The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2

by Krishna Udayasankar

  Govinda groaned under his breath, but his eyes held a discernible gleam. ‘Don’t tell me that for their kindness you’ve blessed them with good health, Acharya… You know I don’t like getting into theosophical disputes with you about divine wish and human will. I’d hate to see your blessings fail.’

  ‘I’ve wished them the best in their afterlife. It’s up to you how soon they’ll get there.’

  Govinda rose from his seat but stumbled and knocked himself against the wooden table, toppling the glass of basil water and spilling its contents all over the surface. With a resigned sigh, the Secret Keeper swung his legs out of the way and sat back against the wall.

  ‘My apologies,’ Govinda offered, as he made a clumsy grab at his innocuous bundle, pushing the cloth off to reveal an engraved hilt that shone even in the dim lamplight of the room. He yelped as his inebriated grip slipped and the blade spun around on the bench to rap him on the knuckles. Looking very much like a truant who deserved that and more, he straightened up, weaponless, just as the three men rushed towards him with ready blades of their own.

  3

  THE INN CAME ALIVE WITH EXCITEMENT AND FEAR. FIGHTS HAD become rare in the past months but were not completely unheard of, and while the meek-hearted scrambled as far as they could from the fray, those who were bolder, or simply more bored, stayed where they were and looked on in anticipation as the three assassins sprang forward.

  The men were trained killers and knew that their quarry was not to be taken lightly. They hemmed Govinda in from three sides, trying to put the crowded confines to good use by backing him further into his corner. The Secret Keeper sat as he was, with his back to the wall, making no attempt to hide from his recent acquaintances, but the assassins simply ignored him. The man in the middle advanced, swinging his axe hard in what he hoped would be a killing strike. His blade missed Govinda’s ear by a hair’s breadth, meeting the rock surface of the wall with a dull thud. The impact travelled up his arm, making him drop his weapon. Dully, the mercenary looked around for his quarry, only to realize that Govinda had shifted his position by a foot. Using the instant of surprise, Govinda rammed his elbow into the man’s face, the impact breaking his adversary’s nose even as he caught the man’s left eye socket. Blood splattered on the walls and on a few of the inn’s patrons as the assassin fell to the ground, writhing in pain.

  Govinda did not wait to admire his bloody handiwork, but met the second of his attackers head on, grabbing the man’s stabbing arm with his left hand even as he side-stepped the attack. His grip on the man’s wrist still firm, Govinda pulled him close, caught his neck in the crook of his arm, and twisted. The man’s neck snapped with a chilling crack that was lost in the fracas as the crowd cheered and shouted.

  That left one assassin.

  The Secret Keeper saw a veteran across the room, a fighting man by his scars, sit back and raise his drink to his lips with an appreciative gesture. For his own part, he had kept his seat but shifted in it to get a better view of the encounters in progress. The first man’s blood had stained his ochre robes, but beyond making a mental note to burn the garment before he made his way home the scholar had not reacted to it.

  ‘Your friend fights well.’ The Secret Keeper turned to notice the serving woman standing next to him, one hand on her shapely hip. ‘Who is he?’ she asked.

  ‘Didn’t he tell you…last night…? Or pehaps there was no breath to spare for conversation?’

  ‘You’re no holy one, you!’ the woman lightly rebuked him before turning her attention back to the fight.

  The last assassin had now joined the skirmish, having bodily thrown aside the table that had been barring his way and its occupant along with it. He charged at Govinda with a long, serrated sword. At a disadvantage in the cramped space, Govinda found himself being pushed back slowly against a table. His satisfied attacker paused, savouring the moment, and then whipped his blade down in a determined blow. Govinda reached up and grabbed the wooden rafters that ran the width of the room at even intervals. He hoisted himself up just as the serrated blade swished past his thigh. In the same motion, he swung himself forward, using the thrust to kick his attacker in the chest. Landing smoothly as his opponent staggered back, Govinda threw a hard punch at the man’s face. As the man reeled back on his heels, he used both his hands to break his opponent’s sword-arm. The serrated blade fell to the ground with a clatter. As the burly fellow doubled over in pain, Govinda brought his knee up hard into the man’s chest, crushing his ribs.

  The room fell silent, save for the whimpering of the first man, who lay on the blood-stained floor, his ample guts threatening to spill out through his bile-stained mouth. Govinda cursed at the sight before striding over to finally draw his silver-white blade from its scabbard, his every move betraying the least trace of what had earlier appeared to be inebriation. Raising his sword high he brought it down in one clean stroke, beheading the fallen man and putting him out of his torment, as the room erupted in a unanimous roar of approval.

  Next to the Secret Keeper, the serving-woman reluctantly stirred. ‘You two had best get out of here before the imperial soldiers arrive. Brawling is hardly tolerated these days, even in a place such as this. Go! We’ll tell the soldiers you escaped.’ She pushed at him gently, uncaring of his ostensible vows to avoid feminine touch. The scholar nodded his thanks and began making his way out, avoiding the dead bodies on the floor.

  ‘Later then, dear,’ Govinda winked at the serving woman before picking up his cloak and following his friend out.

  ‘This way,’ the Secret Keeper led Govinda away from the road outside and headed into the woods nearby. The wayside inn was one of the many that dotted the Great Road that ran the length and breadth of Aryavarta, girding its wide expanse into one united region. The road was the empire’s pride, its life veins, and imperial soldiers patrolled its every stretch with diligence. It was imperative that the two men quickly put as much distance as possible between them and the road.

  Govinda followed the Secret Keeper without protest, sheathing his sword as they walked into the darkness. With the knowledge that came of a common training, he knew the scholar was leading him to where his horse Balahak was tethered. As the two men emerged into a glade, the silver-white Qamboja stallion greeted his rider with a hushed whinny. Govinda lovingly stroked the horse’s neck before turning back to the man beside him.

  ‘Wash your sword and yourself as soon as you can. Unless, of course, you want to be brought before your Emperor on accusations of murder?’ the scholar needlessly instructed.

  Govinda nodded. ‘What about you?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ll be fine. Once I get rid of these blood-stained robes, they won’t even think of looking for me. What is one harmless scholar, after all, in a land like Aryavarta?’

  The statement carried an air of finality that Govinda did not like. He stepped forward to place his hands on the other man’s shoulders. ‘Why did you come here, my friend? Why did you really come looking for me? If anyone had seen us together, everything we’ve worked so hard for would be ruined!’

  The scholar nodded his agreement, but added by way of counter, ‘I had to see you, Govinda.’

  ‘In Rudra’s name, Acharya, why? You’re not a man of sentiment.’

  The scholar frowned. ‘I can be on occasion, though this is not one such. I’m here because you’re still here.’

  ‘You think I’m keeping a secret from the Secret Keeper?’

  ‘I think you have too sly a tongue to admit it and too much of a brain to ignore what I’m telling you.’

  ‘And what are you telling me?’

  ‘Leave! Your task here was done three months ago, yet you’ve tarried far too long and that unwise act worries me.’

  ‘What doesn’t worry you, Acharya?’

  ‘Don’t quibble, Govinda. I never worried in the least when you were busy being a decadent flirt, but you are an outcast now… Accept it, my friend.’

  ‘You’re right, Acharya.
I am an outcast. My Empress…’ Govinda chuckled as he corrected himself and let his voice betray a trace of affection, ‘Panchali…my brave, petulant Panchali, has sworn me into leaving, to never return. I shall make one last journey to say farewell, and then…’

  ‘Rudra help you, Govinda. You leave those you love behind forever.’

  ‘We left them behind many years ago, Acharya. We left them all behind the day we became who we are.’

  The Secret Keeper felt his heart grow heavy with the ties that had been broken and forged by that one truth alone. Reverentially, he whispered the word that bound them both: ‘Firewrights.’

  4

  DEVALA ASITA MOVED THROUGH THE MISTY FOREST DAWN WITH the stealth of familiarity and the certainty of confidence. He felt no fear. He could hardly say the same of the men who were pursuing him, or at least those who remained alive and able after setting foot into these woods. In these times of plenty and prosperity, the dark depths of the Eastern Forests had become a haven for the last of the lawless, the ultimate refuge for those who were evil enough and desperate enough to continue with their outlaw ways. The unified dung pile of Emperor Dharma Yudhisthir’s unified Aryavarta, as Devala liked to think of it.

  It had been a hundred days since Dharma Yudhisthir had been crowned Emperor, and every one of those wretched days had lacked nothing in peace and bounty. It was, the people warmly said, as though Indra of the celestials himself sat on the imperial throne, for every dawn, if not every muhurtta, brought news of trade treaties with foreign nations, alliances with would-be invaders, and plans that promised development. The latter was a task to which the huge and well-trained imperial army had been assigned, effectively keeping the soldiers well-occupied and content in these times of no conflict. It was a brilliant plan, one that Devala knew the Emperor was completely incapable of devising on his own. The thought spurred a surge of hatred from the core of his heart for the man whose invisible hand had brought it all about. A man named Govinda Shauri.

  A loud snarl slipped from Devala as the name came to mind, startling a colourfully plumed bird that had been watching his progress without demur. Before the bird could cry out, his hand went to the sash at his waist, drew out a slim dagger and sent it flying. The blade beheaded the bird just as it unfurled its wings. Its dismembered body dropped to the ground without a flutter, even as Devala moved under the branch to retrieve his dagger from mid-air before the sound of it falling into the thicket below could give his position away. He considered the carcass before him with a touch of satisfaction, but the mild violence he had indulged in could nowhere near enough assuage his anger. Far too much Firewright blood had been spilt and for far too long.

  Once, his scholarly order had been the mightiest of powers in all Aryavarta, the mind, heart and sacred soul of this great empire. Till that miserable traitor of a cowherd, that rebel, Govinda Shauri, had destroyed them all for his own ambition. Govinda had ingratiated himself with the Firstborn, shed Firewright blood, and raised himself to power, building a new, mighty nation in Dwaraka. And then, when it had seemed that the death of the rebel leader Ghora Angirasa, the last Secret Keeper of the Firewrights, would change the face of Aryavarta and bring the true Wrights back to power, Govinda Shauri had again systematically destroyed them, this time under the pretext of building an empire in the name of Dharma Yudhisthir, the king of Western Kuru.

  Devala was on the verge of tears as he thought of all that he had faced, all that he had been through to stop that treacherous bastard Govinda from annihilating what remained of the few secret clusters of Wrights that had survived. He wished yet again that he had gone after Govinda himself, instead of sending those hired assassins. But revealing himself was not a risk he could take, without being completely sure that his quarry truly was Govinda. He was, after all, the most wanted man in the entire empire. Devala would gladly offer his own life as sacrifice to the gods if they blessed him with one chance to kill the man who had brought them to this. In return, he would anoint their altars with Govinda’s blood. Yes!

  Rage coursed through the Firewright, bringing him to a halt. Shaking as he tried to bring his emotions under control, he looked around him. This was, he decided, as good a spot as any to lay his trap. He glanced around the small patch of less dense foliage that was not quite a clearing and made his way to one of the large banyan trees that marked its edge. Assuring himself of the cover it provided, he stepped out into the clearing. He drew a thick, copper cylinder from a hide bag and poured out its viscous contents to form a circular border around the periphery of the clearing, taking care to not, at any point, touch the colourless, odourless ooze with his bare hands. He watched as the liquid hardened, drying immediately to form a brittle border. Satisfied, he stepped back into the shadow of the banyan tree.

  Soon, the forest around him came alive with an unnatural bustle as men attempted to close in on him from different sides. He had chosen his spot well, for no sound came from the direction of the banyan tree. He could easily escape that way once he had seen to his adversaries. Pulling out an arrow from the quiver on his back, he set it to his bow and waited. Moments later, a tall, light-skinned man emerged through the shrubbery.

  ‘Stay where you are!’ the man barked. The frantic rustling ceased, and confused exclamations and further orders filled the air.

  ‘What happened, Asvattama?’ a regal voice asked, irritated.

  ‘We’ve found the bastard,’ the tall man replied, taking a careful step forward. Asvattama’s voice held a politeness as he addressed their quarry, though his eyes did not mirror it, ‘Don’t be scared, Devala. We won’t hurt you…too much.’

  ‘Scared, Asvattama? Of a traitor like you? Or of your pack of rats?’ Devala meaningfully aimed his arrow at the dried dregs of the liquid he had poured out earlier. ‘You know what that is. It will take the smallest impact to set it off. Quite a powerful explosion. You wouldn’t survive, nor would your friends.’

  ‘What in Rudra’s name…?’ the irritated speaker now cut his way through the undergrowth. He cut a handsome figure and held his good looks with all the arrogance that came of his nobility.

  ‘Careful now, Dhrstyadymn,’ Asvattama said as he took in Devala and his arrow. He turned to the troops clustered behind him in the undergrowth and repeated the warning, adding instructions to stay close to the line of shrubbery.

  Devala turned to the new arrivals with a mock bow. ‘My, my! Two sworn enemies side by side. This is a fortunate sight indeed! Crown prince Dhrstyadymn of Southern Panchala fights alongside Asvattama, king of Northern Panchala. And that’s not all…you’ve brought friends along, I see. Sanjaya! The Vyasa does think highly of me if he sends so many men.’

  Sanjaya Gavalagani, minister and advisor in the service of King Dhritarastra of the Kurus and faithful disciple of Krishna Dwaipayana Vyasa, squeezed the hilt of his sword, a gesture that suggested lack of experience rather than familiarity with the weapon. He gingerly kept his distance from the potentially explosive periphery as he made his way towards Asvattama. ‘Well? What are you waiting for? Get him!’

  ‘Muhira! Don’t be an idiot, Sanjaya!’ Asvattama snapped. ‘Do you even know what that is? It’s called a Ring of Fire – one of the most painful ways to die the Firewrights ever devised. It will take the slightest disturbance to set it off. Keep your thick feet well away from it.’

  ‘That’s right, Asvattama. See what happens when a pack of hyenas try to hunt down a lion? You never did stand a chance against me. You were dead the instant you set foot into these woods,’ Devala gloated, malicious. With a leer, he added, ‘And now that you realize what a terrible mistake you and your men have made, I have no further need to keep you alive.’ He pulled back the string of his bow, drawing a yelp of panic from Sanjaya. An impetuous Dhrstyadymn made to throw himself at Devala but held back, grimly aware of the Ring of Fire in front of him. Around them, sharp sounds of weaponry being readied filled the air as the soldiers drew their swords and raised their bows.

  It ca
me without warning, even for those who expected it to happen sooner or later. One moment, Devala stood with the power of life and death in his hands; the next, he was bent over, screaming, his arrow-arm excruciatingly bent back, for it had been snapped at the elbow. But the Firewright turned out to be a hardier warrior than he had let on, for under the cover of his pain he turned around to confront his assailant. Using his other arm, he pulled out a menacing sword from its scabbard and swung it hard.

  ‘Watch out!’ Dhrstyadymn cautioned as he noticed the dark stain on the edge of the blade that hinted at a deadly poison. He need not have worried, for Devala’s opponent reacted with the swiftness and precision of a hunting animal, bringing up his own sword to counter Devala’s stroke even as he used the edge of his hand to land a hard blow on the Firewright’s face. Then he struck Devala in the abdomen, using the force of the Firewright’s fall to snap the sword-hand at the wrist and let the blade clatter to the ground. He used his grip on Devala’s arm to lift the man and fling him over his shoulder and on to the hard ground. It was over as quickly as it had begun. Devala lay squirming on the mossy ground of the forest, the tip of a sharp sword aimed unerringly at his throat. His opponent stood towering over him, green-brown eyes blazing with undisguised wrath.

  ‘Shikandin!’ Devala managed to exclaim through gritted teeth. His eyes came to rest on the silver-white beads around Shikandin’s neck. ‘You…’

  Ignoring the stream of expletives that followed, Shikandin gestured to the soldiers to come forward. The prone Firewright made a last attempt to grab at the explosive-coated rope with his good arm, his rage overcoming his need for self-preservation. The action only served to invite Shikandin’s hide-soled foot to come down hard on the knuckles of his outstretched hand.