Prince of Dharma (40 page)

Finally, Captain Bejoo nodded curtly to Rama, still ignoring the brahmarishi, and strode back to his chariot without saying another word. Climbing aboard in two quick steps, he signalled a silent order. At once, the entire line of chariots began turning their horses around; the mounted riders behind them did the same. The mahout of the lead elephant patted the side of his mount, bringing the giant beast to a surprised halt.
Sorry, old bigfoot, your climb was for nothing
. At least the way back was downhill, Rama reflected as he loosened his bowstring a fraction, still keeping the arrow in the bow. 

Behind him, the sage spoke with surprising gentleness, in sharp contrast to the harshness he had used with the Vajra captain. ‘Come, rajkumars. We have some way yet to travel before sunset, and the way ahead is not as easy as the raj-marg. Let us make haste.’ 

Rama rose to his feet and backed away, keeping his eyes on the retreating Vajra. The chariots and horse had stopped to wait for the last of the elephants to reach the top and turn around. Rama noticed fresh scratches scored along the backs of more than one elephant, blood welling up in some of the cuts.
From those low-hanging ironwood branches no doubt, wretched anjans. I bet they’re bewitched.
He knew Lakshman would be concerned: his brother adored elephants even more than horses. But there was no time to feel sorry; these were only minor cuts, and he expected to see much more blood spilled before this journey was done.
And not just elephant blood. 

He backed up until he could feel a branch inches behind his head, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling in anticipation, then turned and ducked beneath an overhanging eave, entering the sullen gloom of the thicket. 

***

Captain Bejoo waited until the princes and the sage had disappeared into the thick shadow of the woods. Then he beckoned to his second-in-command, a tall, handsome Kshatriya mounted on a bronze horse. Like all Vajra Kshatriyas, the young man was nicknamed after his patron animal. Because his long jaw, milky-fair Arya skin, dark-blond hair and almost white grey eyes resembled the fawn-stippled-with-black appearance of the plainswolf, he was named Bheriya. 

‘Bheriya.’ Bejoo’s eyes stayed on the place where the three foot-travellers had entered the forest. ‘Tell Gaja to keep his bigfoots here for another hour then follow slowly and silently. And I mean slow and silent, samjhe? Not crashing through the forest like a pack of timber-elephants.’ 

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 respect.’ 

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.’