KRISHNA CORIOLIS#1: Slayer of Kamsa (19 page)

As Devaki watched – half her attention diverted towards bestowing her brightest smiles upon the throng, her hands flailing to acknowledge and return the cheers of the ecstatic crowd – she saw the woman raise her hands. Something she held in each hand flashed brightly in the morning sunlight. Something metallic and highly burnished, with sharp edges. The objects flashed as the woman moved her arms with great grace and speed, and the two smiling soldiers abruptly lost their smiles and collapsed where they stood.

The next moment, the woman was lost in the crowd. But not before Devaki saw the things she held
in her hands rise again to catch the sunlight. This time they did not flash
as
brightly, for they were covered with something dark and reddish. But she knew at once what they were. Blades. The woman had just killed those two soldiers, cutting them down from behind like sheaves of wheat.

Devaki caught another glimpse of flashing steel elsewhere and turned her head.

She saw another woman hacking down another soldier, then a second, then a third, and yet another. This other woman too moved with a fluid, effortless grace that was no less than any classical dancer, swirling, flowing, slashing ... She swung and soldiers died.

Suddenly, there were flashes of steel everywhere as far as she could see, winking in the sunlight, visible even through the dense, colourful crowd.

Flashes of steel.

And splatters of red.

Then the screams began. First a single woman,
as she stumbled over a dead soldier and reacted instinctively.

Then several more as they found other dead soldiers.

Then the puzzled shouts of men as they found corpses too, or glimpsed other soldiers being killed.

Slowly, the din and cacophony of celebration died down, even the music faltering, then halting, then dying out altogether.

Suddenly, a terrible silence fell.

In those few moments, Devaki heard the sounds of slaughter: The liquid thud of knives hacking through flesh and bone. The choked death grunts of dying soldiers. The swishing and tinkling of garments as the female killers went about their deadly work, incongruously clad in festive garb.

Then a new cry rose from the crowd.

‘Assassins!’

At once, a new mood swept the enormous
collective. A mob is like a body of water. Spill fragrant essence into it and it will turn lavender and aromatic; spill offal and it will soon be covered with a layer of scum and reek. The same crowd that was ecstatic with joy only moments ago, was now terrified.

Soldiers were dying across the city by the hundreds. Andhaka as well as Sura soldiers. The soldiers killed were only a fraction of the whole force, but the vast number of soldiers untouched by the violence could barely comprehend what was happening, let alone identify the ones responsible.

For one thing, the killers were women, clad like normal Mathura women, and therefore virtually indistinguishable from the rest of the crowd. They killed, then hid their weapons beneath their voluminous garments and moved to their next target, working with chilling efficacy and ruthlessness. Nothing the soldiers had experienced had prepared them for such attackers. How could they fight the enemy when they could barely tell
them apart from the tens of thousands of ordinary female citizens?

For another thing, the crowd was drunk on celebration and joy; emotions ran sky-high, and the moment the killing began, people overreacted. Some began attempting to flee, causing stampedes. Others tried to apprehend the killers and, in the process, got themselves killed, or grabbed the wrong women in their haste. Chaos broke out. The only ones who benefited from the chaos were the killers themselves. Moving through the crowds, killing at will, they reaped a terrible harvest. Safe on the uks cart, Devaki saw blood and slaughter and stampedes all around. She saw children run down by panicked crowds attempting to flee. She saw soldiers draw their weapons and hack blindly at the crowds around them, confused and angry at their comrades’ death. She saw citizens take hold of the assassins, only to be hacked down brutally in a moment. The celebration had turned into a slaughter. The wedding procession into a funeral procession. The cheers and whistles and cries of joy turned to screams of terror and howls of agony.

Devaki clutched Vasudeva’s anga-vastra and yelled to make herself heard over the din. ‘Do something, My Lord! Stop this madness!’

But Vasudeva did nothing. He only sat there, watching the terror spread like wildfire.

She gaped, unable to understand why her husband wasn’t doing anything to stop the madness, or at least shouting to control the crowd. She could see the look of horror on his face, the shocked gaze which meant that he was registering everything that was going on. ‘Vasudeva!’ she cried.

He turned to her, slowly. She was moved by the infinite sadness in his gaze. As always, his face made her feel that she was looking upon some exalted force.

He stared at her silently for a moment, then lowered his eyes in sadness.

‘My Lord,’ she sobbed.‘Your people are dying!’

She realized her mistake and corrected herself: ‘Our people are dying!’

He did not respond in words. Only raised his eyes sadly again, looking over his shoulder at her brother at the head of the cart.

Frowning, she looked in the same direction.

She recognized him, somewhat darker and more leathery, the body more muscular and manly, but it was him.

Finally, comprehension dawned that it was
he
who was driving the cart.

And suddenly, she knew why Vasudeva was not doing anything. Why he
could not
do anything; why her wedding day had turned into a nightmare.

‘Greetings, sister dearest,’ said Kamsa, grinning amiably. ‘Allow me to offer my heartiest congratulations on your nuptials ... and commiseration, for you will not live to enjoy a long and happily married life.’

five

Kamsa was thrilled at how easily his plan had been put to action.

Along with Bana and Canura, he had hatched the idea of infiltrating the city and striking when Mathura was most vulnerable: during the royal wedding. With the kingdom in the grip of wedding revels, and visitors arriving by the tens of thousands from all corners, it had been easy for him to enter the city. Procuring suitable garb had posed no great challenge either, with the markets filled with traders and craftsmen from all across the Yadava nations offering wares and services for sale. Not that he had needed to purchase anything; his forces had simply taken what they wished, but they had been cautious enough not to do anything that would attract too much attention. Once they had secured the appropriate garb from houses lying empty – the inhabitants busy carousing during the wedding feasts – his Mohinis had mingled with the crowds and awaited the start of the procession.

As for Kamsa taking his place on the uks cart, it had been simplicity itself. He had just kept enough of his face concealed by his head-cloth to confuse the guards into assuming that he was one of his many brothers and clambered aboard. His brothers never suspected because once they saw him seated on the leading cart, they assumed he was this or the other. They were merry in their cups as well by then, after all.

His greatest advantage lay in the fact that no one expected him to be at the wedding. It was inconceivable that he would appear at such a time, that too in so surreptitious a manner. It had never been his way. The Kamsa of yore, the younger, brasher Kamsa, would have simply charged in: galloping, roaring with fury and hacking down or riding down anyone who obstructed his path. These devious subtleties were Jarasandha’s teachings bearing fruit.

Once the procession had begun to move, he had given Bana and Canura the signal to direct the Mohinis to get to work; and they did so with the same ruthless ease with which he had watched them hack down enemy warriors during the training skirmishes Jarasandha had set up for his viewing pleasure. The sheer tumultuous chaos of the wedding, the enormous crowds, the emotional fever-pitch, and the silent,
deadly
smoothness with which his Mohinis moved through the city, killing Mathura and Sura soldiers alike, thrilled him. It was almost artistic in its speed, precision and acrobatic beauty.

There, a Mohini slashed her blade under the guard of a Mathura soldier, pirouetted, then pierced the abdomen of a Sura soldier who was rushing at her in
a blind rage; then swished around in a third spin, her swords disappearing into the folds of her garment. The next instant, she was lost in the crowd, head lowered, working her way discreetly to her next target as the horde of horrified witnesses around her tried to make sense of what had happened.

Here, a small band of soldiers formed a protective cordon around his cart – putting their bodies and their lives at stake for the royal couple they sought to protect – as a Mohini came sprinting from their flank, ducked under their slow, defensively raised lances, and slashed briefly but with killing perfection at each of them in turn, not killing at once, but mortally wounding. The entire cordon collapsed as one man, bleeding to death in agony as the uksan, unable to stop in time, stomped over their prone bodies, and the wheels of the cart lurched and heaved as they crushed the dying men underneath.

Everywhere, the same dance of death was being performed.

Kamsa glanced back at his sister, gratified at the expression on her face and on that of Vasudeva’s as well.

‘Well, sister, how do you like my wedding gift?’

Devaki’s face stared back at him.‘Wedding ...gift?’ she repeated, uncomprehending.

Kamsa gestured broadly, indicating the city, the crowds, the screams, the chaos, the dancing Mohinis slaughtering hapless Yadava soldiers by the dozens, the hundreds, the stampedes, the terror – the madness
and beauty of the whole scene.‘A great performance, is it not? Have you seen such artistry from our classical danseuses? I think not. I trust you are pleased with this great demonstration.’

‘Abomination!’ she spat, recovering her senses. ‘How could you do such a thing? During your own family’s celebrations?’

Kamsa laughed. ‘My family’s celebrations?’ He clucked his tongue at the uksan, guiding them past a pile of writhing bodies left in the wake of a stampeding horde; most of them were very young children. He ignored the pitiful cries of those left broken and bleeding in the pile. ‘No, Sister. You confuse politics with family. This is merely part of the Sura plot to take control of Mathura. You are merely a bonus!’

Devaki made a sound of despair. ‘Stop it at once, Kamsa. Call off your mad dogs! Stop this mindless killing.’ Tears spilled from her eyes, causing her kohl to streak.‘I beg of you, Brother. Lay down your arms. This is an occasion of peace and brotherhood!’

Kamsa grinned at her.‘You have been thoroughly brainwashed, Sister. I am merely doing now what our enemies would have done very soon to us anyway.’

Vasudeva spoke up, cautious but unafraid.‘You are killing your own Kshatriyas as well as mine, Kamsa. Are they your enemies as well?’

Kamsa shrugged, avoiding looking directly at Vasudeva just yet. ‘They are either
with
us or
against
us. By standing with
your
men, they show themselves to be
your
men. Therefore they must be put down. I
intend to clean out the rot from Mathura completely this time. Oftentimes, to save a healthy body one must sever an infected limb. I fear that my kingdom’s military is badly in need of overhauling.’ He lashed the whip at a foolish woman joining her hands together and begging the lords on the cart to help save her dying sons. ‘It is time we brought some fresh blood into Mathura. And now is as good a time as any.’

Everywhere he looked, he was pleased to see the plan proceeding perfectly. Yadava soldiers were no match for the ruthless efficiency of his Mohini Fauj and were falling like flies. Within seconds, he would be clear of this crowded avenue and proceed to the next part of his plan, which was to—

Kamsa!

He dropped the whip. His head pounded with excruciating agony. ‘Guru!’ he cried involuntarily, calling out for Jarasandha as he often had during the preceding weeks when in situations of extreme risk or pain, appealing to the only man who had ever treated him as a father ought to treat a son, the only real teacher, master, preceptor he had ever acknowledged as worthy of commanding his attention.

Jarasandha cannot help you. This is your bane to break. And break it you must. Or it will break you!

‘WHAT ARE YOU BABBLING ABOUT?’ he cried, not caring that he was shrieking the words aloud, or that both Devaki and Vasudeva were
exchanging glances and staring at him, as were several of those in the crowd who were not too preoccupied to recognize the altered but still recognizable face of their crown prince.

Devaki, your sister, will bear the male child that will be your undoing. Kill her now, or she will grow the seed of your destruction within her womb.

Kamsa writhed in agony. On the earlier occasions that Narada had spoken to him, in his mind as well as in spectral form in the forest, there had been only a gnashing sensation, like a deep rumbling of thunder too close to his head for comfort. But this time, it was as if the thunder was inside his head, crashing and resounding across the battered walls of his brain. ‘I
... am taking control ... of my destiny ...’
he said, panting when he finished the brief statement. It was a statement he had learnt from Jarasandha. This part of his plan was aimed at taking control of his own destiny instead of waiting for it to be handed to him the way he had waited all his life. He had a plan, a beautiful, perfect plan. And the first part of the plan was going masterfully.‘My Mohini Fauj ...’

Your Mohini Fauj will not save you from the One who approaches. Once He sets foot upon this mortal plane, none will succeed in opposing Him. Not even your great guru. The only way to protect yourself from Him is to kill the woman who will bear His mortal avatar in this lifetime. Kill Devaki.