King of Lanka

by David Hair

  ‘Is she a queen too?’ the maid asked innocently, as she put her arms beneath the floating young woman.

  ‘Yes, Keke. She is also a queen, like me.’ Ras cradled Dee’s upper body, and let Keke take her legs. ‘Come on, let’s get her out of the water.’

  Together, awkwardly, they lifted Deepika up the stairs and onto the stone, lying on her back. The wound on the back of her skull had closed over during the water journey, thanks to Ras’ ministrations. But she was unconscious, and limp as a corpse.

  Keke cupped Dee’s face. ‘She is very beautiful, mistress!’ Then she seemed to remember. ‘Oh mistress, this has ruined your wedding! And your poor sari!’ She peered at the stricken cloth that was miraculously still bound about Ras, though it was torn and soaking. ‘Mistress, this is awful!’

  Ras bent over Dee. She found her last reservoir of energy, opened up her mind, and found the thin spark that was still Deepika. Sister!

  Dee’s breathing rasped. Ras?

  I’m going to save you! I swear it! Just hold on, and don’t let go! Talk to me!

  I’ll try … It’s like I’m swimming, Ras. I could just float away, and sleep …

  DEE! STAY!

  I read that note he left you, Ras. That one you kept beside your bed … Aeshwaran and Dasraiyat. And Manda. The Ritual … We’re her, Ras … you and me … we’re what’s left of Manda … if I die, you could take me up, and you’d be whole …

  No! You’re going to live, and when this is done, Amanjit will look after you and you’ll walk again and have children and you’ll—

  I don’t mind dying … not if through that you can be Manda and end this nightmare!

  No! You’re going to be okay! Hold on! The boys are coming!

  Suddenly the walls of the bathhouse shook, from where she had sealed the inflow shut. She half-turned, as the whole wall blasted open. The Rakshasa women and children shrank back, whimpering.

  Ravindra … no: Ravan Aeshwaran, entered the chamber. He stood at least eight foot tall in this guise, massive, his coppery face cruel and hard, and his eyes blazing. ‘ENOUGH OF THIS CHARADE! I’M GOING TO RIP YOU BOTH APART! I WILL NOT BE THWARTED THIS TIME!’ He held aloft the glittering heartstones, the last two, in his left fist. His beautiful curved blade gleamed in his right as he ploughed through the water.

  Rasita gripped Deepika’s hand. There seemed nothing they could do, but they could try. She lifted a hand, with some vague idea of pushing the demon-king away.

  ‘FREEZE!’ The demon-king lifted the hand containing the heartstones, and she felt her whole body lock rigid. Beside her, Deepika’s mouth went still, her face contorted.

  Sister! The part of them that was still free, their exhausted battered souls, clasped together. They felt something stir inside, something that had been waiting for millennia to happen. Something pure.

  But it was happening too late. Ravan Aeshwaran towered above them, holding aloft the heartstones, and aligned his sword with Deepika’s heart. ‘Farewell, Darya. The end has come, at long last!’ he purred. ‘When I cut you open, you will reach inside yourself and pull out your own heart. Then you will give it to me, to fulfil your role in the Rite of Mandore.’

  Deepika’s eyes went wide. But her arms, which a moment ago had been lying useless at her side, rose to her chest, as if to receive the sacrament of his blade.

  Ravan Aeshwaran looked at Rasita. ‘And then I think you know the rest, my lover.’

  Vikram didn’t think. He didn’t need to—he just fired the arrow. ‘Vayvaya-astra’ he shouted, because it seemed like the thing to do. The shaft roared over Amanjit’s shoulder and exploded, a shock wave of force radiated from the tip and blew outward like an invisible umbrella opening. The first Rakshasa it struck, some bull-headed monstrosity, was tossed aside like a toy, then the force flattened the horde of Rakshasas behind Bullhead like rubbish in a gale.

  He could barely focus on one thing from one moment to the next—he kept wanting to stop and admire the way the sparks that trailed the arrows he fired hung in the air. His mind was flip-flopping about crazily.

  Amanjit peered at him dazedly. ‘Vik?’

  ‘Hey, man! What’s happening?’ Vikram fought desperately for control. He felt flushed and incredibly hot, as if rain would sizzle on his skin. Shooting arrows helped—he fired another one that exploded into an eagle-headed thing and blew it apart.

  Amanjit stared. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘No time, bhai. I have about ten minutes to save the universe before my head explodes.’

  ‘You what—?’

  ‘No time!’ Vikram pushed himself into a run, his eyes wild. He cleared the rubble and the cordon of dead or dying Asuras with an effortless leap. ‘Come on!’ He shouldered into the rubble, caught the scent of his quarry, and with a gesture, tore open the earth. ‘Ravan!’ Dark water swirled past, some part of the Citadel’s drains. But there was no time. He just ran at a wall, and exploded through it. ‘RAVAN!’

  He was dimly aware that Amanjit wasn’t following.

  Amanjit started to follow Vikram, but a massive shaggy form in dented armour lurched creakily to its feet, covered in dust and blood, blocking the way. Meghanada Indrajit staggered, caught himself, and half-turned. His eyes seemed to flash in sudden eagerness, and the weariness fell from his stance. ‘Lakshmana!’ he snarled. ‘This is our day of destiny! At long last! Let us renew our ancient duel! Let us finally see who is the better man!’ He straightened and swirled a sword in either hand. ‘Let us see who among we, who live in the shadow of great men, is the mightier!’

  Amanjit groaned. ‘Oh man! I don’t have time for this.’

  Vikram had disappeared into the tangle of broken stone. Hemant’s men were surging towards them, would sweep through here in seconds unless this bull-headed monster rallied his warriors and stopped them. I’ve got to finish this. He picked up an arrow, and didn’t even bother to find a bow, just yelled something, and it flew like a rocket in his hand, blasting the towering Rakshasa in the middle of the chest. The Rakshasa jerked, staggered, and collapsed.

  ‘I’d have won anyway,’ Amanjit told the dying monster as he broke into a sprint. ‘That was quicker.’ Where the hell is Vik?

  Behind him the Rakshasa prince rolled on to his back and died. Amanjit didn’t spare him another glance.

  Rasita gripped Dee’s hands, screaming her name. Through their hands energy flowed, a coalescing, a pooling, and something formed, like jigsaw pieces slamming together.

  Too late.

  The moon-blade glittered, and began to fall.

  ‘NOOOO!’ From the shadows a small feral thing detached and hurled itself at the arm of the demon-king, dashing the blow aside, ripping and tearing, spitting and shrieking. Slashing wounds ripped along Ravan Aeshwaran’s arm, shredded skin splattering blood, as he roared, let go of the heartstone and seized the shape that fought him.

  Keke.

  Ras’ frozen eyes saw the little maid struggling in Ravindra’s grasp, flailing and screaming, then the mighty arm went back, and threw the Asura girl against the wall. She rolled into a ball as she struck, fell to the floor winded, fighting for air.

  Aeshwaran roared in fury, lifted his sword Chandrahas again, but a wall of female flesh struck him. Every one of the Rakshasa women threw themselves at him. He went down in a tide of bestial forms, in a splash and a churning that roiled the surface of the pool.

  Ras jerked into a semblance of motion. Her head turned to Keke, lying on her side, pulling herself on her hands, dragging lifeless legs. ‘Mistress,’ the maid whimpered. Ras tried to move, but Ravindra’s binding still held.

  Then with a ghastly roar, Ravan Aeshwaran erupted from beneath the surface, tossing pieces of his attackers about him as the waters turned red. He thrashed about him with his shining blade, and another beast-woman was carved in half, falling in two into the bloody depths. The remainder fell back in a semi-circle, frightened but spitting hatred.

  ‘Stay away from our queen,’ one snarled, and the
others hissed in agreement.

  He drew himself to his full height. His voice filled the chamber. ‘I am your king! She belongs to me!’

  ‘You promised us healing,’ the grotesque beast-women howled at him. ‘You promised us redemption! You promised you would make us whole!’ They bared their claws again, at the master who had promised them everything and given nothing for centuries. ‘You said you would learn to love, and through love, heal us all.’

  He spat blood. ‘Foolish wretches! You ugly drudges! Fit for nothing but beasts! I AM YOUR KING AND YOUR SOULS BELONG TO ME!’

  He took a step towards the girls, and the women fell on him again.

  Ras fought despairingly against the binding, as all the while a nimbus of light seemed to be forming over her and Deepika. Tears started from her eyes at the strain. Her every muscle clenched with the effort of trying to move. She trembled, on the brink of motion.

  There was a dreadful scream from behind them, in the pool, and Ravan Aeshwaran strode from a morass of death. Rasita managed to half turn, with a supreme effort.

  There was a pale, indistinct form standing over them. She felt her consciousness fray. Still clinging to Deepika’s hand, she looked up. The pale figure standing over them shimmered and grew brighter. A woman …

  Then the roof of the bath chamber disintegrated, the dust howling away in a sudden blast of hot air that scoured the chamber.

  ‘AESHWARAN!’ shouted Vikram, hovering in the air above. ‘COME OUT AND DIE!’

  The demon-king spun, his expression changing from anticipation to thwarted fury. But his body sprouted another set of arms as he leapt into the air, walking it like a stair. Chandrahas shone in the moonlight, and his blood-wet flesh rippled in the silver sheen. He stared at the pallid thing above Ras, and then up at the hole in the roof, where a slim shape hovered in the air.

  ‘DASRAIYAT!’ he roared, in total hatred. With a brilliant flash, both fired arrows that exploded partway between them as they met. He leapt, away, into the air, his face glowing with ferocity.

  Ras fell backward into Keke’s arms, as the spell immobilising her fell apart. But freed to move, she found she still could not. The pale ghost standing above them reached down to them. Unseen hands clasped, and something left her, flowing into that beautiful glowing form, which began to drift into the sky, growing more and more distinct all the time. A woman. A queen. A being who was part of her … no, SHE was part of that being. A woman named Manda.

  Moksha

  Lanka, 31 July 2011

  Amanjit tried to follow Vikram, but then he found himself in the midst of a fire-fight, as Hemant’s men, streaming behind him through the breach, encountered deadly astras from the desperate remnants of the Rakshasa and Asura defenders. He immediately realized that without him, Hemant’s warriors would be slaughtered.

  ‘Find cover!’ he shouted at them, supported by Hemant’s whistle and gestures. They rolled behind a wall, and he assessed their position. Beside him, Hemant was still blasting on his whistle, gesticulating and shouting. Around them at least half-a-dozen of his men lay wounded or dead.

  Amanjit fired off an Aindra-astra, and as the arrows rained down on the Rakshasas, he dragged a wounded man under cover. Hemant’s monkey bent over the fallen man, cooing sadly. Then the arrows and astras from above ripped about them again. Amanjit cursed, and changed mental gears. You’re on your own for now, Vik. I’ve gotta help these guys out or they’re all dead.

  Behind the enemy position another piece of the broken fortress exploded, and two dark figures flew upwards into the sky, the air between them crackling with pulsating light.

  For an instant, the enemy fire stopped. Amanjit bunched his legs, ready to go after his brother after all. Then the hidden Rakshasa archers rained fire down on them again, and all Amanjit’s energies went into protecting the men around him. His hands blurred as he fired, again and again, defensive arrows, shooting down astras he barely saw.

  Suddenly, with a mighty cry, the palanquin of Vibhishana was borne into the breach, on the back of his Asura horde, and the courtyard filled with warriors.

  Legends tell of duels between heroes that last for hours, even days.

  Vikram knew from centuries of deadly experience that real fights are over in seconds.

  He shot an Agniyastra from the sky with a Mohini, tried to counter with a Naga-astra but Ravindra was just too damned fast. A Vayvaya-astra blasted him backwards with his own spell half-cast, and then he had to contort wildly to avoid being crushed by a Parvata-astra that sent a boulder whistling past him like a train.

  His own Vajra lightning-arrow was shot down effortlessly by a Mohini, and then he was enveloped. A Nagapaasha struck him with a wall of writhing snakes. He shouted in sudden agony as a dozen pairs of fangs buried themselves in him, and then they were writhing about him, wrapping, enveloping. He clung to his bow desperately as the venom began to numb him. His false, drug-induced energy began to waver, and all the while, his eyes followed Aeshwaran as he floated languidly to a better vantage and raised a bow.

  He shouted in agonised terror, and the snakes were blasted from him, leaving him torn and bloody, broken fangs burning in his flesh. But he still held his bow. He fired, to disrupt more than harm, a homing arrow that Ravindra swatted aside contemptuously. At least it prevented the spell that the Ravindra was attempting to cast. They circled, walking the air as if it were earth. Below them he could feel the surge of battle, but here in the air there was just the two of them. Nowhere to hide any more.

  Ravindra lifted the tempo of his arrows, even as he circled closer. Shot after shot, forcing Vikram to dodge, to block, to move. Wearing him down. Setting him up for the kill. Firing, firing, and then suddenly, he was on Vikram, the last few yards between them vanishing in a heartbeat.

  Chandrahas the Moonblade was suddenly in Ravindra’s fist. Vikram had time to pull out a dagger and block, but his blade was blasted apart. Chandrahas slashed his shoulder as he dived away. He leapt atop a spire, then dived aside as fire billowed from Ravindra’s hand. He spun away, breathing hard, sucking in the smoky air as despair and exhaustion rose in his mind.

  The drugs Kasun and Hemant had pumped into him were waning, his movements slowing. His shoulder bled, and radiated pain and weakness. Venom coursed deeper into his arteries. His heart and his mind began to know the slow dread of losing. But he pulled out the sword at his side, gritted his teeth, and tried to close on his enemy.

  Amanjit saw the arrow, but there were just so many others. He fired a single Mohini that became a cluster, shooting down the incoming fire, but there was one enemy shaft that flashed through his defences. It struck Vibhishana in the chest, and blew the Rakshasa’s ribcage apart. The Asura shrieked. Above them, the enemy crowed. For an instant Amanjit was frightened that the Asuras would give up, fold or change sides. They faltered, turning this way and that.

  He climbed to his feet and jabbed a hand upward at the Rakshasa archers above.

  ‘Look!’ He roared. ‘There they are! There are your slave masters! There are the bullies that have made your lives a misery for centuries. There are the killers of your true king.’

  A mass of arrows flew at him.

  He raised a hand.

  To his dying day he could not say what he did. He just willed the shafts to stop. And stop they did. They froze in the air, and then held, a torrent of death held in abeyance, as Asura and Meghwal alike stared.

  Then the arrows rained down, falling straight to earth, surrounding him like a mini-forest.

  A giant goat-headed Asura rebel screamed a war cry, then they all did, flooding past him and up the stairs towards their oppressors.

  The moment of indecision was gone. The king was dead. Long live the next one.

  Amanjit nocked another arrow, and joined the assault.

  Vikram flew at Ravindra, but he was no match for the man at swordplay. A sudden thrust skewered his wrist and his own blade fell from the air as he reeled away. Ravindra could have followed him, cou
ld have cut him down with ease, but he didn’t.

  Death wasn’t enough. The demon-king intended to end this forever.

  He drew his bow once more, and trained the arrow on Vikram. The youth recognized the burgeoning spell. The Pashupata-astra, the Trimurti-astra of Destruction.

  This is it …

  All of his past failures reoccurred in his mind in one blinding flash that broke apart the last vestiges of his battle-fury. As the venom countered the drugs in his system, he felt the remnants of his exhaustion from casting his own Pashupatastra drag him down. Swirling violet light surrounded Ravan Aeshwaran as he muttered the final phrase, pulled back the arrow a fraction further, then released.

  He had nothing left anymore. He was beaten, hanging in the sky, the perfect target. Gravity began to tug, but too late. The Pashupatastra flared as it seared towards his exposed heart.

  I have failed again.

  He closed his eyes.

  The expected impact did not come.

  He opened his eyes again. He still hung in the air, with the Pashupatastra an inch from his chest.

  A woman’s hand gripped the shaft, belonging to one he knew though he’d never seen her before. She was Rasita and Deepika and she was whole and perfect and she burned so bright it hurt to look at her. ‘Manda?’

  She smiled at him. ‘Dasraiyat, my love.’

  In her grasp, the Pashupatastra bucked, like a rocket trying to fly. All along its length purple light danced. The universe seemed utterly still. He stared at her. She was transparent, a spirit-thing only, not really there at all. But she held the astra in her hands with strength beyond any mortal.

  His eyes went to Aeshwaran. He too was suspended in the sky, his face so contorted with emotions ranging from hatred to fury to despair to twisted adoration that he seemed barely human. He did not look at Vikram. Only at her.

  Manda turned to face him. Aeshwaran reached out to her. In his left hand he grasped the heartstones, but they crumpled to ash as he lifted them. He seemed to be trying to move, but he couldn’t, and Vikram saw faint skeins, like spider’s webs, that ran from Manda’s left hand and held him, motionless in the air.