by David Hair
If we screw this up, will we have the strength to try anything else? Vikram stared out at their first test—simple archery targets. They were just for sighters, though they had been placed nearly 200 yards away. The real targets were those he had negotiated with Vibhishana—flying creatures, the more magical the better. He could see the cages, filled with butterfly-winged lizards and human-headed gulls and tiny dragons, and myriad other creatures. Beings that were impossible—and therefore sustained with more potent spells. More energy to release.
The usual fanfare and dull speeches prefigured the display. Was it imagination, or did these creatures, trapped in total boredom for millennia, actually have a greater frisson about them? Were they genuinely interested in something for the first time in their memories? However real or unreal they actually were, surely some remnant of independence and intellect remained? Had something transcended the ‘program’ they seemed to be stuck in?
The warthog-faced herald waved a flag, and everyone leaned forward, falling silent.
Vikram nodded to Amanjit. ‘Let’s go.’
They lifted their bows, raised them high, and fired. Two arrows flew, trailing sparks, and slammed into the centre of the archery targets, barely visible in the distance. Simple charm-assisted astras. Mere sighters, to get themselves back into practice. The Asuras went ‘Ooooo’ and cheered.
Vikram looked at Amanjit and nodded. He’d been firing such arrows for centuries, but Amanjit had not. The Sikh had nailed it first up, though. ‘Good one, bhai. Naga-astra next. Think snakey thoughts.’
Amanjit half-smiled, then swallowed, his brow creasing with concentration.
Two swallows were released. The bows twanged.
Two snakes sped through the air, catching the swooping birds in their open mouths and fangs. They tumbled to the ground, and then dragged the birds away a few paces before reverting to wood. Vikram muttered a small apology to the souls of the birds, though he doubted even they were real.
The Asuras cheered. Both boys were perspiring slightly. Each of the astras had drawn something from them, and they were both already dangerously weak.
Vikram nodded to the Sikh youth. This time …
He signalled to a demon holding the cage door of a pair of small dragons.
The cage door rose, and the dragons arrowed outward, flashing towards the distance.
The bows sang.
Amanjit’s arrow took light in a grey swirl, but flew wide and buried itself in the ground. Vikram’s failed to ignite at all. He couldn’t even tell if he’d got the incantation right—there had been no energy released for it to feed on. Amanjit cursed apologetically.
The crowd groaned, then shrugged and cheered encouragement. But the warthog-faced herald looked distinctly unhappy. He leaned forward, staring at the two young men. Vikram met his eye, and looked away.
Does he suspect something? Is he like the others … or something more? What if he is real?
Vikram turned quickly to the king. ‘Apologies, Majesty. We were not concentrating properly.’
Vibhishana waggled his head sympathetically. ‘This time, Great Ones.’
‘If I get called ‘Great One’ one more time I’ll strangle myself,’ Amanjit fumed. He didn’t look at Vikram.
Vikram tightened his bowstring slightly, to release nervous energy and buy time. ‘The herald suspects something. We need to nail it. Okay? You got it this time?’
Amanjit nodded tensely. ‘Yeah. I’ll do it. You?’
Vikram raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course.’
‘I thought I was supposed to be the cocky one,’ Amanjit observed.
Vikram winked, and signalled the next release.
Two more dragons flew. Two more shots. The crowd groaned. Amanjit swore. The two astras fizzled into the turf. And the herald began to hurry towards the king.
He’s on to us …
Vikram stepped forward and shouted to the servants holding the cage doors. ‘Release! Release them all!’
The cage-handlers stared and then glanced at King Vibhishana. The king raised his hand.
‘Sire,’ the herald called anxiously.
The king gestured his assent to the servants.
‘Sire!’ The herald broke into a run. ‘No!!!’
The cages flew open.
Pandemonium was unleashed. From every cage fantastical creatures swarmed. Hornets the size of eagles with tiny swords. Pixies from a Lewis Carroll dream. Monsters from a horror-writer’s nightmares. Dragon-headed girls who swam the air like sea-snakes. Winged Nagas, some as big a crocodiles. They all turned in mid-air, hanging aloft, and then their eyes blazed, and they swooped towards the boys, a wall of winged horror. Amanjit felt a sudden surge of fright, then instinct took over. He heard his voice crackle and the arrow he released went swirling up, high above the sudden storm of wings.
The herald grabbed the shoulder of the king, who turned in affronted shock. ‘Sire! We must—’
Vikram snapped off an astra that struck the herald in the heart. The Rakshasa stared downward at his chest, staggering back. Someone shrieked. Then with a mighty crack, Amanjit’s astra flew apart, like a sky-rocket that bursts into many, and a thousand searing mohini-shafts fell like rain into the thickest press of the winged monsters.
As each struck, the creature seemed to fly apart in a transparent burst of force. There was no blood, no screams of pain, just a roar like a tornado as creature after creature surrendered its life force to the atmosphere.
Vikram drew in his breath, aimed another arrow and then threw his awareness into the very air about him, pulling and drawing, consuming. The released energy of the magical creatures seemed to surge into him, hammering him like physical blows, like a current of electricity, jerking him physically as if he were in the throes of electrocution. He rose into the air, battered from all sides.
‘Vik! Release!’ Amanjit shouted.
From among the crowd, dozens of voices roared. Amanjit half turned, and saw a bestial Asura rip through a bench of his own people like they weren’t there. A real Asura! ‘The Lakshmana! The Lakshmana! Take him!’ it bellowed. Amanjit fired, sending a fiery arrow into the creature’s chest and watching it erupt in flames.
But still Vikram did not, or could not, fire. Caught up in the current of power flooding into him, he could barely move. He could feel the power lessening, receding. He had seconds, before it would dissipate so much he would not be able to use the arrow.
And still he couldn’t work it out—Brahmastra or Pashupatastra? Creation or Destruction.
‘Bhai! Fire! FIRE!’ Amanjit’s voice rose to desperation as he instinctively shot down an astra aimed at him, then fired back at a bow-wielding Asura, catching it in the eye. Behind it another came, a giant rhinoceros-thing with skin like rock and lava-eyes. ‘SHOOOOOOTTTTTTT!!!!’
Suddenly Vikram knew.
The forces here were in balance. It was the tipping place, where life—and energy—is preserved.
He whispered the words of the Vaishnava-astra, and shot it into the sky.
All of the current suddenly reversed, pouring out of him, dropping him like a discarded toy. He struck the ground and lay there stunned, gazing upward. But the forces unleashed by the multiple mohini-astra roared in the wake of the vivid silver arrow, caught it, and exploded like a silent bomb.
The entire arena was blown flat by the force wave. The Asuras rippled, as if they were images reflected in a suddenly disturbed pool, and then with a shrieking tear, the entire fabric of the mythland ripped. The arena, the crowd, the entire palace, fell apart like a torn painting, and Amanjit found himself standing over the prone Vikram in the middle of a field in a lush meadow. He caught a glimpse of King Vibhishana, his face stunned, shouting something imploring, then they were all gone, in a roar of surging winds that staggered him yet left the trees that suddenly appeared about them immobile.
A second later, they were alone in a dried-out paddy field beneath sultry Sri Lankan skies. The humidity hit him like a slap in the fa
ce with a wet towel. Birds sang and distant engines droned.
Amanjit bent over Vikram, who moaned, barely conscious.
‘We did it, bhai! We did it! What a team!’
Then he heard a faint noise, the sucking sound of a foot rising from a muddy puddle, and the faint exhalation of breath over jagged teeth. He whirled, and saw the rock-skinned rhinoceros-Rakshasa he had glimpsed before the Vaishnava-astra flew. It was poised at the edge of the paddy field, glowering at them with molten eyes. Roaring in fury, it lowered its head, aiming a single curved horn at them, and charged.
Courtroom Drama, Old School
Mumbai, Maharashtra, May 2011
Deepika Choudhary waited outside the civil courts complex in East Bandra, beneath an old banyan tree. The towering banyan was slowly being wrapped in a strangler fig, like some wooden squid reaching out from the earth to pull it down and swallow it whole. The shade was a blessing but the air was still stifling hot. It was midafternoon, and half the city’s autorickshaw drivers were sleeping here, sprawled in their passenger seats on the side of the road, oblivious to the roar of the traffic. The stink of petrol fumes and the waves of heat from the road made a nauseous swirl about her, but she fought it with spells that cooled and cleansed the air. How much better life was, how much more manageable, now that Vishwamitra had coached her on how to access and use her powers!
She was crouched on her haunches, wrapped in a headscarf and hidden behind big round sunglasses. She was also muttering charms against being noticed, and was about as inconspicuous as she could be. The old man with a paan-stand beside her hadn’t even noticed she was there. She hunched over a tiny bowl she had carved into the dirt, and filled with water. Tiny images played there, and words carried to her ears alone. It was a scrying spell, and she was watching Lalit give testimony.
Tripti had introduced their witness innocuously, with a dryly observed comment to the judge. ‘It’s a surprise witness, your honour—some old-school courtroom drama for the purists.’
The looks on the faces of Tanita, Charanpreet and Diltan Modi were priceless.
Then Lalit, soft-spoken but defiant, had produced document after document that his mother had thought shredded, and provided verbal testimony against her lies. He also produced correspondence between Tanita and Charanpreet that pointed to conspiracy, ruining both cases. He had even thrown in a plea for Vikram’s innocence. He looked pale but determined.
She smiled with satisfaction and released the spell. She was beginning to feel a little dizzy from it.
A half-hour passed, and then they emerged. She saw Tanita, Dinesh Khandavani’s estranged second wife, her face a mask of cold fury. Charanpreet Singh Bajaj, his own face disbelieving, put a hand on her arm, but she shook it off. When he persisted she whirled on him, snapped something and stomped away. She vanished alone. Diltan Modi, Tanita’s lawyer appeared, spitting on the footpath and stalking past Charanpreet without looking at him.
Charanpreet lingered, flexing his shoulders, swearing silently. Then he turned as Kiran emerged with her eldest son Bishin, Tripti the lawyer, and young Lalit. Charanpreet stormed towards them.
Deepika began to move, but she needn’t have bothered. Bishin met his uncle face-on, as if realizing for the first time that physically he was his uncle’s equal. Amanjit’s brother shoved Charanpreet in the chest, and he staggered. Charanpreet bunched his fists, then as quickly cowered. Bishin took one more step forward, and the older man backed away shouting insults, then turned and fled.
Kiran put her hand on Bishin’s shoulder, her face relieved and proud.
Deepika shadowed them as they walked to the car park. She wondered if the court had made any provision for Lalit. He would be in physical danger at home with Tanita and Charanpreet. Tripti had said she would arrange something. Deepika moved closer.
So did others. She saw him out of the corner of her right eye, as the family reached Tripti’s car. A tall man with tied-back long hair and a sinister goatee, dressed in black silk shirt and pants, wearing a jacket despite the heat. She had seen the man before, and knew it wasn’t his true face, just the illusory form he favoured. She focused her gaze and penetrated the illusion, revealing a hulking goat-faced Rakshasa. Prahasta, the Rakshasa to whom Ravindra had promised Deepika’s body. She felt her shoulders tense, and the stirrings of anger.
Lurking near the Rakshasa was a woman in a green salwar kameez. She moved awkwardly, as if in pain. Her face was wrapped in a dupatta, only her eyes showing. Deepika recognized her anyway, from those bewitching green eyes. Meenakshi Nandita … Surpanakha.
Deepika began to run, as Prahasta strolled towards Kiran. Tripti half turned to view the handsome stranger, as his hand slid inside his jacket to where a gun would hang. ‘Just some retribution, old school, you snotty-nosed bitch’ the Rakshasa sneered, as his gun emerged.
Deepika screamed a warning. ‘Watch out!’ In the corner of her vision she saw Surpanakha turn, startled. But Deepika had to focus on Prahasta: her hand shot out, even as the Rakshasa’s finger tightened on the trigger. A blast of force erupted from her fingers, as the gun roared.
Tripti staggered, her arms clutching her stomach as she doubled over and fell. Kiran screamed, Bishin pulled her behind him, but Lalit stood paralysed, utterly exposed to Prahasta’s aim.
Then Deepika’s blast of force struck the Rakshasa in the chest, and hammered him backward into a parked car. The door buckled and he sat down hard, dazed, his nose trickling blood. But he still held the gun.
Deepika closed in, weaving between the parked cars in the lot, while drivers and parking wardens scattered for cover. She saw a security man drop his rifle and run. Surpanakha’s hands came up from within the folds of her clothing, grasping a pistol, twisting and pointing it towards Deepika. ‘You!’ She fired.
A bullet ripped past Deepika as she dropped to the ground. ‘Get down!’ she called. Bishin pulled his mother down and huddled over her, staring wildly at Deepika. Beside them Tripti was bent in half, keening in agony. Lalit continued to just stare in shock at the dazed Prahasta, who sat up and raised his gun once more, pointing it straight at the young student.
Deepika leapt to her feet again, knowing that Surpanakha, somewhere to her right, was waiting for her to do just such a thing. But she needed a clear view of Prahasta, and had to move. She was to the Rakshasa’s left, perhaps thirty yards away. She saw his gun come up and shouted ‘BURN!’ Flames blazed from her hand and enveloped the Rakshasa. His gun spat and then he lost his grip on it. Lalit cried out in pain. Surpanakha’s bullets zipped past her as she ran. A sword appeared in her hands even as she closed on the demon. He rose, fighting the flames with spells of his own, then his eyes went wide as he saw her blade flash towards him. He twisted awkwardly, and somehow he swayed under her swing. The blade sheared through the air and smashed the window of the car behind him, and then he was lunging under her guard, throwing himself at her.
His seared body battered into her, crisped fur and the iron-reek of blood filling her nostrils as he slammed her to the road. His face loomed above her as the back of her head smacked against the ground and stars seemed to burst through her skull. The air whooshed from her lungs. His left hand found her throat, pinning her. His right hand bunched above her face. ‘At last …’ he snarled.
He did something, and she realized in fright that the car park was fading, and trees appearing.
He is dragging me into the mythlands! She fought his control, keeping them both in the real world. He snarled, and spat on her, his eyes throbbing above her. ‘My Queen! I’m going to–’
‘Nooo!’ Lalit launched himself at them. With a lazy turn, Prahasta’s right fist unbunched, and he backhanded the boy with an effortless slap that sent him flying backwards to sprawl motionless against a car. The Rakshasa’s eyes had only left Deepika for half a second. In that half-second, she had called his gun to her hands. He opened his mouth to taunt her, and saw the weapon, just as she fired it straight into his mouth from point-blank range. The
back of the Rakshasa’s head exploded out behind him. His back arched as he lifted from her bodily and sprawled, twitching.
She half sat, wolfing down air, and fired three more times into his chest. He jerked and convulsed, kicked once, then went still.
The trees faded and the car park solidified.
Her instincts screamed a warning. She twisted and rolled as a bullet gouged the place where she had lain, and another seared a furrow in her shoulder as she rolled again and again, firing blindly where the bullets came from. She heard metal rip and glass shatter. She fetched up against Lalit, and gasped for breath. Blood welled from her shoulder, but the bullet had merely grazed her. Painful but harmless.
All too human screams erupted as people finally began to realize what was happening.
She looked at Lalit, and noted the shallow hiss of breath. He’d been hit. Beyond him she saw Tripti, her eyes open, her mouth still emitting a high-pitched howling sound, blood pooling all about her. Bishin was holding Kiran, his eyes flickering about then locking on Deepika’s with desperate hope.
She wondered what she looked like right now. Had her skin turned black? Were her eyes glowing? She could feel that familiar rage bubbling up inside her … ‘Bishin! Help them! Call for help! There’s another one—I’m going after her!’
He didn’t question this statement, neither that she was going to take on the hidden shooter, nor that she knew it was a her. He just nodded, his eyes filling up with the courage to move and act. She nodded once, and then began to move.
Surpanakha was running.
In a few minutes, she will be in contact with Ravindra, and he’ll know to check out my heartstone, realize I’m alive, and then he’ll use it to turn me to jelly. I’ve got to get to her before that, or I’m lost forever.
She leapt to her feet, and stormed after the fleeing demoness.