Govinda (The Aryavarta Chronicles)

by Krishna Udayasankar

  ‘No, I won’t,’ he said, a smile slowly curving his lips, ‘and that being the case I see no reason for you to leave. That is, unless you want to …’ He let go of her wrist.

  The assassin considered him for a moment, before slowly reaching up for the sleek poisoned dagger that served as a hair ornament. She pulled it out in a determined move, letting her dark hair cascade down her bare back. She twirled the dagger between her fingers with practised ease, before throwing it aside. It landed on top of her already-discarded robes. Moving forward she placed a hand on Govinda’s shoulder and gently pushed him back against the pillows. Slightly breathless, she then slid on to the bed and gracefully perched astride him, revelling in the feel of his strong body against hers. Slowly, she lowered herself into his embrace.

  The first glimmer of dawn had just appeared in the cloud-laden eastern sky when the Kritya awoke. She lay as she was, pleasantly aware of Govinda’s arm around her, of the way his chest rose and fell against her cheek, his breathing deep and even. A smile crossed her lips as she remembered the way Govinda had made love to her the previous night, how they had talked, how he had asked her real name and then held her close when she had cried because she did not know it. Her smile faded and she bit down lightly on her lip, letting the gentle pain remind her not to want what she could not have. With that, she reluctantly slid out of Govinda’s light hold and began to get dressed.

  ‘Leaving already?’

  She gasped, startled, and then laughed with relief. ‘By Hara! And here I was trying not to wake you. So much for my stealth and grace.’

  ‘I think you’re delightfully graceful where it counts,’ Govinda teased. He got out of bed and removed the metal shade from the wick lamp in a nearby recess, letting a warm glow fill the room. Wrapping his robe around his hips, he moved across the space to pull her into his arms. She resisted for a moment and then gave in as his lips touched hers. ‘Stay,’ Govinda gently commanded. ‘You’ll be safe. Whoever it is that sent you, you’ll be safe from them. And, I promise you, no one will ask you any questions or expect you to do anything that compromises your integrity.’

  The Kritya studied Govinda for a few moments. It had seemed to her, after the events of the previous night, that there was little more he could do to surprise her. Clearly, she had been wrong. Affectionately she said, ‘And then? Sooner or later, you’ll leave Pragjya. I’ll feel rather lonely then, don’t you think?’

  ‘Indeed. Which is why I’d have you come with me.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Indr-prastha. And then home, to Dwaraka.’

  The Kritya laughed again, reminding Govinda of someone he had once known. Placing her hand gently on his cheek, she declared, ‘Your Queen must love you very much, Govinda Shauri, if she puts up with all your antics.’

  ‘She’s not my Queen. But, yes, she does put up with a lot.’

  ‘She sounds like a good woman.’

  Govinda nodded. ‘She is. So much so that I’d gladly make her my Empress … Come with me, I’ll take you to her. Something tells me you might become good friends. Of course, she’ll probably kill you with her curiosity and incessant questions.’

  The Kritya let her imagination paint a pleasant picture in her mind, but she shook her head. ‘I have an ailing grandmother who needs me urgently …’

  Govinda narrowed his eyes, unconvinced.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s a fairly acceptable excuse, don’t you think? That’s what I plan to tell the chief of the palace staff.’

  ‘In that case, I wish your grandmother well and hope she recovers soon.’ Govinda pulled her close for another passionate kiss and then stepped back to let her finish dressing.

  She was ready in a few moments. With one last look at herself in the burnished mirror, she made to leave the room. Govinda stood looking out the window, his mind already on other things.

  The Kritya paused at the door. ‘That man … there was a prince who left here just as I was arriving the other day …’

  Govinda turned around. ‘Shikandin.’

  ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘The best I have. Why do you ask?’

  She hesitated, but only for a moment, before arriving at a decision. ‘He’ll need your help. Sudakshin’s men watch every foot of the riverbank,’ she said.

  Govinda’s eyes narrowed. ‘We saw no troop movement. No soldiers at all …’

  ‘Yet, they’re there. Cross the river at the small ford by the white rock and head north-west. You’ll hit one of the smaller tributaries of the Lauhitya. Follow its course upstream to a waterfall. There’s a cavern behind the sheet of water. That’s where the men make camp. That’s where they’ll take your friend …’

  19

  ‘THIS IS BAD, SHIKANDIN. THAT’S THREE TEAMS OF OUR MESSENGERS, as well as the four men Bhagadatta sent. There’s one man unaccounted for, though. Perhaps he made it through?’ said Devajit, bristling at the sight before him.

  ‘I doubt it,’ Shikandin replied, using the flat of his sword to turn over one of the corpses before him. Without flinching at the damp-decayed face, he continued, ‘He’s either still a prisoner, or we just haven’t found his body.’

  The two were all that remained of the scouting party of six that had left Pragjya nearly a week ago. Three of their companions had been lost in a skirmish with enemy soldiers in which none of the opposition had been left alive. The death of the fourth had been terrifying in its own way for the wilderness-trained men of the Eastern Guard. He had died in his sleep without a stir or a sound, of snake-bite. The dead messengers before them had clearly been less fortunate. Despite their already-rotting forms it was not difficult to see that they had endured great torture and much pain before their lives ended.

  Devajit pointed out, ‘The bodies … they’re untouched. No wild animal or scavenger has been near them. But they’ve decayed pretty fast.’

  ‘That’s because they’ve been poisoned. Their flesh has burnt from the inside and is deadly to anything that consumes it. Wild scavengers probably sense that.’

  ‘Poisoned? But why? There are easier ways …’

  ‘And less painful. Maybe it was a hallucinogen, or some pain-inducing concoction – either as a threat to make them talk or as part of the torment …’

  Devajit spat on the ground in anger. ‘Maraka! What sort of men do this?’

  Shikandin merely shrugged. ‘You think it doesn’t happen back at Kampilya? Remind me to have you assigned on duty to our dungeons for a week. Our father takes great pride in the way we treat prisoners, you know.’ He pointed to dead men in front of them. ‘We sent them out by different routes. If the bodies all washed up at the same spot, it means that they were taken to the same place for interrogation. Maybe they even kept the first set of men captive and killed them all together … There’s probably a camp or base somewhere in these forests.’

  ‘Somewhere upstream?’

  ‘Yes. Upstream, and along this tributary. The Lauhitya is too slow to bring these bodies here. These men were washed ashore when this tributary, whatever it’s called, joined the main river. That makes things easier for us. The stream is fairly narrow. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find something on either of its banks.’

  ‘In that case we’d better head back at once.’

  ‘You need to head back as fast as you can and get word to Govinda. Tell him to send out eight, maybe ten, messengers in groups of two. They are to depart right away and head out at the same time. But they should try to make it through these forests using different routes.’

  ‘But …?’

  Shikandin tersely explained. ‘All these men, our men, are dead. It could mean that Sudakshin has his men watching the river and the forest, but not the plains beyond. There’s a possibility that if we get messengers through this stretch, they can strike out for the southern regions and make it to Magadha that way. Or even if they get to Kalinga, our vassals there will help them …’

  ‘Our vassals, Prince?’ Devajit suffixed
his contempt with the respectful form of address.

  Shikandin drew in an impatient breath. ‘They’re my, our, sister’s vassals. She’ll be Empress once this is done. We serve her and her purposes. Are you clear about that?’

  ‘I am,’ Devajit snapped, this time tellingly omitting the honorific. He studied the dead men before him for a few moments and said, ‘It’s a good plan. Let’s both go back and …’

  ‘Like I said, you have to go back. The messengers are just part of the plan. If they’re to have a chance of getting through this time around we need to find this camp or wherever it is that the enemy is. Unless that’s destroyed, there’s no point sending more men through.’

  Devajit drew himself up with all the authority he wielded by virtue of being the older man. ‘Shikandin, you can’t do this alone. Let’s go back and get reinforcements. We know where to begin. We just have to come back to the ford with the white rock and then keep going till we hit this fork in the river. It won’t be tough to find, and …’

  Shikandin shook his head, by way of reply. ‘Go!’ he commanded. And then, before Devajit could protest further, he slunk off into the undergrowth.

  Shikandin headed upstream, moving confidently through the thick foliage as though he were a creature of the forest. He smiled to himself as it began raining again, and stopped every now and then to let the patterns of sound the raindrops made as they hit leaf and bark tell him what was around him and, more importantly, if he was being watched or followed. As the day wore on, the rain stopped and the forest around him grew denser still. Shikandin was glad for the thick leather cloak with its rather impenetrable hood. He was not a man to complain about a leech or ten, but he certainly did not enjoy them dropping off the branches overhead, right onto his face.

  His earlier suspicions about the missing messenger were proven right when he found the body a little further upstream. Like the others, this one too bore the signs of torture and poisoning. His theory that the enemy’s camp was situated somewhere along the banks of the tributary now reaffirmed, Shikandin began trekking through the marshy forestland with renewed vigour.

  As evening drew close, he began to slow down. Stopping more frequently, he tried hard to catch wisps of smell that he hoped would guide him through the approaching dusk. It was tough, given that the air in the forest was, for the most part, still. At times, the fragrance of night jasmine hung heavy over him, otherwise there was nothing but the thick mossy odour that was native to heavy forests. Shikandin however, did not give up. Camps made for campfires and for hungry men, cooking and food – a smell that was alien to the freshness all around and therefore easily recognized and followed.

  Shikandin’s stomach appeared to be keener than his nose, for it let out a soft rumble. Moments later the smell of vegetable porridge – a soldier’s staple – came floating on a reluctant breeze. Shikandin sniggered to himself. He was hungry, but it could wait – and wait a while if need be. Moving carefully from thicket to thicket, he followed the faint smell of food.

  The roar of the river grew louder. Shikandin surmised he was nearing some rapids or perhaps a shallow waterfall. The foliage too had grown thinner around him. The dull glimmer of the evening sun some feet ahead told him he was approaching a clearing. He crouched at the edge of the thicket and peered out. It was a small, rocky space that ran from the patch of greenery where he was now, right up to a small cliff. The river was to his right, falling in a thundering waterfall down the face of the cliff into a natural pool before flowing on into the forest. The clearing looked empty but Shikandin decided to wait, thankful that there were a couple of muhurrtas of light left in the sky.

  His patience paid off, for a man soon emerged from behind the curtain of water that was the fall, dressed in the uniform of the Kashi army. He looked up, scanning the sky for a few moments, and then raised one arm up while holding a piece of meat in the other. Immediately, a mean-looking brown and white falcon-hawk, with yellow markings around its beak and eyes, wheeled down into the clearing and dropped something from its long talons at the man’s feet before taking the piece of meat from his hand. It made quick work of the strip of raw flesh and took wing again, letting out a loud cry that tore through the silence of the forest.

  The man picked up what the falcon-hawk had dropped. Shikandin could make out the grey-white colour and the feathery outline. He silently mouthed a curse as he realized that it was one of Dwaipayana’s messenger pigeons.

  The soldier pulled off the tiny scroll tied on the pigeon’s leg, calling out to someone behind the curtain of water as he did. The man shouted to be heard behind the waterfall, and the sound echoed through the clearing to reach Shikandin where he remained hidden. He could clearly make out the words: ‘Tell the magician we have another message …’

  The soldier then moved to a row of wicker baskets placed at the other end of the clearing, sloshing through the pool of swirling water as he went. It did not take much for Shikandin to guess what was within them. His conjecture was confirmed but moments later, as the soldier removed the lid from one of the baskets and dropped the dead pigeon inside. There was a whipcord flash of black and yellow before the cover came back down. As the man headed back to the waterfall another uniformed soldier stepped out and made his way to the cauldron over the small fire. Shikandin saw him stack up four bowls and allowed himself a small smile. Four men was not much to handle at all.

  And then, he saw the bald man step out of the cavern. Shikandin felt no surprise, only mild resignation at recognizing the so-called magician. Devala Asita was missing his beard and his head had been shaved bald, but there was no doubting his identity. He now wore black robes, wrapped in the style of a fighting man. Shikandin thought for a moment of the man’s brother, and of the close friendship they had shared as children. The memories pained him even more as he realized what Devala Asita had done. He slipped his bow off his back and set an arrow to the string.

  ‘What does it say?’ Devala asked conversationally as the first soldier handed him the scroll he had taken off the dead pigeon’s leg.

  ‘It reeks of desperation,’ the soldier gleefully replied. ‘It’s coded, of course, but so obviously begging for some word that it doesn’t take much to decipher it. It says if they don’t hear from them soon, they will have no choice but to concede the campaign as failed, and surrender all their lands and men to their new vassals.’

  ‘Well done, Shulya! This is good news. On that note, let me try some of your porridge there. This development has done much for my appetite …’

  My arrow will do more, Shikandin silently affirmed, clenching his teeth as the memory of the maimed bodies of his men filled him with cold anger.

  ‘But wait, pass me the meat,’ Devala said. ‘It’s time to feed the rest our friends.’ He held out strips of meat on his palm. This time three falcon-hawks came wheeling in.

  Shikandin did a quick calculation. His decision made, he stepped out of the thicket and turned his aim to the sky. Three arrows left his bow in quick succession and flew unerringly towards their targets. Not waiting to see the inevitable, he whipped around, a fourth shaft on the string. An enraged Devala screamed out orders as he ran towards a small path that led up the cliff. Shikandin’s arrow caught him on the shoulder as he turned on to the path. Devala stumbled, but kept going. He knew Shikandin would not shoot a man in the back.

  Indeed, Shikandin cursed, and turned to face the three soldiers who were almost upon him by now. In one swift move he used his arrow to stab the nearest man in the neck, then dropped his bow to the ground, reached to his baldric and drew out his sword. The other two men came at him together. He stepped in close, slashing at the first, then pulling away to stab the one behind him, turning the sword about in a double-handed move, before coming back to finish off the first man with another thrust.

  As Shikandin stood there panting lightly, he became aware of the man and his arrow. Devala Asita stood at the top of the cliff, his bow drawn and the shaft aimed directly at Shikandin. He
fired. Shikandin did not move, except to bring his sword up at the very last minute as a narrow shield between the shaft and his heart. The arrow broke against the metal and clattered to the ground at his feet.

  Devala smiled, a gesture of evil anticipation.

  Shikandin frowned slightly as the first tendrils of uncertainty reached him. And then, he understood. Immediately, he kicked away the shards at his feet, trying at the same time to hold his breath so as not to inhale the invisible vapour that the hollow shaft of the arrow had contained. With a snarl of rage he dived for his own bow and, picking it up, tried to set an arrow to it. He could not. His vision blurred. An unbearable pain shot through him and he felt as though his heart would explode. His arms went limp and his knees buckled under him.

  A hiss of pain escaped through Shikandin’s clenched teeth as he hit the hard ground. Through burning eyes he saw Devala set another arrow to his bow. At least the agony would not last long.

  It seemed the bald man had just been struck by the same thought. He let fall his arm and returned the arrow to a quiver on his back.

  ‘Die well, Prince,’ he called out, shouting to make himself heard over the thundering waterfall. With a final, leering smile, the man was gone.

  Shikandin closed his eyes and prayed for the strength to endure a slow, painful death.

  20

  THE BLACKNESS FELT BLISSFUL. SHIKANDIN WAS NOT SURE IF this was unconsciousness or death, but he felt at peace. Just as he regained his senses enough to begin pondering the presence of sense, it hit him. Without so much as a warning, liquid flame pooled in his stomach, searing, swirling, painfully wrenching at him. Spasms rocked his body, his gut cramped and, in a burst of fire, the pain shot upwards through his chest. He felt himself flip over in a desperate effort to somehow stop the throbbing from reaching his head and making it explode. It appeared to work, as with a great churning, he felt the fire spill out through his mouth. Cramps shot through every part of him as the heat came up in waves, burning his throat, filling his mouth. At last, the heaving stopped. He lay back, his eyes closed, his body still shuddering at intervals.