The Guardians of the Halahala (7 page)

“You know that I've tried everything I can. Unfortunately, nothing has worked so far.”

“Yes, you've tried your best, I know,” the king hung his head in dejection. “If the affliction is beyond even the finest physician in Sindhuvarta, I have to accept it as my fate.”

Dhanavantri reached up and placed a comforting hand on the samrat's shoulder. “Don't lose hope, friend. I promise you that I shall keep trying to bring her back. Now get some rest.”

“You sleep well, too, my friend,” replied the king.

The two men parted, the royal physician taking the flight of steps down to the level below, Vikramaditya turning into the passage that led to his bedchamber.

As the sound of the men's footsteps receded, a figure slowly detached itself from the shadow of a big pillar in the hallway downstairs. The light from a faraway lamp immediately fell on the figure, revealing a man's dark, bearded face under a black turban.

It was the sadhu from the boat.

The sadhu paused stealthily, looking right and left to ascertain no one was around. The coast was clear, so he began mounting the stairway leading toward the king's bedroom. As he crept his way up, he reached into the rough shawl he was wearing – and his fingers curled around the hilt of the long dagger that was carefully tucked away into the folds of his dhoti.

Dagger

T
he cloaked rider had been on the road for nearly two hours, and though the steed was a strong beast in the prime of health, it was beginning to show signs of fatigue, its mouth foaming from exertion. This wasn't surprising, considering the rider had ridden swiftly and without stop since leaving Ujjayini's gates, just after sundown and a little before dinner was served at the palace.

“Please talk to your grandmother and ask her to get us some news from the Great Desert,” Vikramaditya had said, speaking to the rider in the privacy of his royal chamber. “The sooner we get some information, the better we can plan our defense against the Hunas.”

The path that the rider had taken led westward from Ujjayini, and after an hour's ride, it had petered into rocky, scrub-laden hills. The rider had pressed on until, at the end of the second hour, the horse had drawn up to the rim of a flat, open plain. Two small fires burned in the middle of the plain, their diffused glow silhouetting a few crude tents pitched on the dusty ground.

As the rider dismounted and began stroking the neck of the tired horse, the high-pitched trill of a nocturnal bird split the stillness from the right. Almost immediately, another bird answered the first one's call from the darkness to the left. The rider paused for a moment, and then looking skyward, let out a warble that was a close imitation of the first two calls. Then, taking the horse by the bridle, the rider began walking toward the glow of the fires.

Halfway to the tents, three figures emerged from the darkness and stood in the rider's way.

“Greetings, sister,” one of the figures spoke in a friendly voice. “What brings you in search of the Wandering Tribe at this hour?”

“I'm here to speak to the Mother Oracle.”

“Ah!” The three figures fell in step with the rider. “But how did you know where to find us?”

“You forget that I too have the blood of the nomads in me. The snowflake that melts on a mountaintop intuitively knows the way back to the distant sea.”

The rider and the three escorts reached the tents. Stepping into the ring of light cast by the fires, the rider shrugged off the cloak to reveal the face of a young girl, a little over twenty. Petite in build, she had sharp elfin features, with large black eyes that flashed in the firelight. Black hair curled profusely around her fair face, which, at the moment, was smiling impishly at the familiar faces seated around the fire.

“Shankubala, how are they treating you at the royal palace?” fussed a dark woman of around fifty, drawing the rider close to the fire and thrusting a wooden bowl of spicy broth into her hands. “Come, you must be hungry and tired. Drink that!”

“It's been a long time since you visited us, Shanku. Look how tall your nephew has grown,” said a man, pointing to a boy of ten who smiled shyly and slipped into one of the tents.

It was a while before the niceties of familial reunion were complete and Shanku was allowed a private audience with her grandmother. Sitting opposite the old crone in a tiny tent lit by a small lamp, watching the wrinkled face and rheumy eyes, the girl wondered how to bring up the matter that had brought her to the tent. But she was spared from making the decision.

“My child, you are a pleasing sight,” the old lady cawed through her toothless mouth. “You are blessed with your mother's beauty, but those big eyes are your father's... curse his deceitful heart! I'll never know what your mother fancied in him – he's brought nothing but disgrace to the Wandering Tribe. But you're not here to discuss the family, are you? Tell me what you want.”

Shanku spoke for a few minutes, outlining what the king of Avanti wished from her grandmother. The old woman nodded quietly as she listened, and when the girl was done, she sat back and gazed at the tent's roof for a while.

“The winds from the west won't blow this way for at least a week, if not more,” the hag said at last. “But let me listen to what the migratory birds have to say. They may have something that your king might find of value.”

“What about the clouds?” Shanku inquired.

“Yes, I shall try to read the clouds as well, but it depends on whether they come from the direction of the Great Desert.”

Shanku nodded. “I shall return tomorrow night, grandmother. I hope you would have learned something of use.”

“And if I have not?” the old woman eyed the younger one closely.

“Then I shall return again on the day after.”

Shanku took her leave and was about to exit the tent when her grandmother called to her.

“Do you see your father, child?”

Shanku turned around and considered her grandmother silently. “I haven't in a long time,” she murmured at last.

“And are they kind to you at the palace of Ujjayini... even after what he did? Otherwise, you could always come back to us. You're always welcome here.”

The girl nodded again. “I know that. But no, everyone there is very kind to me... especially the king.”

“In that case, come back and sit down, child,” the hag said solemnly, patting the ground by her side. “I have had a vision that your king should know about.”

***

Vikramaditya sat at a low table made of teak and ivory, bending over a palm leaf manuscript, his back to the door of his bedchamber.

The light from two lamps placed on the table fell on the palm leaves, revealing lines of lyrical verse written in Sanskrit. The king read each line carefully, pausing now and then to smile in appreciation, or to make small annotations in the margin. The palace was still, and the only sounds were the rustling of the dry palm leaves and the occasional scratching of the king's quill. Outside the palace, somewhere on the gulmohars overhanging the lake, a jungle nightjar chuckled intermittently.

The samrat was so completely engrossed in the manuscript that he almost failed to notice the light draught that blew across the room as the door to his chamber opened and closed silently. However, at the last moment, he observed the sudden flicker of the lamps as they caught the breeze, and his face stiffened.

Without demonstrating the slightest hint of alertness, the king placed the quill back in the inkpot and returned his gaze to the manuscript. Yet, his right hand went under the table, searching for the short sword strapped underneath, hidden from view. Listening for footfalls, he quietly pulled the sword free. Taking a deep breath, he rose in an abrupt crouch and turned around, the sword extending straight out in front of him.

Three paces from the tip of the sword stood the sadhu, the sword pointing at his chest.

“Who are you?” Vikramaditya demanded gruffly, scanning the room for signs of more intruders. Satisfied that there was none, he fixed his eyes on the sadhu. “What do you want? How did you get in here?”

“It doesn't matter how I got in here,” the sadhu replied. “And as to who I am and what I want... it's a long story. Can we sit down and talk?”

Vikramaditya looked at the sadhu with narrowed eyes, his sword unwavering. “What do you have concealed in your hand under the shawl?” he demanded.

The sadhu smiled and drew his hand out of the shawl. As the light from the lamps glinted off the blade of the dagger that the intruder held, the samrat levelled his sword menacingly. The sadhu promptly raised his left hand to stay the king.

“I come in peace and I mean you no harm, Samrat Vikramaditya,” he said. The sadhu then switched his grip on the hilt, so that the dagger lay, inoffensive, on his upturned palm. “I have come to give you this dagger and leave it in your safekeeping.”

“Why? What's so special about this dagger?” The king still didn't lower his guard.

The sadhu paused a moment before answering. “It is the most powerful weapon in the three worlds, samrat.”

Vikramaditya stared from the sadhu to the dagger, and then back at the sadhu, his eyes clouded with skepticism.

“It is something that both the gods of Devaloka and the demons of Patala covet,” the sadhu continued in a somber voice. “Both devas and asuras will do anything to get their hands on this dagger...
anything
.”

The samrat held the sadhu's gaze, his mouth turning downward at the corners in a disbelieving smirk.

“Is that so? Then why have you brought it to me?”

“I want you to protect it and keep it from falling into their possession.”

***

At the other end of the palace, in a corner bedroom, Kapila squatted on a divan, staring into the depths of the flagon of
soma
in his hand. He watched the rich liquid swirling inside the flagon for a while, then raised anxious eyes to Shoorasena, who stood by a window with his hands clutched behind him, looking out into the night.

“What do we do now?” Kapila addressed his brother's broad back.

Shoorasena turned his face inward fractionally, as if meaning to reply, but then changed his mind and went back to staring outside.

“Father has committed himself to sending Magadha's troops to shore up Matsya and Avanti's defenses,” Kapila pressed on, his voice low but marked with urgency. “Now how are we to move against Vanga?”

Shoorasena continued gazing into the dark in silence.

“We are left with no choice but to put the campaign against Vanga on hold,” Kapila sighed, his face drooping with regret.

“There will be
no
change in our plans,” Shoorasena spun around and snarled at his younger brother. “We have to attack Vanga and gain control of its iron mines. We need cheap iron ore to begin the rapid militarization of Magadha. Without that iron, expanding our army will be next to impossible. And let's not forget Tamralipti – we capture the port, we control the sea trade between Sindhuvarta and the eastern kingdoms of Sribhoja and Srivijaya.”

“I know, brother. But if some of our troops are to be diverted for the protection of Sindhuvarta, our push into Vanga might fail.”

“Yes, we need each and every soldier of Magadha on that front.” Shoorasena went and sat down beside Kapila. “Confound it, we should never have let father come here! He's never been capable of standing up for Magadha. Always bowing to the wishes of Avanti... First to King Mahendraditya, then to that bully Vararuchi, and now to Vikramaditya...
Samrat Vikramaditya,”
he scoffed, his voice choking with envy.

“And let's not forget Vikramaditya's glorified flunkey, Chandravardhan,” Kapila gritted his teeth in anger. “It disgusted me to see father apologise to that fat pig.”

“Chandravardhan, Baanahasta, Bhoomipala... they're all stooges of Avanti,” Shoorasena spat out in disdain. “They hail Avanti as the protector of Sindhuvarta, but the fools are completely blind to the fact that Avanti is using
their
armies to defend Sindhuvarta. Then, once Avanti has cleverly cornered all the glory of victory, all the other kingdoms fall over one another in gratitude and applaud when the king of Avanti crowns himself as the samrat of Sindhuvarta!”

“It isn't just glory that Avanti has claimed for itself, brother,” Kapila interjected. “Look at how it has taken possession of the erstwhile kingdoms of Gosringa, Nishada, Malawa and Kunti in the name of liberating them from the Hunas and Sakas. Gosringa, Nishada and Malawa are now provinces of Avanti, while Kunti is little more than a protectorate. Avanti has expanded on the blood and bones of its neighbors, yet Chandravardhan and the other blinkered idiots can't stop singing its praise.” Kapila paused and his shoulders slumped in dejection. “But why blame only them? Even Magadha has always conducted itself in this servile fashion.”

“Not anymore,” Shoorasena growled darkly, rising from the divan. Looking up at the ornate ceiling of the room, he shook his head. “Once we have conquered Vanga and the other eastern kingdoms of Odra, Kalinga and Pragjyotishpura, our power will rival that of Avanti. Then Avanti and its puppet kingdoms won't dare talk down to us, I promise.”

“Indeed. But right now we must address the issue of the promise that father has made to Vikramaditya.” Kapila rose from his seat as well. “We have to figure out a way of ensuring that the whole of Magadha's army stays at our disposal.”

“Don't worry,” Shoorasena placed a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder. “I will find a way.”

***

Vikramaditya frowned as he examined the dagger closely, turning it this way and that in the light of the lamps. Occasionally, he cast a mistrustful eye on the sadhu, who stood to one side, unperturbed.

As far as the king could make out, the weapon was rather primitive, comprising a hilt made of polished obsidian, to which was attached a thin, long blade. The dagger's edge was sharp, but by no means the keenest that he had come across.

There was absolutely nothing in the knife to substantiate the sadhu's claim.

“
This...
is the most powerful weapon in the three worlds?” the samrat appraised the intruder, his tone sarcastic.