28

‘Try to sleep tonight, sire,’ Bhuma shot a worried glance at the drawn face, at the fine scar gleaming white against the grey pallor, the bruised look about the eyes. ‘I haven’t seen you catch a wink in weeks.’ He had just given Saahas a shave and trimmed his hair, revealing the hollow-cheeked gauntness that had remained hidden so far.

Saahas barely heard him, a vertical line between his brows, his stare fixed, unseeing, his hands polishing the sword with insistent strokes. Bhuma repeated his entreaty and he stirred.

‘Sleep,’ he mused and then shook his head, ‘no, I don’t need it. Not the fitful sleep I have endured, drifting between nightmares. No, I am better off without it.’

They had stopped by the wayside to rest the horses and Bhuma’s quick fingers had picked out edible leaves, flowers, wild mushrooms and roots from the earth. These he had thrown into a pot over a fire, along with a dash of spices from a little pouch, and when the fragrant steam rose, he wiggled his shoulders in a gesture that Saahas had come to understand as an expression of unbounded delight.

‘I am not hungry,’ he said, getting to his feet abruptly and walking towards a rivulet babbling over moss-covered stones. Bhuma sighed. He had tried everything, every trick in his trade, to coax his master to eat more than just a few mouthfuls and failed each time.

Their journey to the east had been slow, inclement weather often stalling them for days. At last, the topography had changed, from dusty plains to rolling hills shrouded in a dewy mist. Short trees with wide canopies grew close together, their long branches trailing fingers in ponds and lakes, teasing water lilies of every hue. White, yellow, pink, violet and blue, they clustered on the water’s surface, their round leaves as large as an infant’s crib. But Saahas remained indifferent to his surroundings, intensely focussed on one thing alone.

‘When will we reach Purvichi?’ he asked time and again, and Bhuma gave the same answer, as a parent would to a fretful child, ‘Almost there, sire, almost there.’

Cresting a low hill one day, they rode down a narrow stone road, every mile of it marked by a lofty arch festooned with red banners. Bhuma whistled in surprise. ‘We will soon arrive at the west gate of Purvichi, sire, but these banners are an ominous sign.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘War, sire, Purvichi is going to war. What should we do?’ He didn’t get an answer. Saahas galloped ahead of him, eyes narrowed against the wind, the mention of war spurring him on. In a fistful of moments, the outline of the high battlement above the gate became visible, rising out of a sea of red, the uproar of men, animals and metal like distant thunder.

The colour soon took shape. Hundreds of cavalry and foot soldiers in red tunics and baggy, white trousers, swarmed the gate, armour and shields gleaming on their backs. Officers shouted instructions, their faces tight, urging their men to fall into position for a drill. A group of soldiers frantically dug at the base of the border wall, a natural rampart of sloping hills, throwing out mounds of clayey mud.

Saahas pulled up, dismounting in one leap and threw his reins to Bhuma. ‘Wait here,’ he commanded and vanished in the churning of men and horses.

Bhuma heaved a sigh, his eyes flicking to the heavily carved gate, to the elaborate design etched in gold leaf, depicting a young lad playing a reed pipe. His fingers twitched. ‘If Skanda wishes, maybe this time I’ll get to pick your gold, boy,’ he muttered. Acrimonious shouts diverted his attention. A noisy argument had broken out amongst some soldiers. His interest piqued, and leading the horses, he threaded his way towards them.

Mingling in the throng of soldiers and animals, Saahas listened to snatches of conversation, his gaze constantly appraising the wide array of weapons.

A hand clapped him on the shoulder, ‘Where do you think you are going?’ and he spun around. A wiry soldier confronted him, his spear pointing at him.

‘I am a traveller,’ he answered in an even voice. ‘My manservant and I have been on the road for months.’

The soldier eyed him, taking in the tall frame, the sword in the scabbard, the thin, deeply tanned face with a fine scar running down one side. ‘You should leave,’ he said, lowering his spear. ‘Things are going to get hot around here.’

‘Yes, I can see that,’ Saahas nodded. ‘You are going to war.’

‘Not just any war,’ the soldier answered, moving on, ‘it is Ugr that we will be fighting.’

He stood rooted to the spot, men brushing past him, rough voices telling him to get out of the way. Ugr, his mind chanted, dredging up his dying father. Ugr, repeated Meghabhuti’s blue lips. Ugr, soundlessly echoed Agraj and Anuj. Ugr, sighed Vasuket. Saahas shuddered, feeling a sudden chill, of ice in his veins.

A voice called him insistently. ‘Sire,’ Bhuma waved, hopping up and down on his toes amidst the crush. ‘I am here, sire.’

He reached Bhuma in an instant. ‘I must meet the king,’ he rasped, ‘as soon as possible.’

Shooting a quick glance around, Bhuma pulled out a red tunic from under his shirt. ‘This will get you inside, sire, unnoticed, but as for meeting the king . . .’ he shook his head.

Saahas’s brows snapped together. ‘Why, what’s the matter?’

‘King Dyaut has begun his annual worship of the cowherd boy, Rabeera, the local deity,’ he said, pointing to the boyish figure on the gate. ‘It’s a ten-day-long ritual, which is why the Ugr forces are marching towards Purvichi. They know that without Dyaut, they have as good as won the war.’

Saahas’s incredulous gaze swivelled from the gate back to Bhuma. ‘Are you telling me that the king of this realm will not fight even as an enemy prepares to attack?’

‘Sire, the soldiers are divided on this. Some say Dyaut will lead them and others believe that no power on earth can interrupt his worship. His devotion to Rabeera is legendary. The last time Ugr attacked, Dyaut finished his worship just as the crazy hordes reached Purvichi, and he crushed them like tomatoes. But this time—’

Saahas cut him off with an impatient gesture, ‘I must find out for myself, let’s go.’

Every few miles, Saahas and Bhuma noticed small crowds waving incense sticks over miniature shrines. Carved out of rock, the little temples were smooth on the outside and topped with a dome, the tiny deity dwelling within. People knelt in the dirt to whisper fervent prayers to Rabeera, begging him to save them from the Ugr. Contingents thundered past and Saahas observed them closely. Each was more irresolute than the previous one, panic marking their movements, a lack of cohesion between them that only another military man could perceive.

Spotting a map of the kingdom on a post, he stopped before it, studying its features. ‘What is that?’ he asked Bhuma, pointing at the northern border.

‘Tomen, sire, a treacherous marsh,’ the manservant tapped the expanse shaped like a half-circle, the curved border jutting out of Purvichi. ‘Ugr lies further up north.’ His finger traced a narrow saddle between the mountains above Tomen that led into rocky terrain.

Saahas stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘Then Ugr forces will divide at Tomen. One half will go east and the other west in the hope of surrounding Purvichi.’

He jerked his horse around. ‘They must be stopped at the marsh. Take me to King Dyaut.’

Bhuma’s jaw opened and shut, his shoulders almost touching his ears in a helpless shrug. ‘Sire,’ he managed to say at last, ‘I am telling you he won’t see you. Besides, this is not your war.’

‘Oh yes, it is,’ Saahas responded in a clipped voice, ‘in more ways than you know,’ and halted a courier riding at full tilt.

‘Let’s have the news,’ he ordered in so authoritative a tone that the man spoke up without a second thought.

‘General Trasnuk is at the palace. He intends to stay there till His Majesty is induced to break his worship.’

Bhuma rolled his eyes, muttering, ‘Obviously Trasnuk is scared witless.’

‘The general says the officers must marshal their men as best as they can,’ continued the messenger, reading from the dispatch rather distractedly, ‘until further instructions.’

He was about to ride on when Saahas stopped him with a question, ‘How many days to Tomen?’

‘Er, six days at the most.’

‘And how many days to cross it to reach the pass?’

The courier shook his head, staring at the grim-faced soldier as if he had gone mad, ‘That has never been done.’

Saahas nodded slowly, ‘Add another message for the officers. Tell them to start marching towards Tomen, both from the east and the west.’

‘And who should I say gave the order?’

Saahas shot over his shoulder, ‘A general and a king.’

Taking unbroken routes shadowed by feral creatures, Bhuma led Saahas towards the swamp. Tomen came upon them by degrees, lichens and liverworts appearing first, along a thin river flowing north. As they pressed on, trees began to close in, rope-like vines snaking across their path, their horses stumbling over them frequently. The ground started to dip, yet the river flowed at its own lazy pace, turbid and oily, disappearing suddenly beneath a wall of branches meshed together firmly like a vast green web.

‘Tomen, sire,’ Bhuma announced with a satisfied sigh.

‘Thank you for being my guide,’ Saahas said gruffly. ‘You have served me well. Take my horse and belongings as payment, I have nothing else to give you.’

Bhuma’s face fell, but the next moment the chagrin vanished as if blown away by a gust of wind. ‘You can’t get rid of me so easily, sire,’ he grinned.

‘You don’t understand, I may never return.’

Bhuma flapped a nonchalant hand, waving away the possibility, ‘I’m coming with you.’

Saahas expelled his breath in a gush, ‘No, I will do this alone. Take my horse and return to the west gate, and if the Purvichi forces have not begun to march, use your talents to persuade them to do so.’

The branches fell away at one swipe of his sword, the gaping hole allowing him entry into pitch darkness. Saahas took a tentative step and sank up to his waist into cold, heavy water, feeling it creep up towards his chest. He tried to swim but only sank further, the water now lapping his chin.

A tiny pinpoint of light appeared, growing bigger, burgeoning into a swarm of fireflies that hovered over the river, illuminating two pairs of unblinking eyes.

‘Crocodiles,’ Saahas gasped, his gaze fixed on the terrifying teeth protruding over the closed, narrow snouts. More and more fireflies lit up the marsh, revealing vines hanging within his reach. The crocodiles glided towards him, but a swarm of fireflies swooped into their eyes, momentarily blinding them. In that brief moment, Saahas grabbed hold of a vine and swung himself clear of the snapping jaws.

Suddenly, he choked. Hundreds of mosquitoes buzzed around him, flying into his eyes, ears, nostrils, suffocating him. Holding his breath, he tried waving them away, nearly falling back into the marsh, and fumbled wildly for a nearby tree. Clutching at a branch, his hands became smeared with a sticky wetness. The mosquitoes veered away, droning at the outer edge of the tree. Even the fireflies shunned it, flickering at a safe distance.

Saahas sniffed his hand, inhaling the sharp, bitter-sour odour, the memory of Tota coming back strong. ‘The forest will give us whatever we need, sire. All it wants in return is a little respect.’

Swiftly scraping the sap off the bark, he smeared his face, neck and every inch of bare skin with it, puckering his mouth at the astringent taste. Then, catching a stout vine, he walked the length of the branch to its end above the river and looked down into the eddying depths. A stream of winking fireflies in a ceaseless band of light skimmed the water, revealing its flow. Satisfied, he swung himself off the tree, swinging from one vine to the next, following the river’s current.

Frenzied soldiers whipped their horses, careening up and down slopes, often entangling with one another, the cacophony of arguments resounding in the hills. Bhuma rubbed his short nose thoughtfully. On the journey back, he had kept his eyes peeled for military movement, but nothing so far had indicated that Saahas’s message had had an effect. Slipping out a dispatch from its leather cover, he studied it closely, appraising General Trasnuk’s spidery handwriting. Allowing himself a small smile, he recalled the moment he had picked the unsuspecting courier’s pocket. It had been as easy as taking a toy from a distracted child.

Squatting down on his haunches, he lit an oil lamp, holding a shard of clay above the flame. Black soot gathered in it quickly. Mixing a little water in the ash, he prepared an inky solution and dipped the pointed shaft of a feather in it. Then very carefully, with the tip of his tongue protruding between his uneven teeth, he squeezed one line between the general’s communique and the official seal beneath it. Blowing on it gently, he held up the note to survey his handiwork, ‘The bearer of this note carries my orders. Do as he says.’ Bhuma grinned. A cursory glance would not be able to tell the difference between Trasnuk’s writing and his.

Balancing himself on the high branch of a sturdy tree, Saahas bid a silent goodbye to the river, watching it noiselessly slip away at the lip of the marsh. For two days he had survived on very little sleep, the parcel of food that Bhuma had packed for him, his only sustenance. Yet, an uncommon strength coursed through his limbs. A strange quiet blanketed the dark ridge of mountains, muffling the birds and the trees. Saahas glanced at the skyline. The bronze colour quickly turned a bloody red and snarling roars broke the silence, ricocheting off the hills.

Saahas froze, his skin prickling. The rising sun revealed thousands of horsemen pouring down the mountain pass, clashing their hatchets and curved axes on their shields.

‘Ugr,’ he muttered, watching them with narrowed eyes, noting the braided hair flying about their shoulders, the open mouths spewing ugly screams. Flanking them on either side were neat columns of cavalry and infantry. Unlike the whirling, spinning, provoking enemy, the Purvichi soldiers were motionless like statues, their bodies rigid with tension.

‘They are waiting for a signal,’ Saahas breathed, his muscles tightening, ‘and it must come from me.’

The branch creaked under his weight, but he stayed steady and still, his gaze sweeping the gully. A flash of metal caught his attention. A bony, bloodless warrior pointed his sword at him, as if marking him. The steel gleamed, its distinctive pattern tantalizing in the sunlight, and Saahas drew in a sharp breath, bracing himself. The moment had arrived.

‘Death to the enemy,’ he bellowed at the top of his voice and a sudden hush descended in the gully, thousands of heads turning up towards him. The pale Ugr warrior stiffened, his eyes riveted on Saahas.

‘Look at his blue skin,’ someone yelled excitedly.

‘It’s Rabeera come to save us. Victory to Purvichi!’

‘Victory to Purvichi,’ reverberated the hills and Saahas dived, his gaze fixed on Agraj’s khanda.

Landing on the shield of one Ugr soldier, Saahas beheaded another, all the time moving towards his target. The pale soldier waited, unmoving on his horse, his white braids and white skin in stark contrast with the dark soldiers protecting him.

‘Like a queen bee,’ Saahas scoffed, and yanking his blade from the abdomen of his victim, leapt into the empty saddle. But the horse, a huge beast, bucked, trying to unseat him.

‘Behave,’ he commanded, twisting his free hand through the thick mane, forcing it to rear up its proud head. It snorted but stopped kicking. Saahas glanced at the Ugr. They had quietened down, their wary eyes fixed on him.

A flicker of an eye and a twitch of a muscle warned him. He jerked the horse around. Braids and legs splayed like a hairy spider, an Ugr leapt through the air, his hatchet raised high. Saahas lunged to hack his assailant, but an axe flew in, cleaving the man’s head.

‘You are mine,’ the pale warrior called out, a fiendish grin splitting his chalky lips that curled back from his red gums. ‘Only I, General Zankroor, will fight you.’ With a gloved hand, he waved his guard aside and riding out from the circle, leaned down to retrieve his axe.

Saahas flexed his fingers, his gaze fixed on the lambent khanda. It was rapier thin, unlike his broad Shakti, but its steel blade was just as beautiful, the swirls of shadow and light igniting an ache in him.

Zankroor noticed the glance. ‘You can have it, Rabeera,’ he jeered, ‘if you can kill me.’

Scratching his cheek with the nail of his forefinger, Saahas left a track of brown skin. ‘I am no God,’ he said, his voice expressionless, and flicked the bead of blue sap from under his nail. ‘I am the friend of the man you killed, the owner of that sword. I am the son of the general who made you run, like a coward.’

One moment Zankroor was on his horse, the next, he had slid off it like a phantom, his lashless, aqueous eyes with their blindman’s white stare boring into him. Saahas’s stomach clenched. Anuj and Agraj must have looked into those terrifying eyes. That khanda must have ripped Meghabhuti’s flesh. Teeth flashing in a snarl against his blue skin, he leapt off his horse. Zankroor’s guards immediately formed a tight ring around the two combatants, separating them from the din of war.

They circled each other, thrusting and parrying. With a delicate movement, Zankroor feinted with his axe arm, quickly hurling the khanda with the other, aiming for Saahas’s heart. The blade came, unwavering and deadly in its intent. Saahas tried to dodge it, but the rapier’s tip snagged Vasuket’s signet ring hanging from his neck. And just as its point penetrated the thick cloth of his tunic, he instinctively grasped its hilt, pulling the blade away from him. A frisson of sweet pleasure, a long forgotten current of joy, shot through him. His thumb caressed the warm wooden grip, noting the tiny notch on one side. Like a long-lost friend, Kurikas’s well-known signature welcomed him.

A blade whirling in each hand, Saahas roared like a summer storm and Zankroor came at him, braids tangling around his head like a white cobweb. Striking hard with his curved axe, he broke Saahas’s iron blade in half, the impact jolting Saahas to the ground. Zankroor swung the axe again, squealing in glee, and Saahas lunged, stabbing the broken blade into his adversary’s thigh, just above the knee, his other arm moving with lightning speed. Zankroor grunted. His axe whistled downwards, eager to meet Saahas’s neck. But the khanda brushed it aside and sped to its mark. Zankroor choked, a surprised look on his face. The rapier had sliced the bands of ivory protecting his neck, piercing his chin, its point pushing through one white eye.