The Iron Ring

by Lloyd Alexander

  Ashwara turned on his heel and strode to the horse lines, calling for Kirin and Skanda. "What have you done?" Mirri rounded on Tamar. "You made him go against his better judgment."

  "And what of my own judgment? This is a matter between warriors. It's settled now."

  He saw little of Ashwara in the following days. As the columns of foot troops and chariots moved closer to Ranapura, Ashwara was busy with a hundred things and seemed to be in a hundred places at once. When they did meet, Tamar was not sure if he sensed a deep sadness, or a cold formality, or if Ashwara was simply preoccupied.

  Mirri said nothing more on the subject, which made it worse. He could not understand why it gnawed at him. He had acted properly, according to dharma. His right, his obligation, as he had told Ashwara. If he had done right, why did it feel wrong? He finally reasoned it out: If Ashwara mistrusted his skill, the tawny-haired warrior might hold back Sundari's troops even when most needed. A fatal error that might well cost Ashwara the battle.

  After another sleepless night, Tamar sought him out. With Kirin beside him, Ashwara was tracing lines in the ground, marking positions his army would take up.

  Tamar began by talking about something else. "When Akka was in Nahusha's chambers, he heard there was a plan of some sort. That's all he knows, but Nahusha must be sure of the scheme, so he wasn't troubled when Bala wouldn't join him. Yet Mirri thinks he doesn't have that many troops if he asked Bala's help in the first place."

  "She may be right," Ashwara said. "I must try to learn more of Nahusha's plan. Is that all you came to tell me?"

  "No. My troops ..." Tamar hesitated; his words were sticking in his throat.

  "What about them?"

  "When they're here ..." Tamar began again. He looked away for a moment. Ashwara waited in silence. "It's for the best," Tamar went on painfully, "if-if I don't command them. Darshan will."

  "As you choose," Ashwara said quietly. He nodded. "A wise decision."

  Later, Tamar went back to the shelter. Mirri was relieved when he told her what he had done. He did not tell her his shame at judging himself unworthy. He did not tell her that he had just given up his pride as a king and his honor as a kshatriya, and he had nothing left.

  Ashwara had attached Tamar to his personal staff, giving him a chariot and a promise that he might command a small detachment. Tamar made himself satisfied with that. But there was no sign of Garuda and Akka. Ashwara's columns had by now reached the edge of the woodlands, halting at the open ground before Ranapura. The eight sided fortress, with massive walls of golden-brown stone, overlooked a rolling plain dotted with copses of slender trees and, here and there, a rocky knoll. Tall watchtowers rose at each angle of the fortress; Tamar could clearly see the lookouts in the turrets. Beyond Ranapura, jagged white peaks of the Snow Mountains soared into the clouds. Tamar constantly scanned the sweep of sky for a glimpse of a winged shape. None. Even by generous reckoning, Garuda should have found the camp days ago.

  Neither the bird nor Akka could have failed to notice the massing of warriors, ranks of chariots, horse lines, and stacks of provisions. Ashwara made no attempt at concealment. He allowed tents to be pitched, cook fires lit. Nahusha had chosen to set his battle lines well in front of the fortress. Warriors moved, unhurried, among the pavilions. Tamar did not see Nahusha, but once caught sight of Kana strolling with a group of officers. It all seemed very leisurely.

  At dusk, Tamar went to the tent Ashwara had assigned them. Rajaswami sat cross-legged, deep in contemplation. By the light of an oil lamp, Hashkat sorted out harness leathers, for the monkey had insisted on being Tamar's chariot driver.

  Adi-Kavi and Mirri were setting out food. Seeing Tamar's worried frown, the suta laid a hand on his arm: "Put your mind at rest. They'll be here, and your troops soon after. Nothing will happen meantime. Ashwara won't issue his challenge until your people are well in position. Nahusha won't fight until he's formally challenged. You're a king, you know how these things are done."

  "I don't," said Mirri. "Ashwara's here, armed to the teeth. Nahusha sees him. What more challenge?"

  "Formalities," Adi-Kavi said. "Above all, the formalities must be properly observed. What will happen, when Ashwara's ready, is that he and his brothers will ride up to Nahusha's lines with a flag of truce. Ashwara will declare his grievances and why he intends to fight. He'll demand Nahusha's surrender. Nahusha won't do it, of course. They'll trade some elegantly polished insults; each will declare right and justice on their side. Ashwara will ride back. And so it begins.

  "Every game has its rules," Adi-Kavi continued. "This is a game for kshatriyas. There are rules about surrendering, carrying away the wounded, breaking off a combat-Oh, it's all neatly planned out.

  "Naturally, there's always some hotheaded, battle-mad fool who goes rampaging. It's contagious. His comrades join in, rules to the wind. Then it's butchery, plain and simple: Kill, kill, no matter how. They call it sankula." Adi-Kavi grimaced. "Sankula? Bloody lunacy, as I see it."

  "How do you know all this?" Mirri asked. "You're a suta; you're forbidden to fight."

  "True," Adi-Kavi said. "Sutas don't bear arms, but I still had to learn. As a royal crier, my duty was to be with my king; and, when the battle ended, make a show of praising his great valor and dauntless courage. I can tell you, though, when you see a king in full regalia leaning over his chariot to puke out his poor terrified guts-praising his valor takes a certain amount of inventiveness.

  "At sundown, they leave off slaughtering each other. The warriors go back to their tents, eat, drink, and tell dazzling lies about their heroic deeds. No one fights at night, you see. That's one rule never broken. Unthinkable. Simply not done. At dawn, they go at it again.

  "Rules, sweet gopi," said Adi-Kavi. "Absolutely necessary when disemboweling your enemies. Otherwise, we'd be no better than barbarians."

  Late morning of the next day, Nahusha attacked.

  24. Sankula! Skanula!

  Skanda, flushed and furious, was shouting for him. Tamar stepped out of the tent; he could not believe what he was hearing. He told Skanda it was not possible.

  "Not possible?" Skanda retorted. "You think not? Yes, well, Nahusha's done it. No challenge. No warning. Ashwara just found out. All officers report to him."

  Kirin and other commanders were already there when Tamar, still disbelieving, hurried into the headquarters tent. The kshatriyas were muttering angrily among themselves. Ashwara silenced them with a gesture. He motioned with his head toward a warrior, begrimed with sweat and dust, standing, arms folded and face tight-set.

  "A rider from the king of Chandragar," Ashwara said quickly to Tamar. "King Rudra. First to support my cause. A strong warrior, my firm ally from the beginning. His army holds my left flank, close by the Rana." He turned to the message bearer. "Speak further."

  "I have spoken all I know," the rider said, "and all that Rudra himself can tell you. A little before midday, Nahusha's warriors attacked us in force. They took us by surprise. No challenge had been given-against honor and the rules of war. How could Rudra have foreseen such a deed?

  "They fell on us as if out of nowhere: spearmen, bowmen, hurlers of chakras. We took heavy losses, many slain before Rudra could rally his people and strike back. But when he struck," the man added with grim satisfaction, "he shattered them. They fled, leaving their dead behind. Rudra holds his position. One thing more." The warrior grinned. "Rudra sends these words: 'Say this to Ashwara: If Nahusha thinks to defeat me, he must swallow me whole. If he tries to bite me, he will break his teeth."

  "Rudra has done nobly," Ashwara said. "Tell him we shall strive to match his courage."

  Ashwara ordered his commanders to reinforce all battle lines and stand ready to answer any action by Nahusha. Skanda and Kirin hurried to assemble their troops. Tamar held back a moment, to ask Ashwara:

  "How did Nahusha send warriors against Rudra without our knowing? We've watched his camp every day. There was no sign of movement. Even if his columns left
by the rear gates, we'd have seen them on the march."

  "One answer," Ashwara said. "They did not march from Ranapura. They were already in position, lying in ambush, long before now."

  "That's what I'd have guessed." Mirri had been standing unnoticed in a corner of the pavilion. She stepped closer to Ashwara. "I have another idea about it too."

  "Speak your mind," Ashwara said. "By rule, women have no part in warriors' concerns." His face softened. "Even so, no rule forbids me hearing a gopi's thoughts."

  "Nahusha never intended waiting to be challenged," Mirri said. As Ashwara nodded, she went on, "And you? Did you believe he would?"

  Ashwara's golden eyes darkened. "No. I suspected he would not wait; yet, I could not bring myself to strike first and break my dharma. In my heart, I still hoped that he might redeem his own dharma and meet my terms. I had to allow him that chance. King Rudra has paid dearly for my hope. His warriors' blood is on my hands, as surely as if I myself had slain them.

  "Now there is no turning back. I do what I must. At Bala's court, I vowed I would fight for justice, not revenge. The moment is upon me, but I question: Can I fight without rage? Without pride in battle? Without joy in victory? Can any man kill and keep his heart pure? If not, then is all slaughter alike, good cause or bad, and the same death for all at the end? Once, I believed that death is the warrior's final truth. Is it only his last illusion?

  "Until I understand this," Ashwara continued, "I will not raise my own hand in battle. I will take no part in mortal combat-except against Nahusha himself; he and I, face to face. The path of my karma will cross his for one last time.

  "Stay awhile," he said to Mirri. "A gopi's thoughts may be clearer than a kshatriya's. You, King of Sundari, go to Skanda. Put yourself at his orders."

  Word of the treacherous attack on Rudra had blazed through the camp. Trumpet calls rang out along the lanes of tents. Warriors ran to assemble, still buckling leather breastplates. Field officers shouted for their companies to form ranks. Without waiting to be told, Hashkat had hitched Gayatri and Jagati to Tamar's light, four-wheeled chariot. At its high, shield like prow, the monkey had filled the weapons rack with Tamar's sword, bow, a full quiver of arrows, and set long, slender lances within hand's reach.

  Even before Hashkat could rein up, Tamar vaulted over the side rails to gain his footing on the flat bed of planks that served as a fighting platform. He sighted Skanda's own chariot and motioned for Hashkat to catch up to it.

  "Nahusha's warriors are in line of battle," Skanda called out as Hashkat drew alongside. His face was flushed; his blue-gray eyes danced and sparkled. He looked like a happy boy. "Kirin's people are going to engage them. I'm in support. We'll have to go at them smartly. Too bad there's not much daylight left.

  "Orders?" he said, when Tamar repeated Ashwara's command. "I really don't have any for you. Later, perhaps. Meantime, you'll want friend Hashkat to keep your chariot in a little better trim."

  With a wave of his hand, he sped off. It teetered on the fine edge of insult. Ashwara's army was in high spirits; they had won almost every engagement; Tamar had not been in so much as a skirmish. He had handed over the ruby to Adi-Kavi. Risk of losing it in battle? He could as well have kept it. Ashwara had not given him a company. When Tamar questioned this, Ashwara, too busy to discuss it, urged patience. He wondered if the lion-eyed warrior was deliberately shielding him and if Mirri had anything to do with it.

  He did not face her with his suspicion. They saw little of each other. He awoke each dawn, armed quickly, tumbled out Hashkat, and rode to the warriors' assembly. He waited. Neither Kirin nor Skanda had need of him. He was fuming. Also, he was relieved.

  His shameful secret: fear. It was like some kind of small, pale worm hiding unnoticed until now. It had raised its head the first day he had seen the dead and wounded carted off the field. The dead, at least, were quiet; he could turn his eyes away. Some of the wounded were very loud. Worse, they were still alive. The worm thrived and fattened, feeding on him. Tamar understood: Before it grew bigger, he would have to kill the worm.

  He calculated how to do it. One morning, leaving Hashkat asleep, he rode Gayatri to the assembly. He knew Ashwara's battle plan was to hold Nahusha's troops in check with foot soldiers and chariots while King Rudra swung his lines across the open side of the plain to cramp Nahusha's movement. Skanda's light cavalry harassed Nahusha's flank whenever and wherever least expected. That afternoon, when Skanda's horsemen took the field, Tamar galloped after them.

  They skirted the main body of clashing warriors and wheeling chariots, the knots of foot soldiers striking out with spears and heavy clubs, then veered toward the fortress. Skanda was heading behind Nahusha's battle line, attacking the supply tents and stores of weapons.

  Except for the first moments, when Tamar thought his heart would leap into his throat, it was marvelous. Everything was suddenly bright and sharp, sparkling clear. He was light-headed, swept up in a wave of wild freedom. He could do anything he wanted. Sword out, he slashed tent ropes, trampling any warriors trapped inside. Everyone was shouting enough to burst their lungs. Skanda's horsemen were torching the provisions and smashing the stacks of arms. Tamar jumped Gayatri over a flaming heap, and pressed on. The worm was definitely dead.

  Nahusha's troops fought back as best they could; but they were rear area foot soldiers, not kshatriyas. Skanda's riders cut most of them down with least expense of effort and wasted motion; the rest fled-slowly, for it seemed that time had become sticky and sluggish, barely moving. A man stumbled and flopped awkwardly across Tamar's path, got to his knees and raised his hands. Tamar could have taken the soldier's head off in one easy, looping stroke. The man stared, open mouthed; he was gray-faced, with bad teeth, and did not want to die. Tamar stared back. As once he had looked into a tiger's eyes and felt the fear and pain of a trapped animal, he felt his blade cutting flesh and bone of his own neck. He pondered this for a seemingly long while. He turned Gayatri aside. The man got up and went away.

  Skanda was whistling for the riders to withdraw. The raid had wrought satisfactory havoc. Tamar thought it had lasted all afternoon. It had only been a few minutes. The sun was still high when Tamar, trailing the horsemen, galloped to Ashwara's lines.

  After sundown, Ashwara's field officers gathered in one of the pavilions. Tamar joined them. Kirin and Skanda were there amid a crowd of cavalrymen, laughing and tossing rough jokes back and forth. Skanda caught sight of him:

  "Why, here's the king of Sundari." He grinned at Tamar. "Don't think I didn't see you tagging along with us. Against orders?" Skanda winked. "Never mind. I know you're keen to be in the thick of it. I like that in an officer. Oh-by the way, did you kill your man?"

  "Yes. Of course." Skanda clapped him on the shoulder. "Good fellow. Good fellow." Tamar left the tent and did not go back.

  They were killing the horses. For a moment, Tamar thought he was having a nightmare. He came full awake. Horses were shrieking in agony at the far edge of the camp. He flung on whatever garments lay at hand, snatched his sword, and plunged out of the tent. The sky was as pink as dawn. It took him another instant to understand it was still night. Flames billowed from the pavilions. A fist of hot wind struck him in the face.

  He turned back. Mirri and Adi-Kavi were on their feet. Hashkat, blade in hand, started off to hitch up Gayatri and Jagati.

  "Let be," Tamar ordered. "Mirri. Adi-Kavi. Take the horses and chariot. Get Rajaswami away. Ride into the woods. Stay there."

  Rajaswami rubbed his bleary eyes. "What's the commotion? Good heavens, don't they realize people are trying to sleep?"

  Tamar shook him. "Go with Mirri. We're attacked."

  "Oh, I shouldn't think so." Rajaswami yawned. "It can't be morning." Tamar hauled up the acharya and sent him stumbling into Adi-Kavi's arms.

  "How will I find you?" Mirri called.

  "I don't know. Hashkat with me." He ran from the tent, the monkey humping along beside him. Rajaswami, fussing and fretting like
a child, was demanding his umbrella.

  Nahusha's horsemen, brandishing torches, were galloping through the camp, behind them spearmen and sword fighters. When Tamar finally grasped that Nahusha had done the unthinkable and launched a night attack, he also realized it was even worse. Not a sudden raid, a quick and savage foray. Nahusha was throwing most of his forces against them all along the line. Tamar headed toward Ashwara's pavilion. The camp had turned rosy red and orange, bright as day.

  The little worm of fear stirred. It was still alive. It had only been sleeping. Tamar shuddered so violently he could scarcely grip his blade. Ashwara's warriors were grappling hand to hand with their attackers. There were no ranks, no formations, only swarms of figures that broke apart and clashed together again. Someone had begun shouting "Sankula! Sankula!" The cry spread: one voice, then another. The whole camp seemed to heave like a single, convulsing body.

  "Sankula!" Roaring, cursing, warriors flung aside broken weapons or ripped at opponents' faces with jagged ends of shattered blades, clawing, kicking, gouging-it was all sankula. Tamar ran blindly on. Hashkat at his heels, he lunged through a thicket of flailing arms and legs, struggling to reach Ashwara's tent. Free from the press of warriors, he sped across a patch of empty ground, lost his footing in a slick of mud, and pitched headlong. When he realized it was not mud, he promptly threw up and continued doing so until his stomach turned inside out. Hashkat crouched beside him.

  "A royal sight you are, King of Sundari." The monkey grinned all over his face. "We'll get Adi-Kavi to spout some heroic praises for you."

  They both began laughing like a pair of fools. A yellow-bearded kshatriya ran past. Kirin. Tamar scrambled to catch up with him. "Where's Ashwara?"

  Kirin had to squint a moment before recognizing him. "In the field." He gestured toward Ranapura. "He's ordered a counterattack."