Rajiv Menon -- ThunderGod (7 page)

It was the latter part of the day by the time Shalla and his men reached the pass. The eerie silence and the circling vultures that greeted them did nothing to lift the sagging morale of the Elamites as they lined up and awaited orders.

Suddenly, a scream was heard from within the pass, and an Elamite soldier emerged. He ran towards them, shrieking about being attacked by demons from hell that ate both men and horses. It was Captain Nehat. Druma knew of the captain by reputation, he was a brave man. Something terrible must have happened within the confines of that pass to scare the living daylights out of the young soldier.

Druma acted quickly. He walked over to the captain, struck him on the head with the hilt of his sword and knocked him out. As he ordered for him to be taken away, he hoped the officer's delirious rants had not affected the morale of his troops. He sent a rider out to the commander of a nearby garrison, asking for a division of infantry and archers. He was not going to take any more chances against these men.

A furious Shalla ordered another attack. This time the Elamite cavalry's approach was more gingerly. As they entered the pass, slipping and sliding over the blood and entrails of their own people, even the seasoned war-horses were spooked by the stench of death. The Devas made short work of repelling this attack. Through the day and well into the night the Elamites launched four more unsuccessful forays into the pass.

Inside the pass, as night fell, Daeyus instructed his men to pile up the dead horses at the entrance. They then poured clarified butter over the corpses and set them ablaze. The reeking smell of death inside the pass was unbearable, but the Deva soldiers did not seem to be bothered by it. They were in a zone, their senses completely tuned to the task at hand. They tightened their grip on their weapons and waited.

With half his cavalry gone, Shalla waited for the flames to die down before he sent in the freshly arrived infantry. They poured into the pass wave after wave, trampling over their own dead men and horses. Daeyus and his men, wounded and thoroughly exhausted, fought on gamely.

Shalla now instructed his archers to take position outside the pass. Druma watched in horror as Shalla, uncaring about the safety of his own men, ordered his archers to fire volley after volley of arrows into the pass. By the time the rain of arrows stopped, three men were left standing.

Daeyus broke off the shafts of the arrows that stuck in his body and looked around at his men. It had been a long, hard night. One of Krupa's legs was sliced off at the knee. He used a red-hot sword to cauterise the wound and leaned on his spear to stay upright. His breath came out in raggedy gasps. The third Deva standing, Atar, had a gaping wound in his abdomen. He had tied a piece of cloth tightly around his waist to prevent his entrails from falling out. He still wore his dumb smile.

Daeyus was bleeding profusely from numerous wounds on his chest. He staggered out of the southern end of the pass and gazed anxiously into the sky. Morning had just broken and he saw the signal he had been waiting for. A plume of green smoke appeared through the clouds near the top of the mountain. The caravan had finally made it.

Daeyus smiled wearily. The sun rose from behind a distant hill and bathed the three survivors in its light. Their mission accomplished, he turned to Atar.

'I think it's time for you to find us some horses.'

The mood in the Elamite camp was far from belligerent. They had lost one-and-a-half divisions of cavalry and a full division of infantry. Shalla was furious as he digested the bitterness of his failure. The caravan had already crossed his borders; Daeyus' demon whelp would live.

As Druma rallied his men for the final assault, he heard the sound of a conch shell booming out of the pass. He stopped in surprise; that was usually the sound that preceded a Deva cavalry charge. The Elamites watched, some in shock, some in open-mouthed admiration, as three men rode out of the Pass of the Wolves.

Daeyus, lance in hand, led them in an arrowhead formation, with himself at point, as he made straight for the centre of the Elamite line.

Shalla could not believe his eyes. He shouted out to his archers. The three riders looked up to see the sky filled with hundreds of arrows in flight. Daeyus reversed the grip on his lance and, bending his back, flung it into the air with all his might. It flew straight towards Shalla. Fear lent the Elamite king wings as he threw himself off his horse in the nick of time. The lance flew over his shoulder and struck a soldier behind him in the middle of his chest. The impact of the throw unseated the man from his mount and pinned him to the ground.

The volley of arrows caught the three riders in full stride. They were lifted off their horses and flung to the ground where they lay like human pincushions. Shalla recovered his composure and picked himself off the ground. Sword in hand, he rushed towards the prone figure of the fallen raja.

Sixteen arrows protruded out of Daeyus' torso, yet his great spirit still clung to his body. He laughed as Shalla ran towards him, which only served to infuriate the Elamite king.

'You rejoice in the knowledge that your son lives. But rest assured, barbarian, I, Shalla, swear that the day I face him, he will die an even more terrible death than his father.'

Daeyus spat out a mouthful of blood as he raised his head and summoned his last reserves to speak.

'INDRA! Remember his name. The next time you hear it, your empire will crumble to dust before your eyes.'

Shalla screamed in rage, raised his sword and brought it down towards Daeyus' neck. An inch from the target he stopped his blade. He was disappointed to see that there was no fear in the raja's eyes, only a grim sense of acceptance. Shalla sneered at him.

'I will not make this so easy for you.'

He sheathed his sword and walked away.

Daeyus lay there, his eyes shut. Slowly the sounds of the departing army faded. The Elamites marched quietly, displaying no exuberance at their victory. It had come at too dear a cost. When Daeyus opened his eyes, he saw that a group of vultures circling overhead was slowly beginning to drop in a lazy downward spiral.

Closer to him on the ground, he heard another sound. It was the muted scratch of claws over hard ground. Then he heard a low growl; it was the call of the alpha male telling the pack that it was time to feed.

As the wolf pack cautiously made its way forward, he took a deep breath. The omens, the dream, it all seemed to finally make sense. Daeyus, raja of the Devas, closed his eyes as he prepared to accept his fate.

From her vantage point atop the ziggurat, Ishtar watched the scavengers ravage the carcass of the defiant raja. The child had escaped, but Ishtar was not troubled. She had one more trick up her sleeve, and this time she would not fail.

3

The caravan continued to make slow progress up the narrow mountain trail. They had been on the move for several days now, and the horses and cattle were near the end of their tether. Mitra allowed the pace to slacken, but did not stop. Although he did not expect any more pursuit, he knew that if they stopped on the trail, they were sitting ducks for an ambush, or even worse, an avalanche.

The thick cloud cover made it hard to guess the hour. Mitra sensed that it was well approaching dusk. The light disappeared very quickly in these mountains. Mitra strained his eyes. Through the thick mist he saw a dark shape emerge--it was Vasu. He had taken a patrol ahead on a scouting mission. He had good news.

'Up ahead is a snowfield. The ice is thick; we can rest there for the night.'

After they'd set up camp, Mitra and Vasu walked around, reviewing the situation. The journey had taken its toll on the old and the sick and also on some of the young. The dead were carefully wrapped in blankets and piled into a single wagon. Mitra then went to check on young Indra. Mahisi, the widow of Krupa, had gladly assumed the responsibility of bringing up the child when Mitra had offered it to her. She was childless and vowed to look after Indra like he was her own. She had already organised a small army of wet nurses. Indra now lay on the lap of one of them, calmly sucking on her breast. The rigours of the journey had not seemed to affect him at all.

As night fell the mist cleared, only to be replaced by a howling wind that cut through their robes, chilling them to the bone. Vasu and Mitra warmed themselves around a fire and discussed their future plans. This was only a temporary respite while their food reserves were plenty; they needed to find shelter desperately. With the snow melting, the trail ahead could easily prove to be a death-trap.

After Vasu retired for the night, Mitra sat for a long while and stared into the fire, lost in thought. Shalla had very good reason to abandon the chase into these mountains. A few years ago, an entire Elamite army, down to the last man, had vanished here. Apart from the landslides, flash floods and avalanches, there was one more serious threat to consider--the Pakhtu, a hill tribe known for their valour and aggression. Mitra knew they were well within their lands, but it was still early spring and he hoped the Pakhtu raiding parties had not ventured this far north yet.

The next morning, there was excitement in the camp. The scouts had returned with a captive, a boy of ten. Mitra studied him carefully from a distance, but the boy's aura was unreadable. He asked one of the men to bring the boy to him.

As the tribe broke camp around them, Mitra tried to question the young boy. He appeared very calm, and the only excitement he showed was when he spotted the cattle. He stared at them, fascinated. Mitra showed him how to stroke their sleek flanks as they passed him, and the boy laughed happily. They soon had an effective communication system going with hand signals. The boy conveyed to them that the trail ahead was still blocked with heavy snow, and it would take a few weeks for it to melt. He agreed to take them to a safer place where they could camp for a few days.

As the mist thickened around them, the boy led them down a narrow path that descended steeply into the valley below. The Devas struggled with their wagons down the slope. It was so steep that at places the wagons had to be hitched to the front of the bullocks and lowered down. A few agonising hours later, they were in a secluded canyon, sheltered from the elements by the steep cliffs around. The boy made a sign that they should camp there.

Vasu looked around. He realised that it was a box canyon-- one way in and one way out. There were many little fresh water streams that crisscrossed the canyon floor, which was covered by short, green grass. It was a great campsite, except for the fact that it was also an ideal place for an ambush. Vasu was about to convey his misgivings to Mitra, when the older man asked him to look up. On the cliffs directly ahead, a bunch of wild-looking men were staring down at them. They were big, with thick hair and shaggy beards, and wore large cloaks of bearskin. They had wide grins on their faces, the kind hunters have when a fat antelope falls right into their lap. It was the Pakhtu.

They were careful not to reveal their exact number, but Vasu knew that they didn't need too many men to pick them off one by one from those cliffs. They clearly had the upper hand. Now all the Devas could do was wait and hope that the intentions of the Pakhtu were friendly.

A rope suddenly dropped from the cliff and a man swiftly rappelled down the face. He reached the bottom and made his way towards the boy, the thick fur cloak draped around his broad shoulders giving him an ursine appearance. He ruffled the boy's hair fondly and had a quiet word with him.

Vasu tried to make a sign that they came in peace. The man watched him for a moment, amused.

'I speak your tongue. It was taught to me by a wise man who travelled through these parts a long time ago.'

Vasu let out a sigh of relief.

'I request an audience with your chief. We would like permission to camp here till the weather improves and subsequently, safe passage through your lands.'

The man had lost interest in the conversation--he was focused on the cattle.

'We have had a long and hard winter, our elders and children are nearly starving to death. Now you show up here like this with so much meat on the hoof. Surely this is a gift from the gods.'

Vasu hid his irritation at the man's insolence.

'We will be glad to share some of our meat with you, enough to fill all your hungry bellies many times over.'

The man looked at the tired, exhausted faces that stared at him.

'What do you know of our hunger? Why should we be content with a little share when we can kill every one of you and take it all?'

Although his tone was matter of fact, there was no mistaking the menace in his words.

Mitra decided it was time to intervene before the situation got out of hand.

'Forgive me, but I have something that might be of interest to you.'

He took the stone Bhrigu had given him off his neck and threw it to the man, who caught it in mid-air.