And yet, those front line vanars were the lucky ones.
A few thousand more of their equally brave comrades, in the lines behind them, provided the soft obstruction that slowed the charge, their shrieking, mangled bodies forcing the mounts as well as the foot soldiers to reluctantly come to a halt. Vanars were squashed under the thundering hoofs, pushed along brutally, and piled upon and over and under—and through— the bodies of their comrades behind them, until the mass of piled bodies that resulted was yards high in places, with several hundred wounded or incapacitated vanars caught in the morass, most doomed to slow, tortuous deaths but several simply stuck and unable to break free of the twisted, writhing knot of piled bodies. A few dozen rakshasas and their mounts broke their legs or slipped and fell and were hard pressed to regain their footing, so gory was the canyon floor, with so much flesh and gristle and blood underfoot. The masth elephants that had been thought to be of such obvious value in this charge proved to be a mistake, perhaps the only one that the rakshasas made in that first clash, for they could not be stopped, and simply barrelled onwards, ramming through the growing pile of bodies and shoving them forward, crushing the press like piled grapes, until they collapsed as well, and were struck by the tuskers following them in turn, which infuriated them further and led to spontaneous fights among the beasts, all piled up together and squealing and screaming horribly, for the assortment of jagged and broken weapons in the press was sufficient to inflict mortal wounds in the maddened elephants. And thus they added their own tormented corpses to the great wall of carnage that rose in the centre of the canyon.
And that was all in the first impact.
The vanars who had crouched on the shoulders of their comrades just before the rakshasa vanguard struck their lines, leaped high into the air, just as they had been instructed. Their timing was perfectly planned and executed, so that at the exact instant when the rakshasa charge smashed into their ranks, they were in the air, suspended several feet, or even yards in some agile cases, above the fray. In the moments it took them to succumb once more to Prithvi ki dor—the invisible thread of gravity that tied every creature on earth to its mother-planet— the rakshasa charge struck the Kiskindha lines, ploughed through them like a threshing blade drawn by rampaging oxen, and passed twenty yards or more beyond them. So when they descended, they descended upon rakshasa helms, heads, shoulders, chests, backs, or mounts. In a few unfortunate but inevitable cases, some of the leapers came down only to be impaled upon rakshasa spears or horns. But most were shrewd and agile enough to avoid such pitfalls and fell upon the foe, going to work at once as they had been trained.
The rakshasas were thick-skinned, often scaly or armoured, with spiked cladding. Apart from their natural horns and tusks, similar to the various bestial species with which they shared a resemblance and a family tree, they also had sharp-bladed weapons clutched in their fists. But they were designed more for effect, and for attack, not defence. Rakshasas had no natural predators, or enemies, except maybe mortals; their armour as well as their natural defences had evolved to injure, maim and kill their prey or enemy, not to ward off enemies who attacked them, certainly not lithe, limber little vanars who leaped twenty feet into the air, and then landed upon their backs or necks, while the rakshasas were still engaged in a headlong forward charge and in crushing or hacking down other vanars.
So perfectly had the leaping been timed, that it spelled certain death for the vanars who had borne their fellows on their shoulders. But they had known the inevitability of their fate: had they not undertaken this manoeuvre, all of them would have died. This way, the leaping vanars got a fighting chance, and the element of complete surprise. For in all the millennia that the rakshasa races had been battling—and they had been warring ever since the beginning of creation, it was what they did—no enemy had ever sprung such a tactic, with such brilliant timing and execution. This was the very thing that Lakshman, for this tactic was his brainchild, had counted on.
The leaping vanars, or the flying vanars, as they would henceforth always be called, landed on their adversaries, and even as the mounts and hoofs and flying blades and spearpoints of the rakshasas crushed and maimed and slaughtered the vanars on the ground, the flying vanars fell on the enemy with a ferocity that could not be compared to anything else. They bit at the ring of neck that was exposed between helms and breastplates, ripped out unprotected bellies, tore into the soft fleshy portions on either side of the rakshasa spines, where the rakshasa liver and organs of liquid purification were housed, their sharpened talons and teeth working damage in small areas in a fashion calculated to cause irreparable damage. Livers were torn out, throats ripped open, bellies slashed and entrails removed in a blood-spraying flash, eyes gouged and turned to useless lumps of fleshy pulp. Some vanars were given the gift of landing on the mounts themselves, and it was short work to do their deadly damage to the startled kumbha-surs and broken-surs. That was even more effective than killing their riders, for the already crazed, driven-beyond-the-limit beasts barely realised that they had been dealt fatal blows, and rode on mindlessly for several dozen yards, until they shuddered and tumbled head over heels, tossing their rakshasa riders like clay dolls to smash into other rakshasas ahead of them, or into the rocky canyon walls, joining the growing pile of corpses in the enclosed mortuary that the place was fast becoming.
Almost none of the rakshasas or mounts was able to resist even a single flying vanar. Apart from those few unfortunates who landed on open blades or points, the rest of the contingent did their bloody work, then leaped again, landing on new victims farther back in the rakshasa lines—for the sheer momentum of the charge kept the whole vanguard moving, even after it had ploughed into the rising heap of vanar dead—and repeating their killing. By the third or fourth leap, the rakshasa onslaught had slowed sufficiently for the Lankans coming up, mostly on foot by this point, to see the danger and take action. But almost at once, as if aided by the very Prithvi herself, the dust cloud thrown up by the charge as well as the impact obscured the air for yards ahead, blinding the rakshasa hordes. And since they were still expecting to see the enemy ahead of them, and a much shorter enemy at that, barely one-third their size, the last thing they were expecting was for bloody murder to come dropping down out of the skies.
By the time the rakshasas had cottoned on to the stratagem of the flying vanars and begun to roar warnings to their fellows in the lines behind, the Kiskindhans had taken an impressive toll. Nowhere near as many rakshasas as vanars died in that first wave of assaults as vanars, nay. If anything, the vanar casualties in that very first rakshasa charge numbered well over ten thousand, whereas barely a couple of thousand rakshasas were slain. But by this time, the vanars lined up beyond the end of the trough created by the ploughing slowdown of the rakshasa charge had begun leaping over the pile of corpses of their fallen comrades, and these brave Kiskindha warriors entered the fray too. They leaped onto those enraged rakshasas who had escaped their flying fellows, landing upon them two or three at a time. In some cases, a half dozen vanars landed upon a single rakshasa, and the sheer viciousness of their attack almost equalled the brutality of the rakshasas themselves. Some rakshasas, blinded by the swirling dust and blood splattered into their eyes by the collision, saw only nightmarish glimpses of ‘flying’ vanars leaping onto their fellow rakshasas and tearing them open—to their startled minds, deluded into expecting to face only a puny, monkey-like enemy by their overconfident generals, it was as if the vanars had been empowered by some sorcerous means. Not particularly gifted with intelligence, their rakshasa brains were too slow-witted to think of looking up—which was where their attackers appeared from, to rip into their own throats and bodies the next instant. What the vanars lacked compared to their rakshasa foes in size and strength and weaponry and armour, they valiantly made up for by sheer courage, speed and ferocity.
Sugreeva knew and sensed and saw and heard and scented all this without actually needing to pause and look. He himself awake
ned as if from a long, dreamless stupor to find that he was crouched atop a dead rakshasa and his maimed, howling mount—the foolish creatures the enemy rode seemed to make more noise than a hundred vanars—and wielding a length of hardwood almost as thick as the trunk of a young tree. He could not recall how he had come by the tree trunk—probably it was the pole of a spear and the bladed metal point had broken off somewhere somehow—but to his vanar touch, its rough, unpolished length felt exactly like a young sala trunk that he had once wielded in a battle. He flailed the weapon around, hefting it overhead and swinging it wildly. The bodies of two rakshasas lay with their heads and shoulders smashed and naked white bone exposed through their torn muscles nearby, and it took him a moment to accept that he had slain those two as well as the one on whose body he now stood, as well as at least three more lying farther behind him in the ugly press of bodies dead or dying. The rakshasa charge had finally been shattered and now warriors of both forces milled about in the dense dust fog that covered everyone, turning rakshasa and vanar alike into dust-covered demons roaring and shrieking and swinging and leaping and fighting to the death. A rakshasa with a lupine gait came loping straight at him, its red eyes glowing in the dust like a timberwolf he had once faced in the Nilgiri ranges, then leaped, snarling, in a high arc that would bring its weight down upon him with crushing finality, and he swung the tree trunk with a deftness that surprised even him, catching the oncoming rakshasa at the highest point of its leap, in the soft vulnerable flesh of its throat, cutting off its lupine howl and nearly severing its spine at the neck. The corpse of the beast, head hanging backwards now, open throat-wound gushing arterial blood, collapsed in a heap before him, ploughing through the blood-covered dirt of the canyon floor and raising the dry dust that lay beneath, adding to the opacity of the air. Sugreeva issued a cheekaing shriek of triumph, then turned his attention to a trio of feral catlike rakshasas that crept out of the dust-fog. He kept them at bay for a moment by some deft swinging of the pole, some distant corner of his mind thinking, you will pay dearly for this vigour, Sugreeva, you are too old and weak to fight like this for long, your muscles will not support your defiant will much longer. Then, just as two of them were about to outflank him and the third was crouching to leap from behind him, a blur of vanar fur streaked out of the dust haze and leaped at the cat-rakshasas. Two vanars and the leaping cat-rakshasa met in mid-air, all three tearing and scratching and ripping viciously on impact. Two, a vanar and one of the cat-rakshasas fell like stones to the ground, badly mauled and bleeding to death; the third, a vanar, limped a step or two, then leaped back into the attack against another rakshasa and was lost again in the haze. From the other side, with feral roars of fury, the other two catrakshasas leaped at him. Sugreeva turned his pole, gripped it with both hands and slammed it into the rib-cages of the chests of the enemies, stopping them in mid-leap but also driving himself backwards beneath their considerably greater weight. He was driven back down to his knees, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thought he would be pinned down beneath them, but then he shoved forward with a snarl and was shocked to feel them yielding and falling back. Without thinking about it, he turned the pole and impaled one of the rakshasas on its jagged point, then continued to slam the side of the polehead into the skull of the other one, feeling more than hearing the cranial bone crack with a nauseating impact. What invisible god had granted him the strength to push back two rakshasas, each weighing several times his own weight? ‘For Rama!’ he shrieked, and fought on.
It went on like this for a while. Killing, attacking, being attacked, fending off, vanars joining him in the fray, him coming to the aid of vanars, making stands against oncoming rakshasas, taking advantage of the few blessed instants of dust-shrouded obscurity to finish off the crippled rakshasas lest they rise again and attack them from behind, all the grisly grind and clatter and grimy glamour of the battlefield.
Somewhere in the midst of all the carnage and the gore and the slaughter, two realisations came to Sugreeva simultaneously. One, that he was stronger and faster than he had ever been before, and had more stamina than he ever knew he possessed; even after what seemed like an hour-watch of brutal, punishing combat, he was still on his feet, still wielding the yards-long spear pole, still slaying rakshasas before they could come within touching or killing distance of him; never before, not even in his younger, more virile years had he ever experienced such a sensation of power and strength and resoluteness. The second realisation was that it was time to move to the next phase of Rama’s plan.
He drove the end of the pole into the face of a charging bear-like rakshasa, shattering the beast’s jaw, sending slimy yellow tooth fragments flying in all directions, watched the beast fall in a thrashing heap upon the bodies of other rakshasas he had slain. Then, with great reluctance, almost regret, he turned and began issuing the ululating call for retreat. It took several moments before his message penetrated through the fog of warlust that had gripped his Kiskindha warriors. And several moments more before they were able to disengage themselves from the enemy and fall back. Once in effect, the retreat was also difficult, for it was painful to clamber over the veritable hillock of dead or dying creatures, including so many of their own fallen comrades, particularly those that were caught in the piled press of bodies created by the ploughing slowdown of the first charge. But there was nothing to be done for them, and his orders were clear: Stand and hold the first charge, take as many rakshasa lives as possible, then retreat so swiftly the enemy should be bewildered by your disappearance. He barked orders to his vanars, painful orders compelling them to leave the wounded and near-dead and fall back at once, using the vanar tactic known as mist-wraiths, referring to the stealthy attack-and-flee method of Kiskindha vanars, using the cover of the famed redmist of their mountain homelands to best advantage. It pained him to turn his back on the enemy as well, when he could have taken more rakshasa lives and helped alleviate the unequal balance, for he knew in his heart that their losses were nowhere near his, but Rama’s orders were Rama’s orders, and he fell back, retreated and withdrew, leaving the rakshasas in the canyon milling about in utter confusion, unable to understand where the little monkey beasts had disappeared to all of a sudden. Their valiant work done, the vanars of Kiskindha retreated under cover of the dust cloud to permit the next phase of Rama’s plan to be put into effect.
FIVE
They came cautiously, knowing the enemy was here somewhere, smelling the unmistakable scent of vanars in the forest. Mandaradevi had watched as their leaders had ordered them to proceed with care. But the troops had grunted derisively and shrugged off the cautions. What had they to fear from little, naked, unarmed monkeymen? This would be like a pack of tigers on a rabbit hunt, they snarled.
They were right. Except that, this time, they were the rabbits.
The plan called for her to wait until the entire rakshasa horde was inside the confines of the forest before ordering the attack. But the rakshasa general leading this contingent was wiser than most. He ordered a third of the troops to fan out through the woods, sweeping it from the south end up to the north, while the remaining rakshasas waited outside. Those ordered to hold back squatted on their haunches grumpily, peeved at being denied the chance to snack on hot squealing vanar flesh. Mandara-devi eyed them uneasily, trying to decide what to do next. Finally, she came to the conclusion that there was nothing else for it. She would simply have to go ahead as planned, and hope for the best. Too much depended on them coordinating this battle with the others for her to wait much longer. As it was, she was certain that the other vanar contingents would have engaged the enemy by now. Any moment now, Hanuman would appear overhead, expecting to see the battle in the valley over, or in its final phases.
She watched as a pair of lumbering rakshasa brutes passed directly beneath the tree in which she was ensconced. She decided that they would do as well as any, and raised her head, arching her throat to cry out an ululating call that was instantly taken up and answered by hund
reds, then thousands, then tens of thousands of vanar throats across the valley—and beyond it as well. The rakshasas below jerked their heads upwards with a start, then howled their fury as well as communicating to their fellows that the enemy had been sighted. One of them began hacking at the tree with his enormous bladed weapon, as if he would chop it down to get to her. She was glad these rakshasas could not climb trees, then she wondered mischeviously if that was such a bad thing—perhaps a tree battle would be better than this uneven fight.
She cheekaed, leaping to a lower branch, then still lower, to afford the blundering beasts below a better sight of her. She hung from a branch, using her tail to suspend herself upside down, bringing her within a few yards of the ground. They howled and waved their stubby rakshasa arms—these were some kind of bull breed, with short, thick, menacing horns, stocky upper bodies and massive, overdeveloped lower bodies and haunches that looked powerful enough to kick an elephant to death. As if reading her mind, the stupid beast who had been hacking at the latsyoa’s trunk, turned around, dropped his weapon, braced himself with his stubby arms flat on the ground, and released a powerful kick. He misjudged the distance and only landed one rear hoof on the trunk, but the impact was enough to jar her bones. The trunk cracked, protesting loudly. The other rakshasa roared to his companion, who glanced behind, corrected his angle and prepared to deliver another mighty kick, this one aimed to—
RAMAYANA Part 3_PRINCE AT WAR Page 69