To avert such a catastrophe, Avanti’s protectors had but one recourse available to them. By new moon night, Betaal had to be rescued and escorted back to Borderworld — but first, the shaman had to be killed to free Betaal of his influence. And the task of rescuing the Ghoulmaster and reinstating him in Borderworld fell on the young shoulders of Vikramaditya.
“I will be too weak to go by myself,” Betaal had said. “You must take me back. You are the only one who can, because you are the only human who knows the way into Borderworld and back, king. You have been there before, remember?”
Vikramaditya remembered. He remembered stumbling feverishly through the cold fog, his small feet slipping and sliding in the wet, marshy soil. He remembered the strange apparition come out of the fog, with hands that had razor-sharp claws and hair that was a shock of orange flames. He remembered the skeletal face and the black, hollowed eyes with their pinpricks of red light, staring at him. He remembered being unafraid as the thing gently took his small hand and told him he wasn’t meant to be in Borderworld, that it wasn’t his time yet. He remembered it leading him back over the choked and sluggish river, up the broken steps of the bathing ghat, past the ruins of the city gate, into the deserted city of —
“Is that Amara Simha and Varahamihira?”
Kalidasa was already halfway to his feet, his body arched, his big muscles bunched, ready to launch into a run. His right hand gripped a long-handled axe, and he stared into the darkness at the far edge of the cremation ground. Vikramaditya followed his friend’s gaze, and as if on cue, shadows sprang into form and battle cries burst from the night as the massive, bearded figure of Amara Simha charged into view. Close on his heels came Varahamihira, brandishing his sword. Behind him came a screaming wall of Avanti’s soldiers.
“Let’s go, Vikrama!”
Kalidasa shot out of the thicket and was already six paces ahead by the time Vikramaditya broke cover. More soldiers emerged from the surrounding brush and charged noiselessly after Kalidasa, now silhouetted against the fires. He was bigger and broader than most men Vikramaditya had set eyes upon, his long hair knotted in a high ponytail, the arc of his axe glinting in the firelight.
Pulling his father’s sword free and feeling the texture of the hide-bound hilt under his palm, Vikramaditya covered the distance to the cremation ground in long strides, passing the men accompanying him and Kalidasa. He drew abreast of his friend just as the Huna defenders clashed with Amara Simha and his troops on the far side. With the din of battle shattering over the ground, Kalidasa and Vikramaditya exchanged brisk nods and parted, the former taking a long, curving route to the left, the latter cutting to the right at an angle. Behind them, the men also broke into two groups.
Vikramaditya ducked into the shadow of the Huna tents, flitting from one to the next, while holding a straight line as far as possible — a line that pointed to the tall banyan out in the middle. The scurry of his men’s footsteps came after him.
The banyan was where the droiba had imprisoned Betaal. And if the Ghoulmaster was to be believed, the tree and this entire cremation ground were extensions of the ancient banyan and the field of pyres in Borderworld. That explained why the Hunas had taken such a tenacious grasp of the cremation ground — their shaman had known that the place was crucial to summon and seize Betaal, Vikramaditya realized.
A sudden movement occurred to Vikramaditya’s left — a well-built Huna, drawn by the noise of battle, stepped out of his tent armed with a sword. The barbarian’s eyes widened on sighting the king, but before he could attack or raise an alarm, a shadow with a raised sword slipped in behind him. Aswift, expert thrust through the back, and the savage sagged without a sound. The Huna’s killer stepped away and the light caught his face —Vararuchi. Vikramaditya nodded at his half-brother in appreciation.
Just then, cries rose from the far-left flank, the direction where Kalidasa had gone. Vikramaditya didn’t know what to make of it, but it was clear that the element of surprise was over and that the Hunas were engaging with Avanti’s troops. At that instant, five Huna warriors appeared from nowhere, straight onto Vikramaditya’s path.
“We will take them, brother,” Vararuchi shouted as he tore past the king. “Go get Betaal.” Almost immediately, half a dozen of Avanti’s men raced past Vikramaditya to join Vararuchi as he clashed with the Hunas blocking the way.
Vikramaditya breathed in deep, took his sword — his father’s sword originally, now officially his — in both hands and looked towards the banyan. The tree was still some distance away, but the time for stealth was over. He had to get to the tree, hacking and cleaving his way forward if need be, praying he wouldn’t be hopelessly outnumbered, and hoping that Kalidasa could somehow, miraculously and swiftly, find and kill the droiba. Breathing in once again, Vikramaditya stepped from behind a tent and broke into a run.
The ringing and clanging of metal against metal, the roar of fury intermingling with screams of agony and terror, the sound of his own feet pounding in his ears as he ran, orange firelight and black smoke — everything became a blur against the banyan. Huna warriors came at him. The first one swung a heavy sword at his head, which he ducked under. Slipping past the Huna’s raised arm, he drove his sword into the man’s midriff, slicing his stomach open all the way from front to back. The next one to come was stopped by a stiff kick to the chest. Vikramaditya followed that with a huge, arcing swing of the sword that took the barbarian’s right leg off from above the knee.
Onwards he ran, pushing past an increasing press of resistance. The savages were now appearing from everywhere. He took two heads clean off the shoulders and skewered a dozen more to death. His sword was slick with blood, but Huna soldiers continued to throw themselves at him. Mild fatigue was setting in, as was anxiety — the tree was still depressingly far and the Hunas were firmly set on stopping him. Vikramaditya rammed his blade into an exposed neck. At the same instant, a barbarian slashed at his shoulder, opening a deep cut. The king’s step faltered, but he was grabbed at the elbow and steadied by Vararuchi, who had ploughed into the fray and already cut the assailant’s throat.
“Go, Vikrama, go,” Vararuchi urged, swiping at the savages, beating them back.
More men from Avanti joined Vararuchi, clearing a path for Vikramaditya. Far to the right, Amara Simha was fiercely carving up a pile of dead Hunas, while Varahamihira was driving a wedge through the Huna ranks straight ahead, forcing the barbarians to turn and defend themselves. Vikramaditya noticed that the savages finally had a battle to occupy them and keep their attention diverted from him.
Wondering if Kalidasa had found the shaman yet, the king neared the banyan. The wound on his shoulder bled freely, mingling with sweat to run down his arm, and Vikramaditya felt a little light in the head as he looked up at the tree.
Almost at once, he spotted Betaal.
Rather, he spotted the corpse, spread-eagled and strung from the tree’s aerial roots, tied at the wrists with thick vine. Suspended halfway up from the ground, it hung cold and motionless, like a grotesque offering to some cruel, hungry god.
Ghatakarpara
When Ghatakarpara rounded the bend along the ragged, rock-strewn stream, his face fell on finding the grassy spot in front of the big boulder empty. In his mind’s eye, he had been picturing Aparupa seated with her back to the boulder, awaiting his arrival. The anticipation of that sight had seen him through two strenuous rounds of drills in the morning and an inspection of a regiment of Frontier Guardsmen in the afternoon. Not finding Aparupa by the stream was anticlimactic, to say the least.
Ironically though, the prince also experienced a small wave of relief at her absence. These few extra moments of solitude were a favour from fate, he surmised, given to him to evaluate the situation once more before arriving at a decision. Not that he believed he could come to any decision, given the state of his mind. Everything was so terribly confounding, Ghatakarpara frowned, dropping into the vacant shade of the big boulder. Leaning back, he watched the st
ream meander past his outstretched feet.
It had all started on a whim, a mild fancy fuelled by the fertile loneliness of the frontier. For the prince — far away from the palace, removed from family and friends, with nothing to fill his hours except drills and border patrols and troop movements — Aparupa had come like a breath of fresh air, a surprise blossom in this bare, parched land. Ghatakarpara still remembered the afternoon he had ventured across Udaypuri’s festive streets to engage her in light banter; he had been craving company that day, nothing more. Yet, that one chance encounter had led to other planned ones, each progressively more surreptitious as both of them had grown bolder and more at ease in each other’s company.
Although he had never intended for things to turn serious, quite suddenly, a couple of days ago, they had. He was lying with his head on her lap, dreamy as usual, and she was running her fingers idly through his hair when, out of the blue, Aparupa had asked if his parents would approve of her.
Ghatakarpara spied a movement away to his left. Turning, he observed with surprise a bullock cart parked in the middle of the stream, the water barely submerging the hooves of the two oxen in yoke. The stream was a patchy affair of small trickles and puddles that filled out only in the rains; during dry spells like this one, it served no purpose, so hardly anyone came this way. The seclusion was tailored for their meetings, but today, it looked like they would end up sharing the spot with the two men in the stream, assiduously washing cart and oxen.
While one part of Ghatakarpara wondered if washing a bullock cart in such shallow water was worth the effort, the other part went back to Aparupa from two days ago. Her question had knocked him flat — because the prospect she had suggested hadn’t once crossed his mind. Ghatakarpara had just lain there, blinking up at the girl, trying to work out a satisfactory answer, when her next words picked him up and threw him down all over again.
“I don’t suppose my father would approve of a common soldier as his son-in-law,” she had said, plucking a blade of grass and chewing on it. “To top it, the son of a weaver? No,” she shook her head firmly. “That would be well beneath his status. But we don’t have to bother about him. If he doesn’t accept you, I am willing to leave everything and come with you.”
It had taken the prince an entire night of sleeplessness to comprehend the enormity of Aparupa’s trust in him. And knowing that her trust was built on an elaborate framework of falsehood that he had erected around them had left him ashamed and conscience-stricken. That night, in the midst of all that shame and remorse, Ghatakarpara also discovered that he loved Aparupa more deeply than he had imagined possible.
The young prince reached into his shawl and extracted a bangle made of seasoned bamboo. It was intricately carved, two snakes twisting around each other and swallowing one another’s tails in an infinite loop. With a small knife, Ghatakarpara made tiny holes for the snakes’ eyes, and filed the bamboo smooth, carefully blowing away any rough splinters and shavings. The bangle was the second of a pair he had made; he had already gifted the first to Aparupa a few days ago.
Glancing downstream, the prince got the impression that the cart had drawn closer. Dismissing the notion, he went back to carving the bangle and honing his thoughts. He obviously had to reveal his true identity; no passing off as Ghataraja, a silk weaver’s son, any longer. But he feared the knowledge of his subterfuge would only incite Aparupa, prompting her to leave him despite his honesty.
I could break it to her gently, he reasoned, examining the bangle against the light of the setting sun to check for irregularities. I could tell her in a week, maybe, once I have gained her trust some more and shown how much I love her. He dropped his hand in frustration, knowing he was only fooling himself. The longer he hid his identity, the more he delayed in exposing the lie, the harder it would get being upfront with the girl. And the tougher it would be for her to pardon him later.
Sighing inwardly at his dilemma, Ghatakarpara looked in the direction from where Aparupa would approach. Nothing there. She was later than usual, and for a frantic moment, the fear that she had discovered his duplicity and was punishing him for it flared in his chest. No, she couldn’t learn about him from elsewhere; he had to be the one to look her in the eye and tell her.
That was one thing. There was another. What if she heard him out, understood his reasons for being dishonest with her and accepted his apology? Then, what if in the new light of things, she posed her question again — would his parents approve of her?
Would they? He was of royal lineage, a scion of Avanti’s powerful Aditya dynasty. One of his uncles was King Chandravardhan of Vatsa. The other was Samrat Vikramaditya, overlord of Sindhuvarta. Would the courts of Avanti and Vatsa welcome Aparupa, daughter of a millet merchant from faraway Udaypuri, into the royal household? Ghatakarpara dredged a memory of his mother’s cold, disapproving glare and shook his head in dejection.
And what had Aparupa said — she would leave everything and come with him if her father, Aatreya, didn’t give them his blessings. Would he, Prince Ghatakarpara, forsake the palaces of Ujjayini and Kausambi for Aparupa? Could he surrender the councilorship of Avanti, and the pride and authority that came with it, for the sake of a provincial girl? If he did, would he be forgiven by everyone who had showered so much time, attention and affection on him — the Acharya, Vararuchi, Amara Simha? And wouldn’t he be letting his uncle Vikramaditya, who had such high hopes of him, down?
Aparupa, he understood, had already placed her wholehearted faith in the love she had for him. Did he have as much faith in his love for her? Running his fingers along the edges of the sun-crest medallion he had hidden under his angavastram, Ghatakarpara realized he was scared of finding out the answer. He knew it would entail making tough choices and demand hard sacrifices that could never be undone.
The clatter of a pebble kicked loose on gravel got Ghatakarpara to turn expectantly to the bend in the path, but Aparupa didn’t put in an appearance. It took the prince a moment to realize that the sound had come from somewhere behind the boulder — and his face brightened in a playful smile. The girl had taken the long route around so she could sneak up on him and startle him. Well, he could turn the tables on her, make her the victim of the prank instead, he chuckled under his breath.
Leaping lightly to his feet, Ghatakarpara crouched and crept forward, grinning, ready to pounce at the first sight of the girl. He noticed her shadow, long on the ground, hugging the boulder, her head bobbing. Drawing his breath in, he took a long stride around the boulder, all set to go “ho” and scare her —
— but he drew up short, staring in surprise at the figure hiding behind the rock.
Figures, not figure. For there were three of them. All men, all three armed with short swords and ironwood quarterstaffs.
The men were as taken aback as the prince was. They stared wide-eyed from his face to his hands, which were thrust forward, the fingers hooked like talons, as if meaning to reach out and grab them. Whatever they had been up to, Ghatakarpara had caught them unawares, so they just stood there blinking uncertainly at him.
“Oh,” Ghatakarpara said, letting his hands drop to his sides, trying to act nonchalant. “Who… are you?”
The men, who were attired like farmers but bore weapons like soldiers, exchanged quick glances. They didn’t, however, offer a reply. The one closest to Ghatakarpara, a tall man with a rough, swarthy complexion, took a hesitant step forward. Immediately, the other two spread out behind their leader, as if barring an exit route.
“I see,” the prince said, his expression clearing. “You must be members of the local militia. Very good, the way you are helping the Imperial Army and the Frontier Guard.”
The men didn’t respond. They kept staring at him with watchful eyes.
“What?” Ghatakarpara cocked an eyebrow. “Oh, you think I am…?” he nodded. “That’s it. You don’t know who I am. I am Ghatakarpara, prince and councilor of…”
The rush was so sudden and unexpected, Ghata
karpara almost had no time to react. The leader charged, swinging his quarterstaff at the prince’s head, and it was only instinct and years of training that made Ghatakarpara raise his arm swiftly to block the blow. As the quarterstaff deflected off his forearm, the prince stepped in, again by reflex, and rammed his right elbow hard into his attacker’s chest, just below the breast bone. The leader grunted and doubled, his head dropping, and Ghatakarpara instantly smashed his left fist into the man’s cheek, dislocating his jaw. The man went down with a painful howl, and the prince stepped past him, his hands raised and balled into fists.
“I told you I am Councilor Ghatakarpara,” he spoke loudly, so the two men standing uncertainly before him would be in no doubt. “Wait, if you don’t believe me, look…” He slipped a hand into his angavastram and extracted the councilor’s medallion, hanging on its chain. “See? I am not an enemy of Avanti, so do not attack, please. If you…”
The net was thrown expertly, landing on the prince from behind, swaddling him from head to toe in one swooping motion. Before he could gather his wits, the strong mesh began drawing tight around Ghatakarpara, bundling him in. As he swatted and flailed, trying to break out of captivity, the men in front of him jumped in to help the two who had cast the net. Squinting through the mesh, the prince identified the newcomers as the men who had been washing the bullock cart.
“What is the meaning of this?” he snarled and thrashed and kicked up a turbulence that marred the tranquility of eventide. “Do you have any idea of what you are inviting upon yourselves? I am the Samrat’s nephew, fools. He will have your heads for this. Let me go!”
The blow dealt to the back of Ghatakarpara’s head was so loud that its crack rang out over the little stream, causing a pair of greenish warblers to take hurried flight. The blow was so strong that it brought a flood of darkness to Ghatakarpara’s eyes. He swayed for a moment, giddy, then went down on his knees.
The Vengeance of Indra Page 2
