King of Lanka

by David Hair

  He looked over at Vikram, who was shadowing the procession, holding a bow and poised for action. Vikram was no longer the skinny short-sighted boy he’d met at school. Sure, he was still on the small side, but he was now lean and muscular, with hair in a ponytail and an erect bearing. He had an air of grace and command about him, and eyes filled with knowledge and old sorrow. Vikram could remember all his past lives, and perform feats beyond normal men. He was Amanjit’s closest friend, and when he married Amanjit’s sister Rasita, they would be brothers.

  His smile faltered when he thought of his sister Ras. Where was she? Was she safe? It was hard to ignore these burning questions, but he resolved to, for Deepika’s sake. He pushed Ras’ image to the back of his mind after a short prayer. This was not the day to dwell on such things. He waved at Vikram, then nudged his horse around the final bend, and his eyes went forward, seeking his bride, Deepika.

  There she was! Atop the stairs, she waited for him, surrounded by girlfriends and cousins and slightly bewildered-looking parents. Deepika shone amongst them all like an angel. She glittered with gems and sequins, wrapped in a sari that was stiff with embroidery and decoration. Beneath a fold of the pallu, her lovely face peered out, meeting his eyes instantly. His heart sped. Today, finally, they would marry.

  He looked back at Vikram, who gave a taut grin, and a nod. Be happy, Amanjit-bhai, his eyes said. Then Vikram looked away. Amanjit guessed he was thinking of Rasita too. We’ll get her back, brother. We will. You’ll see.

  Then his eyes went forward again, and all he could think was how his heart might burst before he was married, it was hammering so much.

  Days later, Vikram was in the courtyard of the Brahma temple, bare to the waist, going through a sword-drill with fluid grace. Apart from an ancient man in orange robes and dreadlocks past his knees, he was alone. Somewhere in the Raja’s palace, Amanjit and Deepika were also alone, together. Laughing, joking, holding hands. Being in love. Married. Two halves of a whole that was beautiful to see. A wholeness that was denied him, for now.

  Memories of the wedding flooded back—the laughter, the singing, the music, the love that was so evident. And the dancing—all night, like dervishes! He had been able to put all the fears and cares aside for a while.

  ‘Focus, Chand,’ Sage Vishwamitra warned. He still called Vikram ‘Chand’—the habit of many lifetimes.

  Vikram paused and refocused, centring his balance and flexing. ‘Sorry, Guruji.’

  Vishwamitra peered at him pointedly. ‘A poorly executed drill cheats only yourself. Now, again—and perfect, please.’

  This time it was. The blade flashed about him, each movement graceful and as good as it could be. Not as blindingly fast or powerful as Amanjit, but still pretty damn good. When he finished, Vikram was panting slightly. He sipped some water, and then sat with the sage and peered out the gates toward the lake. Sunshine on water glittered distantly. In the real world, the lake had all but dried up following an inept de-silting operation, but here it was full, and still had fish and even crocodiles in it. He’d been told that in the old days, in the real world, worshippers used to sometimes allow themselves to be eaten by the crocodiles—it was said to be good luck, presumably in the next life! Good luck for the crocodile, anyway …

  It was a week since the wedding. Vikram had taken the visiting families and friends back to the real world, all believing they had been in some beautiful medieval theme park near Pushkar for the wedding. Amanjit and Deepika would resume training tomorrow, the official end of their brief honeymoon—they couldn’t afford to set aside any more time for pleasure. Not with what was at stake. The wedding had been important and necessary, but now it was time to refocus.

  He sipped his tea, sitting cross-legged beside old Vishwamitra. He cradled the sheathed sword in his lap, caressing it like a pet as his mind roamed.

  ‘Have you formulated a plan?’ the old sage asked.

  ‘Tentatively, but until Amanjit and Dee are back here and thinking about it too, nothing is settled.’ He rubbed the sweat from his brow. ‘Here are the basics, though: Ravindra has taken Rasita somewhere. We don’t know where, but we presume it will be “Lanka”. What we know of the ritual in Mandore is that he needed to kill each of the queens while they wore their heartstones. So he doesn’t have everything he needs—he’s got Ras but not her heartstone. He has Deepika’s heartstone but not Deepika—and may in fact think she is dead already. And he seems to need to kill me, which he hasn’t done either.’ His face clouded. ‘Yet.’

  The sage put a hand on his arm. ‘In the Ramayana, Ravana tries to seduce Sita. He does not use violence against her. You can count on her loyalty to you. She will not be seduced. You know that.’

  Vikram felt a hollowness inside. ‘In the Ramayana, yes. But we don’t know why everything we do seems to mirror the Ramayana. Or why sometimes it doesn’t—like Deepika and what happened to her. We don’t know the rules, even now. We don’t know anything for sure! How do we know that in this life, he has to seduce her at all. Maybe he will just kill her? He might have already … and we’ve done nothing!’

  ‘This delay has been unavoidable.’ Vishwamitra told him. ‘You all needed rest—the exertions of your last encounters with the enemy left you all on the verge of collapse. And Amanjit must be trained now that he has made the breakthrough of using the astras. Deepika must also learn to control and channel her fury, and to mask herself so that she does not reveal herself to Ravindra.’

  Vikram nodded gloomily. ‘And lest we forget, we also have to prevent Charanpreet from getting all Kiran’s money, and Tanita from getting all Dad’s money. And find Sue Parker. And clear our names over Sunita Ashoka’s death.’ He sighed wearily. ‘I barely know where to start.’

  Vishwamitra grinned over broken teeth. ‘Yes, you do have a few other things to focus on. Do not let the magnitude of your tasks overwhelm you. Great journeys are made up of small steps, Chand. Small steps are always achievable.’

  Vikram nodded. ‘Yes, Guruji. You are right, as always.’ He stood up, flexed, and then strung a bow. ‘I better get back to my drills.’ He grinned mischievously. ‘Is there anything you would like demolished?’

  They set up an old unwanted wagon in a field outside the town. The countryside here was nigh empty—this was still mythic Pushkar, after all, eerily devoid of humanity, and perhaps all the better for it—there were no roads and refuse-pits, no rumbling traffic and smoking fires. This was still a pristine place of gentle breezes and clean streams, plentiful birds and small wildlife, deer and foxes. Snakes coiled on rocks. Lizards basking. Part of him wanted to stay here and try to forget. But he also knew he would get no peace until he had saved Rasita and slain the Enemy. Maybe when all this is done, I’ll live here in the myth-lands … happily ever after … But he couldn’t picture such a time. In life after life, he had failed. Why should this one be any different?

  He readied his bow, drew it, and awaited Vishwamitra’s command.

  ‘Aindra-astra!’ the old sage shouted the name of the astra he wished Vikram to demonstrate.

  Vikram muttered the incantation and fired. The arrow burst apart as it flew, becoming a vast shower of shafts that arced and then slammed into the wagon and the area about it. At least four dozen arrows, a moderate effort—he’d achieved more at times.

  ‘Focus, Chand! Agniyastra!’

  Vikram fired, and this time the arrow burst into flames as it flew, striking the wagon like a rocket, blasting a hole in its side and setting it alight.

  ‘Varuna-astra!’ the sage yelled swiftly.

  The next arrow became a torrent of water that extinguished the flames on the wagon. Vikram panted slightly. Each arrow drew something from him, some of his vital energy. Legend said that the astras were gifts of the gods, but to Vikram, the energy that empowered his astras had always come from within. He had never sensed any divine presence when using the magical arrows. Using them left him tired, hollowed out inside, as if the marrow of his bones had been s
ucked out.

  ‘Naga-astra!’

  His next shaft became a snake, a common brown snake that struck a pole beside the wagon, catching itself in a curve of its own body and wrapping, biting the pole then sliding down it and wriggling away. In a few minutes, it would be an arrow again, lying in the dirt, twisted and unusable.

  ‘Nagapaasha!’

  This time the arrow split, becoming a host of snakes that hammered against the wagon and lay there stunned. They were all venomous, and Vikram watched until each had faded, twisting into a pile of wood-shavings.

  ‘Vavaya-astra!’

  Vikram fired, and the arrow vanished, but a vicious gust of wind slammed against the wagon and flipped it over thrice before dissipating.

  ‘Suryastra!’

  A brilliant light that outshone the sun, like a flare, lit the field. He had to shield his eyes.

  ‘Good, Chand, good! Now the Vajra!’

  Vikram fired the arrow straight up, where it imploded far above. Within seconds a bolt of lightning blasted the wagon, in a dazzling flash like a tear in the fabric of the world. His hair stood on end as the current earthed. When he looked again, the wagon was gently smouldering, with sparks leaping on the metal parts.

  Vishwamitra laughed aloud. His dreadlocks had lifted about him from the static charge, like rays of a grimy sun. The old guru muttered a word, and earthed the current through his wooden staff, causing his locks to flop back down about his face. He chuckled merrily. ‘You are a shocking pupil, Chand,’ he joked, as he always did at this point in the routine. ‘Now—Mohini!’ He gestured, and a gaudy bipedal reptile appeared a hundred yards away, roared, and sprinted at Vikram, human-sized and brandishing a sword.

  Vikram half-smiled, and fired. The mohini-arrow sliced through the illusory being, and immediately sucked the illusion into itself, the shaft hanging in the air crackling, then twisting and burning to ash. The mohini arrow was the one that destroyed magic.

  ‘And finally—Parvata-astra!’

  Vikram took his last arrow from the quiver and fired. The arrowhead seemed to grow as it flashed toward the upturned and charred wagon, becoming a rock the size of a boulder that shattered the remains of the wagon into splinters and tangled metal. Totally demolished, as promised. He panted slightly, feeling a little woozy.

  Vishwamitra patted him on the shoulder. ‘Well done, Chand, well done. Come, let us return home and rest. And you can tell me of other astras you know on the way back.’

  It had been in the 1140s that Chand, as he was named in that life, had first come to Gurukul, the ashram of Vishwamitra. There it had been discovered that he was one of a tiny number of warriors that could summon the astras. He had been trained under intense secrecy, but had left before completing that training—he would not be parted from his friend, Prithviraj Chauhan.

  But in later lives, in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, he had returned and finished his training. After that, Gurukul had vanished, and he never found it again. But finally, a few weeks ago while hunting Rasita’s heartstone, he had met Master Vishwamitra again, here in Pushkar. Vishwamitra said he was not the same sage that had taught Rama in the Ramayana: he had merely adopted that name in honour of the legendary sage. He had lived many lifetimes, in the mythland and the real world. In almost all his lives since that as Chand Bardai, Vikram had used astras in secret, when it was necessary. He had even invented some of his own. But his past-life memories were patchy, so it was good to have this time with his guru—to be reminded of things he had genuinely forgotten, and to polish his technique.

  ‘The other legendary astras are these, Guruji,’ he said as he walked beside the surprisingly spry old man. ‘The Twashtar confuses a body of men, disorientating and stunning them, making them see friends as enemies for a time, or wandering aimlessly. Useful against unsuspecting enemies, but not against an ashram-trained warrior.’

  ‘Correct. And you told me you used the sammohana, the sleep arrow, recently also?’

  ‘Yes, Guruji. Again, only useful against untrained men who are already drowsy. It doesn’t do any lasting harm, but the victim can be woken easily, so the sammohana is not useful in combat, only in situations requiring stealth.’

  ‘And you have invented some astras of your own?’

  ‘Yes, Guruji. A musafir-arrow—a traveller-arrow—you hang on to it or ride it, and fly through the air for miles and miles. Then there is a seeker-arrow that can usually find a person you know—it points toward them. And a shielding arrow—it operates like a missile-defence-system, and can shoot down incoming fire, even lots of arrows, though it doesn’t work so well if the incoming arrow is also an astra. You need a mohini then.’

  ‘Well done. You must show these new innovations to me, Chand. We are never too old to learn new tricks, eh?’ He chuckled to himself. ‘But what of the Greater Arrows, Chand? Have you ever used a Trimurti-astra?’

  Vikram floundered a little. ‘No. I can’t work them out, Guruji. As you know, for me the power and energy of my astras come from myself. When I empower too many arrows, I get tired out, really fast. But the greater astras are the ones that legend say come as a boon of the greater gods—the Trimurti—Brahma, Shiva and Vishnu. Legend says you can only summon each of them once, and that they are unstoppable and all-powerful. I don’t know how to summon them—you have never told me and I have never worked it out.’

  Vishwamitra nodded thoughtfully. ‘We are made of energy, Chand. All things are. Our bodies are billions of particles zooming about each other, unaware of the whole, bound together by energy. That is a great source of power. But when you expend energy, you deplete yourself.’ Vikram already knew this, but listened patiently. ‘The world about you is also made of energy. You can draw on that also. Learn to do that, and you will be able to fire astras tirelessly. Only when you have made this connection, will you be able to draw upon the power of the Trimurti arrows.’

  ‘But the gods …’

  ‘The gods I cannot speak for. I have known men who needed faith and prayer to invoke these astras, and others that did not.’ The old sage chuckled. ‘You will find your own path to them. Energies of creation, preservation and destruction surround us. Whether they are personalized forces—gods—or impersonal energies we have imagined as godlike personas is irrelevant for our purpose. What matters is that these energies are real. Draw on them, and your astras will go from being the small combat weapons they are now, and become major forces of destruction. The Brahmastra of Brahma, the Pashupatastra of Shiva, and the Vaishnava-astra of Vishnu, they never miss, and are said to be able to kill a god or destroy an army. If you can draw on the energies that flow around you, instead of from within, these weapons will be open to you. And remember, in the Ramayana, it is a Brahmastra that slays Ravana. It may be only such a weapon that can kill Ravindra forever, and break this cycle you are trapped in.’

  Vikram stared thoughtfully at the ground as they trudged on in silence. There was little comfort in these words. He had hoped he was ready to face Ravindra. But Vishwamitra implied that he wasn’t. He gritted his teeth, and set his jaw. I have to learn more. I have no choice.

  That evening, Amanjit and Deepika joined Vikram and Vishwamitra for dinner. The newly-weds sat together, constantly in contact with one another, unselfconsciously stroking each other’s hands and shoulders, leaning into each other, sharing intimate looks and knowing smiles.

  Past lives whispered to him, reminding Vikram of what they had, and that he did not. As Chand, married to Kamla. As Doc, dancing with Crazy Jane. Jack Mutlow with Emily before the bottle took him. Other lives, other names, other women. His thoughts went to Sue Parker, missing, possibly dead: confusing and frightening though it had been to be with her, his reincarnated ex-wife, he still cared for her.

  And I cannot think of you at all, Rasita, without all my fears overwhelming me.

  As if they sensed his sadness, Deepika and Amanjit moved apart, and become more matter-of-fact. They discussed their plans. Where they would go nex
t—Sri Lanka. How they would counter the lawsuits against Kiran. Ideas on how to clear their names of the Sunita Ashoka murder. What they needed to do to prepare. But always, Vikram’s eyes went back to the fire in the incense brazier, and he would see Rasita’s face flashing there. He stroked the heartstone in his breast-pocket, and sent her his love.

  Isle of the Demon-King

  Lanka, March 2011

  Some days, it was as if Vikram were beside her, holding her hand, keeping her strong.

  Other days she wanted to strangle him. Her trust in him had been destroyed so simply: by the sheaf of photographs of him kissing Sue Parker. They were grainy and blurred, but unmistakable—on a shadowy balcony that looked like the hotel they’d used in Udaipur. Had it gone further between them? Had they gone inside that hotel room and …

  Please, no!

  With each day that passed, it was harder to remember her past life. She had lost count of the days—it couldn’t have been more than a couple of weeks since Ravindra, or ‘the Ravan’, as everyone called him here, had clasped her to him and borne her on the back of a giant winged snake—a Naga—to this fantastical island fortress. He had not come near her since. Perhaps he wanted to let her get over the horror of seeing him kill Deepika. Perhaps it was the first phase of a campaign to win her over. She didn’t care—she hated him and that would never change.

  It was days before she could stop crying. Her last sight of Deepika haunted her: the girl transfigured into a black-skinned being reminiscent of the Goddess Kali by the powers she used to fight. Ravindra had almost slashed her to pieces, before sending her tumbling into the well at Panchavati. The earth had collapsed about her, leaving her buried in the soil. She would always hate Ravindra for taking Deepika’s life.