PRINCE OF DHARMA

by AKB eBOOKS Ashok K. Banker

  Bheriya’s handsome fair face frowned as he tried to absorb his captain’s order. ‘Captain, if we are to ride back to Ayodhya, then why the need for stealth?’ He blinked several times, understanding suddenly. ‘Wait, did you say forest, captain?’

  Captain Bejoo grimaced.

  ‘Bheriya, it’s a relief your beautiful new bride didn’t suck your brains out along with your seed.’ Bheriya was just married; had in fact enjoyed his suhaag raat just the night before. ‘Wait a few minutes, then send three scouts on foot after the rajkumars and the Brahmin. When they have determined the route they’re taking, one will return to show us the closest cart-path fit to carry our wheel and horse through that cursed bunch of darkwood. A second scout will return another hour later, guiding us the rest of the way. By then it will be nightfall and we shall camp within easy reach of their camp if possible. We shall take up the pursuit at daybreak, using the same system to follow them to their destination, and fulfil our mission as commanded.’

  Bheriya nodded, his expression revealing that he understood but didn’t care much for his captain’s plan: the Vajra Kshatriyas permitted a far greater degree of informality and individuality than other Kshatriya corps. ‘Assuming we find a suitable cart-path even part of the way, and assuming the rajkumars stay close enough to it to be followed. Which would be unlikely, don’t you think, Bejoo?’

  Bejoo turned and spat on the ground. ‘I don’t want to hear unlikely and impossible, Bheriya.’ He shook his fist in the air. ‘Whatever happens, I will follow my orders. We must be close behind the crown prince when he encounters any threat.’

  Bheriya glanced up at the brooding thicket. ‘That would be every minute of the way.’

  ‘The rajkumars can handle wild beasts and the like. I’ve seen them hunt and they’re both as good with their bows as any Mithila bowman. It’s the rakshasas I’m talking about. Young Rajkumar Rama Chandra has no idea what it means to face such creatures.’ He spat again. ‘Stubborn Brahmins. Vishnu-avatar Parasurama had the right idea, hewing down Kshatriyas with his axe, except he should have taken his blade to Brahmin necks instead. One good purge like that and we’d all be better off.’

  Bheriya was inured to his captain’s pet peeve. He spoke with grim bravado. ‘Don’t worry, captain. We’ll be between them and any asura scum before those wretches can open their mouths to snarl.’ He added quickly: ‘I mean the rakshasas, not the rajkumars.’

  ‘Bheriya, have you ever fought rakshasas before?’

  ‘No, sir, can’t say I’ve had the pleasure yet.’

  ‘Then shut your slavering jaws and see to my orders.’

  Bheriya saluted his captain quickly and wheeled his horse about. Bejoo suppressed a grin as he watched his second-incommand ride across the field. Bheriya was a very good man, perhaps the best lieutenant he had ever commanded, but Bejoo would die before he admitted as much to the younger man. If anything, his captain’s fondness for him earned Bheriya harsher treatment from Bejoo, who expected nothing less than perfection from the man he fully expected to succeed him in the command of his unit. Why, if Shakun and he had been able to have children, he would have wanted nothing more than a son like Bheriya.

  Thinking of his wife brought back the familiar knife-twist of regret and pain. For an Arya Kshatriya not to have progeny was painful beyond description. For a man of Bejoo’s stature to remain childless was unbearable.

  And yet, having Bheriya almost made it bearable. After all, a fighting Kshatriya’s unit was his extended family. Bejoo’s Vajra was his home away from home. Shakun even joked drily that he spent more time with his sautan—his second wife—than with her. And, she added invariably, he seemed to enjoy the sautan’s company more. He sighed. It was true that as the years had turned his hair greyer, and he had come to terms with the cruel fact of his childlessness, he had begun to seek more pleasure in his work with the Vajra than from his wife’s company. There were times when he had to resist the urge to hug Bheriya tightly and call him putra. Hence his gruff harshness with the lieutenant. He was only concealing the feelings he feared would betray the soft kernel within his hard exterior.

  He watched now as Bheriya rode across the field, giving quick, precise commands to the mounted soldiers, charioteers and elephant-warriors, using a carefully perfected sequence of hand gestures to communicate it all. Vajras were used to communicating thus while deep in enemy territory where conversation could be overheard. Moments later, three charioteers handed the reins of their two-horse teams to their bowmen and stepped down. Bejoo nodded approvingly. As navigators, the charioteers would make the best scouts, and the bowmen were all capable of leading their chariots and firing at the same time. Already, the three bowmen were attaching the reins of their chariots to clasps in their chainmail. Now they could direct their horse-teams simply by twisting their bodies; not the most efficient way to manoeuvre a chariot, but it would do.

  The Vajra Kshatriyas had developed their unique skills over centuries of stealth-fighting. Bejoo had heard that there were clan warriors in that island-kingdom far to the north-east who used similar silent-attack tactics. And no doubt they learned our techniques from some Nipponese envoy who carried home news of our Vajras. Like the Arya hand-to-hand fighting technique of kalarappa, which was rumoured to be the most popular new martial art in the Mandarin kingdoms north and east of Myanmar.

  He squinted up at the sun, still high above in the azure-blue sky. There was a good four or five hours of daylight left. He had no idea how far the sage intended to lead the two rajkumars before sunset, but stop they must before it grew dark. The Southwoods were treacherous enough as it was; to move in there after dark would be madness.

  As is this whole mission.

  The three scouts awaited his command to leave. He made a hand gesture, pointing three joined fingers at the spot where the three travellers had entered the woods, thumb kept down on the palm. Then he shot his forefinger up, followed by his middle finger. The scouts signalled back their confirmation silently: message understood. Three to follow, one to return, then a second one to return. Moving in perfect rhythm, the three scouts jogged forward, sprinting to the edge of the woods. They entered the close thicket and were lost to sight.

  We’ll be right behind you, Rajkumar Rama Chandra. No rakshas will harm a hair on the head of an Ikshvaku Suryavansha. Not while Bejoo Vajra-rakshak still draws breath.

  He waited impatiently for the return of the first scout.

  SIX

  ‘Maa!’

  Bharat’s hand shot out as he broached the top of the stairs. He caught the shortspear to wrest it away from his mother. She struggled momentarily, her face contorting with fury, and for a moment Dasaratha thought that his son would lose the contest. She’s a strong one, as strong as Kausalya in her own way, and a warrior.

  But Bharat had the advantage of gravity on his side: reaching up, he had grabbed the hilt of the spear just as Kaikeyi had drawn it back to throw. All Bharat had to do was pull down and Kaikeyi was knocked off balance. She swung around, still holding on with one hand, snarling at her son. Then something passed across her face, some pale shadow of a maternal instinct, and she released her grip on the weapon. Bharat took the spear and broke it across his knee, his face rippling with anger and shock.

  ‘You were about to throw this at Father,’ he cried, holding up the broken halves of the spear. ‘How could you?’

  Kaikeyi adjusted her coronet, her face grim with sullen rage. Dasaratha realised she was dressed for the women’s mêlée. Her armour grew a little tighter each year, but she always won the shield. She must have seen him leaving, with Kausalya close behind, and followed them both on her horse. Bharat must have been her second man; they had been practising together for a few weeks.

  ‘I wasn’t aiming for your father, you idio—my son. I was aiming at his harlot.’

  ‘Kaikeyi!’ Dasaratha’s voice rang out across the wind-blasted space. ‘Be careful how you use your tongue! Kausalya is my queen and deserves your respe
ct.’

  Kaikeyi stared at the first queen, her head bent low, her eyes gleaming with the reddish fire of the setting sun. ‘She behaves like a harlot; she is a harlot.’

  Dasaratha strode across the Seer’s Eye, his hand raised. ‘Take back your words.’

  She raised her face to meet his blow. ‘Go on. Smash my face. You’ve done it often enough to know where best to strike.’

  He stayed his hand with an effort that took more energy than any ten blows. ‘You are not in your senses. Apologise to Kausalya and leave my presence at once.’

  ‘Why? So you can continue conspiring against my son and me in secret?’

  ‘Your son?’ He faltered, confused, glancing at Bharat. The look of abject misery on the face of his second-oldest was heart-breaking.

  ‘Don’t think I don’t know what that chudail is doing! From the moment I heard that she had lured you into her chambers, I knew that she was casting her spells again. By what black art did she seduce you into depriving my son of his birthright, raje? Or did she achieve her ends by the use of her vile womanly wiles?’

  Kaikeyi sniffed disparagingly. ‘Although I fail to see what you could find attractive in that bag of bones. Any one of your concubines would serve you better in the bedchamber.’

  Kausalya’s voice was devoid of the venom that infected Kaikeyi’s tone. The first queen spoke surprisingly calmly, but beneath her words was a blade of steel, barely sheathed. ‘You’re confusing your own methods with mine, Kaikeyi. You were the one who lured my husband away from my marital bed into your illicit arms, or have you forgotten that, Second Queen?’

  Kaikeyi snarled. ‘You witch! Don’t deny you used sorcery to corrupt the maharaja’s mind. He would never have consented to deny my Bharat his kingship otherwise. It was all your doing!’

  She spat across the open space, and had the wind not been so strong, her spittle would have spattered against Kausalya’s face. The first queen stood her ground calmly.

  ‘Kaikeyi!’ Dasaratha’s voice was hoarse with exhaustion, but he summoned up the last vestige of his strength with a superhuman effort. ‘You have overstepped your bounds. I command you to apologise to Kausalya at once.’

  She turned to him, and for a moment he thought she was about to spit on him as well. But her words were as galling. ‘You betrayed me, Dasa. I heard palace gossip but didn’t believe it. All these months, you neglected me and avoided my bed, feigning illness and weakness, spurning my affections, and all the while you were falling under the spell of this—’

  The word she used was one that he had never heard her speak aloud before—except in the heat of passion. He recoiled at the sound of it, shocked that she would use it in her own son’s presence. How had he shared his bed with this woman for so many years? How had he abandoned gentle, beautiful Kausalya for this hysterical shrew? Because she did such wild things as no other woman ever did for you, you fool, you fool, and you were young and foolish enough to think with your manhood rather than your head.

  He strained to control his hand, still quivering with rage and eager to strike the filthy words from her gaudily rouged lips. ‘You go too far now, woman. Remember your place. Behave like a queen of Ayodhya.’

  He gestured to Bharat, standing miserably behind her, head bowed in embarrassment. ‘Behave like a queen mother.’

  ‘A queen mother, am I? Funny. After the announcement earlier today, I thought I must be just another untitled concubine. Why else would you pass my son over for that witch’s whelp and make me feel like a cast-aside mistress?’

  He tried to keep his voice from rising to a shout.

  ‘Rama is my eldest son and the rightful heir to the throne. You know that as well as Bharat does. Ask your son if he begrudges his brother his birthright. Go on, ask him.’

  She didn’t even turn to look at Bharat, whose eyes were filled with such pain that Dasaratha’s heart went out to him. Forgive me, my son, for letting such a day come to pass. May you never have to witness such a scene ever again.

  Kaikeyi shook her head, sneering. ‘Don’t drag him into this mess, you brute. This is between you and me. You made a promise once. Now live up to your words! Or do I have to remind you what happened on the field of Kaikeya, when you lay unconscious and mortally injured, your host smashed and fleeing before the might of Ravana’s asura hordes? Does your precious first queen know about that day? About how I swooped down into the heart of the battle in my chariot, picked you up in my own arms and carried you to safety, then returned and led my father’s forces as well as yours in a regroup that held the asura hordes back long enough to give you time to recover and lead your army once more? Have you forgotten that day, Dasaratha?’

  ‘I remember it as if it were yesterday,’ he said quietly, his anger suddenly fled. And he did. A terrible, dark yesterday.

  Kaikeyi’s chin rose proudly. ‘Then tell Kausalya what you promised me when we returned to my father’s palace.’

  He was filled with a sense of dread so acute he thought for a moment that the whole world was turning dark. Then he realised it was only the setting sun, dipping down below the western mountains.

  ‘I will listen to no more, Kaikeyi,’ he said. ‘Leave me now. Bharat, my son, escort your mother to her chambers. She needs to recover her wits.’

  Kaikeyi shook off her son’s hand. ‘Don’t lay a hand on me! You may be fooled by your father’s deceit, but I won’t let him get away with this. The only thing I need to recover is your birthright. And I promise you, son, I’ll get it back even if it takes me until my last breath.’

  She pointed a clawing finger at Kausalya. ‘Hear my words, First Witch. Even if your precious whelp returns alive from his trip to the Southwoods, which I honestly doubt, he will not be crowned prince-heir of Ayodhya. Not on his name-day or on any other day in his entire lifetime. This is my curse as a wronged mother and betrayed wife. Hear my shraap and tremble!’

  Dasaratha experienced a moment of such pure, white-hot anger, he thought his head would burst with the intensity. His hand moved of its own accord and the next thing he knew, he had Kaikeyi’s throat in his grip, the pads of his fingers and thumb pressing against the most tender part of her spine. An ounce more pressure and he could snap her neck as easily as Bharat had snapped the shortspear. He still had that much strength. Do it, a deathly-quiet voice said in his feverish brain, do it and put the ghost of your sins to rest once and for all. Do it, or after you are gone this woman will become your son’s worst enemy; have no doubt that she will do everything in her power to cut Rama down, clan-mother or not. Do it, Dasaratha. Kill her now.

  But Bharat’s face was before him, staring up at him with an expression that said that never in his wildest dreams could he have foreseen such a day or event. Those sorrowful tear-filled eyes wrenched at his heart, staying his hand. My son, oh my son, you should not have to see this day. The strength went out of Dasaratha’s arm. A white wave came roaring down from the skies and bore him away and he saw and heard no more.

  ***

  They emerged from the woods into the direct light of the setting sun. Rama’s eyes, accustomed to the dimness of the thicket for the past hour, were momentarily dazzled.

  That moment was all it took for him to take a step too far. The ground crumbled underfoot and then there was nothing left to hold his weight. He stepped out into the void, his other senses seeing instantly what had eluded his light-blinded eyes. It’s a sheer cliff and I’ve stepped over the edge! He started to fall, mouth opening to yell a warning to Lakshman and the seer, and his guts rose up to fill his throat.

  A hand caught his rig, another his left shoulder. For a fraction of a heart-stopping instant, he hung suspended in mid-air, the wind howling around his head, sun filling his eyes like a mashaal thrust into his face, and knew what a bird must feel at the moment when it ceases to flap its wings and starts to plummet back to earth. Then he was yanked up and fell on his back, feet scrambling over the crumbly dry soil, struggling to anchor himself.

  La
kshman fell on his knees beside him, grasping his arm with a sweaty palm. ‘Bhai? Bhai! Bhai!’

  ‘I’m all right,’ he said, not feeling all right at all. He glanced up at the sage, standing calmly beside them. The brahmarishi looked as impassive as ever.

  ‘Mahadev, aapka lakh-lakh shukar hai. Aapne meri jaan bachaii.’ Great one, a hundred thousand thanks. You saved my life.

  Vishwamitra seemed not to hear. Rather than acknowledge Rama’s gratitude, he gestured at the void before them. ‘There are far greater dangers in store for us than the natural pitfalls of geography, rajkumar. You would do well to remember that. Next time, I may not be at hand to protect you from your own clumsiness.’

  Clumsiness? Rama blinked and bit back a response. He saw Lakshman start to rise and speak, and caught his hand, holding him down. The seer-mage is right: I ought to have sensed the thicket was ending and slowed. Yet he knew that he had been neither clumsy nor distracted. The thicket had simply ended and given way to a sheer drop with startling abruptness. One instant we were in the heart of the heart of the woods, barely able to see a yard ahead; the next we were on the tip of a precipice. Nobody could have seen it coming. Although clearly the seer-mage had seen, and had slowed in time. Then why didn’t he warn us? Rama got to his feet, brushing off the dirt without a word. Lakshman shot a sullen glance at their new guru but held his tongue as well. Rama turned and looked down at the void that had nearly claimed his life.