RAMAYANA SERIES Part 4_KING OF DHARMA (60 page)

She milled about restlessly for a moment, fretting and worrying. Finally, she realized there was nothing else left to do. She was the only one here who could help Maatr. Either she risked her life to do so, or Maatr would die. 

She had no choice really.

She shook herself vigorously, waking up her ailing body as best as she could. She felt a sharp arrow of pain in her nether regions and yelped but then forced herself to ignore the pain. There was no time to think of her pain now, it was Maatr who was in grave danger. And Maatr must be helped. 

Turning in the opposite direction she took a running length then turned around sharply and launched herself at the men in metal fur, her yellowed fangs bared in a snarl. 

NINE

Luv and Kush heard the sounds of a dog in distress and knew at once it was Sarama. She had a distinctive yelp when in trouble or pain which they had heard often over the years. Being the oldest dog they knew, and one they had been intimately friendly with almost since birth, her voice was as recognizable to them as any human’s. They sprinted in the direction her yelps had come from, separating and taking opposite, converging routes to go around the thicket. When they came around into view of the banyan tree and the violent scene before it, both had arrows notched and ready to loose. 

It was a heartbreaking scene, underscored by a cacophony of tired barks, punctuated by the sound of steel on steel. 

Maatr stood with her back to the old tree, defending herself valiantly with a sword in her left hand against three of the attackers. She was bleeding from a dozen nicks and cuts, her right arm hung limply by her side, her right thigh bled profusely from a gash, and there was blood on her chin and chest from what appeared to be a copious nose bleed. Kush guessed that a sword hilt had been pummeled into her face, breaking her nose. Luv thought that her arm was dislocated and that the fact that her bow lay broken on the Y-juncture of the tree trunk, just above and behind her, indicated that she had been up there, firing arrows from her vantage point, when one of the riders had flung something, a spear perhaps, or even an axe, and in avoiding the weapon, she had lost the bow and dislocated her shoulder. She seemed otherwise all right but her strength was clearly failing her and the sword work was tiring her out. The attackers knew this and were deliberately forcing her to keep her guard up and keep swinging this way then that, exhausting her good arm, until the moment came when she let the sword drop for an instant, and they could plunge through. A few more minutes and that moment would have come and they would both have been orphaned; it was a miracle she was managing as well as she was at all. From the looks of it, she had killed seven attackers with the bow and another three with the sword already. It was unlikely she would take any more down, but just the fact that she had cost them so heavily had earned her a grudging respect from her opponents, which was why they had opted for this slower but more effective method of tiring her out. 

The dog stood with Maatr, barking and leaping about, trying to avoid the deadly sword points and blade edges but more concerned with keeping the attackers at bay. From the looks of it, at least two of the fallen men had their throats torn out, which was obviously Sarama’s handiwork. That itself was impressive. More impressive—and heartbreaking—were the many slashes, cuts and jabs on the aging matriarch-dog’s body, bleeding profusely from a dozen wounds, any of which were probably enough to end her days. The very fact that she continued to bark and snap so valiantly, with nothing to protect her from the lethal steel swinging to and fro, testified to her loyalty and courage. 

Both boys felt lumps in their throats at the sight. 

Time to end this now. 

Luv whistled sharply. 

Maatr was smart enough not to look in their direction. She had already seen them in her peripheral vision and restrained herself from showing any reaction. She continued swinging her blade to and fro in the defensive movement, blocking and parrying the regular thrusts and cuts of the three men. She had trained them herself in the art of seeing without turning to look. Taking one’s eyes off one’s opponent might be the last time one turned to look at anything, she had warned them. 

The others were not as smart. 

Two of the men turned at once, expecting deva knew what. The instant their faces looked towards Luv and Kush, their swords turning away from Maatr, both brothers loosed as one. The arrows sped as one bolt, striking at the exact same instant, producing a combined chunking sound as the points went home into the exposed sides of the necks of the men. Both men dropped their swords, clutched identically at their necks, and fell to the ground, thrashing in their death throes. They resembled dancers in some grotesque palace performance, mirroring the same dance steps. 

Sarama wheeled as well and saw them. She leaped up into the air, barking with renewed vigor and joy. She even performed a complete somersault, something they hadn’t seen her do since they were five and she almost as young. She was that thrilled to see them. 

Sadly, as Maatr had rightly warned, that was the worst thing any person could do when the enemy was at your throat. That somersault and the sight of her young masters were the last things the poor old dog ever did or saw. 

The third soldier, nearest to Sarama, had probably been waiting for an opportunity. The raw wounds on his right arm and foot suggested that she had already mauled and savaged him more than once during the fight and he had been waiting to pay her back. He turned his sword, plunging it into the breastbone, and into the furry body beneath. 

The boys gasped as they saw most of the length of the sword slide into their beloved Sarama’s body. 

She collapsed, falling with a sickening thump to the ground. 

The attacker laughed with satisfaction as he yanked the blade out of the dying dog, pressing the heel of his boot against her snout to brace himself. Even in that moment of ultimate surrender, she still attempted to nip at his ankle, the heel snapping off her canine tooth as it came down hard on her face. Any sound she made was lost in the gruff laughter of the man. 

Blood spurted from her mouth, and she collapsed, lolled her tongue, and died. 

The man’s laughter was abruptly cut off by the sensation of a sword piercing his guts. Maatr plunged the blade in hard enough for the point to emerge from his back, very low. He bent over, grunting mournfully. She put her boot to his face, kicking him away and freeing her blade in the same motion. He toppled backwards and fell, not dying immediately but rolling in agony, beyond help and unable to rise and do more harm. 

The instant he was clear of Maatr and Sarama’s body, the boys put an arrow each into him. The bolts thumped home, stilling his groans. They wanted to keep shooting arrows into his body but knew better than to waste good bolts on a dead enemy. 

Maatr looked over their shoulders, then around, checking the fallen attackers and keeping a wary eye out. 

They ran to her. She stilled them with an upraised hand, still holding the sword, as she continued her check. 

“The rest are dead or fled,” Kush said. “Maatr, are you all right?”

She turned to them. “Are you sure?”

Luv slung his bow over his shoulder. “Maatr, are you wounded badly?”

“Are you sure?” she repeated urgently, still holding the sword up defensively. 

Both boys nodded in unison, eyes wet with tears. 

She looked around, then back at them, saw the tears in their eyes, and finally relented. “All right,” she said wearily, “all right.” She lowered the sword, pushing the point of the blade into the soft earth and resting on the hilt. “If you’re sure it’s over, we’re safe…?”

“The bearkillers are here, and Nakhudi has friends,” Luv offered, resisting the urge to run to her and hug her tightly. 

“If you like, we can check for ourselves,” Kush offered, though he did not want to do anything of the sort; all he wanted to do was run to his mother and bury his face in her belly and cry. 

She looked around one last time, leaning hard on the sword, her eyes filming over with exhaustion and relief. “Good, good. I mean, no. Don’t go to check. I’m sure Nakhudi will take care of it. And the bearkillers. Good.”

She looked at them and her expression changed. Both of them saw her eyes soften and dampen instantly, as she finally permitted herself to be just their mother again. “I am so pleased to see you both, my sons. Alive and well. So pleased.”

She toppled backwards, fell on her rear end on the ground, then fell back unconscious. The sword remained stuck where she had put it, swaying slowly. 

They rushed to her. 

***

It was a very subdued and oddly mixed group that assembled in the ashram courtyard some time later. The corpses of the dead—friend and foe alike—had been carried over to the North clearing and lined up there, awaiting last rites and cremation. Maharishi Valmiki himself sat with his head and arm bound with whatever  clean cloth was available. He had been caught unawares early in the attack and struck down hard by a mace blow when he emerged from his hut to see what the commotion was about. Somehow, he had survived with only a bruised skull and broken arm. He looked sombre and sad. Every face was grim, several still stained by tear streaks, some still in pain, with injuries minor or major, and more than a few were angry, even on the verge of rage. The double rows of little bodies were responsible for invoking that last emotion. Even the most peacable of brahmins or sadhinis could not overcome the revulsion and rage that rose unbidden at the thought of those little innocents being hacked down so mercilessly. There had already been several tirades and angry words and it had taken a while and some words from Maharishi Valmiki before they calmed down sufficiently to sit silently. 

Sita herself felt that same rage, but coupled with it was a great sense of relief that her sons had survived. She knew that was only because of the training she had imparted unto them, and the fortuitous fact that they had not been present at the time of the attack so were not caught unawares in the thick of the melee. But had the bearkillers not been alerted to the approach of the attackers by their assault on Nakhudi’s village earlier, and had Nakhudi herself not arrived when she had, with a whole company of aging but nevertheless fit and armed ex-soldiers, then the entire ashram would certainly have been wiped out, down to the last living creature. One attacker had been about to start killing the milch cows when Captain Bejoo and his men came upon him and his companions—had they come even moments later, the cows would have been hacked down where they stood. And the children! Oh, the children. What monsters could do such things?

She forced her own emotions under control and listened as Maharishi Valmiki began to speak. The guru sat on the raised mud stoop of his own hut, as he did everyday during his daily pravachan. But never before had he addressed such a motley gathering: Before him the remnants of the ashram inhabitants sat cross-legged as they always did, barely two dozen-odd brahmins and sadhinis who had survived from almost twice that number, most of them injured physically, every last one greviously soul-struck and psychologically shocked. To his right sat the bearkillers, crouched down on their haunches, weapons laid behind them out of consideration for the Maharishi, yet close enough at hand just in case. They had lost only two of their number and suffered a few minor injuries, while causing over a dozen casualties. To the guru’s left sat Bejoo and the retired PFs. They had suffered no losses at all, just three minor injuries. By the time they had appeared on the scene, the attackers had already been in retreat and apart from the attempted cow-killer and three or four of his associates, they had caused no further casualties in the enemy ranks either. Nakhudi and her sons sat close beside her. 

She listened with only half her mind as the guru spoke deep glowing words of reassurance, drawing on his deep knowledge of the Vedas, the sacred repository of all knowledge in the mortal world, and providing explanations that threw light on the events of the day. They were wonderful, healing words and she felt their efficacy in calming her spirit and acting as a balm to her emotional wounds. But she could not help thinking through the details and reasons of today’s assault. 

In all, about forty of the attackers had died during the ashram attack and its aftermath, almost half of that number killed by Sita herself and her sons. That was an inherent advantage of arrowcraft of course but it was more than that. It was the difference between armed and trained kshatriyas in a state of preparedness and innocent unarmed brahmins caught unawares. Sita had long since thought that if only she and a few of the other acolytes could form a permanent sentry watch of the ashram, they could have ensured a better defense in the event of such an attack. But Maharishi Valmiki had forbidden that outright each time she suggested it, and moreover, while many ashrams encouraged the bearing of weapons and even the use of them in training on a daily basis, Valmiki Ashram emphasized ahimsa, peaceful existence, as a way of life. Even the young brahmacharyas who trained in warcraft were only permitted to use wooden training weapons —their final year of weapons training was conducted at Vashishta Ashram north of Ayodhya. While many maharishis spoke of non-violence and peaceful co-existence fervently, Valmiki made it an integral aspect of everyday living. 

But that was not the reason this had happened. Living in peace was not the reason for so many having died violently today. Armed mercenaries as well-equipped, trained and experienced as these had been did not simply come rampaging through ashrams. Rakshasas had once attacked outposts, ashrams and travellers in just such vicious fashion, and there was no doubt that these men had behaved like rakshasas in their brutal assault. But rakshasas attacked because their kind and mortalkind were engaged in an internecine struggle for dominance of the mortal realm. These mercenaries had no racial or species survival motivation for their actions. They were quite obviously following orders and getting paid exceedingly well for doing so. Purses had been found on every single one, identical purses filled with goldcoin. The coin was Ayodhyan, struck with the king’s seal, no less. And the number had been the same in every case: thirty gold coins. A small fortune, sufficient to enable each one of them to live comfortably for years, buy his way into a good position at any Arya court, or provide capital to set up his own trade or business. Retirement funds. That explained the brutal vigor with which they had pursued their mission. But it didn’t explain why the persons who had paid them had ordered them to attack these particular targets. It was possible that even they did not know or care. Their job was to ride here and kill everyone, and they had tried to do that as best and as quickly as possible.