Prince of Dharma (91 page)

The four surviving bears were clustered together. Bejoo assessed the largest one to be a female in her early middle age. Behind her, partly concealed between her broad back and the trunk of a thick ancient oak, were three cubs of varying sizes. The cubs were very young, too young to be of any real use in a fight against so many armed enemies, but even so they peered out from behind their mother’s flanks, snarling and growling fiercely at the humans who threatened her. 

The female was bleeding from several small wounds, none significant enough to be fatal but cumulatively enough to cause great pain and hamper her movements. The bandits wore her down, slash by slash, jab by jab, Bejoo thought, his fury rising as he pictured the desperate last stand of the mother rksa after her adult companions were butchered. Those were the howls of rage we heard—they were sticking her like a dummy at a carnival pig-sticking contest. 

Despite her wounds, the female stood on her rear legs, presenting the largest possible front, and bared her teeth silently at the ring of bandits who surrounded her. They held their weapons far ahead of their vulnerable bodies, clearly having learned from the example of their fallen companions that the mother bear still had enough fight left in her to take several more of them before she went down. 

The man with the ruined face was closest to her, supervising the last part of what had been a difficult and brutal clash of the two species. 

But the bandit leader’s attention wasn’t directed at the cornered bear and her cubs. 

It was focused on the two humans who were threatening him and his band. 

These last two were clearly not part of the bandit gang. They were both dressed in the all-black head-to-toe garb of Kshatriyasfor-hire. Wandering mercenaries who travelled from kingdom to kingdom, hiring their swords out to rich merchants who needed bodyguards while ferrying their goods from marketplace to marketplace, entering melees and tourneys for the prize-money, occasionally even signing up with any army that was hiring and paying well. 

Both had their heads covered with the same black roughcloth and their faces were veiled as well, only their bright eyes visible, shining fiercely. They were an odd couple, one a giant towering over everyone else in the clearing—everyone except the female bear, of course—and the other a slender, lithe Kshatriya a third of his companion’s size. They were armed with the familiar curved swords that Mithilan Kshatriyas favoured, and their backto-back stances revealed their own desperate struggle against the bandit gang. Four or five human corpses lay around them, confirming which side they were on. 

Bejoo couldn’t quite understand this set-up. He would have accepted the bandits attacking the family of rksas, perhaps slaughtering them for their valuable teeth, claws, fur, even their sexual organs for their mythical aphrodisiacal properties; or the gang attacking the pair of Kshatriyas in the hope of stealing their purses–—ome of these wandering mercenaries did quite well for themselves, and this pair looked well-nourished and decently dressed. But he didn’t understand how the mercenaries, rksas and the bandits all fitted together. 

One thing was clear, though: the rksas and the Kshatriyas were aligned on one side, the bandits on the other. Which made Bejoo’s choice of loyalty crystal clear. If he and his men entered this fight, they would side with the Kshatriyas, who were at least fellow-caste Aryas, and with the rksas, because they were the Vajra captain’s totem. Besides, he hated bandits. They were nothing more than scum who preyed on unarmed travellers and slaughtered them for a few coins, keeping the women as sexual slaves and the children to be raised as additions to their gang. He would enjoy dispatching this lot to the realm of Yamaraj. 

But the boys he was sworn to protect were right in the midst of the tableau, between the bandits, the Kshatriyas and the rksas. 

As Bejoo watched, Rajkumar Rama began speaking. 

Rama addressed everyone present in the clearing without regard for whether they were friend or foe, human or animal. 

‘In the name of Maharaja Dasaratha, king of Kosala, master of the sunwood throne of Ayodhya, I command you all to lay down your weapons at once and cease fighting.’ 

Sullen silence met his announcement. 

Stunned by Rama’s spectacular entrance, the bandits were still gaping at him, and at Lakshman, who was a few yards away to Rama’s left. The two black-garbed Kshatriyas exchanged a quick glance and seemed a little relieved at this dramatic change in their situation. But the bear and her frightened cubs continued to snarl and growl as fiercely as before. 

Lakshman guessed that to the unfortunate bears, one human was much the same as the next. Even if they could have understood Rama’s words, why should they trust him? He kept his focus as keenly on the rksas as on the bandits, figuring, as Bejoo had just done, that the Kshatriya mercenaries were the only allies he could count on in this face-off. A cornered bear was ten times as dangerous as a bandit. There was no telling what that female might do, or at whom she might direct her wrath. 

After a pause, someone laughed. The sound was grating, and unexpected. The man who spoke had an insolent tone, his accent a careless drawl that echoed the speech of the Garhwali Himalayas. A mountain man, Lakshman thought. If that was where the speaker was from originally, then he was a long way from his hilly homeland. 

‘Rajkumar Rama, we meet again! The devas must have entwined our horoscopes at birth. How else could we meet twice in less than one moon-cycle?’ 

Lakshman stared at the bandit who had spoken. It was the horribly scarred man, evidently the leader of this ragged band, judging from his appearance and the arrogant way he stood and spoke. For an instant, looking at the disfigured face, Lakshman thought the man’s wounds had just been inflicted, in this very fight; after all, they were rksa-slashes, and the man and his band were fighting rksas. Then he realised that the scars—if you could call them that—were very old. He recalled Rama’s encounter with the man named Bear-face, the leader of the gang of poachers hunting the deer near Ayodhya. This had to be the same man, although Lakshman couldn’t figure out how the bandit leader could have got out of jail so soon. 

‘You do recognise me, rajkumar?’ the man was saying to Rama. He gestured mockingly at his damaged features, making a coy hand-signal like a classical dancer. ‘Or did you forget my pretty face so quickly?’ 

He clicked his tongue mockingly. ‘Ah, I know why you’re here. You didn’t get to kiss my pretty mug the last time we met. So you decided to come a-hunting for me so you could fulfil your heart’s desire!’ 

A burst of laughter exploded from the other bandits. 

Some of the other men seemed to recognise Rama too, and one of the younger fellows was staring at the back of his head as if he was contemplating putting his dagger through it. Lakshman tightened his grip on his sword and waited to see what Rama did next. 

Rama responded in the same measured tone he had used earlier. ‘I repeat: throw down your weapons and live. Or fight on and die. The choice is yours.’ 

Bear-face hawked and spat on the corpse of a female bear before him. Then he put a sandalled foot on the beast, unmindful of the still steaming mass of intestines oozing from the gashed belly. 

‘I seem to recall you giving me similar words on that prior occasion as well, young prince.’ 

He emphasised the last word as if it was the worst abuse any living being could speak. ‘Right before you caught me unawares with that lucky stone-toss. Well, this time you won’t be so lucky, and my numbers are better than on that occasion. What’s more, you’re in my territory now. No city guards to back you up, no city jail to throw me into.’ 

He made the infuriating clicking sound again. Lakshman saw the man’s red tongue working inside his horribly exposed mouth and felt his stomach churn with disgust. 

‘Not that the city jail kept me long. Do you know the funniest thing?’ Bear-face gestured to his band, all of whom were listening and watching attentively. ‘The young rajkumar arrested me on the morning of Holi feast day, and I was released by the city warden on the same afternoon. Can you guess why?’ 

Nobody answered, not even the other men who seemed to recognise Rama. Obviously the bandit leader was accustomed to speaking without interruption. ‘Believe it or not–or believe it a lot!–it was on account of this same rajkumar’s coronation announcement! Those Ayodhyan wretches have a custom that when a rajkumar is to be crowned prince-heir, or even when he’s just declared as such, they release all prisoners short of actual murderers! So the boys and I, though we didn’t get to pick the purses we’d gone into town for, got off scot-free by the courtesy of this young king-in-waiting right here! Can you beat that? Arrested and then released, both by the grace of the same man on the same day. If that isn’t karma, what is?’ 

‘King-in-waiting,’ one of the women bandits said mockingly. ‘Wonder what they feed them maharajas-to-be. The way he came leaping in here, I thought he was that vanar warrior, what do they call him?’ 

‘Hanuman,’ said another bandit, the oldest of the group. 

‘Shut up, you all,’ Bear-face said casually. ‘This here’s no vanar warrior. Least of all a Hanuman. For all his fancy titles and big palace, he’s just a boy. And boys can be killed twice as easy as men.’ 

Bear-face pointed his sword at Rama. ‘You’re poaching on my territory now, prince. Even jumping like a vanar won’t help you get away this time. We’ll show you how forest Kshatriyas fight.’ 

Lakshman couldn’t keep silent any longer. ‘You insult the caste of Kshatriya by daring to call yourself one. You’re nothing but a common thief and highway brigand! Do as my brother asks and we may spare your life yet. Otherwise you will be shown no quarter, I promise you that!’ 

Bear-face turned his head slightly to squint at Lakshman. ‘So this is another of Dasaratha’s whelps, hey? You must be Lakshman then. I heard they sent you two with the seer to fight rakshasas in the Southwoods. What did you do there? Set fire to the forest and burn down all the wretched beasts?’ 

This provoked another burst of laughter. Several of the men who had looked nervous and unsure when Rama and Lakshman had first entered the clearing now seemed relaxed and supremely confident. 

He’s showing his men he isn’t scared of us, while buying himself time to figure his way out of the situation. Lakshman found himself reluctantly admiring the bandit leader’s shrewdness. But the man’s words rankled. He was implying that Rama and he had simply burned down the Southwoods rather than confront the asuras face to face. Lakshman couldn’t let that insult pass. 

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, bandit,’ he replied. ‘You’d probably wet your dhoti if you met a rakshasa right now. Why, look at this scene. It takes three dozen armed bandits to terrorise one female bear! And I’m sure you’d let your men kill her and only step forward to poke your sword at the poor cubs at the very end! Don’t talk about things you know nothing of, vermin! Even a sudra gutter-cleaner can convert to Kshatriya-caste more easily than a wretch like you!’ 

Bear-face’s features darkened with sudden rage. ‘Call me a sudra, will you? I’m a Kshatriya, you hear? A Kshatriya! I’d face an army of asuras right now and skewer them alive! I’d face the Lord of Lanka and make him eat my steel! A Kshatriya, damn you!’ 

His followers raised their left fists and echoed their leader’s claim. 

Rama’s voice cut through it all. ‘Then act like a Kshatriya, bandit. Yield, or die. This is your last warning.’ 

Bear-face spat at Rama. The phlegmy effusion came nowhere near the prince of Ayodhya, but the vulgarity of the gesture itself shocked Lakshman. 

The bandit leader yelled his response hoarsely. ‘I didn’t get to meet your mother last time, prince. You should introduce me to her now. I’ll show her what a real Kshatriya is like—’ 

That was as much as Lakshman could take. He was about to respond to the bandit’s insult in the only language the man would understand when he saw Rama had reached the end of his patience as well. 

Lakshman watched as Rama’s eyes, clear and calm up to this point, suddenly blazed bright searing blue, casting a ghostly light that made the bandits nearest to him gape in astonishment. Motes of glittering gold swirled in those Brahman-empowered eyes. His entire body vibrated with blood-madness. 

Rama’s voice rolled across the hills like the song of a creature neither wholly human nor animal. 

‘Your tongue is too sharp, bandit. You just cut yourself to death with it!’ 

And Rama swung his sword at the two bandits nearest to him, slicing their bodies in half with one lightning-quick slash. The slaughter had begun. 

TWENTY 

Dasaratha resisted the urge to groan aloud as he tried to make himself comfortable on the raj-gaddi. He found it hard to believe that he had sat on this throne for more than two-thirds of his sixty-year lifespan. Sat it, and governed the mightiest Arya nation from its high eminence. From this royal dais of Ayodhya, like the captain standing on the wheel deck of a great ship-of-war, he had steered this great nation through wars and famines, droughts and floods, earthquakes and avalanches. Governed and held united a crore of citizens, all of ten million strong, the largest Arya nation in population and prosperity, if not in geographical size. 

And the largest in military strength. As a raj-Kshatriya, a king-warrior by birth, Dasaratha had always learned that a strong army in times of peace was the most effective way to ensure the continuance of that peace. After the Kosala army was ravaged and depleted by the last asura war, Dasaratha had girded his loins, gritted his teeth, and, at a time when other monarchs might while away their days in feasting and carousing, rebuilt his nation’s army to twice its former size and strength, restructuring, re-organising, re-arming, and in every way putting the bitter lessons of that last terrible conflict to good use. All right, so he had done his share of feasting and carousing as well—perhaps a bit more than his share, as his now-decrepit physique testified to—but he had never relented in the execution of his great Peace On A War Footing, as his campaign came to be called in time.