‘In the meanwhile, we must contend with Tataka’s horde of minions.’
‘What are these creatures, mahadev? Rakshasas? Yaksas? Pisacas? Daityas?’ Lakshman licked his lips, his eyes flicking from side to side, bowstring stretched to its maximum.
‘None of the asuras you name, young Lakshman. Tataka was too proud to ask Ravana for reinforcements to maintain her dominion. Or perhaps she feared that the Lord of Lanka might station a great force here and usurp her power to command. So she created her own fighting force.’
‘Created?’
‘By crossing the animals of these woods with her own rakshas sons. Mutant beings, neither wholly animal, rakshas or human, but with characteristics of all three. She has been breeding these cross-species monstrosities for a long time now, and only recently, Ravana has commanded her to multiply her stocks as rapidly as possible. He wishes to send them as berserkers and reavers north of the Sarayu to terrorise the farmers in the outlying regions of Kosala and other border kingdoms. In less than a week, he will issue the command for these terror forays to begin. So we are here just in time to foil his plans.’
‘What exactly do these creatures look like, gurudev?’ Lakshman asked. ‘How will we know them when they attack?’
Rama could see the grim smile on the seer’s face without taking his eyes off the dim shadows between the thickly growing trees.
‘You will know them, rajkumar. Do not be fooled by their somewhat familiar shapes and forms, or even their speech, for some are part-human and retain a vestige of their human qualities. These things are abominations of nature and creation, mules synthesised by a corruption of Brahman power and dark tantric acts of cross-species breeding. Destroy them all. Once they are decimated, we can get on with our main purpose: finding Tataka and her sons and killing them. Only then can I go on to my ashram and complete the yagna in time.’
A sound like a gust of wind through leafy branches rose slowly, gathering momentum and volume. But no wind rustled their hair or clothes. As it grew steadily louder, the sound resembled the moaning of some titanic beast. It raised the hackles on their arms and every pore on Rama’s body itched maddeningly as if the air had turned poisonous. He kept his hands on his bow.
Rama said quietly in Lakshman’s ear: ‘Bear scratches back against tree.’
Lakshman immediately put his back to Rama’s, assuming the classic two-warrior defensive stance. Now, their outward-facing bows covered all four directions of the compass.
The seer used his staff to draw a mandala pattern in the forest floor at the exact spot where the shaft of sunlight touched the ground. Leaves and dust swirled angrily at the staff’s touch, spiralling upwards like agitated cobras to disappear high above in a translucent golden column.
The seer stepped on to the magic circle he had drawn. The mandala would protect him from any attack, physical or sorcerous, and would keep aggressors at bay as effectively as an impenetrable invisible wall. The Seven Seers were said to be indestructible, protected by the omnipotent hand of Brahma, divine ambassadors granted total immunity. The mandala was merely to remind those foolish enough to try that they were impotent to harm this man. It didn’t escape Rama’s notice that the seer had drawn no mandala to protect Lakshman and himself. They would have to fend for themselves.
‘Mahadev,’ Lakshman said in a voice that was steady but not entirely free of anxiety. ‘If I may ask one last question. How many of these mutant berserkers might there be in the Bhayanak-van?’
The sage took a moment to respond. ‘Thus far,’ he said with deceptive casualness, ‘Tataka has been able to create no more than a few hundred. Perhaps half a thousand at best. Surely no more than that.’
In the stunned silence that followed, the moaning sound grew louder, filling every molecule of air around the two princes, leaving no space to breathe. Now, it sounded not like wind but oncoming rain. The rattle of a sudden downpour on a tin roof.
Blood rain, Rama thought.
And then the forest erupted around them.
EIGHTEEN
Bejoo’s men waited for his order. The chariot and horse stood in two neat rows, horses steaming from their rapid descent. He had never known that path existed before. But Bheriya had managed to sniff it out somehow. Bheriya always found a way. When they returned to Ayodhya, Bejoo decided, he would officially declare Bheriya as his successor. It was about time.
Bheriya’s only failing, if you could call it that, was his obsession with his wife. Of course, she was beautiful. But that was beside the point. Along with soma, gambling and indebtedness, the fairer sex was one of the banes of the warrior’s existence. He’d seen many grown men hopelessly besotted with those soft chests and painted lips. Though Bheriya’s wife was probably just an honest woman seeking what everyone craved— affection and attention—Bheriya would have to be careful that he didn’t grow so attached to those slender arms and all that lay between that he forgot he was a Kshatriya, oathsworn to defend and die for his maharaja, clan and varna, in that order.
Bejoo sighed. As he grew older, he found more to worry about. It was a condition of age, he knew, to fear that one’s legacy was insufficient. He had fought long and hard in the last asura war, he could barely count his battles on both hands— and both feet—yet he remained relatively unscarred (except for that nasty white curved mark across his right breast and shoulder) and still had the use of all his organs and limbs.
He had a good wife, an enviable reputation, a fine house in a decent part of the city, and enough wealth to sustain his family for another generation should he die today. And he had won more than praise and honour for his military service; he had earned what the sages called yash. A shining name. The problem was, he had nobody to leave it all to. No one who would carry on that shining name.
And now Shakun had finally passed the age of productivity. She had told him the news just the night before last, on the eve of Holi, as they watched the effigies representing evil spirits burning on the parade grounds. Her monthly cycles had ceased, and with them, their last hope of producing an heir had burned away, like the towering wax-and-cloth effigies they were watching.
‘Bejoo,’ said Bheriya’s voice, cutting through his reverie. ‘The bigfoot are approaching. Should we ask them to keep their usual distance or close with us?’
Bejoo pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘What do you think, Bheriya? Look at the thickness of those woods. Do you think even the horse can get in there, let alone our wheel? I don’t fancy the notion of walking in either.’
Bheriya looked at him, surprised. ‘Are you asking my advice, sir?’
‘Your professional opinion. Sooner or later you’ll have to start making command decisions. Might as well attempt a few while I’m around to catch you if you stumble.’
Bheriya shot him a look that said, Are you sure you didn’t hit your head on a low branch? Aloud, he said, ‘Well, if you want my honest opinion, I think we should bring the bigfoot up forward and use them to punch a hole through those woods. It’s the only way we’ll get in there apart from walking.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Or crawling. Which seems more likely if we attempt to get in there on our own.’
Now why couldn’t I have had a son or a daughter as quick-witted and upright as this young man? Was it too much to ask the devas for just one heir? ‘Very good, Bheriya. The same method we used in the Charaka-van during the Kaikaya dasya uprising?’
‘Exactly, sir. Except …’ The young lieutenant frowned, warming to his task. ‘Maybe we could send a chariot or two ahead with those scimitars we got from the Moorish delegates as a gift last year. They might help to clear away some of that thornbush lurking between the trees. The trees themselves look reedy enough. I daresay our bigfoot could knock them down like shortstalks in a chaupat game.’
‘Good, good. Make that three chariot though. Abreast. Give the order.’
‘Yes, sir, Bejoo!’ Bheriya looked pleased with himself. He wheeled his horse around, then turned back again. ‘Bejoo?’
&nb
sp; ‘Make it quick, boy. Our scouts haven’t seen sight of the rajkumars since dawn today. They could be halfway to Lanka by now for all we know.’
‘I just wanted to say that it’s been a pleasure to serve under you these past four years. You’re the best, sir!’ Bheriya looked uncomfortable offering the compliment, but his sincerity was unmistakable.
Bejoo snorted. ‘Your tongue drips honey sweeter than a beehive! Now get out of here before I whip you for insubordination!’
But as Bheriya rode back to the elephant in a cloud of dust, he whispered: ‘It’s been a pleasure to lead you too, my son.’
Bejoo fell back to musing on how lucky they had been to find that path down the side of the cliff; an ancient wheelpath disused since the days of Aja, apparently. Disused because it led only to one place: the Bhayanak-van. If they hadn’t found that path, they would never have caught up with the rajkumars and the seer once they went downriver on that raft. The scouts had done their job well enough; their sighting the raft being built the night before had given Bejoo enough time to figure out the seer’s plan and take action accordingly.
Still, he worried now that the river might not go very far into the woods—it seemed barely a trickle as it entered the thicket, a few hundred yards from where he sat. Tracking within the Southwoods might not be as easy as tracking elsewhere. As it was, his men were more than a little spooked about the prospect of entering the dreaded Forest of Fear. The last thing he needed was a bigger challenge.
His mind was just starting to turn back to the possibility of talking his wife into adoption, something she’d been averse to all these years, when the chariot nearest to the edge of the forest vanished in an explosion of shattered fragments.
***
At first Lakshman thought the ground itself was heaving and spitting up debris, like the tales he had heard of earthquakes. He realised his mistake when what seemed to be a large clod of earth unravelled in mid-air to reveal long yellow talons, spotted flanks, and a face out of a daiimaa’s horror tale.
‘Shiva!’ he cried, loosing an arrow by sheer instinct.
The missile struck the creature in the face, shattering its fragile cheekbones, and it dropped inches from his feet.
It thrashed, screaming in a voice that was neither bird call nor cat howl. Before Lakshman could shut it up with another arrow, three other shapes exploded from the forest floor, flying at him with claws outstretched and jaws bared to reveal slobbering fangs. He loosed three arrows in a blur of movement that was faster than thought, bringing down two and shearing the top of the other’s head. He ducked as it flew, dying, over his left shoulder, judged correctly that it would miss Rama by a hand’s breadth, and was stringing another arrow before he heard the thud of its fall.
Then he was loosing arrows with the stubborn relentlessness of a meal-grinder crushing grain, arms milling relentlessly. He lost count of how many beasts he downed. Behind him, Rama was firing like a line of Mithila bowmen; he could feel his brother’s back muscles spasming rhythmically even through his rig.
For the next few minutes, life narrowed to the simple repetition of reach-back-and-pull, string-and-loose. Aiming was secondary. The onslaught was so thick and furious, he would have hit them even if he was stone-blind. That was the disadvantage of their attacking from so close: it didn’t give him and Rama much time to string and loose, but then it didn’t give the beasts time to dodge either. Soon the ground around him was piled thick with corpses, a natural barrier which new beasts had to leap over to attack, and that gave him yet another advantage. He began slicing off heads and loping off wings even before some of the attackers could launch themselves properly. A bear-faced monkey was crouched to spring when he shot it through one eye. It screeched in a throaty howl as it toppled back.
Even in the thick heat of battle, he could see the grotesque mélange of breeds and species.
Leopards with raven beaks.
Wolves with snake hoods and rattler tails.
Elephant bodies with scrawny human-child heads and forearms.
Hairless brutes dripping green ichor and with hair growing inside their arrow-exploded chests.
Blind civets with the rump of an ass and sabre fangs.
The list was endless. The stench and offal of butchery began to coat him as the slaughter went on. Gore splattered over his face and arms; steaming guts strung out over his right shoulder.
The world reduced to the arc of his vision: the half-circle covered by his lethal bow. The twanging of his bowstring became a melody to accompany the dhol-drumming of the blood in his head.
The stench of bestial offal and inhuman gore became a familiar perfume in his nostrils; he breathed it in and relished it.
Lakshman had never before felt the red rage of battle-lust but he intuitively knew that this strange new sensation was not unique to him. He let the wave wash over him, carrying away fear, trepidation, anxiety about the outcome, all those before-worries. He became one with the bow and the cord. Each loosing was like jabbing a finger. He tore apart breasts, pierced hearts, tore out throats, ripped open faces, shattered beaks, cracked open skulls. He drank the soma of slaughter, inhaled the drug-dust of violent death, tasted the primordial iron tang of lifeblood released by his own actions. He laughed, knowing what Kshatriyas down the ages had discovered in the thick of battle: after a point, all men were beasts. Two hands or ten didn’t matter. Civilisation was an illusion. Blood demanded blood. Life craved death. The arrow was born to kill, it didn’t care whom.
When he lowered his bow at last, it was because the space before him was empty of enemies.
There was nobody left to kill.
He stood, feeling the blood rise to his head in a roaring flood. His heart still pounded; his tongue was thick with the scum of his own sour juices. He wiped off a thread of blood that hung from his brow. The jungle was deafeningly silent. The sage was in his mandala behind them, unharmed and complacent as ever. It was only when he turned and looked at Rama that he got the first real shock of the day.
***
Bejoo was struck on the chest by a fragment of the chariot’s wheel. Fortunately for him, the wheel was wooden and his breastplate bronze-iron alloy. Even so, the impact almost unseated him.
What in Shani’s name was that? His horse, a Kambhoja stallion that had proved implacable even in the heat of battle, wheeled in startled terror, settling only after he whispered the mantra of Shani, his patron deity, in its ear.
Other horses were neighing and rearing in shock as well, and at least three men lay unseated on their backs, either dead or seriously wounded. One horse had been cut in two by what seemed to be a fragment of the chariot’s frontplate, the metal embedded in its severed neck, its eyes staring up in stunned horror. Of the chariot itself, nothing more than debris remained; it had been shattered and flattened as effectively as a wooden toy beneath an elephant’s foot.
What could possess the power to do such a thing? Bejoo rode through his men, who were shaken only by the unexpected nature of the attack, not by the deaths themselves. Death was the inevitable end of a Kshatriya’s duties; it was the nature of that death that brought honour or dishonour. In this case, it brought only puzzlement. There seemed to be no sign of how the chariot had been destroyed.
One of his horsemen pointed up at the sky above the darkwoods, a bright blue upturned bowl capping the grim grey-green jungle. ‘Something came from there,’ he said, patting his horse reassuringly. ‘Like a siege-machine.’
A siege-machine? Bejoo knew of giant catapult devices that shot large boulders over fortress walls, or at those walls, that could easily destroy a chariot. But if the rakshasas within the jungle possessed and had used such a machine, then where was the damn boulder? All he could see were chariot fragments and the unfortunate remains of the chariot’s two horses and two occupants, gore and bodily parts strewn all over, everything covered with a thick layer of dirt.
As he came closer to the site of the attack he wrinkled his nose. That stench! What
was that? It smelt like an animal compost heap. And no animal he knew of produced manure of this kind.
He frowned. What he had taken for dirt at first was too dark and claylike to be the loose iron-rich soil beneath his horse’s hoofs.
Then suddenly he knew. Instinctively, with an unerring certainty born of years of battling strange species and even stranger humans, he knew what had struck the chariot. Wheeling his horse around, he shouted a command to his men, both horse and wheel.
‘Scatter! Scatter! Keep apart from one another! Do it now! Scatter!’
His men responded without question or hesitation. But they were hampered by the thick undergrowth that surrounded the path. Even the path itself was grassy and treacherous with holes and stones, and it was impossible to simply turn chariots and ride them through three-yard-high thickets of bramblebush and clumps of thornweed. Still, they did the best they could, as Bejoo rode back to the end of the line, shouting for Bheriya. Where were those elephants? If they had the elephants, they could bulldoze their way into the jungle, and there they might be safer from the menace that he felt certain would strike again. After all, if the enemy knew they were out here, then they would hardly sit idle after that first blow.
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