  ***

  The corner bedroom was a large but frugal affair, conspicuously out of place in the ornate environs of the palace of Ujjayini. Its expansive marble floor was completely bare, as were its plain white walls, finely washed with lime. Big, airy windows lined two of these walls, and were strung with flimsy curtains that flapped gently in the morning breeze. No furniture adorned the room other than a low divan and a simple writing table pushed against one wall, and a high bed placed nearly at the room’s center.

  The absence of clutter in the room seemed to reflect its occupant’s outlook to life – which wasn’t entirely surprising, considering the man who lay on the high bed, propped up on pillows and bolsters, was Acharya Vetala Bhatta, his hollow eyes staring tiredly out of their sockets.

  The bed was surrounded by the samrat and the rest of the council, with Kalidasa, Vararuchi and Varahamihira looking understandably shocked and perplexed at the unexpected turn of events in Ujjayini. They had left a city that was strong and impregnable, only to return fifteen hours later to find it savaged and reduced to cinders.

  “You really shouldn’t have done what you did, raj-guru,” Vikramaditya chided, though his tone implied affectionate concern rather than indignation or disapproval. “It was way too dangerous.”

  “I warned him against it, but who’s to listen,” said Dhanavantri, who was administering an unction of sandalwood and herbs on the Acharya’s forehead. Contrary to the implication, there was no grumpiness about the physician either. Wiping his hands clean on a towel and shrugging nonchalantly, he added, “No one bothers about what physicians have to say anyway.”

  “The Ashvins had to be stopped and I couldn’t think of doing it any other way.” Vetala Bhatta’s voice was thin but coherent, the words forming with a firmness and clarity that was reassuring. He turned to Dhanavantri, a faint smile playing on his wan, pinched face. “And speaking of following your instructions, I solemnly promise to stay in bed today and not exert myself.”

  “See what I meant by no one listens?” Dhanavantri shook his head in exasperation. “I didn’t say rest for today. I said you have to rest until you have fully regained your strength.”

  The councilors exchanged smiles at the lighthearted banter, relieved to see that the raj-guru was in no great distress. Vararuchi, who was standing to the left of the bed, waited for the chuckles to die down before speaking.

  “Even if it was risky and unwise, we must thank you for doing what you did, Acharya,” he said. “By controlling the minds of the Ashvins, you spared Ujjayini from suffering even greater calamity at their hands.”

  “And you prevented them from claiming the dagger,” Varahamihira added quickly, as the others nodded in agreement.

  “Indeed, we are all grateful...” Vikramaditya began, but stopped upon seeing Vetala Bhatta shake his head forcefully.

  “No, no... it wasn’t me. I did nothing. Yes, I tried to control their collective mind, but I failed.”

  Taken aback, the king and the councilors stared at one another.

  “You’re being modest, raj-guru,” the samrat said slowly.

  “I am not,” Vetala Bhatta’s voice was adamant. “I told you I failed.”

  A brief silence ensued, which was broken by the king. “Then what made the Ashvins take flight so abruptly?”

  “It was you, Vikrama. You and your Hellfires.”

  The samrat looked down at the swords that still hung at his hips. “I don’t understand...”

  “I felt the fear – the terror – that took hold of the Ashvins’ minds when you charged at them with the Hellfires,” said the Acharya, shuddering at the recollection. “I saw the churails turn their cavalry to ashes, I felt their horrible pain as they died burning. It was the terror of the Hellfires that made me lose my consciousness.”

  Observing everyone stare at him blankly before looking at one another in confusion, the raj-guru sighed.

  “I was right in guessing that the Ashvin brotherhood shared a common mind – that’s how they worked so efficiently despite their large numbers, spread across such a wide area. What one Ashvin saw, felt or thought, all other Ashvins saw, felt and thought. That’s the real reason why wounded Ashvins either kill themselves or are killed by their mates – so that the collective mind doesn’t get crippled by the pain of the wounded.”

  “So, you’re saying that when the Ashvins at the south gate were terrorized at the sight of the samrat with the Hellfires, their fear instantly spread to the rest of the cavalry, causing all of them to flee?” asked Kshapanaka.

  Vetala Bhatta nodded. “It is possible just one Ashvin was scared, but that was enough to ignite terror in their collective mind.” He paused and shook his head. “Their greatest strength ultimately became their greatest weakness.”

  A thoughtful stillness subsided over the group, as they mulled over what the chief advisor had just revealed.

  “How are things outside?” the raj-guru asked, tilting his head toward the windows. “Bad?”

  Vikramaditya nodded. He had spent the entire morning riding through the city, taking stock of the situation, offering his sympathies and paying his condolences where necessary, and assuring the petrified citizenry that Ujjayini was safe once again. Large parts of the southern and northern districts had been laid to waste by the fires, and he had witnessed much mourning and desolation. He knew it would take a while for the city to get back on its feet.

  And much longer for the scars to heal.

  “What are the losses we’ve suffered?” asked Vetala Bhatta.

  “The bodies are still being counted, but we estimate close to a thousand deaths,” the king stared morosely out the window. “A third of them would be civilians, most claimed by the fires. We still haven’t begun making an assessment of the economic losses.”

  “People are bound to be scared,” noted Vararuchi.

  “Not just the civilians, even the soldiers are in dread,” Kshapanaka pointed out. “They’ve never experienced anything like this in all their
years in uniform.”

  “I agree,” Kalidasa finally broke his silence. “The cavalrymen who went with us to fight the pishachas are also asking questions. There’s a lot of confusion and uncertainty everywhere.”

  “Rumors are spreading across the city that the attackers were the Hunas who have gained magical powers,” said Shanku. “Others are talking about Avanti being cursed.”

  “We need to put the rumors and uncertainty to rest,” said Vikramaditya decisively. “The only way of doing that is by telling the subjects of Avanti the truth about who attacked us and why.”

  “We will tell them about the Halahala?” Vararuchi looked at his brother doubtfully.

  “We have to,” the samrat replied. “We owe our people an explanation for the suffering they have undergone. If we tell them the truth, they are likely to understand and respect us for honoring the promise made to the Omniscient One.”

  Vararuchi nodded. “I shall have the town criers sent out right away. Would you want word to be sent all over Avanti?”

  “Yes, to every town and village.” The king paused, deep in thought. “Also have emissaries sent to the courts of Heheya, Matsya, Vatsa, Kosala, Magadha and the Anarta Federation. Our allies deserve to know the news as well, considering Heheya has already borne some of the brunt of the pishacha attack. In fact...” the king looked straight at Kalidasa. “...I would like you to deliver the news to King Harihara personally.”

  “I shall leave this evening,” the giant affirmed the command.

  “Vikrama, you must realize that all our allies may not be appreciative of us protecting the dagger, especially if that means dealing with threats of the sort faced by Heheya,” warned the Acharya.

  “Then let us use the opportunity to find out who our real allies are,” answered Vikramaditya stonily.

  Just then, the door opened to admit a palace attendant. He looked tired and deflated, which was probably how everyone felt in Ujjayini that morning.

  “Salutations to Samrat Vikramaditya and the Council of Nine,” he said. “I bring word for the samrat.” Seeing the king nod, he announced, “The queen has asked for you, your honor.”

  “Let the queen mother know that I shall be with her shortly,” said the samrat.

  Instead of following the king’s orders, the attendant stood hesitating at the door. As all eyes in the room turned toward him in disapproval, he cleared his throat apologetically and stammered two sentences.

  “I didn’t... it was not the queen mother I meant, your honor. It is Queen Vishakha who has asked for you.”

  Vikramaditya and his councilors gaped at the attendant, stupefied.

  ***

  The Kikata village that was going up in flames was located half a mile from the base of the hillock on which General Daipayana sat atop his horse.

  The general, one of the most cunning strategists and feared warriors in Magadha, watched the burning village with satisfaction, his large, fair face flushed in excitement as he observed the tribesmen running here and there in mindless terror. Magadhan soldiers had surrounded the village from three sides, cleverly leaving just one way open for the Kikatas to flee – in an easterly direction, toward the border separating Magadha from the republic of Vanga.

  Twenty-four hours earlier, six columns of the Magadhan army – each three thousand strong and comprising cavalry, infantry and archer units – had marched out of Girivraja under General Daipayana’s command. The army had made its way steadily across Magadha, moving in a southeasterly direction, and a lot of ground had been covered in the first eighteen hours of travel. But the pace had dropped considerably in the last six hours, once the columns had entered the southern lowlands, the traditional homeland of the Kikatas.

  On reaching the lowlands, the army had broken into smaller detachments and fanned out across the region, methodically scouring the area for Kikata settlements. In those six hours, scores of Kikata villages and hamlets had been raided and burned to the ground, hundreds of tribals had been killed or taken captive, while thousands had fled eastward.

  “We must push the women, the children, the infirm and the old among the Kikatas across the border into Vanga,” Daipayana had explained his strategy to an appreciative audience at the Magadhan royal council. “Vanga should be flooded with Kikata refugees – so many of them that feeding and providing them shelter should become a crisis for Vanga’s governing council. Vanga must have its hands full dealing with the refugees, so that when we attack, their granaries are depleted and their supply chains are stretched to breaking point. That’s how I aim to weaken Vanga’s defenses.”

  As some of Magadha’s soldiers torched the rice fields around the village, others rounded up all the able-bodied men and women and herded them to two large mango trees, where officers of the Magadhan army sat in the shade. The officers would decide how to allocate the villagers for slave labor. A couple of villagers, who appeared to put up a semblance of resistance, were summarily beheaded, their deaths serving two ends – it made the other captives more pliant and inspired the rest of the village to flee.

  “At this rate, we won’t have to raid many more villages,” the general stroked his luxuriant, curling moustache as he addressed a subaltern who was standing beside him. “Those who have escaped will spread the word, and we all know that rumor flies on a hundred wings. Soon, there will be an exodus of Kikatas into Vanga.”

  “Your immaculate plan couldn’t fail even if the gods so willed, lord,” the flunkey gushed without a hint of shame, as he dexterously applied slaked lime on a betel leaf. “Magadha’s army is blessed to have your leadership.”

  Daipayana grinned, pleased at the flattery. His teeth were stained dark brown, the effect of a lifelong habit of chewing tambulam. He reached down and accepted the flunkey’s preparation, tucking the squat bundle of betel leaf and nut expertly into his right cheek.

  “Look what we have for you from the village, general.”

  Daipayana turned around to see two junior officers standing behind him. Behind the officers, three Kikata women stood trembling at the tips of six spears and swords, wielded by half-a-dozen Magadhan soldiers.

  The general’s grin widened as he letched at the women, his eyes feasting on their curves. One was nearing forty, well built, bordering on buxom. The second was in her late twenties, short but slender. The third was but a girl of fifteen, frail and waif-like.

  “What do you think, general?” one of the officers asked with a wicked wink.

  “Very good indeed,” replied Daipayana, leering obscenely. “Ideal soil to sow good Magadhan seed.”

  “Take your pick, general,” offered the other officer.

  “Which ones do you both want?” Daipayana asked playfully.

  “Not the one the general wants,” one of the officers parried.

  Daipayana smiled in acknowledgment of the other’s cleverness. His eyes returned to the eldest of the three women. He was always partial to bigger women. Moreover, he knew this one would be experienced. Best of all, he liked the sight of fear in her eyes.

  He licked his lips in anticipation, hoping the fear would last until the end. That’s the way he liked it best with women.

  ***

  Vikramaditya sat on the edge of the bed, holding Vishakha’s small hands in his own, staring into her blank face, searching for a glimmer of awareness in those eyes that had captivated him with their charm for so many years.

  “Look, I am here,” he repeated for the third time, squeezing the queen’s hands softly.

  There was still no response from the bed.

  The samrat raised his eyes and surveyed the ring of people standing around the bed, before letting go of Vishakha’s hands. Heaving a sigh filled with pain and hopelessness, he looked around the chamber.

  “What exactly happened? What did she say?” he asked.

  One of the two maids, the cleverer and more voluble of the two, pushed her way forward.

  “I was sitting by the queen, your honor,” she began her explanation. �
��Ever since the last time she spoke, we have been sitting by her side and observing her every moment, exactly as the honorable physician told us to, your honor.”

  “Good, good,” said Dhanavantri, encouraging the maid to hurry up with her narrative. “So what happened when you were sitting by the queen?”

  “She suddenly spoke again. It was more like she called out.”

  “She asked for the king by name?” Queen Upashruti looked at the maid in mild annoyance for her inability to get to the point.

  “Not at first, Queen Mother,” the girl replied. “Her first words sounded to me like ‘Ittitai’.” Judging by the maid’s expression, it was obvious that the words made no sense to her.

  “Ittitai?” Queen Upashruti frowned in puzzlement for a moment, then her face cleared and she looked at Kshapanaka. “Child, wasn’t Itti your mother’s personal maid in the palace of Nishada?”

  Kshapanaka, who was standing by the foot of the bed, nodded as she struggled to contain the tides of hope and despair that were crashing against one another inside her. Keeping her eyes on Vishakha, she walked around to her sister’s side, bent down, and stroked Vishakha’s forehead gently.

  “Mother used to call her Itti tai because she was almost like her elder sister. So we also ended up addressing her as Itti tai.” Kshapanaka’s voice choked as memories of happier times came flooding back. Swallowing hard, she said, “If the queen called out for Itti tai, it’s possible that she recalled something from our childhood.”

  Drooping shoulders straightened and sagging spirits lifted at Kshapanaka’s words. In two full years, this was the first shred of tangible evidence pointing to Vishakha’s slow and painful recovery.

  “What did the queen say after that?” Vikramaditya’s eyes seemed to plead with the maid.

  “I was surprised by the suddenness of the queen’s words, your honor. I wasn’t certain if I had heard correctly either, so I asked the queen to repeat her words. She looked at me for a moment, her eyes fully alert. She then asked me where you were, your honor. Her exact words were, ‘Where is Prince Vikrama?’ So I asked the guards to inform you.”