Scouts

Hundreds of brightly colored kites, wheeling and tugging and soaring in the wind, filled the dazzling blue sky above Sravasti. Down below, the kite flyers lined the northern and southern banks of the Ajiravati, which meandered through Sravasti, splitting the capital of Kosala into two almost equal halves. The kite flyers, who represented teams from the two parts of the city, wrestled with the strings, trying their best to bring down the kites flown by their rivals from across the river. Spectators on both sides cheered these efforts, and the air was distinctly festive and generous.

However, barely half a mile from the river, deep in the heart of the royal palace of Kosala, the mood was contrastingly somber. A dozen courtiers sat in silence around King Bhoomipala and Pallavan, the former pulling at his thick, graying beard as he pondered over what he had just been told.

“Could this man be lying?” the king looked up at Pallavan. “Perhaps he has some personal grudge or an agenda of his own?”

“I don’t think so, your honor,” the diplomat considered the question before answering. “There was genuine fear in his eyes when he threw himself before the cavalcade yesterday. Moreover, what could he possibly gain by falsely accusing Shoorasena of murdering his father? He’s not even a Kikata, which rules out the motive of vengeance for the killings taking place all over Magadha.” Pallavan’s face wrinkled in distaste at the memory of the lynch mobs he had seen through his carriage windows. “No, your honor. I’m certain he’s nothing more than a moderately talented traveling musician who entertains at palaces.”

The king mulled this over. “What was he doing in the palace garden that morning?”

“He had been put up at the palace of Girivraja because King Siddhasena had, in his kindness, offered him shelter for the night after a performance. It is sheer coincidence that he chose to take a walk in the palace garden the next morning and saw what really occurred on the garden steps.”

“It does make sense,” Bhoomipala nodded slowly. “Shoorasena probably chose that spot to kill Siddhasena, because he knew the garden would be deserted at that time of day. What he didn’t account for was the possibility of an outsider being present and accidentally witnessing his dastardly deed.”

Another brief silence enveloped the room, until the king posed a question. “But why did he do it? Siddhasena was ailing and didn’t have much longer to live... Was Shoorasena so desperate to become king of Magadha?”

“Shocking though it is, your honor, this has less to do with the death of King Siddhasena, and is more about the cold-blooded killing of the Kikata bodyguard that followed,” said Pallavan, displaying remarkable perspicacity. “The musician speaks of how Shoorasena pinned the king’s death on the bodyguard and whipped up passions against the Kikatas in no time. King Siddhasena wasn’t killed because Shoorasena wanted Magadha’s throne – he was killed so that Shoorasena could pursue war against the Kikatas and Vanga.”

“You’re right,” said Bhoomipala, recalling how Shoora- sena had made his intent of waging war against the republic clear at Vikramaditya’s rajasuya yajna. “And you say Shoorasena has refused to honor his father’s promise of sending soldiers to defend Sindhuvarta against the Hunas and the Sakas?”

“In no uncertain terms, your honor.”

The king sighed. “It looks like we have lost an ally with the passing of Siddhasena.”

“What do you propose we do now, your honor?” asked one of the courtiers.

“For one, we will have to keep an ear close to the ground for developments in the east. I want our network of spies in Magadha strengthened immediately. And have some spies sent to Vanga as well. We will also need reports more regularly. See to that.”

“What about the musician?” the courtier asked.

“For his own good, he had better give up on traveling for some time,” shrugged Bhoomipala. “Keep him in Sravasti for a while, until we can think of what to do with him. But as long as he isn’t in the habit of talking too much, I think he’s safe.”

“Shouldn’t we also inform the rest of our allies about Magadha’s decision not to assist in defending Sindhuvarta?” Pallavan reminded.

“Why just that...? We must inform them about what we have learned of Siddhasena’s death as well.” Bhoomipala’s face hardened as he spoke. “The king was an old and trusted friend. Shoorasena’s sins are piling up, and in my opinion, he has to pay dearly for them.”

***

The heavy wooden door, fortified with thick iron ribs and sturdy bolts, swung open to admit Commander Dattaka.

The commander looked around the medium-sized cell with its rough stone floor and walls. Amara Simha stood leaning against one of the walls, arms crossed on his chest, while Ghatakarpara and the command center’s translator sat facing each other across a crude wooden table. Seeing all three men turn to him inquiringly, Dattaka nodded silently.

Ghatakarpara immediately vacated his place at the table, and was replaced by Amara Simha. The four men once again exchanged glances before Amara Simha glared at the translator.

“I’m warning you one last time – don’t test my patience. Who are you and what are you doing in Sristhali?”

“Ma’a ugr an’hi, keberez,” the translator babbled, injecting the right amount of panic in his voice. His words roughly translated as ‘I can’t understand you, have mercy.’

“I know you can speak the Avanti tongue, so stop this gibberish,” Amara Simha raised his voice. “You are spying for the Hunas, aren’t you?”

“Ma’a ugr an’hi...” the translator began again, but he was cut short by Amara Simha’s roar.

“Enough!” The councilor smacked a heavy fist into his left palm. The brief echo of the slap was drowned out by the translator’s agonized wail.

“Keberez, keberez...” he whimpered, and for a split second, Amara Simha was thrown aback by the ring of authenticity in the plea. The translator was proving to be a far better actor than expected.

“Speak out, you pig! Out with the truth!”

“Edha unnu a’gaia h’lum. Ma’a gois khaar’i waa. ” Don’t beat me anymore; I’m only a petty thief on the run.

“I’ll tear you to shreds, dog.”

Amara Simha banged the table so hard it made both Dattaka and Ghatakarpara jump in surprise. The translator stared in shock at the deep crack that had appeared in the wood, but gathering his wits quickly, he yelped in pain.

“Amgo pa’ith... amgo pa’ith...” My hand, my hand.

“Speak, you Huna dog, speak...”

For a few more minutes, Amara Simha and the translator went on and on, the former smacking his fists, hammering the table and hurling abuses, the latter screaming and begging for mercy. The cell’s walls were made of stone, but there was enough ventilation near the roof for sounds to escape – Amara Simha made it a point to amplify all noises – to the neighboring cell, where Dattaka’s men had deposited the suspected scout from Uttashi.

Amara Simha stepped around the table and locked the translator’s head in a mock death grip. “I’ll have the truth or I’ll have your head,” he growled. “You’re not the only Huna scout in the world. We will find more and get them to talk, and you will lose your life for nothing. So tell us what you know and I’ll let you go.”

The translator gurgled something unintelligible, the words ending in yet another choking scream.

“To hell with him,” Amara Simha shouted at Dattaka. “If he won’t talk, string him up in the courtyard.” With that, he banged open the door of the cell and marched out.

Shortly, two soldiers carried the body of the scout who had died earlier that morning across the courtyard, in full view of the cell where the traveling carpenter from Uttashi was housed. The body was between the soldiers, carried with its arms draped across their shoulders, head slumped forward, feet dragging in the mud, one swollen leg twisted horribly.

To all appearances, the scout was alive, though severely tortured and on the brink of losing all consciousness.

The soldiers took the body to the far end of the courtyard and hoisted it up on a gibbet. Once the body was in place, Amara Simha marched up to the gibbet. He slapped the dead man’s face a couple of times, demanding answers to his questions - and then he stepped back and drew a sword from his belt.

Without warning, he plunged the sword into the corpse’s belly, once, twice, three times. Then grabbing the head by the hair, he severed the corpse’s head off its trunk.

Barely a minute had elapsed before Dattaka opened the door to the carpenter’s cell. The hostage was cowering by the window that looked out into the courtyard, his face pale, fear in his small brown eyes. His expression turned to outright terror when he observed Dattaka step back from the door to admit the burly girth of Amara Simha.

The councilor walked into the cell holding the severed head in one hand and the sword in the other. Both head and sword dripped a trail of blood – though the hostage had no way of knowing that both had merely been dipped in the blood of a freshly-slaughtered goat.

“Are you the carpenter?” Amara Simha demanded sternly. The goat’s blood was splattered liberally across his torso, and a few big drops clung to his flaming beard as well.

The hostage nodded.

“Good, that means you also understand the Avanti tongue, unlike this bastard.” Amara Simha lifted the head of the dead scout and plonked it on the bare wooden table, the blood smearing its surface in unruly streaks and swishes.

Again the hostage nodded, his eyes transfixed on the head.

“Are you going to talk, or would you prefer a fate similar to your friend’s?”

As the hostage nodded a third time, he retched heavily. At the same time, he wet himself with fear, the stain spreading down the front of his dirty dhoti. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself, the urine pooling at his feet.

“I will tell you everything,” he wheezed. “Everything... I promise. Just don’t kill me, please.”

***

Under his rich golden beard, Indra’s face was a deep shade of red, his blue eyes dark and stormy. Heavy lines creased his brow, and the cords in his neck stood out stiffly as he hunched his muscular shoulders, clenching his fists into tight balls so the knuckles turned white. He took large, loping strides around the great hallway of his palace, circling a small knot of devas who stood fidgeting, their eyes following their king with apprehension.

“You have brought humiliation upon yourselves and all of Devaloka,” he spat out, flinging a furious glance in the direction of Nasatya and Dasra, who were part of the group huddled in the center of the hall. “I don’t know which appalls me more – your flight from the human army or the shamelessness with which you present yourself here!”

“It was the Hellfires, mighty king,” Nasatya mumbled, his head hanging in dejection. He made it a point to avoid any eye contact with Indra.

The lord of the devas spun around to face the group. “It’s heartening to know that two miserable fire swords are all it takes to give the Ashvin cavalry wings,” he said sarcastically. “And here I always counted the Brotherhood among the most fearless of my warriors.”

“Please believe us when we say we had the city at our mercy, lord,” Dasra entreated. “It was only when the Wielder...”

“No more,” ordered Indra, raising one heavy hand. “Hearing about your grand failure over and over again gives me no pleasure. Take your leave. I have more pressing matters to discuss with Guru Brihaspati and Narada.”

Nasatya and Dasra bowed deeply. Keeping their eyes averted, the disgraced twins vacated the hall, their footsteps receding down the corridor at the far end.

Once silence had regained the hall, a deva from the group took a step forward. He was short and plump and bowlegged, though it was hard to say if the last was by virtue of his weight or his age. He looked old, yet his skin was strangely free of wrinkles, his fair face smooth and shiny, merging seamlessly with his bald head ringed with a thin crescent of white hair.

“Pardon me for saying so, lord, but I think you were harsh on the Ashvins,” he said.

In all of Devaloka, this particular deva was probably the only one capable of venturing such a statement without fear of censure. For as royal chamberlain of the devas, Guru Brihaspati was accorded immense esteem by Indra – by all accounts the rarest of rare privileges.

“Hmph!” said Indra, folding his hands across his chest in annoyance.

“Admittedly they didn’t cover themselves with glory by fleeing from battle, but there’s no escaping the fact that they were against the Hellfires,” Brihaspati reasoned. “We’re all fully aware of the capabilities of those demonic swords.”

“The Hellfires,” Indra repeated with the shake of his head. “I didn’t even know those swords still existed somewhere the three worlds.” Pausing for a fraction of a second, he demanded hotly, “How can we even be certain they were the Hellfires? Maybe they were not and the Ashvins made a mistake.”

“You heard Nasatya and Dasra describing them, lord,” replied Brihaspati. “The flaming whips, the malevolent churails ... They can be nothing but Diti’s thoughtless creations.”

As Indra subsided into a grim silence, a lilting voice, clear as tinkling glass and fresh as the dewdrops on lotus buds, broke the silence.

“What are these Hellfires and why do they worry our lordship so much, gurudev?”

All those present turned to the far recesses of the hallway, where Urvashi graced a broad teakwood swing. The apsara was draped delectably across the swing, its gentle to-and-fro motion making the light and shadow fall alternately on her shapely form, accentuating the curve of her hips, and highlighting the softness of her waist and her generous breasts. The devas’ flagging spirits lifted by just watching her, as she considered them with a provocative tilt of the head.

Seeing that she had everyone’s undivided attention, Urvashi swung her long legs off the swing and stood up. Walking to the accompaniment of dainty bronze anklets, she approached the group, her deep black eyes on Brihaspati. Despite the seductive sway of her hips, her expression was one of earnest curiosity.

“The Hellfires,” Brihaspati sighed, as if not knowing where to begin. “They were... they are a pair of magical swords that the sorceress Diti, second wife of Sage Kashyapa, fashioned for her oldest sons, the asura lords Hiranyakashipu and Hiranyaksha. Bathed by her blood and the milk of her breast, infused with the most terrible of mantras, and fanned and tempered by the fires of Naraka, the Hellfires are possessed by the spirits of fiery churails. He who wields the swords can unleash these churails of Naraka to tame the mightiest of armies.”

“And the purpose of these swords was to help Hiranyakashipu and Hiranyaksha in their campaigns against us devas, I presume?” asked Urvashi.

“Indeed,” said Narada, leaping into the conversation, eager to have a share of the beautiful apsara’s attention. “Diti meant the Hellfires to be the most potent weapons in the asura arsenal. Her intention was to annihilate us with the swords.”

Urvashi’s eyes grew wide with fear, but it was mostly for effect, in keeping with the dramatic moment. Deep inside, there was rapt, childlike excitement and anticipation about the unfolding narrative.

“And Diti would have succeeded in her scheme – had it not been for that one mistake of hers,” Brihaspati reclaimed the thread of the narrative. It almost appeared as if he and Narada were openly vying for the right to tell Urvashi the story. “She took the swords to her husband to have them blessed by him as well.”

“Of course, Sage Kashyapa, in his infinite wisdom, instantly saw the threat that the Hellfires posed to righteousness,” Narada once again elbowed his way in. “But he also knew he had to keep Diti happy. So, with great ingenuity, he blessed the swords – commanding them to obey nothing but the will of the most virtuous of warriors.”

“You’re saying that with his blessing, the sage rendered the Hellfires ineffective in the hands of the cruel Hiranyakashipu and Hiranyaksha?” Urvashi looked at Narada, her eyes wide with admiration. “A true masterstroke!”

“Not just Hiranyakashipu and Hiranyaksha,” Narada chuckled, enjoying the attention the apsara was lavishing on him. “The swords were useless in the hands of every asura except Diti’s youngest son, the noble Paurava. That, of course, was never a concern for us as Paurava led the life of a harmless ascetic, caring nothing for war and asura glory. So thanks to Sage Kashyapa’s presence of mind, the power of the Hellfires had been blunted.”

Urvashi considered this for a moment. “If the swords are so potent, how come we devas never tried to get our hands on them?” She studied the faces around her one by one, her own face a picture of doe-like innocence. “Wouldn’t they have been priceless in our battle against the asuras?”

The assembled devas shuffled their feet and glanced at one another out of the corners of their eyes. Neither Brihaspati nor Narada, who until now had been so eager to engage the apsara in conversation, opened their mouths. Even Indra, who had been hanging back and observing the goings-on in surly silence, quickly resumed pacing the floor to avoid answering the apsara.

“It would have been supremely ironical to have used the Hellfires against the asuras, and I hear we did try, didn’t we, father?”

The speaker was a young deva, fair and of medium build, who had entered the hallway unnoticed. He had a prominent, hooked nose, but his cheeks hadn’t lost their adolescent softness, and his lips were pink, fleshy and feminine. His eyes, however, were peevish and challenging as they appraised the lord of the devas. This was Jayanta, first-born son of Indra of his lawfully wedded wife, Shachi.

The king cast a reproachful glance at his son, but didn’t reply.

“I’m sure we tried, isn’t it, gurudev?” Jayanta turned to Brihaspati with a slight smirk.

“Yes,” said the chamberlain, clearing his throat reluctantly. “Unfortunately, the swords didn’t... had stopped being responsive. Probably they had dulled with age and lack of use.”

“Yet, after all these years, they seem to have responded admirably to the will of the human king,” Jayanta remarked with a facetious grin.

Urvashi’s eyes flickered over the prince’s smug face before returning to the sage, who looked distinctly ill at ease with the turn the conversation had taken. “Do we know how the human king came to possess the swords, gurudev?”

“I’m afraid not,” Brihaspati replied, his manner stilted. “We had lost interest in the Hellfires a long time ago, so we never kept track of them.”

“Nor does it matter,” snapped Indra, stopping in his stride. He hadn’t liked the tone of Jayanta’s needling, and he liked the hint of awe in Urvashi’s voice, as she spoke of the human king, even less. “Too much is being made of these swords; too much has always been made of them. We must concern ourselves with retrieving Veeshada’s dagger instead. That’s all that matters.”

“Let me lead an army to Sindhuvarta,” said Jayanta promptly, a swagger in his voice. “I shall show the human king his place and return with the Halahala – and the Hellfires.”

An awkward silence prevailed in the hallway in the wake of the prince’s words. As the others held their breaths, Indra gave his son a withering look.

“This is no job for a callow boy,” he said. Without pausing for a response, he clapped his hands loudly. Immediately, a large garuda appeared at a doorway and made its way to the center of the hall.

“Yes, mighty king?” the garuda said, bowing respectfully.

“Send word to the Maruts,” ordered Indra. “Let them know that I have summoned them to the palace.”

The garuda bowed and straightened. “As you wish, my king... But the Maruts are not in Devaloka at the moment. They are...”

“I don’t care where they are. Find them and have them sent to me.”

Before anything more could be said, the lord of the devas stalked out of the hall without ceremony. The garuda watched the retreating figure for a moment before withdrawing quietly. Narada, Brihaspati and a couple of other devas exchanged unsure glances, and slowly the group broke up, everyone finding some excuse or the other to make what under the circumstances could pass off as a graceful exit.

Eventually, only Urvashi and Jayanta were left standing in the hall.

The apsara slowly approached the young prince, who stood with drooping shoulders, a resentful expression on his face. Coming very close, she raised her hand and traced a finger down his left cheek.

“Boy,” she whispered, pouting and tut-tutting coquettishly. “My lordship called you a boy.”

Jayanta, whose lips were quivering with hurt, snapped his head back and grabbed Urvashi’s wrist. “I am not a boy and I can show you that - if only you’d let me,” he hissed fiercely.

The apsara struggled to free herself, but Jayanta gripped her hand tight and pulled her close. The swell of her breast pressed against his arm, the intoxicating scent of her hair filling his senses. He could feel the warm breath escaping from her luscious, half-open lips, inches away from his own.

“You know I love you, Urvashi,” he said, his breath ragged. “And I know you can’t resist thinking of me, even when you’re in father’s bed. So why do you deny the love that is rightfully ours?”

“I’m mistress to the mighty lord of the devas,” Urvashi murmured. “What makes you think I would fancy you, callow boy?”

“I can see the desire in your eyes. The way you look at me... the way you are looking at me right now. You are drawn to me, you want me.”

The apsara stared deep into Jayanta’s eyes and the prince felt her melting in his arms. Then all of a sudden, Urvashi twisted and pulled and slipped from his grasp. As Jayanta stared at her in dismay, she shook a finger at him playfully, her agile face alight with a teasing smile.

“Don’t let my lordship ever catch you like this with me,” she giggled. “You know he is very jealous and possessive about me. The consequences could be severe for you.”

With that she turned around and departed, leaving Jayanta with an empty, bitter ache in his chest. And an unfulfilled longing in his loins.

***

“Can we believe what the scout has told us?” Ghatakarpara eyed Amara Simha, who sat chewing his lower lip.

“There’s no reason not to. He’s scared out of his wits. Given his state, it would be hard for him to conceal anything out of fear of ending up short of a head.”

“Using the dead scout was a very clever ploy to open him up, your honor,” marveled Dattaka, in whose room the two councilors now sat. “We had him singing without even laying a finger on him.”

“More than threats and torture, proof of death is an effective method of extracting the truth,” said Amara Simha. “A ruthless killing tells your hostage that human life is entirely dispensable to you. And when done right, it also plants the idea that you may not put enough premium on the information he possesses to spare his life. I use the tactic whenever there’s a dead body handy.”

For a while, the three men mulled over what they had learned from their hostage.

“A force of approximately twenty thousand Hunas is stationed in the Great Desert, four days’ ride from the frontier,” Ghatakarpara cocked an eyebrow at his companions. “That’s not very far, especially if they choose to ride hard.”

“But the scout also said that they have been encamped for over two months, and that there have been no indications of moving the troops closer to the Arbudas,” Dattaka pointed out. “If they plan to attack, they’ll have to establish bases a lot closer to the frontier; a four-day ride in the desert heat will leave anyone exhausted and incapable of fighting. To me, the camp the scout spoke of looks more like a node for coordinating movements and setting up supply chains.” “You’re probably right,” agreed Amara Simha. “Also, twenty thousand troops is too insufficient a number to stage a full-fledged invasion into enemy territory. They’ll need three or four times as many if they want to come deep into Sindhuvarta and hold captured ground – which I believe is the Hunas’ intent.”

Dattaka gave an emphatic nod. “Moreover, if you remember, the scout let it slip that troops seem to be in short supply, as soldiers are being diverted to shore up a planned assault on the Anartas. So, while we must be on our toes, I’d rule out an immediate threat here.”

A brief, contemplative silence was broken by Ghatakarpara.

“Do you do think the scout was being truthful about the Hunas’ plan to attack the Anarta Federation by sea?” Seeing an indecisive furrow on Amara Simha’s brow, the prince said, “They’ve never attempted anything like this before. The Hunas and Sakas aren’t seafaring people, and they’ve never had a navy to speak of.”

“That doesn’t mean they aren’t planning to do it,” the big man answered. “Over the last ten years, they may have acquired the technology to build large boats and the skill to navigate them. And it’s logical – an attack from the sea is the only way the Hunas can gain quick access to the fertile hinterland and rich trading centers of the five Anarta city states.”

“It is also the quickest way of crippling the kingdoms of Sindhuvarta economically,” added Dattaka. “The Anarta Federation has always been relatively safe from the Hunas and Sakas, giving us and our other allies significant strategic and financial depth. But if the Anarta states were to fall to the Hunas, our trade routes to the west through the ports of Dvarka and Bhrigukaksha would get blocked. Supply of essential raw materials would stop, while earnings from exports would be hit, adding to the strain on the royal exchequer.”

Amara Simha stared at the commander with newfound respect. But for the stupidity that had resulted in the death of the first scout, Dattaka had displayed great efficiency, and now from his words, it seemed his analytical skills were considerable.

“Absolutely right, commander,” said Amara Simha, sitting up in his chair. “I’m now beginning to see why the Hunas attacked our outpost and delivered that threat through the captain of the Guards. It’s not like them to issue warnings before an attack, and that’s been bothering me. It was a decoy to draw all our attention to the frontier, so they could spring a surprise naval attack on the Anarta states. By the time we redeployed, the Anartas would have been taken. Look at it – they alert us saying they are coming, but there are just twenty thousand Hunas out on the Marusthali. See, everything falls perfectly into place!”

Spurred by his thoughts, the burly councilor leaped up from his seat. “Yugandhara and the other Anarta chiefs need to be told about this threat immediately, so that they can take necessary precautions.” He peered out of the window at the gathering dusk and gave a rueful snort. “The sun’s already set – too late to use the suryayantra now. But the news must be relayed to Ujjayini as soon as the sun is up tomorrow morning, commander. Without fail. Make sure the operators send...”

Amara Simha was interrupted by a sharp rap on the door. As he turned, the door opened unbidden to reveal the command center’s physician standing on the threshold. The old man was about to step in when he noticed Amara Simha regarding him with a stern gaze. In two minds, the physician held back, looking at Dattaka with indecisive eyes.

“Yes, what is it?” asked the commander, rising and going to the door. “We are a bit busy.”

The physician still hesitated, casting doubtful glances in the direction of the two councilors, not excusing himself, not taking the hint, not leaving.

“What’s happened, good sir?” Amara Simha raised an eyebrow, sensing that something was troubling the man.

“It’s not very important, really,” the physician mumbled, even as he allowed Dattaka to take him by the shoulder and draw him gently into the room. “I didn’t mean to intrude, but...”

“It’s fine. Tell us what the matter is.”

“I...” the physician licked his lips nervously. “I suspect the scout we captured... I mean the one who died this morning... he died of poisoning.”

Amara Simha, Ghatakarpara and Dattaka stared at one another, perplexed.

“How did you figure this out?”

“I was examining the dead body before it was sent for cremation when I found a suspicious wound on the scout’s right foot.”

“What kind of wound?”

“They were marks left by the fangs of a snake. What made me certain was the skin around the wound – it had been discolored by the venom.”

“Snakebite?” Ghatakarpara stared in surprise. “That explains how the scout ended up in the ditch where he was found by our guardsmen. It also explains the broken leg; he must have fallen badly. And his delirium...”

“There’s a problem in that,” the physician interposed. “I gathered traces of the venom and analyzed it. The snake that bit the scout was a king cobra, and the venom of the king cobra kills in a few hours – whereas the scout was alive here the whole of yesterday. And no one here treated him for snakebite.”

Amara Simha walked over to the open window, which overlooked the rivulet and the town of Sristhali. Five mules, laden with blocks of marble, were crossing the bridge into the town.

“So, the scout was not bitten by the snake in the hills,” the older councilor surmised, gazing out. He turned to Dattaka. “When was the last time anyone checked if the scout was alive?”

“The physician and I went to his cell after the two of you and Governor Satyaveda had retired for the night,” the commander vouched. “It was a little after midnight. The scout was unconscious, but most definitely alive, your honor.”

“Yet, early this morning he was dead.” Amara Simha breathed in deeply and looked at the three men facing him. “So, he was bitten sometime between midnight and daybreak, and he died without regaining consciousness.”

“Did anyone notice a king cobra anywhere this morning?” asked Ghatakarpara.

Dattaka shrugged. “Not in the scout’s cell, I can say for sure.”

“I wonder if a wild king cobra could slip into those cells, bite an inmate and slip out again unnoticed,” said Amara Simha. “The doors are solid, there are no convenient cracks and holes in the walls, and the windows are placed very high. It somehow seems too easy.”

“Another thing, your honor,” the commander’s face was suddenly serious. “The king cobra is a native of dense, tropical forests. These dry mountains aren’t its natural habitat. In fact, I’ve never seen a wild king cobra in these parts – ever.”

“So, the one that bit the scout was probably brought here and let into the cell with the intention of murder. The idea was to pass the death off as one brought about by the beating the scout had received earlier yesterday.”

“But who would kill the scout in such a manner? And why?” The commander stared at Amara Simha in astonishment.

“I can tell you why – to keep him from revealing anything to us once he returned to consciousness. The ‘who’ would be trickier to detect and hard to prove. It would require some investigation. But I can guarantee that whoever did this is working for the Hunas. And he is among us in this command center.”

In the hush that ensued, Amara Simha’s words came out loud, though he had dropped his voice to an undertone. “We won’t use the suryayantra to send word of the threat to the Anartas, commander. It’s no longer safe to communicate so openly. We’ll dispatch a trusted rider to Ujjayini instead. I will prepare a detailed report for the samrat, and he can then send an emissary to Chief Yugandhara’s court.”

Dattaka began nodding in agreement, but stopped on seeing Ghatakarpara frown.

“Wouldn’t we lose precious time this way?” the prince asked. “The rider will first travel east to Ujjayini for a day-and-a-half, maybe two. Then, the emissary will travel west to Dvarka, covering the distance in two or three days. The news won’t reach Chief Yugandhara for nearly a week.”

“What do you suggest?” quizzed Amara Simha.

“I can leave for Dvarka right now – or perhaps at the crack of dawn tomorrow. It won’t take me more than two days to deliver the same message directly to Chief Yugandhara. I have the royal seal of Avanti, so I can represent the samrat’s court, can’t I?”

“That’s possible,” admitted Amara Simha, wondering why the bright idea hadn’t occurred to him first. Perhaps it was age catching up, slowing him down. “Yes, I think that would work well. But you’re not going alone.”

“I won’t.” The prince looked excited at the prospect of finally doing something of relevance all by himself, instead of merely tagging along like a passenger. “I’ll take half a dozen of Dattaka’s men as escort.”

“Sure,” agreed the commander. “My men will be ready whenever you are.”

***

“How is Vishakha?” the Acharya inquired. “Any further... signs of improvement?

Vikramaditya shook his head, his face drawn and tired in the light of the two lamps in the room. “Nothing since this morning.”

The Acharya was sitting up in his bed. He looked rested, and his face had recovered some of its vigor. He was holding an earthenware cup, which he periodically raised to his lips, shuddering each time the thick, bitter potion passed down his gullet.

“What does Dhanavantri say?”

“He asks for faith and patience,” the samrat replied. From his tone, he appeared disenchanted.

“Then we must have faith and patience, Vikrama,” said the raj-guru, assessing the king’s mood. “Dhanavantri knows what he’s saying – and he’s doing what he can.”

The king swallowed heavily and nodded.

“I could probably have tried reading her mind had I been stronger,” the Acharya ventured halfheartedly, the lack of enthusiasm betraying what he really thought of the idea.

“We need you to regain your health first,” the samrat answered with another shake of his head. “Right now that’s more important.”

“How’s the city coping?” Vetala Bhatta changed the topic after a pause.

Vikramaditya looked out the open window. The action was reflexive, though. The king appeared to be absorbed in some keen inner debate, his vision unfocussed as he stared into the darkness outside. “It’s limping back,” he said at last. “We’re doing everything we can to instill courage.”

“And how’s the news of our having been attacked by the devas and asuras being taken by the people?”

“It’s still early to gauge and the full significance of what’s happening is probably yet to filter down, but the reaction is mixed.” A small smile appeared on the king’s face. “In some quarters, there’s genuine pride that the Omniscient One chose Avanti to protect the Halahala. And of course, there’s a sense of triumph at having won both the battles. But there are others who are in absolute fear of reprisals and refuse to be assured. Kalidasa and Vararuchi tell me that many among this lot are bound to leave the city and return to the safety of their villages.”

“There isn’t much we can do about that,” the Acharya noted. “In fact, those who choose to leave might be the smarter ones.”

The bluntness of the words hung in the stillness of the room like a portentous cloud.

Vikramaditya slowly rose from his chair and reached out for the empty cup in the chief advisor’s hand. Placing the cup on a small table by the bedside, he turned to the raj-guru.

“That’s why you have to regain your health quickly, Acharya,” he said. “I need you to help me make a journey to the Borderworld.”

“The Borderworld?” Vetala Bhatta’s eyebrows rose sharply over his troubled eyes.

“I foresee the devas and the asuras returning – the Omniscient One predicted as much when he gave me the dagger. The Ashvins breached the city’s gates and weren’t very far from where we now sit. I fear the palace is too vulnerable. The only safe place I can think of for the Halahala is the Borderworld.”

The Acharya sighed deeply. “You intend leaving the dagger in the custody of the Ghoulmaster?”

Vikramaditya nodded. “It’s time to redeem the pledge that the Betaal had made to me.”