The Guardians of the Halahala

by Shatrujeet Nath

  “What happened next?”

  “Nothing, your honor. She didn’t speak again... and her eyes lost their sparkle.”

  At a complete loss, the samrat returned his gaze to Vishakha. She had asked for him, but now that he was here, she had chosen to retreat into silence, closing the door behind her. It reminded him of the times when they used to play hide-and-seek as kids and it was his turn to do the seeking. A giggle, a rustle of clothes or a patter of feet would invariably expose Vishakha’s concealment, but when he rushed over to look, he rarely ever found her where he’d thought she was hiding. Vishakha had a real knack of leaving clues and disappearing.

  Rising stiffly, the king walked over to a window and leaned out, watching the branches of a nearby gulmohar sway in the breeze. The sadness in his chest felt incredibly heavy, weighing him down to the very ground he stood on.

  “Why did she say Prince Vikrama?” he asked, turning around to face the room.

  “She called for Itti tai before that, so as Kshapanaka said, the queen has probably started remembering things from her childhood, her distant past,” offered Dhanavantri. “When she was growing up you were Prince Vikrama, so it’s logical.”

  “What can we do to help her remember faster and recover sooner?” the king asked, striding back to the middle of the room. “There has to be a way.”

  “I’m trying all I can, my king,” said Dhanavantri soothingly. “She is showing signs of recovery – we can all see that. But it will take time. You must have patience.”

  Though his expression suggested he was far from satisfied with the physician’s advice, Vikramaditya inclined his head, allowing the matter to rest for the time being.

  “I think we should all leave now,” said the Queen Mother. “Let’s give the queen some rest.” As Dhanavantri nodded in agreement, she turned to Kshapanaka. “You may stay if you wish to, child.”

  “Thank you, mother,” said the princess, taking a seat by the bed.

  The rest of the councilors began filing out, but seeing Vikramaditya stand disconsolately by Vishakha’s bed, Vararuchi paused. Laying a hand on Kalidasa’s shoulder, he held the giant back. The two men exchanged meaningful glances before approaching the king.

  “Why don’t you be with the queen for a while, brother?” Vararuchi suggested. “Maybe your being here would help.”

  “Yes, why don’t you?” said Dhanavantri, joining the group. Placing a comforting hand on the king’s arm, he added, “More than any of my medicines, it is your faith that has brought her back this far.”

  Vikramaditya turned and looked out the southern window. In the distance, he could see a fog of dense, gray smoke suspended over the city, hovering like an enormous predatory bird in search of a feast among the charred and gutted ruins below. He knew a similar fog hung over the northern quarter of Ujjayini as well.

  “Don’t worry about the city, friend,” said Kalidasa, reading the king’s thoughts. “Leave that to me, Vararuchi and Shanku. We will take care of everything.”

  The samrat assessed the three councilors before looking down at Vishakha, lying quietly in the bed, cold and indifferent to the agony she was causing. Tearing his eyes away from her, Vikramaditya shook his head.

  “Right now, the city and its people need me,” he said. With that, he marched out of the door.

  ***

  “I admit we judged the human king poorly,” muttered Shukracharya with a regretful shake of his head. “If it’s any consolation, we weren’t the only ones to make that mistake. The devas too greatly underestimated his ability and determination to protect the Halahala – and they probably paid a higher price for it than we did.”

  “That is no consolation, mahaguru,” answered Hiranyaksha, fixing a baleful eye on the high priest. “We have lost a feared rakshasa in Andhaka, the pishacha force has been routed and demoralized, and the dagger is nowhere within our grasp.”

  The sage and the asura lord were alone in the latter’s court. Hiranyaksha sat on his crystal throne nursing a goblet of soma, while Shukracharya paced the floor, hands clasped behind him, deep in thought.

  “The Omniscient One chose wisely when he picked Vikramaditya to protect the dagger,” the sage said, half to himself.

  “Yet, he’s only a human being” Hiranyaksha smacked his thigh and stood up in agitation, spilling some of the soma. “No human has ever dared to stand in the way of the asuras.”

  “This king is no ordinary human,” the sage cautioned. “Don’t forget he wields the Hellfires, which were forged in the eternal flames of Naraka by your very own mother.”

  “I wonder how the Hellfires found their way into this human’s hands,” Hiranyaksha frowned, descending the steps from his throne.

  “They were given to him by the demon Laayushi.” Seeing the asura lord’s eyes narrow in surprise, Shukracharya nodded. “Yes, the same Laayushi – your half-brother Paurava’s servant. I just learned about it from the bones.”

  “How come the bones didn’t tell you all this when you consulted them the first time?” The asura’s voice trembled with displeasure.

  “The bones don’t volunteer information, I’ve said this before. They only reveal answers to specific questions, that too in cryptic riddles. Knowing nothing about the Hellfires being in the king’s possession, I naturally had no reason to inquire about them earlier.” Shukracharya once again shook his head ruefully. “But yes, I do wish I had tried to learn more about the human king before sending Andhaka to his death.”

  Though he couldn’t fault the high priest’s logic, Hiranyaksha still looked unhappy. Then, a fresh thought occurred to him and he appraised Shukracharya again. “But Andhaka and the pishachas didn’t fight Vikramaditya – you say they were confronted by three of his generals, one of them lame in one leg. How did these generals get the better of Andhaka and an army of fearsome pishachas?”

  “The three generals are a part of Vikramaditya’s Council of Nine – nine intrepid warriors, each the bearer of one of the Nine Sacred Pearls.”

  “They bear the Nine Pearls, these nine warriors?” The asura lord scrutinized Shukracharya with a mixture of wonder and unease.

  “They draw their unique strengths and capabilities from the pearls, yes...” Shukracharya paused to permit himself an ironic smile. “Yet, not one of them has any knowledge of the existence of the Nine Pearls. The nine know nothing of the remarkable powers that each of them has at their disposal. Should they ever learn how to fully harness the pearls’ powers, the Council of Nine would be impossible to defeat.”

  “A king who wields the Hellfires – and nine councilors who aren’t aware of their own strengths but still manage handing us a defeat...” A female voice rang through the empty court, clear as a bell. “Are you saying that the full might of the asura army cannot crush these humans, mahaguru?”

  The sage and Hiranyaksha turned to see Holika approach them, the golden-eyed infant in her arms. A little behind her was an asura child not very much older than the infant, trotting on chubby legs. The child’s skin was golden and eyes blue like Holika’s, but it had a thick mop of coarse golden hair distinct from hers, which was black. Two stubby horns thrust out from under the golden growth, giving the child an impish innocence.

  “Oh, I’m sure they can be crushed,” Shukracharya gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

  “Good,” said Hiranyaksha, planting himself firmly in front of the high priest, his voice echoing in the galleries above. “Then let us storm Sindhuvarta and put an end to this bit of nonsense that has already gone too far.”

  “That is one option...”

  Hiranyaksha stared hard at the sage. “Are there others, mahaguru?”

  “Friendship,” Shukracharya shrugged. “Why go to war against the humans when we can bring them to our side? The king and his council are brave warriors and can make worthy allies in our fight against the devas.”

  “But why would Vikramaditya accept our hand in friendship when he turned down a similar offer from the devas?” aske
d the Witch Queen. “Didn’t he tell Narada that he wouldn’t part with the Halahala in exchange for friendship?”

  Seeing the sage nod, the asura lord scratched his cheek in bewilderment. “Then why would we succeed where Narada failed?”

  “Narada failed because he didn’t think of employing one little ploy, which I’m sure would have had the desired result,” the high priest gave a sly smile.

  “I fail to comprehend you, mahaguru.”

  “Every human being has a weakness that can be exploited, a soft spot that makes him or her utterly vulnerable,” said Shukracharya, seating himself on one of the courtiers’ chairs. “The bones have exposed the chink in the human king’s armor.”

  “What is his weakness?” Hiranyaksha asked in rising excitement.

  “His deep love for Vishakha, his invalid wife. The bones tell me that King Vikramaditya will go to any lengths to have her cured...” The sage stroked his beard, a scheming, faraway look in his eyes. “It’s time I paid the court of Avanti a visit.”

  Scouts

  H

  undreds of brightly colored kites, wheeling and tugging and soaring in the wind, filled the dazzling blue sky above Sravasti. Down below, the kite flyers lined the northern and southern banks of the Ajiravati, which meandered through Sravasti, splitting the capital of Kosala into two almost equal halves. The kite flyers, who represented teams from the two parts of the city, wrestled with the strings, trying their best to bring down the kites flown by their rivals from across the river. Spectators on both sides cheered these efforts, and the air was distinctly festive and generous.

  However, barely half a mile from the river, deep in the heart of the royal palace of Kosala, the mood was contrastingly somber. A dozen courtiers sat in silence around King Bhoomipala and Pallavan, the former pulling at his thick, graying beard as he pondered over what he had just been told.

  “Could this man be lying?” the king looked up at Pallavan. “Perhaps he has some personal grudge or an agenda of his own?”

  “I don’t think so, your honor,” the diplomat considered the question before answering. “There was genuine fear in his eyes when he threw himself before the cavalcade yesterday. Moreover, what could he possibly gain by falsely accusing Shoorasena of murdering his father? He’s not even a Kikata, which rules out the motive of vengeance for the killings taking place all over Magadha.” Pallavan’s face wrinkled in distaste at the memory of the lynch mobs he had seen through his carriage windows. “No, your honor. I’m certain he’s nothing more than a moderately talented traveling musician who entertains at palaces.”

  The king mulled this over. “What was he doing in the palace garden that morning?”

  “He had been put up at the palace of Girivraja because King Siddhasena had, in his kindness, offered him shelter for the night after a performance. It is sheer coincidence that he chose to take a walk in the palace garden the next morning and saw what really occurred on the garden steps.”

  “It does make sense,” Bhoomipala nodded slowly. “Shoorasena probably chose that spot to kill Siddhasena, because he knew the garden would be deserted at that time of day. What he didn’t account for was the possibility of an outsider being present and accidentally witnessing his dastardly deed.”

  Another brief silence enveloped the room, until the king posed a question. “But why did he do it? Siddhasena was ailing and didn’t have much longer to live... Was Shoorasena so desperate to become king of Magadha?”

  “Shocking though it is, your honor, this has less to do with the death of King Siddhasena, and is more about the cold-blooded killing of the Kikata bodyguard that followed,” said Pallavan, displaying remarkable perspicacity. “The musician speaks of how Shoorasena pinned the king’s death on the bodyguard and whipped up passions against the Kikatas in no time. King Siddhasena wasn’t killed because Shoorasena wanted Magadha’s throne – he was killed so that Shoorasena could pursue war against the Kikatas and Vanga.”

  “You’re right,” said Bhoomipala, recalling how Shoora- sena had made his intent of waging war against the republic clear at Vikramaditya’s rajasuya yajna. “And you say Shoorasena has refused to honor his father’s promise of sending soldiers to defend Sindhuvarta against the Hunas and the Sakas?”

  “In no uncertain terms, your honor.”

  The king sighed. “It looks like we have lost an ally with the passing of Siddhasena.”

  “What do you propose we do now, your honor?” asked one of the courtiers.

  “For one, we will have to keep an ear close to the ground for developments in the east. I want our network of spies in Magadha strengthened immediately. And have some spies sent to Vanga as well. We will also need reports more regularly. See to that.”

  “What about the musician?” the courtier asked.

  “For his own good, he had better give up on traveling for some time,” shrugged Bhoomipala. “Keep him in Sravasti for a while, until we can think of what to do with him. But as long as he isn’t in the habit of talking too much, I think he’s safe.”

  “Shouldn’t we also inform the rest of our allies about Magadha’s decision not to assist in defending Sindhuvarta?” Pallavan reminded.

  “Why just that...? We must inform them about what we have learned of Siddhasena’s death as well.” Bhoomipala’s face hardened as he spoke. “The king was an old and trusted friend. Shoorasena’s sins are piling up, and in my opinion, he has to pay dearly for them.”

  ***

  The heavy wooden door, fortified with thick iron ribs and sturdy bolts, swung open to admit Commander Dattaka.

  The commander looked around the medium-sized cell with its rough stone floor and walls. Amara Simha stood leaning against one of the walls, arms crossed on his chest, while Ghatakarpara and the command center’s translator sat facing each other across a crude wooden table. Seeing all three men turn to him inquiringly, Dattaka nodded silently.

  Ghatakarpara immediately vacated his place at the table, and was replaced by Amara Simha. The four men once again exchanged glances before Amara Simha glared at the translator.

  “I’m warning you one last time – don’t test my patience. Who are you and what are you doing in Sristhali?”

  “Ma’a ugr an’hi, keberez,” the translator babbled, injecting the right amount of panic in his voice. His words roughly translated as ‘I can’t understand you, have mercy.’

  “I know you can speak the Avanti tongue, so stop this gibberish,” Amara Simha raised his voice. “You are spying for the Hunas, aren’t you?”

  “Ma’a ugr an’hi...” the translator began again, but he was cut short by Amara Simha’s roar.

  “Enough!” The councilor smacked a heavy fist into his left palm. The brief echo of the slap was drowned out by the translator’s agonized wail.

  “Keberez, keberez...” he whimpered, and for a split second, Amara Simha was thrown aback by the ring of authenticity in the plea. The translator was proving to be a far better actor than expected.

  “Speak out, you pig! Out with the truth!”

  “Edha unnu a’gaia h’lum. Ma’a gois khaar’i waa. ” Don’t beat me anymore; I’m only a petty thief on the run.

  “I’ll tear you to shreds, dog.”

  Amara Simha banged the table so hard it made both Dattaka and Ghatakarpara jump in surprise. The translator stared in shock at the deep crack that had appeared in the wood, but gathering his wits quickly, he yelped in pain.

  “Amgo pa’ith... amgo pa’ith...” My hand, my hand.

  “Speak, you Huna dog, speak...”

  For a few more minutes, Amara Simha and the translator went on and on, the former smacking his fists, hammering the table and hurling abuses, the latter screaming and begging for mercy. The cell’s walls were made of stone, but there was enough ventilation near the roof for sounds to escape – Amara Simha made it a point to amplify all noises – to the neighboring cell, where Dattaka’s men had deposited the suspected scout from Uttashi.

  Amara Simha stepped
around the table and locked the translator’s head in a mock death grip. “I’ll have the truth or I’ll have your head,” he growled. “You’re not the only Huna scout in the world. We will find more and get them to talk, and you will lose your life for nothing. So tell us what you know and I’ll let you go.”

  The translator gurgled something unintelligible, the words ending in yet another choking scream.

  “To hell with him,” Amara Simha shouted at Dattaka. “If he won’t talk, string him up in the courtyard.” With that, he banged open the door of the cell and marched out.

  Shortly, two soldiers carried the body of the scout who had died earlier that morning across the courtyard, in full view of the cell where the traveling carpenter from Uttashi was housed. The body was between the soldiers, carried with its arms draped across their shoulders, head slumped forward, feet dragging in the mud, one swollen leg twisted horribly.

  To all appearances, the scout was alive, though severely tortured and on the brink of losing all consciousness.

  The soldiers took the body to the far end of the courtyard and hoisted it up on a gibbet. Once the body was in place, Amara Simha marched up to the gibbet. He slapped the dead man’s face a couple of times, demanding answers to his questions - and then he stepped back and drew a sword from his belt.

  Without warning, he plunged the sword into the corpse’s belly, once, twice, three times. Then grabbing the head by the hair, he severed the corpse’s head off its trunk.

  Barely a minute had elapsed before Dattaka opened the door to the carpenter’s cell. The hostage was cowering by the window that looked out into the courtyard, his face pale, fear in his small brown eyes. His expression turned to outright terror when he observed Dattaka step back from the door to admit the burly girth of Amara Simha.

  The councilor walked into the cell holding the severed head in one hand and the sword in the other. Both head and sword dripped a trail of blood – though the hostage had no way of knowing that both had merely been dipped in the blood of a freshly-slaughtered goat.

  “Are you the carpenter?” Amara Simha demanded sternly. The goat’s blood was splattered liberally across his torso, and a few big drops clung to his flaming beard as well.