The Crown of Seven Stars

by Gitanjali Murari

  Taking unbroken routes shadowed by feral creatures, Bhuma led Saahas towards the swamp. Tomen came upon them by degrees, lichens and liverworts appearing first, along a thin river flowing north. As they pressed on, trees began to close in, rope-like vines snaking across their path, their horses stumbling over them frequently. The ground started to dip, yet the river flowed at its own lazy pace, turbid and oily, disappearing suddenly beneath a wall of branches meshed together firmly like a vast green web.

  ‘Tomen, sire,’ Bhuma announced with a satisfied sigh.

  ‘Thank you for being my guide,’ Saahas said gruffly. ‘You have served me well. Take my horse and belongings as payment, I have nothing else to give you.’

  Bhuma’s face fell, but the next moment the chagrin vanished as if blown away by a gust of wind. ‘You can’t get rid of me so easily, sire,’ he grinned.

  ‘You don’t understand, I may never return.’

  Bhuma flapped a nonchalant hand, waving away the possibility, ‘I’m coming with you.’

  Saahas expelled his breath in a gush, ‘No, I will do this alone. Take my horse and return to the west gate, and if the Purvichi forces have not begun to march, use your talents to persuade them to do so.’

  The branches fell away at one swipe of his sword, the gaping hole allowing him entry into pitch darkness. Saahas took a tentative step and sank up to his waist into cold, heavy water, feeling it creep up towards his chest. He tried to swim but only sank further, the water now lapping his chin.

  A tiny pinpoint of light appeared, growing bigger, burgeoning into a swarm of fireflies that hovered over the river, illuminating two pairs of unblinking eyes.

  ‘Crocodiles,’ Saahas gasped, his gaze fixed on the terrifying teeth protruding over the closed, narrow snouts. More and more fireflies lit up the marsh, revealing vines hanging within his reach. The crocodiles glided towards him, but a swarm of fireflies swooped into their eyes, momentarily blinding them. In that brief moment, Saahas grabbed hold of a vine and swung himself clear of the snapping jaws.

  Suddenly, he choked. Hundreds of mosquitoes buzzed around him, flying into his eyes, ears, nostrils, suffocating him. Holding his breath, he tried waving them away, nearly falling back into the marsh, and fumbled wildly for a nearby tree. Clutching at a branch, his hands became smeared with a sticky wetness. The mosquitoes veered away, droning at the outer edge of the tree. Even the fireflies shunned it, flickering at a safe distance.

  Saahas sniffed his hand, inhaling the sharp, bitter-sour odour, the memory of Tota coming back strong. ‘The forest will give us whatever we need, sire. All it wants in return is a little respect.’

  Swiftly scraping the sap off the bark, he smeared his face, neck and every inch of bare skin with it, puckering his mouth at the astringent taste. Then, catching a stout vine, he walked the length of the branch to its end above the river and looked down into the eddying depths. A stream of winking fireflies in a ceaseless band of light skimmed the water, revealing its flow. Satisfied, he swung himself off the tree, swinging from one vine to the next, following the river’s current.

  Frenzied soldiers whipped their horses, careening up and down slopes, often entangling with one another, the cacophony of arguments resounding in the hills. Bhuma rubbed his short nose thoughtfully. On the journey back, he had kept his eyes peeled for military movement, but nothing so far had indicated that Saahas’s message had had an effect. Slipping out a dispatch from its leather cover, he studied it closely, appraising General Trasnuk’s spidery handwriting. Allowing himself a small smile, he recalled the moment he had picked the unsuspecting courier’s pocket. It had been as easy as taking a toy from a distracted child.

  Squatting down on his haunches, he lit an oil lamp, holding a shard of clay above the flame. Black soot gathered in it quickly. Mixing a little water in the ash, he prepared an inky solution and dipped the pointed shaft of a feather in it. Then very carefully, with the tip of his tongue protruding between his uneven teeth, he squeezed one line between the general’s communique and the official seal beneath it. Blowing on it gently, he held up the note to survey his handiwork, ‘The bearer of this note carries my orders. Do as he says.’ Bhuma grinned. A cursory glance would not be able to tell the difference between Trasnuk’s writing and his.

  Balancing himself on the high branch of a sturdy tree, Saahas bid a silent goodbye to the river, watching it noiselessly slip away at the lip of the marsh. For two days he had survived on very little sleep, the parcel of food that Bhuma had packed for him, his only sustenance. Yet, an uncommon strength coursed through his limbs. A strange quiet blanketed the dark ridge of mountains, muffling the birds and the trees. Saahas glanced at the skyline. The bronze colour quickly turned a bloody red and snarling roars broke the silence, ricocheting off the hills.

  Saahas froze, his skin prickling. The rising sun revealed thousands of horsemen pouring down the mountain pass, clashing their hatchets and curved axes on their shields.

  ‘Ugr,’ he muttered, watching them with narrowed eyes, noting the braided hair flying about their shoulders, the open mouths spewing ugly screams. Flanking them on either side were neat columns of cavalry and infantry. Unlike the whirling, spinning, provoking enemy, the Purvichi soldiers were motionless like statues, their bodies rigid with tension.

  ‘They are waiting for a signal,’ Saahas breathed, his muscles tightening, ‘and it must come from me.’

  The branch creaked under his weight, but he stayed steady and still, his gaze sweeping the gully. A flash of metal caught his attention. A bony, bloodless warrior pointed his sword at him, as if marking him. The steel gleamed, its distinctive pattern tantalizing in the sunlight, and Saahas drew in a sharp breath, bracing himself. The moment had arrived.

  ‘Death to the enemy,’ he bellowed at the top of his voice and a sudden hush descended in the gully, thousands of heads turning up towards him. The pale Ugr warrior stiffened, his eyes riveted on Saahas.

  ‘Look at his blue skin,’ someone yelled excitedly.

  ‘It’s Rabeera come to save us. Victory to Purvichi!’

  ‘Victory to Purvichi,’ reverberated the hills and Saahas dived, his gaze fixed on Agraj’s khanda.

  Landing on the shield of one Ugr soldier, Saahas beheaded another, all the time moving towards his target. The pale soldier waited, unmoving on his horse, his white braids and white skin in stark contrast with the dark soldiers protecting him.

  ‘Like a queen bee,’ Saahas scoffed, and yanking his blade from the abdomen of his victim, leapt into the empty saddle. But the horse, a huge beast, bucked, trying to unseat him.

  ‘Behave,’ he commanded, twisting his free hand through the thick mane, forcing it to rear up its proud head. It snorted but stopped kicking. Saahas glanced at the Ugr. They had quietened down, their wary eyes fixed on him.

  A flicker of an eye and a twitch of a muscle warned him. He jerked the horse around. Braids and legs splayed like a hairy spider, an Ugr leapt through the air, his hatchet raised high. Saahas lunged to hack his assailant, but an axe flew in, cleaving the man’s head.

  ‘You are mine,’ the pale warrior called out, a fiendish grin splitting his chalky lips that curled back from his red gums. ‘Only I, General Zankroor, will fight you.’ With a gloved hand, he waved his guard aside and riding out from the circle, leaned down to retrieve his axe.

  Saahas flexed his fingers, his gaze fixed on the lambent khanda. It was rapier thin, unlike his broad Shakti, but its steel blade was just as beautiful, the swirls of shadow and light igniting an ache in him.

  Zankroor noticed the glance. ‘You can have it, Rabeera,’ he jeered, ‘if you can kill me.’

  Scratching his cheek with the nail of his forefinger, Saahas left a track of brown skin. ‘I am no God,’ he said, his voice expressionless, and flicked the bead of blue sap from under his nail. ‘I am the friend of the man you killed, the owner of that sword. I am the son of the general who made you run, like a coward.’

  One moment Zankroor was on h
is horse, the next, he had slid off it like a phantom, his lashless, aqueous eyes with their blindman’s white stare boring into him. Saahas’s stomach clenched. Anuj and Agraj must have looked into those terrifying eyes. That khanda must have ripped Meghabhuti’s flesh. Teeth flashing in a snarl against his blue skin, he leapt off his horse. Zankroor’s guards immediately formed a tight ring around the two combatants, separating them from the din of war.

  They circled each other, thrusting and parrying. With a delicate movement, Zankroor feinted with his axe arm, quickly hurling the khanda with the other, aiming for Saahas’s heart. The blade came, unwavering and deadly in its intent. Saahas tried to dodge it, but the rapier’s tip snagged Vasuket’s signet ring hanging from his neck. And just as its point penetrated the thick cloth of his tunic, he instinctively grasped its hilt, pulling the blade away from him. A frisson of sweet pleasure, a long forgotten current of joy, shot through him. His thumb caressed the warm wooden grip, noting the tiny notch on one side. Like a long-lost friend, Kurikas’s well-known signature welcomed him.

  A blade whirling in each hand, Saahas roared like a summer storm and Zankroor came at him, braids tangling around his head like a white cobweb. Striking hard with his curved axe, he broke Saahas’s iron blade in half, the impact jolting Saahas to the ground. Zankroor swung the axe again, squealing in glee, and Saahas lunged, stabbing the broken blade into his adversary’s thigh, just above the knee, his other arm moving with lightning speed. Zankroor grunted. His axe whistled downwards, eager to meet Saahas’s neck. But the khanda brushed it aside and sped to its mark. Zankroor choked, a surprised look on his face. The rapier had sliced the bands of ivory protecting his neck, piercing his chin, its point pushing through one white eye.

  29

  Saahas jerked awake to the deafening sounds of a celebration. He blinked, disoriented, becoming slowly aware of the swaying bed on which he lay. From the low wooden roof and the narrow confines he gathered that he was travelling in a palanquin.

  ‘Skanda be praised! You have woken at last!’ Bhuma smiled widely. ‘I never thought I would have to ever worry about you sleeping too much, sire! We will be soon at Dyaut’s palace.’

  ‘Goodness! How long have I been asleep?’

  ‘Three days straight, sire. When you came back to Purvichi, I didn’t recognize you, covered as you were in blood, your eyes all a-rolling. The soldiers told me you wouldn’t stop killing the Ugr even as they fled. It took me a while to get you cleaned up!’

  Saahas fell back on the downy cushions, inhaling the crisp smell of fresh linen, so different from the raw smell of Ugr blood that had drenched him. Every strike of the khanda had eased the throb in his head a little more, a wild exhilaration sweeping through him, egging him on to draw more blood.

  Bhuma drew aside the curtain and they peered outside. Enveloped in a diaphanous mist, a rose-pink palace towered above the surrounding hills, its unusual stone shining like a polished mirror. As the palanquin ascended a steep slope, the mist lifted over hundreds of decorated elephants lining the wide steps, holding up bright garlands in their trunks and trumpeting loudly. From the ramparts, priests blew conches to mark the auspicious occasion and everywhere men, women and children danced joyously to the beat of drums, strewing flower petals in the path of the victorious army.

  Saahas and Bhuma alighted from the palanquin at the sweeping staircase to jubilant shouts of ‘Salutations to Rabeera, protector of Purvichi, victory to Purvichi’, booming in the air.

  Saahas hesitated, disliking the glare of attention. A powerfully built silhouette moved towards him. He started, his heart beginning to beat rapidly. The tall figure, the set of the shoulders, the hair with more white than black, reminded him of Meghabhuti. Saahas faltered. Grief tore at him, a torrent of lava erupting in his veins. Words tumbled out of him even before he became aware of them.

  ‘It has been a long and arduous journey to reach you,’ he blurted to the regal figure, ‘for I seek your help, Your Majesty. Will you give it to me?’

  The face that smiled at him was benign and soft, yet when Dyaut folded his hands in greeting, the muscles rippled under the embroidered cloth of his sleeve. ‘Welcome to Purvichi, honoured guest,’ he said, garlanding Saahas, voice warm and unhurried. ‘Your every wish is my command.’

  Saahas shot him a fierce look, ‘Give me your military and I shall leave right away.’

  A startled murmur rippled through the dignitaries, but Dyaut remained unperturbed and turning to a plump, apple-cheeked man standing close behind him, said, ‘Well, Trasnuk, our saviour does not wish to grant us the opportunity to serve him.’

  The Purvichi general bustled forward, bending from the waist in a deep bow, ‘O valorous one, Rabeera worked his magic through you, and—’

  ‘I hate to disappoint you,’ Saahas cut in brusquely, ‘it was I who came up with the war strategy and it was I who fought Zankroor. This sword is proof of that,’ he flourished the unsheathed khanda.

  ‘The moment His Majesty finished his worship, I read him the glad tidings,’ Trasnuk twinkled as if Saahas hadn’t spoken, ‘of a blue-skinned warrior killing Zankroor! Ah, I wish I had been there to watch the Ugr flee. My men tell me it was like mice scampering out of a burning haystack.’

  ‘Yes, you should have been there,’ came back the biting rejoinder.

  Oblivious to the sarcasm, Trasnuk continued, ‘Her Majesty, Queen Anila, awaits you in the palace. She wishes to meet the hero of this battle, to offer her gratitude.’

  Saahas wavered, the expression of gentle entreaty on Dyaut’s face tugging at his heart. Trasnuk chortled, ‘You see, you were destined to come here, and only Destiny will decide when you shall leave.’

  Saahas’s mouth tightened. ‘Destiny,’ he grated, rage pulsating in his voice, ‘it is time to show her who is master. I need your forces, Your Majesty, so I can return home immediately to reclaim what is mine.’

  Dyaut embraced him, his gaze skimming the tormented face, ‘So you wish to control Destiny.’

  ‘I wish to crush my enemies like I did yours,’ Saahas’s voice was harsh. ‘Destiny is one of them.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘She thinks she has me in her power, bound in her Saade Saati, but she is wrong.’ He laughed feverishly. ‘Four years and some months of that accursed period still remain, and I will go back well before it ends. It is I who will set the terms for my revenge, not she.’

  Dyaut released him, his fine features immobile, his figure as if carved from stone. He seemed to be so deep in thought that even the light breeze dropped, resisting the urge to ruffle hair and clothes.

  Bhuma shuffled his feet, darting looks from one king to the other. Saahas waited, his face tense. Finally, with a soft grunt of approval, Dyaut broke the silence, speaking so quietly that Saahas held his breath to listen, ‘Destiny is not easy to tame. She must be owned first and then broken. And for that you need special weapons.’ He smiled suddenly. ‘Celestial no less. Then you can win any war.’

  ‘Celestial! Like my Shakti,’ Saahas’s pulse quickened. ‘She spoke to me, guided me. She struck the blow, not I. If I had a few more like her, I would be invincible. Where do I find these weapons?’

  ‘My men will take you to Mahanadi, the river, and she will lead you directly to them.’

  ‘Follow a river? But what if I lose my way? What if I don’t find the weapons?’

  Dyaut placed his hands on Saahas’s shoulders, looking deep into the brown eyes, past the bitterness, into the heart smouldering like a hot coal, ‘You are ready for this journey and that is why I am certain you will find the weapons. And when you return, my forces will be ready to march with you, to help you reclaim your kingdom.’

  30

  Bhuma glanced across the small fire. Saahas tossed and turned, his fingers clenching and unclenching Vasuket’s ring. Folding his arms under his head, Bhuma sighed, going over the events of the past few days.

  They had parted from Dyaut almost immediately, waiting just long e
nough for a horse to be loaded with provisions before heading south. The ground had soon turned flat, the landscape dotted with deep copses broken by stretches of ripening grains. It was at the outskirts of an emerald green hamlet that Mahanadi had been pointed out to them, a placidly flowing river.

  ‘She is a prankster, if ever there was one, sir,’ the soldier winked. ‘You never know what mood she’ll wake up to, just like my wife!’

  ‘So far so good,’ Bhuma murmured, hearing the gentle sound of water in the dark. He turned his head to peep at Saahas. Firelight danced over the sharply etched features, tense even in sleep. ‘Skanda,’ Bhuma prayed, ‘I swear I’ll offer up all of my next loot to you if you help us find those weapons soon.’

  They rose early the next morning and after a quick breakfast hurried after Mahanadi. Crossing a farm at a gallop, they went past rocky outcrops that hemmed the river into a narrow channel. Soon, they approached a dark outline of trees, Mahanadi swiftly disappearing into it. When they followed her into it, the dense forest closed around them, darkness smothering them like cotton wool.

  ‘S-sire,’ Bhuma stuttered.

  ‘Hush, I think I hear something,’ Saahas’s voice came back to him. Then Bhuma heard it too, very faintly, a tinkle of water over pebbles. As they pushed ahead, sprays of water surprised them and suddenly, the tinkle turned into a deafening roar. The horses stumbled, unable to stop the downward slide. ‘Bhuma,’ shouted Saahas, ‘Mahanadi has tricked us! She has turned into a waterfall.’

  But his warning came a moment too late. The squealing horses plunged and the men, flung out of their saddles, hurtled over a precipice into sudden sunshine.

  Tumbling headlong into the frothing torrent, Saahas fell hundreds of feet below. The crashing sound of the water ceased abruptly, gallons of water pressing down on him, pushing him sharply to the bottom. A shooting pain erupted in his head, curls of blood oozing out, blinding him. Feeling the khanda ease off his hip, he groped for it, but it sank swiftly, beyond his reach. Clammy ropes caught his hands, winding around his wrists, ankles and waist, tugging at him. Saahas resisted, but the hold only tightened. He tried to break free but the weeds, python-like, squeezed even harder. Flailing in desperation, he felt as if his lungs were on fire, the last bubbles of air escaping his lips.