PRINCE IN EXILE (68 page)

The fourteen rakshasas reached the far bank and disappeared into the shadows of the woods. Supanakha glimpsed a reflection or two off their armour as they made their way up the slope, each taking a different route, all vying for the honour of reaching their intended target first. 

Beside her, Khara smiled and snorted noisily, spewing phlegm. ‘Ready to lose your wager, sister dear?’ 

She smiled her best catty smile at him. ‘Ready to lose fourteen rakshasas?’ 

He laughed at her wit, continuing to spew noisily. 

She turned away, wrinkling her face in disgust. She almost wished that Rama would kill all his assassins. Almost. But not quite. Now that the time had come, she found she wanted vengeance after all. 

Vengeance and Sita. She had plans for that woman who had blocked her dreams. Very painful, long-drawn-out plans. 

Rama spied the first assassin when he was still a hundred yards from the hut. 

He stood up and stepped out of the shade of their thatched forecourt. He was unarmed. 

‘There is no point hiding,’ he called out. ‘I see you. Come forward and you will not be harmed. I only wish to speak with you.’ 

There was no response. 

Rama took another few steps towards the field. He knew the rakshasa was hiding just behind a small rise in the grass. ‘I have a message for you to take to your leader.’ 

The rakshasa remained where he was. 

Rama walked out to him, stopping when he was a dozen yards away. ‘Go back to your commander. Tell him that Rama does not wish to fight him or his army. Tell him to take his forces and go and I will not pursue him or take offence at his coming here. Carry this message, and you can prevent this war.’ 

In response, the rakshasa rose from his hiding place and sprang at Rama, a spear raised. He had taken perhaps three steps, the spear about to launch, when an arrow struck him in the throat, halting him dead in his tracks. He spun around, blood gurgling from his throat, and fell face down in the grass. His spear pitched forward and stuck, quivering, a yard from Rama. 

Rama glanced back. He could see Lakshman and Sita by the wall of the hut, their bows redrawn and ready to fire again. He sighed and nodded. 

This was going to be hard. 

He glanced in the direction of the woods. He could sense the other assassins watching him, weighing how best to cover that sizeable expanse of open field without being cut down. He decided to make it easier for them. He began walking towards the treeline. Behind him, he heard Lakshman call out. He ignored the shout and walked on. He knew what Lakshman was trying to say. He was worried that Rama would walk out of arrow range. 

Rama stopped fifty yards short of the treeline. 

‘I do not wish you harm,’ he said. ‘You can see I am unarmed. If you will speak with me, I will have words with you. Come out and show yourselves.’ 

A muffled grunt was the only answer. Two javelins and one deftly aimed arrow flew towards him. The javelins fell an inch short and two inches long, but the arrow flew straight towards his heart. He spun around, moving into its line of flight. When he had completed a full circle, the arrow was clutched in his fist. He held it up for them to see, then opened his hand and dropped it on the grass. 

Take this message to your commander. Rama refuses to fight. Go home in peace and you will not be harmed.’ 

And he turned his back on the woods and began walking towards the hut again. He prayed silently as he took one step, then two, then three, hoping beyond hope … 

But the attack came as swiftly as the javelins and the arrow. Nine of them, all sprinting across the field like Ayodhyan Vajra Kshatriyas in a short-race, all eager to reach him first and have pride of kill, all with blades drawn ready to take him at close quarters. 

He turned and ran towards them. 

Three of them grunted with surprise, and slowed. The rest continued regardless. He leapt as two of them failed to resist the temptation and threw their blades. The sharpened steel flew past him, glinting coldly in the evening sunlight, slicing the air where he had stood a moment ago. He landed on the chest of one rakshasa, crushing his windpipe, used him as a launching pad, somersaulted in mid-air, knocked another’s face crooked, breaking his neck, struck a third on the septum with his heel, knocking him unconscious, and landed with both feet on a fourth one, smashing his knife into his own chest. Then he rolled across the grass, snatched up a sword in passing, cut another rakshasa’s legs from under him, and locked swords with a sixth for two, three slashes before swiping the blade across the demon’s face, drawing a howl of outrage. 

When he turned to face the last three, they were already fallen, arrows in their throats. More arrows came swishing around him, dropping the others who were able, or foolish enough, to attempt to rise again. 

Ten down. Four to go. 

He turned and saw Lakshman and Sita walking out of the shadow of the hut, heading towards him. He was already at the limit of their arrow range. 

Behind them, he saw the shapes rise from over the lip of the promontory, sprinting towards Sita and Lakshman. 

‘Lakshman!’ he cried, snatching up a javelin and running forward with it. He stopped abruptly, using the balls of his feet to halt, as if on the tip of a precipice, and released the missile. The javelin flew true to its target, striking an assassin who was about to loose an arrow at Sita. She had turned and dropped to her knee by then, firing off two quick bolts. Lakshman took the last rakshasa. 

They met in the centre of the field. Sita seemed a little wan and shaken, but otherwise all right. 

‘Well,’ Lakshman said impassively. ‘So much for your parley.’ 

Rama shook his head. ‘This wasn’t the parley. I was just trying to avoid taking their lives. Now we must go to the river and address their general. That’s our last hope.’ 

Lakshman’s eyes flashed but his voice was measured. ‘And if he also replies the way his assassins did?’ 

Rama sighed. ‘Then we defend ourselves as best we can.’ 

Lakshman hesitated as Rama began to turn away. ‘Rama …’ 

‘Yes?’ 

At least carry Anasuya’s weapons. Show them to Khara and Dushana and Supanakha. They know the power of celestial weaponry. Maybe showing them will convince them that they cannot win against you.’ 

‘I can’t do that unless I’m really prepared to use the weapons, Lakshman. You know that. No, we’ll either win this fight with what we have, or … ‘ He shrugged. ‘Or we’ll try to stop it.’ 

Lakshman sighed and followed him. 

*** 

Khara peered across the river curiously. ‘Ah, I think one returns now.’ 

His soldiers had seen the shadow moving among the trees as well. They sent up a rousing cheer, calling out lewd comments in the rakshasa dialect. The cheer died out abruptly as they saw the figure emerging from the trees on the far bank. 

Supanakha started, her heart pounding within her ribcage as she recognised Rama’s dark, almost bluish skin and aquiline features even across the breadth of the river. Beside her, Khara swore a curse on his mother’s corpse, and spat. ‘What is he doing there, still alive? How did he get past my assassins?’ 

‘He killed them, brother. That’s how.’ 

Khara snorted. ‘Impossible! Those were the best of my best. If I sent them into Lanka to assassinate Ravana, they would not fail. How could a puny mortal best them?’ 

Supanakha replied quietly: ‘Listen and learn, brother. He speaks now.’ 

Khara made another gruntlike sound but stayed silent. So did the army. Supanakha guessed they were too shocked at the sight of the very man they had come to kill standing calmly across the river, facing all fourteen thousand of them as if he were simply come to deliver a speech to an assembly.
And in a sense, he has,
she thought with an excitement bordering on glee. 

Rama called out above the sound of the river. ‘Generals Khara and Dushana, I am Rama Chandra of Ayodhya. My brother and my wife and I are here in exile, living in Chitrakut. We live here in peace, causing no harm to anyone. What happened with your sister was a mistake. She attempted to kill my wife, and my brother … he could not stay his hand. But we do not wish to kill. That is why he mutilated her but spared her life. She did what she did because she wishes to be my wife. That is not possible. I am already happily wed. I gently ask Supanakha to forgo this matter and end this feud here and now. I forgive her for trying to harm my wife, and I ask her forgiveness for the hurt my brother caused her as well. I request you all, in all humility, go back to where you came from. Leave us in peace.’ 

In the silence that followed, Supanakha heard only two sounds: Khara gnashing his teeth and the pounding of her own heart. She felt it would burst at any instant at the rate it was pumping blood. 

Khara snarled loudly enough to be heard across the river– and by all his soldiers. ‘Where are my rakshasas?’ he shouted hoarsely. ‘I sent fourteen across to you. Where are they now?’ 

Rama bent his head regretfully. ‘I asked them to leave in peace as I am asking you now. They would not listen. I hope you will be wise enough to do so.’ 

Khara snorted, his effluents spraying the soldiers below the rock on which he stood. He leapt down from the rock, landing on the riverbank. His arms struck several of his own soldiers, knocking them to the ground. He lunged at the nearest tree, a sala. Grasping it around the trunk, he exerted his powerful arms and back. Groaning, it began to break free of the loose alluvial soil. Khara roared as it tore free, mud-sodden roots hanging from the bottom. He ran to the edge of the river, tree in his arms, and flung it with a great effort. It flew across the river in a sharp arc and landed on the far side. Rama leapt aside when he saw it coming, but it struck his foot as he moved and knocked him down. 

Slowly a great blood-chilling cry rose from the throats of the assembled rakshasas. 

As Rama rose to his feet unsteadily on the north bank, Khara roared out like an enraged lion, ‘When we wear our armour and pick up our blades, mortal, we do not return home without having conquered. Pick up your sword and fight like a Kshatriya now. Or die like a Brahmin. But the only peace you will have from us is the peace of death when we send you to the netherworld, where even Yama-dev will not be able to tell from your fragments whether you were once mortal, asura or something in between!’ 

And he ran forward, leaping on to the log-bridge, and cried out to the assembled rakshasas: ‘To me! To me! To war!’ 

‘To war!’ they replied, and rushed for the bridge, following their commander. 

TWENTY-ONE 

Sita watched the rakshasas swarming the bridge. Their exultant charge was soon cut short. The bridge was only wide enough for them to cross one at a time, and since they were clumsy and large-bodied, the going was not as steady as on flat land. Khara made it across easily enough, stumbling only once, but his legions struggled and fell, too eager, too clumsy, too quick. Several were washed away downriver, screaming before they sank like stones and were rolled away. Those behind them proceeded with more caution but were pushed by the ones waiting their turn. Dushana saw the chaos and ran about shouting orders. He succeeded in restoring some discipline to the crossing and it proceeded more regularly. Yet even with these obstacles, several dozen rakshasas were already across, and all would cross in another hour or two. 

She heard arrows singing through the air above her as Lakshman fired nonstop. His aim was lethal. On the river-bank Rama stood and fought off those that made it through the onslaught of Lakshman’s arrows. Already five rakshasas lay dead around him, and seven or eight more had been killed by Lakshman. But as Rama had said earlier, how many could they kill, just the two of them? A hundred? Two hundred? Five hundred? Even at Bhayanak-van, she knew, there had been no more than that number, give or take a hundred. And they had been strengthened by the maha-mantras then, as well as accompanied by Brahmarishi Vishwamitra’s invocations. Here they had only their wits and their weapons, and Sita feared … no, she
knew
… it would not be enough. 

A decision reached, she turned and sprinted up the hill, climbing as fast as her legs would take her. It was good she did not wait a moment longer, because then she would have seen Rama receive his first wound, a slashing cut across the left bicep. 

Lakshman fired arrows faster than he had ever fired before, but still he knew it was not fast enough. Already he had seen Rama cut four times … no, five now … and yet there were hardly a few dozen rakshasa corpses on the north bank. The narrow crossing-bridge was an unexpected ally, slowing down the progress of the rest of the army. But already those following had learned from watching their earlier comrades, and none were falling into the river any more. He watched as the line of crossing rakshasas was given a barked command by Dushana and they began sprinting across the log-bridge. Lakshman speeded up his shooting, trying to keep up with the increase in pace of those crossing, but it cost him his aim. He saw two of his arrows inflict mere flesh wounds, the rakshasas roaring with pain but stumbling on towards Rama. Also, his supply of arrows, while yet plentiful, was not inexhaustible, unlike the magically refilled quiver in the Bhayanak-van battle. In a little while he would have to drop the bow and arrow, grab his sword, and leap down from this tree, joining Rama on the bank below. Then they would be reduced to fighting back to back. And how long could that go on?
How many rakshasas are our lives worth?
It sounded like a bad joke.