Kumudhan’s blood-stained silk angavastram lay draped over the large golden throne, and his gem-studded crown on the seat.  Aranvendhan took his place at the side, with the rest of the War Council. He gripped the dagger on his waistband tightly, his knuckles drained of colour. Anger and grief filled his chest, but his face betrayed none of it as he watched the nobles and citizens slowly filter into the courtroom. News of the Emperor’s murder had spread, and people had thronged to the capital to witness the trial of those accused in this brazen act of treason.

On his right sat the rest of the War Council, save two. Nerivānan stood in the centre, and patiently waited for the courtroom to fill up. He looked around the hall, and clapped his hands once. The great doors opened, and a small retinue of soldiers entered, with two chained men in tow. The first, Thiruvāsagan shuffled forward slowly, unwilling to look up. Behind him, Pulithēvan walked with his head held high, heedless of the jeering cries of the onlookers. They reached the first set of steps, and the soldiers made the prisoners kneel before Nerivānan. The Chancellor continued to look down, but the bandit looked around with the curiosity of a small child. The courtroom filled with the noise of murmur, and scattered shouts of insults aimed at the two prisoners.

Nerivānan cleared his throat, addressed the room: “O people of this great land Nākalam! A dark day rises! Here lies our throne, empty! Chakravarthi Kumudhan, dead, at the hands of Thiruvāsagan and Pulithēvan!”

At the mention of his father’s name, Aranvēndhan looked up and glowered at the two men in chains. One knelt in shame, but the other met his gaze. Pulithēvan’s expression was not one of defiance or submission, but rather the stoic visage of empathic understanding. He nodded slightly, as if to offer his condolences, and Aranvēndhan found himself nodding back, and the rage inside seemed to ebb a little.

Nerivānan continued: “Thiruvāsagan, a trusted chancellor, and Pulithēvan, a bandit—you have been accused of treason and treachery against the state. By your actions, the Emperor is dead.” He turned to look back at the throne, and his voice caught in his throat. “Nā—Nākalam...Nākalam has lost her beloved monarch, and I...a dear friend.” He paused for a moment. The murmurs in the hall grew louder. Nerivānan took a deep breath, and continued: “You stand accused of conspiring with the enemy, causing the death of the Emperor, and the good soldiers of this blessed land! The punishment is death.”

“Dhrōgi! Vaṅcakan!” The crowd chanted. “Betrayer! Traitor!”

Nerivānan put his hand up to silence the crowd. “Have you anything to say, Thiruvāsagā?”

Thiruvāsagan looked up for the first time. Tears streamed down his dishevelled face. “I...Forgive me, my lords! I...I was coerced! Semmaḷvarāyan, he—he gave me no choice! I was powerless to oppose him!”

“Coerced? Did you not welcome Semmaḷvarāyan with open arms into the palace? And I remember your emphatic reasoning for your actions.”

“My lords! I merely intended to do what was best for this land—my land! Nākalam is my mother, as she is yours!” Thiruvāsagan pleaded. “Believe me, sire!”

“By any measure, this was no solution to your imagined financial crisis of this state.” Nerivānan replied, anger in his voice. “And, this is no simple case of back stabbing, such a course of action would have been planned for months,  and only with your knowledge!”

“Sire, no! I...I was forced to comply with Semmaḷvarāyan’s designs! He forced me put up this facade, sire!” Thiruvāsagan put his shackled hands up.

“A facade?” Vagaimāran asked.

“Yes, General! I was forced to feign this false alliance, for this very reason I am in chains! He threatened to kill the royal family if I did not act by his instructions—I merely looked to save their lives, my lords!”

“An incredible tale you tell, Thiruvāsagā.” Nerivānan replied. The people began to murmur amongst themselves.

Thiruvāsagan turned to Aranvēndhan. “My prince!” He pleaded. “Surely you must believe me! I have been nothing but loyal!”

Aranvēndhan did not reply, he glared back silently.

Nerivānan challenged Thiruvāsagan. “Do enlighten us, how did Semmaḷvarāyan manage to carry out such a well-executed scheme, all by himself? He stole from our tax caravans—the routes of which only you are familiar with—enter our borders, set fire to the outposts, kill many of our soldiers in the barracks, and take control of the palace virtually unopposed. This would require significant help from our side, one would wager.”

“My lord, I told him naught! No, it was him!” Thiruvāsagan wagged an accusing finger at the man beside him. “He—Pulithevan had a small army at his disposal—it was all his doing! And, I think, there...there must be another spy in the court! Semmaḷvarāyan has spies everywhere! He—”

With a loud cry, Pulithēvan pounced on Thiruvāsagan, and had his chains around the man’s neck in a flash. The soldiers around them lunged forward, and tried to pull the bandit away, but Pulithēvan did not relent. The chains tightened, and Thiruvāsagan eyes bulged. One of the soldiers pulled out a dagger, but Pulithēvan shoved him away. With a sickening crack, the Thiruvāsagan’s neck snapped, and Pulithēvan kicked the lifeless body to the floor. Silence descended on the hall.

“Liar.” Pulithēvan spat. He looked up at Nerivānan, and bowed mockingly, his chest heaving. “Apologies, O mantriyārē. I could not hear his lies and accusations any more. I saved your executioner a day’s work.” He allowed himself to be subdued by the soldiers. They produced a roll of black fabric, and blindfolded Pulithēvan with it. Pulithēvan did not fight them, but he slid his hands into his waistband, and pulled out something in his closed fist, and tossed it at Nerivānan. The minister looked down. A small, crumpled piece of parchment rolled to a stop by his feet. He picked it up, and smoothed out the creases.

“I do not know what it says, Minister.” Pulithēvan called aloud, as the soldiers bound his hands, but behind his back this time. “But I think it should give you proof that your chancellor and Semmaḷvarāyan were communicating with each other for long. It is not the only message he sent, there were others, many others.”

Nerivānan glanced at the rest of the Council members. Mārthāndan got up, and walked up to the Minister. Nerivānan handed the parchment to him. Mārthāndan allowed himself a small smile at the message’s reference to him, and nodded in affirmation to the rest of the Council.

Mārthāndan turned to Nerivānan. “Let us keep him imprisoned, he knows more about Semmaḷvarāyan than any of us here.” he said in a low tone.

Nerivānan thought for a moment, and nodded. Mārthāndan gestured to the soldiers, and they removed Pulithēvan’s blindfold. Mārthāndan held the parchment up. “No death for you, Pulithevā. Not yet, at least. Take him away.”

The soldiers began to lead Pulithēvan away, but he stopped, and turned back towards the dais. “Oh, that boy Nithilan. He is dead. Semmaḷvarāyan killed him.”

A collective gasp rose from the crowd.

“You speak the truth?” Nerivānan asked the bandit. “Our reports told us it was by your hands he was captured.”

Pulithēvan smiled. “I may be unscrupulous, but a liar I am not, Minister. I have never even seen that boy.”

Nerivānan looked at Mārthāndan, and shook his head, dejected. “I had hoped Semmaḷvarāyan was not that cruel.”

“And I, foolish.” Mārthāndan sighed, staring at the ground.

Aranvēndhan and Vagaimāran walked up to the duo on the dais. Aranvēndhan put his hands on Mārthāndan’s shoulder. “Find Semmaḷvarāyan, Mārthāndā. Bring him here. I shall show him no mercy.”

The crowd in the hall began to disperse, murmuring amongst themselves. Malasāra remained in the corner, still in his hunter form. People shuffled past him as he stood in the shadows, eyes fixed on the blood-stained shawl of Kumudhan. Aranvēndhan will be Emperor now. A Thattān remains on the throne. Twenty-five years of work undone, because of Semmaḷvarāyan’s reckless act. Twenty-five years of patience. Maybe I should have not trusted him.

Malasāra remained invisible, and watched the wounded hunter.

A large leopard lay dead beside the man, a long blade sticking out from its great neck. He winced as he struggled to sit up. A deep gash ran from his shoulder to his waist. Blood trickled from the innumerable cuts on his body. He grabbed at a nearby rock, trying to prop himself up.

He is big and strong. He did put up a good fight. Malasāra slowly apparated before the hunter. “Took you by surprise, did it not?”

The hunter’s eyes went wide with fear at the sight of the creature before him. He hastily pulled out a small knife from his side. “Wh—what are you, demon!”

“A yamadūta.” Malasāra gestured at the hunter’s body. “Your injuries, you do not survive them. I am here to take your soul.”

The hunter stared. His breathing quickened, and a lump formed in his throat. He looked up at the creature that towered over him. Though frightening to behold, the yamadūta stood there calmly, its face impassive. I am to die. He looked back down at himself, sharp throbs of pain from the wounds that oozed crimson. I am to die. He took a deep breath. I am to die. That was strangely calming, and a sense of finality took over him. The pain seemed to subside slowly. He spat the blood that had collected in his mouth. “I always thought old age would take me, but what a silly notion to have as a hunter!” he smiled weakly, and dropped the blade.

Malasāra remained silent.

“But a better death I could not have wished for,” he ran his hand over the dead leopard by his side. “A magnificent beast, is she not?”

“What is your name, hunter?”

“Pāri.” the hunter coughed. “Bear my soul swiftly to Yamā, O dūta. I hope I am judged well by the Gods!” he coughed again, this time blood spilled from his mouth. He keeled over, dead.

Malasāra knelt, put his hand on the hunter’s lifeless chest, and began to chant under his breath. A small orange orb rose out of Pāri. It glowed bright in the waning evening light, floating in Malasāra’s palm. Nay, no divine judgment for you, hunter. You, I shall need. Malasāra brought the soul up to his face, and devoured it.

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“We must be near Nīrmukku,” remarked Jayan, shielding his eyes from the low sun. He looked east, the towering peaks of the Kāhaigirī range shone like gold.  “Yes, we are definitely around Nīrmukku. We could shelter in those temple ruins for the night.”

“Seri, we will continue the hunt tomorrow. Hopefully the dawn will bring with it some fresh luck.” Semmaḷvarāyan wiped the sweat from his face. “One of you halfwits had better know the path.”

“I do, prabhu!” one of the soldiers piped up from the back.

Semmaḷvarāyan gestured at the vast swampland around them. “Lead the way, your highness.” he mocked.

The soldier hurriedly nudged his horse to the front. They slowly made their way through the soggy land. It was slow going, the horses quickly tired, they had to stop often. The sun steadily made its way towards the horizon.

Semmaḷvarāyan broke the silence. “Yappa, rāsā!” he called from the back. “Did you not say you knew the way? This just feels like we are going in circles!”

“No, no, prabhu. See those kavvaka trees? Beyond that clump we should reach the river. Cross that, and we will be in Nīrmukku.”

“All this for a lousy boar.” Semmaḷvarāyan swatted a mosquito on his arm.

Soon, they arrived at the banks of the Settrāru. It was a muddy, slow moving river, more slush than water. They stood at the edge, staring at the eddies, trying to discern the shallow areas from the deeper pools.

“Look!” Jayan called out.

A frail old man in a small coracle on the opposite bank, waved a piece of cloth in the air, trying to get their attention. He pointed further down the river, where a narrow sandbar protruded a good way into the river.

“Finally!” Semmaḷvarāyan urged his horse towards the sandbar. The group crossed and Jayan walked up to the old man. “I thought Nīrmukku was abandoned. What are you doing here, thatha?”

Semmaḷvarāyan pushed past Jayan. “Questions you can ask later, Jayā. Let’s hope he has some food.”

The old man turned and hobbled away, leaning on his walking stick. “Come, come. Bring your horses to the hut. There’s fresh water and some old bales of hay.” 

They followed the old man to the dilapidated hut. There was a small wood fire going outside, and they tied horses to the side, and sat around the flame. The old man ducked inside the tiny hut, and came out with a wicker basket. “These sandy waters are good for eels, did you know?” He dropped the basket by the fire, it was overflowing with grey, slimy catch. “These I sell at Maṇchērī and Vaẓhukkur, but I am happy to share them with any Eyinar clansman I come across.” he grinned, displaying his crooked stained teeth that stood out in all possible angles.

Semmaḷvarāyan looked back with mild surprise, but hid it quickly. “What is your name, thatha?”

“Esakkī, they call me.”

“How did you know I am an Eyinar?”

Esakkī pulled out a small knife, and began to chop the eels faster than their eyes could keep up. “All my brothers and father fought for your family against the hill tribes, did you know? It was long back, in the good old years when an Eyinan could walk with his head held high.”

“Watch your words!” Jayan stood up angrily. “Apologise to your warlord!”

Esakkī did not look up from chopping the eels. His fingers continue to move with great dexterity, belying his age. “Yes, yes, warlord, but not king, no?”

“You dare disrespect him?” Jayan gnashed his teeth.

“Quiet, Jayā. The old man does have a sharp tongue, but it speaks the truth. And do not threaten the man preparing your food!” Semmaḷvarāyan chuckled.

Jaya sat down, still glaring at the aged fisherman, who was now salting the eels.

Esakkī tossed an eel head over his shoulder. “How glorious was your grandfather, rāyarae! The Eyinar clan was feared and respected by all across the Verumvayal plains...but now, look at you, thambi—spent an entire day hunting, and now having to settle for bland swamp eels.”

Semmaḷvarāyan smiled wryly. “That’s enough salt, old man.”

Esakkī smiled, his crooked teeth visible. “Yes, yes. Pay no heed to this rambling old fool. But would I like to once again see the Eyinars rise to the status of kings and emperors? Yes, yes, I would.”

“Do tell us, thatha, how would we do that?” Jayan sneered.

“Ah, that is easy. The Thattān kingdom is weak.”

Jayan scoffed loudly.

The fisherman continued: “Ah, yes yes. Their heir was a stillborn, did you know? Karkōttai is in shambles, still recovering from their civil wars. Should be easy prey for a wily warrior.”

Jayan pursed his lips. “That was a decade ago—Karkōttai is being rebuilt as we speak.”

“Yes, yes, army is not at home, no?”

Semmaḷvarāyan looked up, amused.

“Karkōttai is the key to controlling the entire coast and its trade routes.”

Jayan spoke up again. “Indeed, let us walk into the Thattān heartlands and demand the throne. Are you senile, old man? They are no ordinary adversaries.”

Esakkī stoked the small fire. “That simply means you think less of yourself, boy.”

Jayan swore under his breath. His hand gripped his dagger on his waistband, and gritted his teeth. Semmaḷvarāyan glared at Esakkī, but Esakki continued to poke at the twigs, smiling with all of his crooked teeth glowing in the light of the fire.

——

A pond heron clucked loudly in the reeds by the misty shore, and Semmaḷvarāyan awoke with a start. He rubbed his eyes, and sat up. His men were still asleep, scattered around the long spent fire. The sky was still grey, but the peaks of the Kāhaigirī were beginning to turn bright gold.

He stood up and walked absently to the muddy bank. This fisherman and his tongue, he smiled to himself. But he spoke the truth, did he not? I am a shadow of my grandfather and his fathers, am I not? They were respected warriors, and had fought the Kuravar tribes and drove them from the plains and into the hills, claiming lands that were rightfully theirs—and here I am, getting educated in statecraft from a decrepit old fisherman.

Jayan walked up from behind, and yawned loudly. “Esakkī is nowhere to be seen, his coracle isn’t here, too. Must have left for Maṇchērī before dawn.”

Semmaḷvarāyan did not hear him, he was lost in thoughts, his mind in the grip of a vague itch of larger aspirations.

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Āndāḷ looked up, startled. She dropped her wooden rattle, and tears slowly began to well in her eyes. She got up, and ran to Meenakshi, and wrapped herself around her mother’s leg, crying loudly. Meenakshi lifted her up, held her tight, and tried to pacify her. She shot a poisonous look at her husband. “It has been a year. A year since Mukhilan’s death—and here you sit, wallowing in your grief and pity! Āndāḷ too is your child!”

Kannanār glared at his wife and daughter. He tried to calm himself, but felt the rage build inside. He clenched his fists, and stormed out of the hut. He walked in a daze, wandering through the small lanes of his neighbourhood. The cool evening breeze did nothing to soothe his mood. That foolish boy! Such an impulsive child! Kannanār shook his head. I should have not shouted at him that day...then he would have still been here. Maybe if I had explained to him calmly—but no, Mukhilan wouldn’t listen! Why did the idiot just not listen! Kannanār clenched his fists tighter. Maybe I should have sent him to some far away gurukulam for his schooling. That would have kept him safe. Why did he have to run away! The foolish boy! His chest began to tighten, and Kannanār rubbed away tears from his eyes. If only. If only he had not been at the temple that day to hear the town crier. If only he had not accompanied me that day! Kannanār stumbled on a small rock in his path, and snapped out of his thoughts. Where am I? He took a deep breath and looked around. The streets were deserted. He walked further, trying to spot a familiar landmark. The streets were narrower, and the huts smaller. This was probably the older part of the city, somewhere close to the Niraiāru river. But where is everyone? The sun had set a little while ago, twilight was approaching, the streets were silent.

Then suddenly the air filled with the cries of a great number of people, but died down as quickly as it had been heard. He stopped, turning around, trying to place the shouts. It sounded again, this time louder and longer. The noises rose and fell frequently, almost like a chant.

Kannanār followed the shouts, and he could now hear a woman’s voice between the cries. He could hardly make out the words, he stopped, strained his ears, trying to place the voice. “——our sons?” the voice said. It sounded close. Kannanār spotted the top of a large banyan tree behind the huts. The voice seemed to come from there.

“Is he? Is our esteemed Lord Thattān going to give us back our sons?”

Kannanār quickened his pace. In a large clearing between the closely-packed huts, a large gathering of people sat on the ground. An elderly woman stood under the tree, gesturing passionately as she spoke. “Thanmayan, our dear learned scholarly king, Thanmayan, buries his nose in parchments and manuscripts—why did he not go to the War himself?” Her eyes were red, her face expressive with grief and anger. “Should he not have gone himself? Should he not have led the army? Is that not the duty of a ruler?” Her rhetoric drew vehement shouts from the gathered villagers, echoing her rage. The woman brushed a few strands of grey, unkempt hair from her face. “Why should he live in his grand palace, while the corpses of our sons, our husbands, our brothers rot in some faraway battlefield?” The crowd again agreed with her, more fervently this time. Kannanār joined the throng at the back. She is right! The woman continued, louder still: “Thanmayan, kolaikkāran! Thanmayan, murderer!”

“Killer!” The crowd chanted, slowly getting louder and louder.

Suddenly, a horn sounded. Thattān soldiers entered the street, and began to charge the villagers. The people scattered, and pandemonium broke out. Some of the older men retaliated with sticks and small rocks and bricks, but were quickly subdued. Kannanār stood frozen. An elderly man barged into him, and they both stumbled. Kannanār lay sprawled on the ground, with the wind knocked out of him. A hand reached out, and grasped his forearm. Kannanār looked up, it was the lady who had given the speech. “Quickly! Come with me!” she said, pulling him up. She began to sprint, quick for her age, to the line of huts at the far end of the clearing, along with a few others, and Kannanār followed. They entered a hut, and continued through its length, and came out the back door. They continued, criss-crossing through the huts until they were quite a few streets away. The lady led them into a slightly larger house, and the half a dozen people shuffled in hurriedly. They bolted the heavy latch, and listened for any followers, but there seemed to be none. They were safe, for the time being.

One of the men addressed the lady. “Amma! These soldiers—we need a way to deal with them. They should be taught a lesson.”

But the woman paid no attention to him, she was gazing intently at Kannanār. “There are no temples in these parts—what brings you to these lowly hamlets, priest? Were you lost?” she brushed a bit of dust from her madisār.

“Yes.” Kannanār said in a low voice, looking around at the people around him. “I live near the periyakovil. I was wandering, and was not paying attention.” He turned to the lady. “Who are you, kind lady?”

“Shanthamma, I am called.”

“Careful! He might be a spy for the Thattāns, disguised as a commoner!” one of the men took a step closer to Kannanār.

Shanthamma smiled, a twinkle in her eyes. “No. Look at him. There is an unmistakable air of anguish about him—he is one of us.”

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The clouds slowly parted, and shafts of silvery moonlight lit the grounds before them. A steady cool breeze blew from the east, and with it came the smell of the sea.

Mārthāndan and his platoon crouched in the mud. There were under the dense cover of small nāval pazham trees that grew in the marshy soil. A large sandy clearing lay between them and the city walls. Ripunjaya watched as the rest of the men scurried past them, and took their positions. Most of the palace windows remained dark.

The clock tower rang once, it was an hour after midnight. All remained quiet. They watched, and then a small lamp appeared on the battlements, and was gone in an instant. A few moments passed, and it appeared again, and was again extinguished in a flash. Mārthāndan nodded, and one of the men squeed like an owl. A few moments passed, and a long, slender rope flew over the battlements and slithered down towards the ground.

Mārthāndan waited for clouds to obscure the already faint moon a bit more, and then rustled the bush near him. A skinny man clad only in a dark loincloth and a turban appeared from behind the foliage, coils of rattan rope around his torso. He sprinted to the base of the wall, and quick as a cat, scurried up the talus with the rope and disappeared over the battlements.

A minute later, three rattan ropes came down the walls. Men slowly emerged from the bushes, and sprinted to the wall. Silently as they could, climbed up the sloped wall, in groups of two. Soon, they were all up, and crouched behind the merlons, and waited. All was quiet, no alarms sounded.

Mārthāndan grasped Kuppan’s arm. “Moochu Nākaalam-ukke!” Kuppan exclaimed, under his breath. Mārthāndan thumped his chest once with his fist. “Do they have patrols?” 

“Yes, prabhu. Every hour. These men are the fresh change.” He pointed at the entrance of the nearest watch tower. Four guards lay dead on the walk, throats slit.

“Excellent work, Kuppā. Let us make good the next hour.” Mārthāndan said. “Where are they kept?”

“Thankfully, still in the royal quarters, prabhu. Semmaḷvarāyan wanted to put them in the dungeons, but Thiruvāsagan was against it.”

Mārthāndan rubbed his chin. “Good, the chambers are closer than the dungeons. Are they all together?”

“No. They are separated, each in their own chambers. I took the meals to the Prince myself. I told him of  the plan.”

“Lead the way.”

Kuppan nodded, and walked to the watchtower. He listened for footsteps, and heard none, and gestured to Mārthāndan. Quickly, sixteen men formed a single file, and followed Kuppan down the winding stairs. Each of them drew a short sword as they entered the doorway.

Step by step they went down the winding stairwell. At the base Kuppan picked up the large copper jug he had stowed away. It was a convenient prop, he simply looked to be fetching water for one of the officers from the kitchens. He peeked out into the corridor, and checked for guards. There were none, and he turned to Mārthāndan. “This way is clear. But guards are posted all along the main entrances.”

“You have done well, Kuppā. Back to the kitchens now. Whatever happens here tonight, do not give away your true role—Nākalam just might need you again before long.”

Kuppan nodded. He stepped out, and walked towards the kitchen at a brisk pace. Mārthāndan waited for a few moments, and gave the signal to proceed. The platoon grouped themselves into four smaller units, and quickly went their separate ways. Their instructions were clear. They would operate in two four-man teams—one as a forward group and another followed in reserve. Eight men were assigned to retrieve Kumudhan, another eight for Piraivalli. The remaining trio of Mārthāndan, Ripunjaya and Ilarāyan would go for Aranvēndhan, who, after being rescued himself, would in turn would help with the efforts, if required. Half an hour later, they would all regroup back at the eastern wall, and escape the same way they had come.

A simple enough plan, thought Ripunjaya, but Mārthāndan often liked to say, plans were perfect only until their execution. He followed Mārthāndan with Ilarāyan just behind. The royal quarters were in the northern part of the palace, individual chambers on two different floors. Thankfully, there were lesser-known passages used by the palace staff that avoided most of the main corridors, where the bulk of Semmaḷvarāyan’s guards were posted.

At the first hall the group split, sixteen men parted down towards the lower floor, while the trio continued towards the prince’s chamber. Aranvēndhan’s quarters was at the end of a short corridor, and Mārthāndan estimated six guards—logically, two to each pair of pillars in the space leading to the door. They reached the way leading to the corridor, and Ripunjaya peeked from behind a corner. Mārthāndan was right—there stood six men in ochre turbans with spears, three on each side.

Ripunjaya signalled, and jumped out, sword drawn. In a flash, he cut the throat of the soldier nearest to him. Beside him, Ilarāyan slashed at the soldier opposite, and down the soldiers fell, clutching their necks. The remaining four formed a hasty array, and began to step backward towards the door, shields in front and spears pointed at the intruders. One of them shouted, but the royal chambers were built to be secluded from the rest of the palace, and no one heard his cries. Ripunjaya and Ilarāyan dashed forward. Ripunjaya caught the outstretched spear of the soldier on the left, and pulled. The soldier lost his balance, and stumbled forward. Ripunjaya caught the man’s shield, pushed it down and thrust his blade into the man’s neck. On his right, Ilarāyan rolled to the other soldier’s feet, and cut at his shins. Down went the man, and Ilarāyan quickly closed his hand over the soldier’s mouth, and slid his blade into his chest. Behind them, Mārthāndan had picked up the spear from the first soldier, and lunged at the soldier on the right. The soldier instinctively raised his guard, his shield up to deflect, and Mārthāndan shifted his leverage on the shaft, and the tip dipped. He thrust it deep into the soldier’s side, and withdrew, already slashing at the last man left. The soldier parried, and bought down his own spear down towards Mārthāndan. Mārthāndan stepped back, and the spear tip missed him by a hair. The soldier corrected, and shifted his weight, and the winged spear cut Mārthāndan lightly on his shoulder. The soldier pulled his spear back, ready to strike again. At that moment, the doors behind him opened and even as the doors swung inward, a knife came flying out, aimed at the soldier’s head. It was a small blade, but it found it’s mark true and deep. It struck the man on his neck, and he fell, motionless.

Aranvēndhan stepped out, four dead soldiers at his feet. He retrieved his knife from the soldier’s neck, and picked up a short sword from the other soldier. He clapped Mārthāndan on his unhurt shoulder. “To my father and daughter, Mārthandā! Quickly!”

The four now sped back into the chambers, where a hidden door with a stairway that led to the floor below. They hurried down the steps, and in moments, came face to face with a group of their own men, and the princess. “Vaḷli!” Aranvēndhan embraced her.

“What of Kumudhan?” Mārthāndan turned to the captain.

“The other group separated at the main corridor. We are to meet back at the east corridor, as planned.”

“Onwards!” Mārthāndan urged. The now large group now sped through the service passages, retracing their steps to the eastern walls. They turned a corner, and below the large window, crouched four men.

“Prabhu! The Emperor Kumudhan was not in his chambers,” said the leader, breathless. “No soldiers on guard, too. The four of us returned here, to regroup and await your orders. The other four of remain hidden in the Emperor’s chambers.”

“We should search the lower floor, Mārthāndā” Aranvēndhan said. “I remember Kuppan saying that he had been asked to fetch food for two people to Semmaḷvarāyan’s quarters today.”

“Could it not have been Thiruvāsagan?” Ripunjaya asked.

“No. Kuppan mentioned the meal had meat. Thiruvāsagan eats no meat.” Aranvēndhan noticed Ripunjaya for the first time.

Mārthāndan scratched his chin. Something is not right, he felt it in his heart. “Vēndhā, listen to me. Go with Vaḷli.” Mārthāndan whispered. “Vagaimāran’s men wait with horses, they will bear you to safety. I shall go search for the old man.”

“No! I am not leaving without grandfather!” Piraivalli cried through clenched teeth. “I will fetch him. Who will accompany me?” she snatched a short sword from one of the men. She did not wait for an answer, she started to sprint down the corridor, towards Aranvēndhan’s chamber.

Aranvēndhan ran after his daughter. Mārthāndan turned to the kneeling soldiers. “Quick, one of you go fetch some more men to the hall, go!” Then he, Ripunjaya and Ilarāyan and the three remaining soldiers raced to catch up with Vaḷli. They ducked back into the large room, and sprinted down the stairs at the far end. It wound its way down steeply, its uneven steps making their progress slow. At the landing they stopped. Vaḷli leaned against the large teak doors, ear pressed against the wood.

“You should go back, princess. Let us handle this.” Mārthāndan said in a hushed voice.

“I will not abandon thatha!” Vaḷli snapped.

“Abandon him? No. I promise you we shall bring him back. But you I implore to escape, Vaḷli.”

“No, uncle. I am with you and father—I am safer here.”

“Oh, you stubborn child!” Mārthāndan relented. This was no time, nor the place to argue. “At least let me lead, princess.” he struck a small piece of flint against his sword hilt, and lit a small torch on the wall.

“Maybe, but I know this old fort better than you. I spent all my childhood running around in these passages.” Vaḷli replied, and tied her hair up in a small bun.

Aranvēndhan allowed himself a small smile. “The sun shall rise in the west the day she listens to reason.”

“You can lead us, but if we run into soldiers, let us ahead.”

“I can fight, dear uncle.”

“It is not your ability I doubt, young Vaḷli. We need you, the only heir to this great land—you far too valuable to lose to some guard’s wayward blade.”

Vaḷli opened her mouth to reply, but a deep gong cut her off, and shook the walls. It sounded again, louder. It quickly increased in fervour, each report louder than the last.

“They must have discovered the bodies.” Aranvēndhan cracked the door open a few inches. The palace seemed now to come alive. Shouts of soldiers filled the air, torches on the walls were being quickly lit.

Vaḷli grabbed the torch from its sconce. “Appa, where did they have lunch?”

“The courtroom.” Aranvēndhan replied.

Vaḷli thought for a moment. “Yes, there is a way. Follow me!” she ducked through the doors. The group now raced down the corridor, and followed Vaḷli into a small room. Large wooden cabinets and chests lay covered in dust. Old paintings lined the walls. A sombre Thanmaya Thattān stared down at them, a large stack of palm-leaf manuscripts in his hand.

Vaḷli sprinted to a large stone statue of a dancer on the side. She was exquisitely carved, almost lifelike. Vaḷli pressed one of the anklets on the statue’s feet. A great grinding noise filled the small room, and the wall behind the dancer moved back three feet. A cool gush of air washed into the room. 

Two small red eyes glowed in the darkness of the passage. Ripunjaya’s breath caught in his chest. He staggered back a step, and into Mārthāndan.

“Not afraid of the dark, are you, son?” Mārthāndan chuckled, and held Ripunjaya by the shoulder.

Ripunjaya turned around quickly at Mārthāndan. “N—no, I must have stepped on a rat.” he replied sheepishly, and shook his head. He looked back at the eyes. They hovered in the darkness, unblinking. A yamadūta!

Vaḷli stepped in, ducking into the low opening. “This one leads all the way to the stairs under the northern state room. Last person to enter, press the anklet on the right foot, the wall shuts a few moments later.”

The eyes continued to stare at the princess, and slowly drifted to the ceiling. Vaḷli turned a corner, and the vague outline of the yamadūta disappeared into the walls. Ripunjaya’s heart thumped. What did the yamadūta portend? Indeed, men were to die here tonight, as did the bandits after he had seen the first yamadūta on the way to meet Vēlan. But who tonight, at the hands of whom?

A soldier bumped into Ripunjaya, and broke his reverie. They filed in, and followed the winding passageway behind Vaḷli. Cool night air whistled through small slits on the walls. Soon Vaḷli stopped at a small alcove. An old frayed rope hung from the ceiling. “We are behind the tiger statue beside the stairs.”

Aranvēndhan nodded. “We should separate. I will take Vaḷli and two of your men, Mārthāndā, and make for the main entrance. The rest of you come in through the other door on the end.” They listened for soldiers outside, but heard nothing, and Aranvēndhan pulled the rope. A moment later, the mortar wall swung slowly inward, noiselessly. They emerged from within the wall, swords drawn.

The corridor was empty. The group exchanged glances, incredulous.

“An ambush?” Ripunjaya ventured. 

“Likely.” Mārthāndan replied. “But we stick to the plan.” He nodded at two of the soldiers behind him. “Vēndhā! Go, enter the hall, we are behind you.”

The group split into two. Aranvēndhan ran to the main entrance with Vaḷli and the two soldiers. Mārthāndan, Ripunjaya and the two other soldiers sprinted to the door on the far wall, and they entered.

Vaḷli’s small, lone torch lit no more than a few feet ahead of them in the large hall. The curtains on large windows lining the wall were all drawn.

“Get behind us, Vaḷli.” Aranvēndhan said, and stepped in front of her.

A deep voice echoed from the within the darkness. “Stop there, Vēndhā! Come no further!”

“Show yourself!” Aranvēndhan shouted, peering into the darkness.

At the far end of the hall, a torch came alight, and slowly lit a knot of soldiers with ochre turbans, swords at the ready. At the front, stood Semmaḷvarāyan. An old man with wispy white hair was sitting on the floor before him. But Kumudhan seemed to be unconscious, his head lulled. Semmaḷvarāyan held a knife to the Emperor’s throat.

“Appa!” Aranvēndhan cried. “Let my father go, coward! Come fight me!”

Vaḷli took a few steps forward, but Mārthāndan caught her by her arm. 

“Stay where you are, or Nākalam loses her ruler!” Semmaḷvarāyan threatened.

The soldier holding the torch threw it high in the air. It flew in a graceful arc, and landed on a low, wide pile of firewood that had been arranged across the width of the hall. The dry kindling immediately caught fire. A wall of flames quickly rose between the two groups.

“Drop your blade!” Aranvēndhan strode close to the fire. It was too wide to jump across, and the heat was unbearable.

“What do you want, Rāyā?” Mārthāndan shouted, over the crackling fire.

Semmaḷvarāyan pointed to a large painting that hung on the wall. “She, your beloved queen—she put me where I am today! I only came here to pay my respects to Umayāḷ Dēvi, your great warrior queen!” he scoffed, and spat on the floor.

“It was a hundred years ago, Rāyā!” Mārthāndan stalled. “What would you have us do? Make you monarch?” He counted thirty soldiers behind Semmaḷvarāyan. They have no spears, only swords. Good. We are seven. If we did have a way to cross the fire, it might be close fight. But no—cannot chance it, not with the Emperor at the mercy of a madman.

At that moment, the remaining five ūsippadai soldiers burst into the hall.

We are now twelve. An easy win. Mārthāndan glanced at Ripunjaya, and furtively pointed at the thick curtains on the wall. Ripunjaya understood.

“Wealth? You entice me with lands and titles? Nay, fools, it is merely blood I seek!” Semmaḷvarāyan sneered, and drove his blade deep into Kumudhan’s neck. The Emperor slumped, and Semmaḷvarāyan shoved the body to the ground. “There, your father is free, Prince!” He laughed mockingly, and disappeared through the mass of soldiers behind him.

Aranvēndhan roared. Mārthāndan ran to the nearest window, and tugged at the curtain. Ripunjaya and Ilarāyan joined, and the heavy cloth came away from its tethers. Mārthāndan swept one end of it across the burning wood. He leapt across the makeshift bridge with a fierce cry. The others quickly crossed, and fell upon Semmaḷvarāyan’s soldiers.

Aranvēndhan and Vaḷli ran to Kumudhan. They knelt on the floor beside him, and Aranvēndhan pulled Kumudhan’s lifeless body in a tight embrace, sobbing. The soldiers clashed around them.

“Protect them!” Mārthāndan cried, and the ūsippadai surrounded the royal family as they continued to fight. But with Semmaḷvarāyan escaped, his soldiers offered but a feeble resistance, and were cut down quickly.

Mārthāndan gestured hastily Ilarāyan. “Search the palace and the grounds. And send a mounted group after Semmaḷvarāyan, he cannot have gotten far. Go! Quick!”

Mārthāndan then walked to Aranvēndhan, and put his bloodied hand on the Prince’s shoulder. Aranvēndhan rocked with rage, his father’s head cradled in his arms. Mārthāndan knelt beside the Prince. “I swear on my life, brother, I will see Semmaḷvarāyan trampled by an elephant! He shall not have an peaceful death, I swear it on this old man’s soul.”

 Aranvēndhan rose, not once looking away from his father, and carried Kumudhan’s body to a low table near the wall. Blood trickled from the knife wound, and slowly dripped from the table, and spattered on the floor. Tears streamed down Aranvēndhan’s face, but his eyes seethed with rage. “I want him found, Mārthāndā! Bring him to me! Bring me that snake!”

“We’re scouring the grounds, Vēndhā. We sh—”

“The princess! Where is the princess?” Ripunjaya interjected, and looked frantically around the hall.

Vaḷli was not behind them. The large painting of Umayāḷ Dēvi lay on its side, and revealed a gaping hole on the wall.

“With me!”Mārthāndan pointed at Ripunjaya and two other soldiers. They ran into the opening, and followed the dusty pathway as it sloped down. Behind them, the sounds of Aranvēndhan’s angry laments diminished, but the passage now echoed with the clash of metal and the horrific wails of men. A tall yellow rectangle of light appeared as they rounded a corner. They burst through a wall on the lower floor, swords at the ready.

But they needed them not. Vaḷli sat stooped at the end of the corridor, violently hacking at a soldier long dead, amidst corpses and pools of blood. Her blood-drunk cries of wrath echoed through the palace, and chilled the bones of those who heard. Mārthāndan ran to Vaḷli and pried the sword from her hands, and pulled her into a tight embrace.

Still at the alcove, Ripunjaya stood frozen, eyes fixed on the yamadūta as it drifted around Vaḷli’s head, its teeth bared in a macabre smile.

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Tanvarōka knocked softly, and looked over his shoulder. The streets of Thillai remained dark, slow grey clouds obscured the moon. He shuddered, and pressed himself deeper into the shadows. No one could see him, but the open expanses of the upper realms made him uncomfortable. The familiar dark confines of the netherworlds offered safety and refuge.

Kannanār opened the rickety door. He pulled out a small bundle of leaves, tied together with twine. “Careful. This is all I was able to get.”

Tanvarōka pulled the leaves apart, and pulled out a small piece of wood. “Good, good. A few drops, they should suffice. Much thanks, priest.” 

“Remember, keep it hidden from Malasāra. He doubts me already, best not to stoke his suspicions.”

Tanvarōka pursed his leathery lips. “Yes yes, I am aware, priest.” He nodded curtly, and vanished in a wisp of smoke.

——

Year 63, Kali yuga
Present day

Tanvarōka hurriedly dug into the dry ground, and coughed as the plumes of dust rose around him. His small claws struck wood. He pulled out a small, shabby wooden box, brushed the debris from its surface, and opened it carefully. The leaves had long crumbled to dry flakes, and all that remained was a long shard of wood. He picked up the shard gingerly and let the box drop back into the shallow hole. He brought the shard under the light of a small lamp, and squinted. The light wood was unblemished, save for a dark blotch on its sharper edge. Tanvarōka smiled.

He carried it to the adjoining cavern, to where Narukša sat chained, unconscious. Tanvarōka pushed Narukša’s limp head back, and patted his cheek a few times. Narukša remained motionless, his sunken eyelids caked shut. Tanvarōka stuck his scrawny hand into Narukša’s large mouth and pulled the tongue out, and quickly sliced it with the shard. A dark red welt appeared on the tongue, but  Narukša remained in his languid state. Tanvarōka scraped the shard on the wound a few more times, till the blotch disappeared from the wood. He pushed the tongue back into the mouth, shook the asurā by the horns, and slapped him across the face.

Narukša stirred, still groggy. He licked his lips, and his head perked up. “I—I taste...human blood.”

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“No one? What do you mean, no one?” Semmaḷvarāyan stood up, lips pursed, eyes glaring at the captain.

“Si—Sire,” the captain quaked where he stood. “We waited at the agreed upon hillock. Neelan did not show. We still have men waiting, but it does seem unlikely, it has been two days since—.”

“Two d—!” Semmaḷvarāyan slammed his fist on the heavy table. “Two days! You waited two days to bring me this news, you dolt?”

“Th—that was the plan, sire. We allowed for an extra day as a contingency. But neither Neelan nor his men sh—”

“Out of my sight!”

The captain quickly bowed, and scurried out of the hall.

“The fools I have here!” Semmaḷvarāyan gnashed his teeth.

“I told you a dozen men will not be enough. Common village thieves, that too.” Thiruvāsagan said dryly. “That Mārthāndan is no easy prey. We missed our opportunity. He will be the undoing of our plans. He—”

“Stop your quibbling, Minister!”

Thiruvāsagan took a deep breath. “I did warn you that we needed a far better plan to deal with Mārthāndan. What do you suggest we now do?”

Semmaḷvarāyan scowled. “We proceed as before.”

“Of course we should. But do find a way to rid ourselves of him, and soon. He is dangerous to be left alive.”

“Yes, I am aware.” Semmaḷvarāyan said indignantly. “Did you discover why he is headed to Vēppamalai?”

“No, I did not. He has not before now, not since the death of Rajamāthā. Like I said before, Mārthāndan did not share the messenger’s scroll. Not with me, nor anyone else at the court.”

Semmaḷvarāyan thought deeply for a moment, scratching his chin. “Hmm. Wait for him come back, then. Let us see what the future bears for us. He may yet prove useful, I have a feeling.”

“I think not. He will not understand our plan, nor is pliable. His loyalty to the royal family is absolute. Mārthāndan cannot be reasoned with.” Thiruvāsagan replied.

Semmaḷvarāyan said nothing, and continued to stare at the ceiling, lost in thought.

“I now ride back to Karkōttai. I shall send word when I know more. Be prepared regardless.”

Semmaḷvarāyan got up, and cleared his throat. “Know this, Thiruvāsagā. Should the plan go awry in any way at all, I shall not think twice about stabbing you in the back.”

Thiruvāsagan eyed the warlord before him, his face impassive. Maybe I should not have conspired with this hot-headed goon. But it is too late now. “Of course. Do as you will.” With a curt nod, he turned and left, adjusting his cowl around his head.

 Semmaḷvarāyan smiled slowly to himself. I plan to, Minister, I plan to.

——

A servant entered the tent, and bowed low. “News from the Chancellor, Lord. The messenger arrived, and left in great hurry.”

Semmaḷvarāyan looked up, and nodded impatiently, his hand outstretched. The servant pulled out a sealed scroll from his tunic and handed it over, and without a word, turned and left. Semmaḷvarāyan pulled open the seal and unrolled the silk cloth. The message was short. “Meesaikāran knows about our friend in the forest. The time is now.” He swore, and crumpled it in his fist.

“Bad news?” Pulithēvan scoffed, and strained against the rope that bound his torso.

“Quiet, dog!” Semmaḷvarāyan threw the scroll at Pulithēvan in irritation.

It struck Pulithēvan on his tired blood-streaked face, but he stared unflinchingly at his captors. “This will not end well for you, Rāyā!”

“Ah, the common bandit is now an astrologer!” Semmaḷvarāyan sneered at the kneeling man before him. He turned to Jayan, and gestured him to follow. They walked out of the tent, and out of earshot of Pulithēvan. Semmaḷvarāyan asked: “How many are gathered at the camp so far?”

“Upwards of six thousand, and we expect the western vassals to send a few hundred more by tonight, as promised.”

“Good, good. That should suffice.” He noticed a beetle that had begun to crawl up his leg. “This god-forsaken forest. We cannot wait for more, Mārthāndan knows now about the camp. But I do not know when he plans to attack. I think soon, only a fool would sit on this information and do nothing.” The beetle now steadily made it way up his leg, and Semmaḷvarāyan watched it with great curiosity, but his thoughts  were elsewhere.

“What of Nithilan?” asked Jayan.

“Kill the pup. We require him no longer. That should teach Sīrālan a lesson to remember me by.” Semmaḷvarāyan flicked the beetle from his leg, and crushed it with his heel.

“Indeed. And, I will send Pulithēvan back to the camp.” Jayan paused, and stared at the pulpy remains of the beetle. “The catapults still worry me, prabhu. Our men are almost done building them, but they will take days to move all the way to KarkŌttai. They are useless in the forest.”

“We do not have a choice, do we? Let them build, once we have the palace and the royal family in our hands, we will have all the time in the world. Are all the men ready?”

“Yes. Three hundred await us in various rest houses in the city.”

“Good. Let’s make for KarkŌttai soon. I have had enough of hiding.”

Jayan nodded, still lost in thought. “Let us hope we have at least a day before Mārthāndan brings his men.”

“Men? No, it will be his army that he will bring, most of what is left at KarkŌttai. Let us hope he empties his barracks. I don’t want to waste time waging battles.”

“That bodes badly for Pulithēvan, then.”

“That fool matters not anymore. Take him back, and remind him not to wag his tongue to the men.”

“I will let him see his wife and sons once. That should encourage him to keep his silence.” Jayan smirked. He turned to face Semmaḷvarāyan, his voice sombre. “Our fortunes shall be turned tonight, prabhu. I know it. We no longer need to wallow in this mud hole, it shall be palaces and forts for us! The Eyinar clan shall regain their glory once again!”

Semmaḷvarāyan smiled. “Patience, Jayā. One step at a time. One step at a time.”

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Malasāra landed a little ways from the camp, and let Ripunjaya off his back.  He quickly transformed into his hunter guise. “Like I said, finding them would be easy. And, I shall say that I happened to chance upon you on the riverbank, by some divine means. Play along, boy.”

Ripunjaya nodded, and began to walk towards the camp, Malasāra behind him. Sounds of men filtered through the trees. Ripunjaya brushed aside low branches, following the voices. Suddenly he came face to face with the tip of a spear, and stopped short.

Holding the spear was a slim young man, his face covered in dark clay and torso in thick leaves. Ripunjaya put his hands up, and slowly turned around. Three other men in similar clay-smeared faces surrounded them. He recognised none of them.

“We come in peace, soldier. We look for Mārthāndan.”

The men narrowed their eyes at the mention of their leader, and one of them spoke up. “Who are you, hunter?”

“A dear friend of his.” Malasāra replied. He lowered his hands. “Hasten, soldier, we are in much hurry.”

The man removed his spear from Ripunjaya’s throat. He nodded at one of the men, and the soldier began to walk to the camp, still glancing back now and then. They stood in silence, with the soldiers not taking their eyes off Malasāra and Ripunjaya.

“Ripunjaya! Malasāra!” a loud voice called out. Mārthāndan strode into view, surprise and relief writ large on his face. “You are alive! My heart grows warm at your sight!” He pulled Ripunjaya into a tight embrace. “Tell me! What happened? How did you survive? How did you find your way here?” Mārthāndan shook Ripunjaya by his shoulders. He turned to Malasāra. “Brother! You turn up yet again! Did you rescue him? How did you find him?” He beamed, his joy was sincere.

Ripunjaya smiled weakly back, and turned to Malasāra for answers. Malasāra looked up at the sky and raised both his hands, eyes closed. “The  Supreme Lord Sivan plays yet more fascinating games with us. I was tracking a troublesome leopard that was taking goats from the farms in the nearby villages. It had been a few days, and it had managed to avoid all the traps I had laid for it. I headed deep into the forests to try and lure the beast out, but I found no leopard, but instead I came across a lone doe, with no sign of its herd. I decided to hunt it for its fine pelt. I started towards it, but it did not seem to want to run away. It calmly looked at me, and started to walk away, and kept looking back in my direction now and then. I decided to follow it, and it eventually came to a river, and on the bank—the doe disappeared, but whom should I find but our dear old Ripunjaya!”

“Y—yes! I do not remember what had happened...I recall falling into the river, and I woke up to Malasāra pulling me out of the water.”

“And not a scar! Thank the Gods!” Mārthāndan looked up and down at Ripunjaya. “Were you hurt, son?”

“Nothing but minor bruises.”

“The world grows stranger still! Sivan himself must have sent that divine doe! Maybe it is not yet the age of Kali!” exclaimed Mārthāndan.

“What of the army? What happened at the battlefield?” asked Ripunjaya, eager to change the topic.

Mārthāndan brushed his great moustache. “After you were washed away by the great river, I was about to jump into the water after you. But the soldiers needed me more than you. I couldn’t abandon all my men there on the field to rescue you. It was a hard choice, but the right one. I rallied the ones who were alive, and the remaining horses, and by some divine miracle, we made it to the hills.”

“How many of us are here?” asked Ripunjaya.

Mārthāndan hung his head in dejection. His voice shook. “We lost half in the skirmish, and more on the way here. We have but ninety men in this camp. Only two dozen of the ūsippadai, and the remaining are Vagaimāran’s men.”

“Did he also make it here?”

“Indeed. He leads a small mission as we speak, to scout the capital. He has a larger camp with his trusted men, further up the hill. Come, come!” Mārthāndan gestured, and began striding back into the camp. “How did you find us?” he asked, turning back briefly.

“I could track a mouse through tall grass, brother.” Malasāra replied. “Panicked men hacking through a dense forest I could with my eyes shut.”

“Didn’t their army follow us here?” asked Ripunjaya.

“No. The hilly terrain makes it difficult for a large unwieldy army to pursue us. If Semmaḷvarāyan wants our heads, he will send a smaller, more agile force. But we are hidden and safe, at least for now. They would have to find us first.”

“What is our course of action now?”

Mārthāndan closed his hand into a fist. “We have to retake the palace. And send that vile Semmaḷvarāyan to hell.”

How lightly men speak of Hell, Malasāra mused. “And how do you plan to do that?”

“Come with me.” Mārthāndan replied. They walked deeper into the camp. Shoddy tents made from branches and plantain leaves were put up around a small clearing. A few men poked their heads out, many of them injured and  covered in cloth bandages. They continued to the far end of the camp, where a small group of men were gathered, discussing in hushed tones. A few turned, and one of them jumped up. “Ripunjaya!” the man cried, and came running towards them. “You are alive!”

“Ilarāya!” Ripunjaya embraced the captain. “And you as well!”

“By the benevolence of Skandan.” Ilarāyan shook his head. “Many of our comrades did not share our fortunes.”

They joined the knot of men, who stood over a crude drawing of the Karkōttai palace in the sand. Vagaimāran stood at the other end of the circle, and noticed Ripunjaya. “Aha! The boy lives!” he exclaimed. “Mārthāndan was the picture of woe at your apparent drowning. How did you survive, do tell!”

“I—” Ripunjaya froze. Lying is not easy.

Malasāra interjected. “By the grace of Siva. And his good karma.” he smirked inwardly. Ripunjaya smiled weakly.

Vagaimāran narrowed his brows. “And who might you be, hunter?”

“A friend from the past.” replied Malasāra, nodding at Mārthāndan.

“Friends we certainly do need.” Vagaimāran nodded, and turned back to his men. “The new moon is a few days away, it will be dark and cloudy tonight. Go prepare, men.”

The captains left, save Ilarāyan. Ripunjaya turned to Mārthāndan. “What are we planning?”

“Tonight, we save the royal family. We must retrieve Kumudhan, Vēndhān and the princess Vaḷli. I am sure Semmaḷvarāyan would use them as pawns in whatever designs he has planned, rescuing them will relieve him of those options.” Mārthāndan stood, scratched his chin, staring absently at the ground.

“Only a rescue?”

“Yes. We cannot retake the palace, we do not have enough men. The bulk of our army is spread across the land in our campaigns. They would take weeks to return, and time is something we cannot afford.”

“Semmaḷvarāyan did pick an excellent time to attack.” Ilarāyan said.

“Indeed. That is what is worrying—the timing could mean that Thiruvāsagan truly did help Semmaḷvarāyan. But that matters not—we go tonight, and bring the royal family to safety. We have one of my men working in the palace kitchens, Kuppan. We were able to send word to him of our plans, he will let us into the palace at an hour after midnight.” Mārthāndan then turned to Malasāra. “Ah, Malā, you still are a hunter, yes?” laughed Mārthāndan. “Ilarāyan could use your help with snaring some game, we need to feed the men.”

Malasāra nodded, and walked away at a brisk pace with Ilarāyan.

“And you, come with me.” Mārthāndan and Ripunjaya walked to a small tent that was a bit larger and set a little further aside from the rest. They entered, and Mārthāndan pointed to a small mattress made of coarse coir and leaves. “Get some rest here. We have a long night ahead of us. I shall come wake you when it is time.” Mārthāndan embraced Ripunjaya. “Glad to see you still alive, son.”

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Ripunjaya felt something bite his ankle. He tried to brush it away, but vaguely realised he was unable to move. He slowly became aware of the rest of his body, and how weary he was. His entire body ached, it felt like he was being pulled apart limb by limb. Where am I? Am I dreaming? He suddenly recollected the catapults, and the face of Mārthāndan, eyes wide, and his arm reaching out. The battle! Karkōttai! Vivid images of the battlefield came flooding back, and he awoke with a great gasp, and sat up. Pain seared through his body.

He looked down. He lay sprawled in a shallow eddy nestled between large rocks, on the shores of the Veḷlaru. The water swirled red around him with his blood. A small tree branch had skewered his hip, and a wide gash shone crimson on his thigh. Numerous small cuts all over his body oozed blood. He shivered. He felt weak, his legs began to go numb. He slapped himself awake, and splashed some water on his face. He cupped the water in his palms, and drank thirstily.

Ripunjaya took a few deep breaths, and pulled the broken branch out of his hip.  Blood poured out of the gaping hole, his head spun, and sight darkened. Pain shot through his body. The branch came away cleanly. He winced. Slowly the pain subsided, and Ripunjaya sat with his eyes closed, his breath slowing. He opened his eyes, looked around. The sun was low in the horizon, bathing the landscape in a dull golden hue. A cold breeze murmured through the trees.

He pulled his cloth belt from his waist, and tied it again around the wound. It stopped the blood a little. He carefully stood up, grunting with the effort. The pain was agonising. He bent over, trying to catch his breath.

“Do not try to walk yet, boy.” a deep, but distinctly familiar voice called.

Ripunjaya snapped his head up. “Malasāra!” The yamadūta was sitting on one of the rocks, legs crossed. Relief flooded Ripunjaya. “Where have you been, dūta?” And then, the relief quickly turned to trepidation. “Why do you appear now? Am I—am I to die of these wounds?”

“I would think not.” Malasāra pointed at the gash. “You are harder to kill than you seem.”

Ripunjaya looked, and the wound oddly seemed smaller than he had first noticed it. It was healing. “What is this? How can this be?” Ripunjaya asked, in disbelief.

Malasāra leaned back on the rock. “I spent the last few months searching for something I now know does not exist—your vidhipatra.” He pulled his goatskin pouch, and held it in his outstretched arm. Ripunjaya suddenly realised how famished he was. He took it, and sure enough, it was filled with the warm gruel he had tasted what seemed like aeons ago. He drank deeply.

Malasāra continued: “I pored through all of Chitragupta’s archives. There is no record of your existence. Just as I surmised—you, your soul, and your body does not obey the rules of this realm.”

“Cannot I be killed?”

“I think these petty mortal weapons can do you no harm. They can cause injury, but little more. I think you would heal, as you are now.”

Ripunjaya looked at his wounds again. The gash had almost disappeared, and his hip had stopped bleeding. He looked back at Malasāra. “What other powers do I have, dūta?”

“I know no more than you do, boy. I did not know about your ability to heal until I witnessed it myself.”

Both remained silent for a moment. Then Ripunjaya asked: “Are you aware of what has happened in the capital?”

“Indeed. I know what transpires in this mortal realm, I have my aides for that purpose. But I cannot interfere in any meaningful way. Rescuing you was in itself a grave transgression.” Malasāra replied, reading Ripunjaya’s mind.

Ripunjaya nodded. “How did you find me?”

“I am able to sense when some great danger befalls you—something I realised only now. I had to give you some of my prāna1 when I awakened you in that cave. I think that it now bonds us to each other in some manner. I felt something stab me deeply, and sure enough, it is where you were wounded by that branch. This is most strange.”

Ripunjaya’s wound had now almost completely healed. He ran his fingers over the spot, it was a bit sore, but did not hurt anymore. He continued to absently rub his hands over his hip. “We need to find Mārthāndan, dūta. We were to escape to Siththarmalai. I hope Mārthāndan and the rest of army escaped to safety. Where are we now?”

“This is downstream from where Semmaḷvarāyan’s army attacked your forces. Siththarmalai is quite some distance away, in that direction.” Malasāra pointed behind him. “Finding Mārthāndan presents no challenge.”

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Year 63, Kali yuga
Present day

“The boy!” Narukša exclaimed. “I see him! I see the boy!” he tugged at the chains.

Tanvarōka let out a small squawk of surprise from the corner. He scurried to Malasāra, and gestured frantically, his face contorted with confusion.

Malasāra paid the tiny yamadūta no heed. He sees Ripunjaya? How so? Perhaps, he lies? No, this great lump was silent until now, the timing is indeed curious. He watched the shackled asurā with a scowl on his face, as Narukša continued to blather.

“Malasāra, you fool! My eyes you have torn out, but still I see!” Narukša growled. “I see the boy! Death nears him! Bring him here!” he flailed his arms, and the sound of clattering chains resonated in the small cell. “I know you stand before me, Malasāra! Answer me, traitor!”

Malasāra closed his eyes. I see him too. He lay on a riverbank, covered in blood. Wounded. He can heal, the boy will live. But Narukša—how does this Narukša see the boy? Has he powers unbeknownst to me? He turned to Tanvarōka. “Stay here.” Malasāra strode out of the cell, and flew out of Pātalā, and towards Bhūloka, and the wounded Ripunjaya.

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Year 63, Kali yuga
Present day

“Prabhu! My lord Narukša!” Tanvarōka stumbled into the large darkened hall, his small feet pattering on the cold stone floor. He coughed, trying to catch his breath. “It’s Malasāra, prabhu!—Malasāra released a soul free!”

Narukša narrowed his brows, uncertain of the yamadūta’s words. “Malasāra did what?”

Tanvarōka wrung his hands frantically. “Ma—Malasāra—he freed a soul! I saw him myself!”

Narukša’s fist closed around the yellowed manuscript in his hands. He slid it back into the tall shelves. “Where is he?”

“In—in the Mahāraurava canyons!” Tanvarōka panted. “I—we could not stop him, my lord!”

Narukša stormed out of the great library, and apparated onto the vast plains of Narakā, all the various Hells spread out before him. A flurry of confused thoughts gnawed at his mind. Liberating a soul, before its deserved tribulations? What thinks that mindless maggot! Has Malasāra truly lost his mind? Have my torments driven him from sanity? He descended the long, winding slope that led into the Hell of Mahāraurava. 

It was strangely quiet, as Narukša reached the darkened bottom of the abyssal canyon, and his confusion redoubled. I hear not the clamorous screams of tortured souls—where are the dūtas? Where are mine mighty serpents? He strode further deeper into the chasm, anger building in his chest. What was Malasāra trying to accomplish? Something soft and clammy squelched under his bare feet, and he looked down. A scaly hide of a serpent glistened brightly through the sandy soil. Narukša bent down, and pulled at the body. It partly came loose, and hung limply in his hands, the rest of its long bulk still buried under the ground. A raurava nāgā! Did Malasāra kill her? How did that lowly leech manage to slay this beast? Anger turned to rage. He let the remains drop from his hands, and trod on, glowering.

Suddenly, a low hiss filled the heavy air, off to the side. Steadily it grew louder, and a black serpent wriggled out of the ground, its green eyes locked onto Narukša. Its hood it slowly spread, and flicked its forked tongue angrily. Narukša eyed the snake warily. This was no raurava serpent—whither comes this grim creature? Narukša swiped at the monster, but the snake advanced, undaunted. It rose further out of the ground, and reared its head with a deafening, prolonged hiss. More serpents rose noiselessly from the ground around Narukša, frightening in their never-ending length. Their raised heads towered even over the tall asurā, all with their obsidian hoods flared. Narukša snarled. One of the snakes lunged forward, its many fangs bared. Narukša stepped to the side, and caught the serpent’s neck with his hands, but even his large hands barely reached around the snake’s limbless girth. It trashed vigourously about as he dug his claws into its soft flesh. The snake spat its acrid venom, and Narukša’s skin blistered. The serpent entwined itself around Narukša, and squeezed. Narukša bellowed, and sunk his claws deeper. With a roaring grunt, he wrenched its sinuous flesh apart. A sickening rupture echoed though the narrow canyon, and the snake ripped in two.

The other snakes sprang forward in a flash. Narukša caught the first, and sliced its great neck apart. Another he bit into its side, and tossed back. Two more he slashed with his claws, and made wide gashes on their bodies that sent the snakes tottering back, but only for a few moments. His spells seemed to have no effect against these fell creatures, and they came at him with ruthless ferocity and violent speed, wave after wave of countless serpents. Narukša found himself swiftly overwhelmed. They coiled themselves around his limbs, their heavy bodies wrapped tighter and tighter. He could move no more, and Narukša toppled to the ground. He wriggled as they wound themselves around his neck until he could breathe no longer.

“Enough, my children.” a lilting female voice floated through the air. The serpents hissed softly, and their sinews relaxed. Narukša turned his neck to the side, searching for the voice.

A slender woman emerged from the shadows, a faint halo illumined her but quickly dissipated into the darkness. Her eyes shone blue in the gloom of Narakā’s perpetual twilight. Her severe gaze bored into Narukša’s mind, and he found it difficult to both look away, or meet her eye.

“Who are you, witch?” Narukša growled. He struggled against the dark coils, but the snakes were unrelenting. “You are in Narakā, these are my Hells! Release me, mayinī, or I shall skin you over the fires of eternity!”

“I think not, oaf.”

Narukša turned. “Malasāra! These are your designs? Have you learned naught from your torments, you worm!”

“Silence, fool! Malasāra exists no more—I am Malāsura, and you shall address me as such!” Malāsura pulled Narukša up by his thick horns, and held his head by the ears. “I am Malāsura, brother of Vakrāsura. Remember that, you witless brute!” he sneered, and sunk his sharp clawed thumbs into Narukša’s eyes. Narukša let out a hideous cry. Malāsura pulled his bloodied fingers out, and Narukša writhed in agony.

“You shall regret that, you filth!” Narukša seethed. “You and this unwise witch of yours! The both of y—”

“Silence!” Malāsura kicked the asura on the jaw, and Narukša’s head slumped, and he fell unconscious. He then turned to the woman, who stood quietly, staring at Narukša and the serpents around him. “Mayinī Ugravī! No small prey—you have outdone yourself! I am in your debt.”

Ugravī kept her eyes on the collapsed asura on the ground. “We are but intruders here.” She ran her fingers over one of the serpents that lay coiled around Narukša and slowly, they all transformed into heavy iron chains. “We should leave, let us not tarry here. Narakā is not somewhere I wish to be, alive or dead.”

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Year 63, Kali yuga
Present day

Aranvēndhan awoke with a start. He heard raised voices and clashing metal, far away and faint. Was Mārthāndan back already? The room was still dark, a few lamps burned in the corner. He heard the voices again, outside in the corridors. He sat up quickly, ears straining.

The voices were a little louder now, and just outside his chambers. With a loud splintering noise the large ornate doors swung open, and a dozen masked men appeared on the doorway, swords drawn. Aranvēndhan leapt to his feet, and grabbed the large dagger he always kept by his bedside.

The men quickly fanned into the room, trying to flank the prince. Aranvēndhan knew he was outnumbered. He observed their weaponry, and their behaviour. They were dressed all in black, their faces covered, save for their eyes. Their sleeveless tunics were tight, and their arms glistened with oil. They wielded short swords, ideal for indoor combat, and all carried a smaller, sheathed dagger on their waistbands. They were mostly nondescript—but their turbans were ochre. Were they Verumvayal soldiers? Or was it a masquerade?

Aranvēndhan cautiously took a few steps backwards. He kept his arm bent, the dagger held in a reverse grip, its edge facing out. He began to retreat towards the passages that led to his inner chambers. The men closed in, and followed the prince down the narrow corridor, two abreast. The first duo stepped into the corridor, Aranvēndhan crouched slightly, and slashed downward, and the blade cut the first assailant on his thigh. The man stumbled, and fell to the floor, blood gushing out of his wound. He was quickly pulled back, through the ranks, and the one behind him took his place. “Give us your weapon.” one of them asked.

They are not here to kill me—they want me alive. That does bode well, father and Piraivalli would also be not be harmed, perhaps. He jabbed quickly again, and the men paused their advance for a moment. “Who are you rogues?” Aranvēndhan asked calmly, and continued to move backwards, one slow step at a time. The narrow corridor would end soon, and open up into a larger room behind him. They would easily flank me in there.

“Your dagger, prince.” the man in the front insisted, and reached out with his hand.

“Here.” said Aranvēndhan, and this time slit the man on his forearm. The attacker cursed, and dropped his sword, but was quick to kick it away from the prince. He quickly pressed himself against the wall, letting the the ones behind him take his spot. Blood dripped on the floor, the gash was deep. He pulled his turban off with the other hand, and quickly wrapped it around the cut. The ochre cloth quickly turned red. These were no ordinary soldiers, Aranvēndhan realised. They are coordinated and disciplined.

“Enough, Prince.” came a loud voice from behind the knot of men. The group quickly parted, and another in similar garb strode through. He put up his hand, and continued: “Drop your weapon, and come with us, your Highness. Comply, and you and your family will be spared. Resist, and I shall make your old father suffer for it.”

“And who might you be?” Aranvēndhan asked flatly.

“You shall see soon enough. Come with us now.” he pointed to the dagger, and gestured for it to be dropped.

Aranvēndhan glared at the man for a few moments, but he knew he had no choice. He let go of the knife, and it clattered to the floor noisily. The captain nodded, and the men quickly tied Aranvēndhan’s hands behind his back. They led him out of his chambers, and towards the royal court.

Outside, new soldiers stood guard everywhere. They were also nondescript, save for their ochre headgear. Karkottai’s own men were nowhere to be seen. They walked down the maze of corridors in silence, and Aranvēndhan saw pools of blood on the stone floors, a grim remnant of what seemed a brief resistance.

They entered the main court hall, and it was filled with people. The noblemen had been rounded up, dragged from their mansions and brought here by the enemy soldiers. Some of them were injured, Aranvēndhan noticed. Near the throne, stood his father Kumudhan, and daughter, Piraivalli surrounded by half a dozen soldiers. Aranvēndhan clenched his teeth. Kumudhan’s head hung low, he blankly stared at the floor. Piraivalli, stood near him, her eyes red with anger, a nasty scowl on her face. She pursed her lips as her father entered. She pulled her shawl tighter around her, and nodded at Aranvēndhan to say she was alright.

On the steps leading to the throne sat a heavyset man in leather armour, eating peanuts, tossing them one by one into his mouth. “Aha! Varuga, varuga1, Ilamko Aranvendhā! How you make us wait!” said the man, standing up. “I hear you wounded some of my men. I shall forgive you for that—honestly I expected more from you, O prince.” he smiled, twirling his moustache. “Kadalai?” he offered the peanuts.

“What is the meaning of this, Rayā? What are you up to, you snake? Have you forgotten of the pact between our families?”

“That pact wasn’t doing anyone any good, dear prince. To hell with the pact—did you know this little skirmish was planned and executed by your own Thiruvāsagan? That really stung your father.” Semmalvarāyan turned back and pointed at Kumudhan, who seemed to be in shock. “Look at him, like he’s seen a ghost. Poor man.”

Aranvēndhan felt his hands shake. Not once had he assumed betrayal was at play here. “Thiruvāsagan? Where is he? Bring him here.”

Semmalvarāyan grinned. He snapped his fingers at one of his men, who bowed and left the court. He returned, the Chancellor following close behind. Aranvēndhan glared at Thiruvāsagan, who meekly stared back. He stopped and stood by Semmalvarāyan’s side.  He did a quick bow. “Apologies, O Prince! This had to be done.” he said, without remorse. “There was no other way.”

Aranvēndhan glowered at the Chancellor. “Explain.” he said, through clenched teeth.

“Our treasury is running dry. Rebuilding an entire kingdom is no simple task, Prince. Over the last decade we have squeezed every possible source of wealth to finance our ventures. All this, without raising taxes significantly. On this current course, Karkottai would collapse in two years, without a doubt.”

“And the answer was to invite this serpent into our lands?”

“Your Highness, what did you ask of me when I was appointed? I was to ensure the economic stability of Nākalam. And that is what I have done.” Thiruvāsagan spoke calmly, almost as if reasoning with the Thattān prince. “Our trade and commerce have not been able to redress all the shortfall, sire. Only some. Many of our merchant class languish in poverty, with little to no capital to revive their business. Artisans and craftsmen are getting by, but only just, and we’re the only ones providing them with any work.

“Over the past year, many of our vassal kings have been quite unhappy with our policies, and had implored me to remedy this. Their wish was to raise taxes further. I had opposed them on several occasions, pleading them to remain patient, but they remained unconvinced. Their final resort was to replace the ruling dynasty with...a more open-minded monarch. Kōmān Sīrālan was the only one supporting your policies unwaveringly—”

“And thus he paid.” Semmalvarāyan cut in. “As did his son. The ideal lure to draw your ire. The bulk of your army is spread across your overly ambitious campaigns in Eezham and elsewhere, desperately clawing for riches to rebuild your capital. The time was right—and Pulithevan, an easy simpleton to exploit.”

At that moment, Piraivalli threw her drape away, and out came a small knife. In a split second, she slashed the neck of the soldier nearest to her. Even as the guard slumped to the floor, she lunged at Semmalvarāyan, who deftly caught her arm and pushed her to the floor. The rest of the guards pounced on her, stood her up, and pried the blade from her hand as she struggled to escape.

Semmalvarāyan sighed. He snapped his fingers again, and a loud wail filled the vast hall. Aranvēndhan swung around. It was one of the gathered noblemen—a soldier had driven his sword into the his back. The nobleman was dead before he hit the ground.

“An eye for an eye, child. I will do to your people what you do to mine,” Semmalvarāyan said nonchalantly, smiling at Piraivalli. She glared back, her breath ragged.

“A brave daughter you have raised, Vēndha.” he said to Aranvēndhan. “Take them away. Imprison them, I’ll deal with them later. You have built dungeons in this new palace, have you not?”

The town crier stood outside the temple, beating his drums louder and louder until enough people gathered around him. “People! People of this great Karkōttai!” he stopped drumming on a precarious note. “Dark times are upon us!”

Kannanār heard the drums from inside, and walked briskly to the entrance, Mukhilan close behind. They stood at the gates of the temple, where the town crier stood with his arms high in the air, looking at the crowd that slowly grew before him.

“Dark times are upon us!” the crier repeated, waving his stick wildly in the air. “The great dynasties of the righteous Pāndava1 and the unconscionable Kuru are preparing for war this very moment, far away to the north! The evil Duryodhanan, prince of the despicable Kuru clan, has declared war on all that is right and holy!” he waved his stick in the air, and struck his drum once. “The Pāndavas will strike back, but their army is smaller!” he paused for dramatic effect.

He smacked his drum once more. “Our wise and beloved Emperor Thanmayan has pledged his allegiance to the son of Dharma himself, the Pāndava prince Yudhishthiran!” Once more the drum sounded, louder this time. “Our Emperor asks for your help, dear citizens! All able-bodied young men, come join us in this rightful endeavour! Come join our royal armed forces! We shall send an army that shakes the earth with their march! Come stand against this great unholy evil, let it not go unchecked!” he pointed with his stick to the large banyan tree that grew beside the temple. Three men wearing the palace staff uniform sat on a low bench, with dried palm leaves and iron pens at the ready.

“O great sons of Karkottai! O great sons of this blessed land Nākalam! Give us your names! Join our army in this righteous war against evil! Fight alongside the famed warriors of the Pāndava clan! Earn your place in the annals of war!” With a final flourish of drumming, he walked over the tree, and stood with the three officials on the bench. “Come, O sons of the city! Come!”

——

“No!”

“But why, father?” Mukhilan demanded.

“The battlefield is no place for scrawny, young boys such as you!” Kannanār replied, his voice raised. “You would go fight soldiers and warriors? You, who can hardly hold the lamp raised for the ārthi2!”

“Appa, I would be trained! So said the proclaimer!”

“The proclaimer’s mandate is to entice as many men as he can. He would claim anything to that end. Do not fall for his draw.”

“But it is the Emperor’s wish! He thinks it a honourable cause, father. Did you not say he is one of the most learned men in all the land?”

“Learned, yes. But it is a monarch’s duty to honour his alliances. He would have to send his army to the war, whether he wished to or not. We come from a line of priests, and a priest is what you shall become. We are scholars, not brutes.”

“Scholars or not, do we not have a duty to uphold dharma?”

“Dharma? Your dharma is to and provide for this family when I am no more! That is your dharma! You were born a brahmin3 for that very reason—there begins and ends your dharma!”

“How does it matter the manner of my dharma? I want to do that by serving this kingdom, in some useful way.”

“You are not going to war. Do not challenge me on this. I do not want a dead son on the battlefront!”

“I might never even see the front, appa!”

“Then why are you so adamant? Just so you can spend all day doing nothing at some remote outpost?”

“I just want to be a part of something, appa! I do not want to sit in a temple all day, doing the same thing over and over, days on end! I have had enough of serving prasādham4 everyday! It is inane!”

“You think priesthood to be beneath you?” Kannanār’s eyes flared.

“Look at this hut! This is what priesthood has given you? Everyday the rich and the noble come to our temple, bedecked in their silks and jewels, and toss a few coins to us, without as much as a second glance. Is this what you want to do all your life? I do not!”

“Thankless ingrate!” Kannanār grabbed Mukhilan by the shoulders. “At least you have a roof over your witless head!”

“I want to play my part in serving this kingdom, father! I think this to be the right thing to do!”

“Do not talk to me about right and wrong!” Kannanār snapped. Look, look at your mother!”

Meenakshi was sobbing silently, and young Āndāl sat beside, hugging her mother, not able to understand why her father and big brother were arguing.

“What am I to tell her when you are brought back a corpse? And your young sister! How am I to explain that her fool brother is now no more?”

Mukhilan gave up, exasperated. He remained silent, there seemed to be no convincing his father.

——

A low thud awoke Kannanār. He rubbed his eyes, and propped himself up on his elbow. It sounded again. He squinted in the dim light. It was the door. A slim rectangle of grey filtered into the hut. It was still dark outside. Did I not latch it? He got up, and walked to the door. He dropped the latch shut, and pulled again on the door to check. Sighing, he walked back to his straw mat.

The small lamp in the corner was almost spent, indicating it would be dawn soon. Meenakshi and Āndāl were on the cot, sound asleep. He then noticed the mat beside his. Mukhilan’s was empty.

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The rider hastily dismounted, and ran to Mārthāndan, gasping. He bowed low, shaking. “Prabhu! Woe has befallen us! We are undone! The Chancellor has betrayed us—Karkottai is lost!” he cried, and fell at Mārthāndan’s feet. The soldiers around started to murmur, anxious. The word quickly spread through the ranks, and the whispers slowly grew clamorous.

Mārthāndan picked the messenger up by his shoulders. His hands shook as he grasped the breathless rider. “Calm yourself, soldier. Tell me now, what has happened?”

“The baron Semmalvarāyan entered the city with a great host at midnight. I was tending to the horses in the stables when he attacked. With little effort, he was able to storm the palace, and has taken the royal family hostage. The few remaining platoons at the barracks were taken by surprise, and could not fight back to any great effect. He has burned all of the barracks down!” he stopped to catch his breath. “I saw the traitor Thiruvāsagan come down the steps and embrace the baron. I escaped with a horse through one of the smaller gates and made for the Solaipuram fort. But even that stronghold has been overrun by Rāyan’s men, and most of our soldiers killed. I chanced upon a guard half-alive, and he told me about your whereabouts, and I rushed here as soon as I could.”

Behind them, Pulithēvan laughed. “You have been given a taste of your own medicine, Mārthanda! Here begins the Thattān decline, you arrogant fools!”

“Quiet!” Vagaimāran struck him across the face.

The soldiers around them started to despair. Some started to pray, and a few fell to their knees. Mārthāndan raised his hand, silencing them. He took Vagaimāran aside, and spoke to him in a hushed tone. “Mārā, this is a grave situation indeed. Semmalvarāyan has planned this well. He has chosen the right time for his attack. The bulk of our army is spread by our campaigns across the land, and what was left in the capital are here with us. He will no doubt come for us here. We must take our men to safety. If he has already taken Solaipuram, he will reach here soon. We must live to fight another day, and be wise about retaking the city.”

“Right you are, Commander,” the General agreed. “What of this vile bandit?”

“Take him with us, he may of be some use to us later.”

Vagaimāran opened his mouth to protest, but stopped. The time to debate was not now. “Let us make for Siththarmalai. Semmalvarāyan’s men might not find us there.”

“Indeed, we shall make for the hills. Gather your men, we move now.”

Vagaimāran strode briskly to the disheartened soldiers, and Mārthāndan then turned to his captains. “Men, we cannot offer fight to Semmalvarāyan with such a small force. Let us make for the hills. There, we shall regroup, and plan our revenge. For now, we ride hard to Siththarmalai.” The captains nodded, and shouted orders to their respective platoons.

Now Mārthāndan spoke to Ripunjaya. “Son, take two dozen men with you, and bring the horses down from the hill. Vagaimāran and I shall ready the men by the time you are back. Once we reach the mountains, the caves will offer us shelter for the time being. Go!”

Ripunjaya nodded, and gathered up a platoon of the ūsippadai and made their way up the grassy rise. They quickly untied the steeds, and guided them carefully down the path. By then,Vagaimāran had formed his men into narrow columns, and was readying to march. The soldiers were still whispering to each other nervously, but followed orders.

As they prepared, the air was rent by a shrill battle-horn, and faint beats of a marching beat rose slowly. The soldiers looked around in confusion. Once again the horn sounded, and down the road came a band of cavalrymen, in full battle gear. Two of them carried banners, a ochre flag that flew wildly in the wind. Mārthāndan shielded his eyes from the low sun and squinted. The bright flag bore an ox pulling a broken plough.

Semmalvarāyan’s army, rank upon rank, followed the riders. And like a river overflowing its banks, spilled onto the plains. They quickly spread into wider arrays. The captured men of Pulithēvan’s seized the opportunity, and started to flee. Some of them were hacked down by the distressed soldiers as they tried to run past. Another melee started to break, and then yet again, a battle horn sounded. The soldiers turned in dismay to see another division of Semmalvarāyan’s men approaching from the north. Great siege machines steadily rolled towards the plain where Karkottai’s men stood rooted in mixed fear and anger. They were being surrounded, with the forest, still on fire, and the river on the other direction.

“What now?” asked Vagaimāran. “They outnumber us heavily, and are better armed. Into the forest? They will be slow to follow us there.”

“Nay, Vagaimārā! We will lose our men in the trees.” said Mārthāndan, calmly. “Look at their northern division. They have siege weapons, and their infantry few and far between, marching at a snail’s pace. They are spread out so as to not impede the movement of the machines. We attack that front-line and ride past.”

Vagaimāran shielded his eyes from the rising sun. But he quickly realised Mārthāndan’s strategy might indeed work. The southern division was stronger, cavalry and the feared yānaipadai, their elephant corp. The northern division was canonnry, protected only by a few platoons of foot soldiers. He turned to Mārthāndan. “No wonder you are called madayan Mārthāndan!” He laughed. “I have never gambled in my life, but today seems like a good day!”

Mārthāndan was not smiling. His face was like stone, staring at the enemy marching closer. He took his ūsippadai to the front of their ranks and stood ready, eyes red with anger. He and Vagaimāran formed their men into a wide array, horsemen and the stronger units in the front, and narrow ranks of infantry following behind. The men, though unnerved, took courage in their commander’s resolve, for he had not once let them down. Ripunjaya remained close to Mārthāndan, and watched a captain let fly Karkottai’s banner, and the golden tiger bared its teeth in the wind. Vagaimāran blew his horn, and the horses reared at its loud report.

They charged. Mārthāndan and Vagaimāran rode at the front, with the captains and Ripunjaya following. Behind them was the infantry, sprinting close behind to stay in the cover of the cavalry. Two more platoons of the ūsippadai brought up the rear, and offered protection to the men before them.

They made straight for the line of catapults on the enemy’s ranks, where the troops were most spread apart. The horns grew louder, and the clash of shields filled the air as the enemy hastily formed ranks in defence, just two deep, and wide, assuming that Mārthāndan wanted to capture the siege engines. They were support infantry, armed with mostly small swords, and few spears and no bows.  The men knelt on the ground, pikes at the ready, swordsmen behind them, blades drawn.

Mārthāndan and Vagaimāran spread their horses further apart, and the riders behind them followed suit. The cavalry’s ranks widened further, and Mārthāndan urged his mount to go faster. To stand your ground against a cavalry charge was foolishness, and to be attempted by a lightly armed soldier, even more so. One of the pikemen faltered, and dropped his spear and shield. He ran, and quite a few of them followed. The enemy front-line broke. Mārthāndan saw the opportunity, and turned Dheeran towards the now widening rift. The loyal steed smashed through the gap, and Mārthāndan cut down three soldiers who stood rooted in fear.

Mārthāndan did not stop, and continued crushing his way through Semmalvarāyan’s retreating soldiers. Vagaimāran was close behind, slashing at the soldiers like a man possessed. Some of Rāyan’s men tried their best to remain in formation, but the advance was fierce and relentless. Mārthāndan’s column was wide, and they overwhelmed the helpless men like a raging river. The infantry followed in the ūsippadai’s wake, hacking madly at the quickly scattering soldiers. The rearguard slowly spread and flanked the infantry ahead of them, safely shielding them from the enemy’s half-hearted response. They wedged into the enemy’s siege array, and advanced further down the division. The ranks grew thinner as the soldiers ran.

Mārthāndan’s riders took the wounded and those unable to walk onto their horses, and continued to withdraw from the battlefield. The plains gently sloped up and down, the ground grew rocky, and in the distance, stood the hills where they sought refuge. Ripunjaya turned back, and the sight discouraged him. Rāyan’s army was now readying the siege weapons, turning them around towards the soldiers of Karkottai. Ripunjaya caught up to Mārthāndan. “Look! They are readying the catapults!”

Mārthāndan did not turn back. “Indeed. They would be fools not to.” he said, pressing Dheeran forward. The horsemen had to slow down and match their marching speed, and many were wounded, and were unable to run. Mārthāndan spread his troops out, and ordered able riders to dismount, and instead offer the horses to the wounded and the weary. Two and even three to a mount, they pressed on, other soldiers sprinting as hard as they could beside. Mārthāndan and Vagaimāran also dismounted, choosing to run instead. Behind them, the catapults were loaded with loose rocks and other debris from the field, and the attack began.

Small boulders fell about them, shattering into smaller stones and a quite a few found their mark. Large clouds of dust rose from the dry ground, quickly enveloped them, greatly hindering their vision. The horses reared in fear, and started to trample those around them. The men cried in anguish, some collapsed as the rocks continued to rain around them. Mārthāndan’s platoons were slowly pulling ahead, but were losing men in the chaos.

Semmalvarāyan’s generals waited patiently for the fleeing men to tire, and their rested cavalry stood ready behind him. He would chase them beyond the slopes, it presented no challenge. He waited for his engines to disable as many as they could, he knew Mārthāndan and his trained army were no easy foe, hurt or otherwise. They were using smaller projectiles to gain the advantage of range. Their catapults moved slowly, and reloaded the bucket as they slowly ambled forward. They stopped only to loose the missiles, and rolled again immediately.

Ripunjaya also dismounted and weaved his way through the falling rubble. The billowing dust obscured his sight, and could hardly see a few feet in front of him. Around him the men faltered, shouting and crying, pulling the horses along. He could see Mārthāndan and Vagaimāran just ahead of him, spurring the men forward. They only had to reach the hill slopes before them, where the machines could not climb.

A large rock fell to Ripunjaya’s side, sending up a plume of dust. He tried to shield his face from the flying debris, but it was too late. A big stone struck the side of his face, and he fell on the ground, gasping for breath. All sound fell away, and blood flowed profusely from the gash. His vision became blurry. He tried to stand up, but it was agonizing, his head throbbed with pain. He was suddenly overcome with an incredible thirst, his throat seemed dry as a bone, and felt like it was covered in sand. He knew the meandering Vellaru was somewhere close, and he could quench his thirst with its cool water. He tried to open his eyes, but instead only saw a haze of crimson, and the dust sent up by the falling boulders did not help.

Mārthāndan and the captains were nowhere to be seen, he saw only men running and cowering, trying to avoid the rocks that rained from the sky. He stumbled towards the river, and the low gurgling of the Vellaru grew louder as he neared the muddy banks. Men lay motionless on the grass, killed either by Semmalvarāyan’s machines or crushed by the frightened horses. He tried to step over them, but tripped, and fell onto a fallen soldier.

Ripunjaya started to crawl towards the water, but was quickly losing consciousness, the pain starting to overwhelm his senses. He could now hear the running water, just a few feet away. He struggled on his elbows to the riverbank, and reached the edge. The river had cut a deep natural embankment, and the river flowed a couple of feet below the edge. Ripunjaya reached out, but the water was just beyond his grasp. He edged closer, and stretched out with his arms. The edge was slippery, and the caked mud gave way under Ripunjaya’s weight. He slid head first into the drink, quickly slipping under the surface. The deafening cries of the men, the falling rocks and the neighing horses all went silent, and the water felt cool against his burning skin. The flowing river turned him on his back, and through the surface he saw a face with a large moustache, arms outstretched and mouth open. He felt no will to respond, the silence was strangely calming, and his eyes closed slowly.

On the bank, Mārthāndan watched helplessly, and the swirling currents swept Ripunjaya out into the open waters.

Read next—

Malāsura awoke with a start, his head reeling. Inky blackness greeted him all around. He rubbed his eyes, but the darkness remained. He raised his arm, before him, but still saw nothing. He tried to shake the weary haze from his head, but it did not help.

And then Malāsura realised—Is this Narakā? Naruksha’s spell—the lowly dūtas must have managed to bring me to the dungeons of Hell. Malāsura scrambled up, trying to get his bearings. He stood up clumsily, his breath in short gasps. He stumbled forward, arms outstretched, reaching before him. He took a few steps, feeling for the cell wall, but there was none.

Malāsura squinted, straining his eyes. Where am I? But the darkness was absolute, he saw nothing. He ambled forward, carefully feeling the coarse ground with his feet. A few small stones struck his toes, and he picked them up. Grunting, he threw one of them as hard as he could, and listened. Then he heard it, a soft thud of the stone landing on dry soil. The thud was eerily loud, and Malāsura realised how silent the surroundings were. No gentle brush of the wind, no soft rustle of leaves. He felt around with his feet—my footsteps seem strangely muffled. The ground is dry and sandy, not the rough stone of a prison cell. A dungeon? Nay, I am out in the open. Mild hope rose in his chest. Did the yamadūtas let fall their burden, unable to carry their burden? I am though, unbound and free. And where were the abominable louts of Naruksha? He could still see nothing before him, the murk was everywhere.

The barren wastelands of the lower realms were all uncharacteristically similar, yet Malāsura knew them all. But here, he could not orient himself, it was disconcerting. Even below the lower realms lay the adholokas, the absolute foundations of the universe itself—Narakā and the great Garbhodhaka ocean. This must be Narakā, Malāsura thought to himself. But where lay hidden the immense palace of Yamā, where were the endless dungeons and caves filled with tormented souls? And why am I walking free?

Malāsura then tried to fly, but his body refused to listen. He grunted, shook his head, and continued forward, warily testing the ground every few steps. Hours passed. Or perhaps, days? There was no way to tell. He walked and walked, but the terrain never changed, and the silence remained. Malāsura stopped, and exhaled loudly. Exasperation began to set in. Naruksha, that fiendish cur! Malāsura screamed. No echo greeted him, just the vast boundless abyss that stared back.

——

Naruksha continued to watch the chained asura before him, eyes narrowed. The hapless figure twitched every now and then, its dark eyes clouded over, and darted left and right, but not really seeing anything.

“You there!” Naruksha snapped his fingers at a frail yamadūta with a scarred face that stood at the side.

“My Lord!” the yamadūta scurried over and bowed low. “Your spell is strong as ever, wise master! Malāsura shall not wake unless you bid him to.”

“Good. Keep him so. I want to know when he starts to bleed from the ears. And then we shall begin the other torments.”

“As you command, master.” the yamadūta bowed. It then rushed back to the captive asura, and checked the large shackles that kept him bound. They held fast.

“What are you called?” asked Naruksha.

The yamadūta bowed again, even deeper this time, almost bent double. “Yes, master. Tanvarōka is my name.”

——

Year 591, Treta yuga
5472 years before present day

Naruksha snapped his fingers. Malāsura’s body slowly rose upright, as he slowly drifted in and out of consciousness. Naruksha nodded to Tanvarōka. The small yamadūta grunted, and pushed the lever. The heavy crucible tilted, and lava slowly flowed over the brim, and on to Malāsura’s back. Malāsura bellowed in pain, straining against the chains. The rancid stench of burning flesh filled the small cave.

“I have found that molten rock is the best way to wash filth off bodies. If only there were a way to mask this foul stink!” Naruksha laughed, and spat on Malāsura’s face. “You are not worthy of the asura name, you deceitful leech! You are no longer Malāsura—I hereby name you Malasāra, the very essence of repugnance! Yes, Malasāra, I name you. Malasāra, you are. Malasāra, you shall be.”

“Ma—la—sā—ra! Ma—la—sā—ra!” Tanvarōka rhythmically chanted, as he tipped the crucible more.

“I...am...Malasāra” the asura whispered. Every word was a strain, and his senses in a haze. I am Malasāra. Each drop of lava seared into his skin, as did the name in his mind. I am Malasāra.

Tanvarōka emptied the crucible, and the body below slumped, and the head hung limply.

Naruksha smiled with an ominous glint in his eyes. “Go prepare the fire pits. This trecherous maggot will know the meaning of pain!”

I am Malasāra. But a mild voice rose from the depths of his shattered mind. It said otherwise. Am I not? I am. I—must be. I am Malasāra, I am. But wh—who is this boy I see? Who is this asura that carries him?

Immense fires blazed bright high around him, and great scorpions rose from the flames and stung every inch of his body until it shrivelled from the venom. “Ma—la—sā—ra!” Tanvarōka chanted. Cruel beasts gnawed on his flesh.Worms burrowed deep into his skin. Despair clouded his mind. I am Malasāra. Enormous monsters trampled his bones to dust. Boiling tallow flowed down his throat, until his insides burned away in thick smoke. “Ma—la—sā—ra!”. Thorned whips slashed at his back, and ripped his body to pieces. Anguish and misery engulfed him. I am Malasāra. Insects crawled into his mouth, and ate away at his tongue and eyes. “Ma—la—sā—ra!”. Hopelessness swallowed him whole. I am Malasāra. Faceless demons sang and danced around him, as their red-hot serrated spears sliced his flesh. He knew little else but agony. I am Malasāra. Serpents crushed him to pulp, their poison seared his face. I am Malasāra.

Millenia passed.

But Malāsura, am I not?

Read next—

Year 4800, Satyayuga
6063 years before present day

“Vakrā!” said Malāsura, leaning back against the rock, making sure to be not seen. “Ever do their torches draw closer. What recourse do you propose?”

Vakrāsura shook his head, his fanged teeth bared. “None that end well for us, brother.” He coughed up blood, and spat on the dry ground. His large bare chest trickled blood from multiple wounds. A large welt on his forehead throbbed. “Narukša is certain to find us. This is surely the very end for us, Malā.”

“No! This is no time to give up! We have much to accomplish. This is no end.” Malāsura said through clenched teeth. He carefully glanced again over the large rock that offered them refuge. Narukša and his demons were peering down from the cliff edge, their flaming brands glowing brightly. Two of them jumped down the gorge, unwilling to give up their relentless search. Narukša remained at the top, an ominous silhouette against the steely Pātalā sky.

Malāsura sat back down. “Listen to me, Vakrā. You are hurt, and I am not. I shall draw them to me, you escape while I divert their eyes. Take this boy with you, follow this ravine to where ever it might lead. Keep him from these covetous fiends.”

Vakrāsura coughed again. “One cannot elude Narukša, you fool. He is the right hand of Yamā himself. There is no refuge in all the fourteen lokās.” He smiled wryly. “Not even in death can you escape Narukša.” He tried to laugh, but only coughed more blood.

“Quiet, they might hear us!” Malāsura put his hand up, and looked around. The gorge was narrow, but it meandered into the dark for a great length in either direction. “Harken, brother. I shall hold here these dogs of Yamā as long as I can. Make well your escape, do not stop, go as long as your legs can take you. Remember—our Lord Daityēsha must be avenged!”

Vakrāsura looked up at the mention of Daityēsha. He took a deep breath, and a strange light seemed to burn from the depths of his eyes. He brushed his stringy hair from his face. He grabbed the unmoving body of the boy, and draped him over his shoulder. His voice now sounded resolute. “Kill them, Malā. Kill them all.” He clutched Malāsura’s shoulder, and with a final nod, the asurā limped away into the gloom.

“Farewell, dear brother.” Malāsura whispered after the retreating figure. He then turned and ventured a glance over the rock again. The flaming torches were still some distance away, but it would not be long before they found him.  Three more of Narukša’s rākshasas had jumped into the ravine, their torches held high, their yellow eyes peering in the darkness. Malāsura took a deep breath, and placed both his hands on the rock that gave him shelter. With a thunderous crack, it lifted from the ground, and flew through the air to land on the five rākshasas. They were crushed instantly. The rock tipped over, teetered for a moment, and thudded onto the cliff wall, and stood at an angle.

Malāsura darted between the boulders. He found one large enough to take shelter behind, and crouched, listening. But far above on the cliff edge, Narukša had noticed him. In an instant, Narukša was on the floor of the narrow ravine. “I see you, Malāsura. These puny rocks will help you none.” He snapped his fingers, and the large boulder turned to dust.

Malāsura waited for the cloud to settle, and slowly stood up. “Your reputation is well deserved indeed, Narukša. I thought you the dog of Yamā, but you have chosen to follow me instead across the realms.”

Narukša leered, his arms crossed across his chest. “Rather, a hound. A hound to hunt swine like you.” He glanced up at the cliff, and a few more rākshasas jumped down behind him, torches ablaze.

Malāsura warily eyed the group before him. The rākshasas slowly advanced, and stopped just behind Narukša, and awaited orders. They were shorter than the towering aide of Yamā, but faces just as sinister. They snarled, their misshapen teeth glinting the torchlight. Two of them stepped ahead, eager to prove themselves to Narukša. “Shall we get him, Master?” one of them urged, not taking its eyes off Malāsura.

“You are mine, Malāsura.” Narukša said. “There is no escape.” He leaned forward, derision writ large on his face. Malāsura felt a vice-like grip grasp him, and could not move anymore. Narukša held him with a spell. “I have chased you across the upper and lower lokās, and here we are, so very close to home. Tell me, where is the boy? And where is your loathsome brother?”

Malāsura smiled inwardly, but displayed none of the relief. He narrowed his brows for a moment, and then laughed. “You inept dullard! You bear me good news! So Vakrā did escape! He indeed did slip your clutches on Atalā!” Malāsura guffawed. “Vakrā eludes you and your filthy mongrels!”

A shadow of confusion veiled Narukša’s face for a moment, but it passed quickly, replaced by rage. “It shall not be long before I have him, you rat!” He turned to the rākshasas behind him. “Bring up this foul creature!” He vanished, and reappeared at the cliff top an instant later.

The demons needed no more motivation. Six of them pounced on the now immobile Malāsura, and their long claws tore through his skin. Malāsura winced, and tried to fight back. He struggled, trying to break free, but it was fruitless, he could not budge. They flew him up through the gorge, and dropped him forcibly on the ground at the edge of the cliff. The demons remained around him, growling and snapping. “Let us eat him, master! We haven’t had fresh meat for a while. This one is plump and juicy.”

Narukša turned to one of the larger rākshasas. “Take your group back to Atalaloka. Retrace our steps, some crevice might still hide Vakrāsura. I want him found, Krūra—or it is your head I shall have!”

Krūra bowed. He gestured to the demons standing around, and four of them disappeared into the darkness.

“You have no hope of finding my brother, you dim-witted oafs!” Malāsura called after them, and laughed aloud.

“Quiet!” Narukša struck Malāsura across the head. Malāsura fell, sprawling in the dusty ground. He sat up, and spat blood on the ground. “You will never find him, Narukša. Vakrā, you would find him a challenge to track.”

“Never you worry.” Narukša gritted his wolfish teeth. He gestured at the rākshasas behind Malāsura, and they parted, and three yamadūtas hobbled into the circle, looking apprehensively at Narukša and the demons around them. They were much smaller in stature than the rākshasas, almost puny in comparison. The rākshasas sneered with disdain at the yamadūtas.

“Take Malāsura to Narakā, and chain him in the lower dungeons, and prepare the fire pit. Distance this rat from the other souls.”

The yamadūtas stared blankly at Narukša, and then at each other. One of them spoke up, almost kneeling before Narukša. “Si—sire, he lives still!”

Narukša glared at the tiny yamadūta before him. The yamadūta ventured a glance up at Narukša, but quickly lowered its head. “To bring someone alive to the Narakā dungeons—it would be a most terrible sin, my Lord!”

Narukša grabbed the grovelling yamadūta by its thin neck, and lifted it off the ground, and brought its face close to his. The yamadūta kicked about, its gasping for breath. “Talk not of sin to me, you worm! I will have you thrown into the pits of Narakā along with this swine—follow mine orders, not question them!” Narukša gnashed his teeth, and flung the yamadūta down on the rough ground. It rolled in the dust, coughing and sputtering, and the rākshasas laughed. One of them kicked the yamadūta, and it screeched in pain. The other yamadūtas quickly came to its aid, and helped it up, and they then gathered around Malāsura, and exchanged uneasy glances amongst themselves.

Malāsura remained calm. I can escape these weakly yamadūtas, they present me no hurdle. He stayed on the ground, head lowered, appearing defeated. Narukša is thwarted, at least for the moment. That should give Vakrā some time to flee to safety. And the boy remains in our hands.

“Get this rat out of my sight!” Narukša said, and the yamadūtas hesitantly grabbed a limb each. They winced—it hurt yamadūtas to lay their hands on a live being.

One of the yamadūtas produced a loop of black leather, and they bound Malāsura quickly with it, tying his arms behind him. They then bound his feet, while Narukša watched, his red eyes glowing with impatience. One of them pulled on the knots, making sure they held fast. Satisfied, they grasped Malāsura’s limbs again, and sat him up straight, preparing to haul their prisoner to Narakā.

“Wait.” Narukša put his hand up, frowning. He snapped his clawed fingers, and Malāsura’s head lulled, and fell into a deep stupor, unconscious.

Read next—

Once out of the city walls, the riders sped to a brisk canter. Ahead of them, the path meandered slowly through small settlements and off into the distance, lay the forest. They reached the cover of the trees, they broke into a swift gallop, and rode west. The jungle path was narrow, but it was enough, the men knew the road well, and there was plenty of moonlight. Steadily they made for the hills, where the path grew more dangerous, and the jungle, denser. Mārthandan lead them without rest, for time was of the essence. Soon they turned north, closer to Pulithēvan’s camp.

Once into the hills, they had to slow down, the path was slippery with loose gravel. It was around midnight when they reached a small plateau, that sloped down to the forest ahead of them. Here they stopped and dismounted, and tied the horses away from the edge. Mārthandan, Ripunjaya and the captains walked to the edge and knelt down. Below them the dark jungle spread out.

“There.” one of the captains said in a hushed tone, pointing a little distance to their left. Wispy plumes of smoke rose above the dense canopy, with the occasional glow of a fire under it. It was Pulithēvan’s camp, shoddy tents just visible from the plateau. It seemed to stretch around a large area, with small clearings in places. Far away songs of inebriated men filled the night.

“They are drunk, sire.” said a captain. “It will be easy to subdue them.”

Mārthandan scratched the meagre stubble on his chin. “This is careless, and unlike Pulithēvan.”

“Why do you say so, prabhu?”

“Pulithēvan is a small time bandit. How did he get command of these many men? And this is either an open challenge, or a display of complacence and arrogance.”

“Could this be a simple enticement?” asked one of the captains.

“Indeed. But we are here, and it is futile to debate these things now. Ilarāyā, send out your rider to Vagaimāran. It is time.”

The captain nodded. He went back to his men, and soon, one of them speedily departed, going down the path to Solaipuram. Ilarāyan hurried back to Mārthandan, and all of them started to slowly make their way down the cliff slope. The loose scree made for a slow descend. Mārthandan led the group, the captains and Ripunjaya behind him, and the rest followed, in a single file. 

They reached the foot of the hill and waited amongst the thick bushes for all the men to come down. Mārthandan ordered two of his platoons to separate and conceal themselves at the north of the camp, to act as a reserve force. The remaining men began to gather dried branches and tied cloth doused in oil at one end. The group now carefully advanced towards the camp, and the tents slowly came into view.

The tents were crude, made with hide, cloth and large leaves draped around a bamboo frame, and seemed as if put together in haste. Some undergrowth had been cleared to make way for the tents, and the jungle encircled them. Small fires blazed high in the clearings, with men in various stages of drunkenness around them, singing and dancing. Many more lay senseless on the ground, too intoxicated to move. The bandits did not notice the soldiers, and the sounds of the forest drowned any sounds that they made. The ūsipadai spread themselves at equal intervals, and soon they had formed a perimeter, covering the west and the north of the camp. They hid themselves in the thick bushes, and waited for instructions.

Mārthandan found a large fallen tree trunk and he and his captains settled themselves behind it. From here they could see most of the camp before them. He signalled to Ilarāyan to give the go-ahead, and Ilarāyan saluted, and quickly went back to the first man along the perimeter, and patted his shoulder. The soldier nodded, and made a chopping gesture at the soldier to his left. That soldier acknowledged, did the same to the soldier next to him and the command quickly travelled down the chain, and the soldiers readied themselves. They waited for one of the bandits to leave his group and come closer to the edge of the forest. They quickly stifled and dragged him into the undergrowth, where a quick death awaited him. The soldiers spent the next half an hour picking men from the fringes of the camp, and executing them in the dark. They pulled men lying near the tents, and killed them with a silent stab to the heart or a quick slit of the throat. Most men were unconscious, and when they did notice, a blade was already halfway into them. Every man removed from the battlefield was a step closer to victory.

Ripunjaya and Mārthandan waited with the captains, their swords drawn, and watched the drunken men disappear one by one into the night. The bandits had not yet noticed anything amiss, and continued their merrymaking. A song seemed to end, and one of the men dancing around the camp-fire stopped, and staggered to the edge of the clearing, close to the trunk where they were hiding. He coughed, and shook his head a few times, seemingly to clear his head of the alcoholic haze. With faltering steps, he tottered to a tree and was about to relieve himself, when a small glint through the bushes before him caught his eye.

Ripunjaya glanced at Mārthandan, the man seemed to have noticed them hiding in the shrubbery. The bandit peered towards the bushes, inching closer. He reached out with his arms and parted the leaves, and his eyes went wide. Looking back at him was a heavy-set man with an enormous moustache, and he was smiling. “Vanakkam,” the man with the moustache greeted. The bandit tried to shout to warn his comrades, but only a gurgling sound escaped his lips. Blood trickled out of his mouth, slowly staining his tunic. He tried to breathe, and a searing pain shot through his body. He looked down, and saw the tip of a sword sticking out from his chest, and his eyesight faded to darkness. His body went rigid, and fell.

Ripunjaya pulled the sword out of the bandit. He stepped over the limp body before him, slowly crept to the bushes beside Mārthandan. Quickly two soldiers dragged the body further into the undergrowth.

“That was quick. Well done, son.” said Mārthandan and patted him on the back, eyes still on the camp.

Ripunjaya turned back to the camp, and Pulithēvan’s men were still laughing and dancing, oblivious of the impending attack. The eastern sky began to lighten, turning to a deep amber. In the far end, at the other side of the camp, a single torch lit up in the fast-approaching dawn, and the man holding it waved it slowly high in the air.

Mārthandan stood up and signalled to his men on the perimeter. One by one, the soldiers lit their torches and waited for Mārthāndan’s command. Mārthandan lit his own torch, and threw it high in the air. It flew in a graceful arc, and landed atop one of the tents. The fabric caught fire instantly, and engulfed the tent. The other soldiers hurled their torches, and they all found their mark. They had taken care to set alight the tents on the western end of the camp, and the platoons on the northern flank flung their lit branches on the tents closest to them. The bandits would in panic run east, away from the forest and the fire and into the open field.

By this time, one of the bandits had noticed the fire, and shouted to wake his comrades. They too saw the rising flames, and the alarm sounded. Soon, the scene turned to complete chaos, with men running from their tents, half-clad and disoriented.

The fire leapt from tent to tent, turning to ashes everything it touched. They ran wildly, and the ūsipadai stood ready, swords and daggers drawn, to cut down stray men who managed to stagger into the tree line. The flames consumed the unconscious, and burnt to cinder those too late to come to their senses. The rest fled outside, and the fire drove them east, through the small stretch of forest and into the plains.

In this open expanse, they faced a new enemy, the awaiting army of Vagaimāran. Few of the bandits kept their nerve, but many cried in anguish at the sight before them.

Vagaimāran did not attack, he sat calmly on his horse—hasty decisions seldom won battles. The bandits looked back, only to find the raging inferno barring their escape. To the north and the west, Mārthandan and his ūsipadai were gathering, coming out of the trees swords drawn. A few regiments of cavalry from Vagaimāran’s force joined them, and their numbers slowly grew. Behind them, the flames had spread to the nearby trees, and quickly became a raging inferno.

Unable to escape, they hurriedly formed ranks, armed only with small knives and a few swords. Ripunjaya could see their enraged chief shouting orders at his men, and hesitantly they responded. Those with weapons stood facing the enemy, trying to clear their drunken minds. They formed weak columns, twenty wide and six deep.

Vagaimāran had assembled his battalions with his infantry in the middle, and strengthened on both sides with cavalry. This was designed to entice the bandits to attack his centre, which they would consider the weakest point, allowing them to be flanked by men on swift horses easily.

With a fierce cry, Pulithēvan and his few remaining men fell on Vagaimāran’s troops. What followed could only be termed a massacre. Pulithēvan’s men were cut down like plantain stalks, and the soil quickly turned a dark crimson with their blood.

Vagaimāran rode his way through the mass of fighting men to Pulithēvan. Though hurt badly, the bandit fought like a cornered beast. Vagaimāran needed  him alive, and allowed Pulithēvan tire himself, patiently and expertly driving the bandit away from the horde. Pulithēvan, soon exhausted, fell to the grass and lay there until Vagaimāran’s men picked him up and knelt him before their General. Behind them, the battle had ceased, the Pulithēvan’s men had either been killed or had given up arms in hopes of amnesty. Chatriyanīdhi1 dictates that those who offer submission must not be harmed, and were rightfully spared. They all sat on the ground, shaking.

Vagaimāran walked up to Pulithēvan. “Loathsome vermin!” He pulled the kneeling bandit up by his long hair. Pulithēvan’s face was covered in blood and he drifted in and out of consciousness. Mārthandan and Ripunjaya had now joined him, and stood behind the Vagaimāran.

“Where is Seeralan’s son? How did you amass this many men? Why are they gathered here?” asked Vagaimāran, his voice wrought with anger. “Answer me, scum!”

Pulithēvan mumbled something inaudible, and Vagaimāran persisted. He held Pulithēvan’s head back, and slapped him.

“A diversion.” croaked the bandit. He laughed, coughing and spitting blood. It was the laugh of a man who had lost all hope, and had accepted his unfortunate fate.

Vagaimāran stood up, trying to grasp Pulithēvan’s reply. Mārthāndan’s eyes filled with anger, and his hands shook in rage. A few of the soldiers shouted, and they all turned to see a lone horseman, galloping hard towards them. “Treason!” he shouted from afar, breathless. “Treason and betrayal!”

Far in the horizon behind him, an immense pillar of smoke rose high in the dawning sky, and Karkottai burned.

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Author’s note

This story follows a non-linear narrative, jumping between different points on the 12,000 year-long timeline, as and when pertinent.

Character’s actions start to make sense over chapters, and the reasons become clearer, or are completely shattered. I love the minor epiphanies readers get as the plot unfolds. Small details connect across chapters, and across timelines.

“Almost nothing is what it seems”—I’m obsessed with this, and have weaved this concept into the novel. So, keep an eye out, and enjoy the ride! And, I’d love to know what you think—it’s the only way to get better at my craft.

Here’s a useful list of chapters in reading order—

On Time

A guide to pronunciations

Map of Nākalam

Chapter 1 — From the depths of the Netherworld

Chapter 2 — Motives laid bare

Chapter 3 — A glimpse of the past

Chapter 4 — Karkottai

Chapter 5 — Motives, hidden

Chapter 6 — Foiled plans

Chapter 7 — A sighting

Chapter 8 — Embers to Ashes

Chapter 9 — A tiger in the bushes

Chapter 10 — Prisoner

Chapter 11 — The War Council

Chapter 12 — To the forest

Chapter 13 — In search of a new beginning

Chapter 14 — Fire on the horizon

Chapter 15 — Ambush

Chapter 16 — A call to war

Chapter 17 — Intruders

Chapter 18 — Illusions

Chapter 19 — The blind still see

Chapter 20 — Reunions and revelations

Chapter 21 — Rescue plans

Chapter 22 — Conspiracies

Chapter 23 — A few drops of blood

Chapter 24 — Second sighting

Chapter 25 — Sparks of rebellion

Chapter 26 — A seed takes root

Chapter 27 — Shape shifter

Chapter 28 — An empty throne

…and more on the way. I’ll update this list of chapters as I publish them.

Thank you for reading, and consider supporting my work by subscribing!

Or, consider making a one-time donation!

Tip jar

“Witch!” shouted one of the villagers gathered around the priest’s hut. “Demon-mother!” cried another.

Inside, the priest covered his ears with his palms. “Eesanae! Why do you torment us so? Why do you cause us much misery?” he exclaimed, in a mixture of rage and despair.

Beside him, his wife lay on the cot, unconscious. The infant lay by her side, motionless. It had but three limbs, and a misshapen head. Its jaw was broken, and its head was more skull than face. He covered it with a piece of cloth, he could look at it no longer. There was a low knock on the door. He took no notice of it.

The knock was repeated, louder this time. “It is I, Nambī.”

The priest gathered himself, and slowly walked to the door. He unlatched it, and cracked it open. The village headman stood at the doorway, and the villagers stood packed behind him in the street. Their voices rose in unison, and began to shout curses again, but Nambī raised a hand to silence them. He then turned to the priest. “Come, let us talk inside.” he said, taking a step over the threshold. He stepped into the hut and shut the door behind him.

Inside, the headman reached out and clasped the priest’s hand tightly. “This is most unfortunate, pūsāri.” he said in a sombre tone, looking over at the woman and the lifeless child. The priest remained silent, and sat on the edge of the cot.

“The village folk want you to leave Malaivāsal.” the village headman said, bluntly. “They think your wife cursed.”

“That is not true!” snapped the priest, and his eyes flashed red.

“Appanae!” Nambī raised his arms. “I do not doubt it, priest.” Nambī replied. “But it falls on my head to keep the peace in these parts.” He waited for a reply, but did not get any. “Listen to me,” he placed his hand on the priest’s shoulder. “You and your wife are not safe here. The people want you dead, and I have done all I can to appease them, at least for now. You are a good man, but I cannot talk reason to these folk. For the third time, Meenakshi has delivered a stillborn. The villagers hold this to be an ill-omen of some great impending doom. Nothing I have said has convinced them otherwise.”

The priest was not listening, he was absently stroking his wife’s forehead.

Nambī sighed. “For all that you have done for me, I am truly grateful. For my part, tonight I will have my bullock-cart wait for you at the end of the street. Arulan will take you to the river. Please, I implore you to leave Malaivāsal, for your sakes and your wife’s.”

The priest looked up, despondent, but remained silent. He nodded.

Nambī sighed, inwardly relieved. He walked to the door, and turned back. “It is our ill-luck. We do not deserve you, learned priest. I wish you safe travel and better fortunes.” He slipped out the door, and shut it slowly behind him. He ordered the villagers to disperse, and soon, all was silent.

——

Sure enough, a small cart waited at the end of the street. It was well into the night, and the moon shone weakly down as the priest grasped his wife’s hand tight, and walked out his house. She was in a daze, and followed her husband as he led her past the huts and towards the cart. They reached the cart, and he helped her climb in through the back, and threw their bundle of meagre belongings beside her. She sat there, with a blank expression on her face, and grasped the bundle tightly around her chest.

The priest turned away, and walked to the front, where Arulan sat ready with the reins in his hands. He stepped on the mounting plank and hauled himself to sit by the driver. A few villagers stood in the doorways of their huts. Even in the dim light, he could make out their faces frowning with anger and derision.

With a low whistle, and a gentle tug on the reins, Arulan turned into the street, and guided the cart through the narrow lanes. Soon, the houses grew sparser, and they left the village behind, and reached the fields. From the rise, they could see the river up ahead, a silver ribbon dimly reflected in the moonlight.

Kannanār turned back to look at his hometown one last time. The usually dark village of Malaivāsal was lit up brightly, the low thatched roofs silhouetted in the flames of a single hut that burned in the night, tall flames reaching up into the starry sky.

——

“Ayya!” called the boatman.

Kannanār woke up from his tired sleep. It was well after dawn, the sun was climbing up into the sky.

“Here, beyond these fields lies the capital, Karkottai.” the boatman said, as the coracle hit the muddy riverbank. Kannanār nudged Meenakshi awake. Around them, women were washing clothes, and children frolicked in the shallows. Young men dove off high rocks, and a mahout bathed his elephant further downstream. The elephant sprayed water high into the air with its trunk, and the children screamed in delight as it rained down upon them. Nobody paid any attention to the weary, dishevelled travellers in the small craft.

Kannanār and Meenakshi stepped onto the shore. They walked up the stony embankment, and endless paddy fields spread out before them, a vast blanket of green. A narrow, sandy dyke meandered in between. They started down the path, Kannanār leading Meenakshi by her hand. She was still in a trance, and blindly went where she was led.

Farmers were hard at work, some of them singing loudly as they drove the stout oxen that pulled the heavy ploughs, tilling the soil. Birds chirped in the air, and a gentle breeze blew past them. Even this cheerful setting did little to lift Meenakshi’s spirits.

They walked, and in the midst the fields, they came across a small open shrine, with a small lingam. A tall priest stood beside it, with a basket of flowers in his arm. He was offering them one by one to the lingam, slowly chanting prayers. Kannanār watched, as they walked past, and stopped short. “Stop!” he cried, throwing his hands in the air.

The priest in the shrine looked up, annoyed at the interruption. His ash-smeared forehead wrinkled and looked sternly at the man before him, and the woman behind him. “You intrude my ritual?” he asked, lowering the basket.

“Apologies, ayya.” Kannanār clasped his palms together. He walked to the edge of the shrine, hesitant to step in. “The centhigaipū is never offered to the Lord Supreme along with the rest of the flowers...this is sacrilegious!”

The priest glanced at his basket and back at the shabby traveller. “What does an uncouth simpleton like yourself know about the Lord?” he challenged, his brows bristling. “Be on your way, beggar!”

“Appanae! I implore you!” Kannanār bowed his head. “I may not know much else, but this I do. The parijatam and the centhigai are never to be offered together! It is most blasphemous!”

And then they started to argue loudly. Kannanār remained at the entrance, and the priest continued to berate him. Neither was willing to back down. Some of the farmers from the fields gathered around them, laughing.

Suddenly, Meenakshi screamed at the top of her voice. “Enough! Enough, stop this absurdity! Are you both not priests?” Her eyes seethed with rage, she was no longer in a daze. “You! Your child is dead! Our third child, and not a day has passed since! And here you stand, in this strange land, squabbling with the first person you come across!” she then turned to the other priest. “And you! You stand in a place of worship and shout curses! What does it matter what flower is offered? You both stand here arguing over trivialities! Kali yugam is upon us, priests, and are your prayers going to stop that? Can they bring back my children? Will they?” She fell to her knees, sobbing. She hung her head, lamenting in grief.

Kannanār stood there aghast. The farmers fell silent. Meenakshi’s cries slowly subsided, her head lulled, and slowly dropped to the ground, unconscious.

“Meenakshi!” Kannanār ran to his wife. Picking her up, he laid her head on his lap. “Water! Some water for my wife, please!”

“Bring her to the shade!” a farmer shouted. They carried her under a tree, and laid her on a wicker cot. One of the women quickly fetched a towel and dabbed her forehead with cold water. Meenakshi stirred, but they laid her back down.

Kannanār felt a hand on his shoulder. It was the the priest from the shrine. “I apologise,” he said, in a sincere tone. “And it is most unfortunate about your child, I apologise again, I did not know. Forgive my harsh words...I thought you a wandering mendicant. I did not know you too are a priest.”

“No, forgive me. It was not right of me to interrupt you as I did. I apologise, it is your shrine. I am unfamiliar with the customs in these parts.”

“Good, then. We are both at fault, and forgive each other.” The priest smiled. “What brings you to the capital? What is your name?”

“Siva Kannan, and we hail from Malaivāsal.” he looked down at the grass, and paused for a moment, unsure of what to say. “We came here in search of a better life.”

“Search no more, then. Our Highness the Queen Umayāl Devi has built many temples in the city. I officiate at the Veerabhadran periyakovil myself. An obstinate priest like yourself could definitely be useful!”

“That is fortunate news! I would truly be thankful to you!”

“What games the Lord plays with us! You were destined to pass by and notice the flowers. This is indeed a sign from above. Go, go to the river, bathe and return. I shall take you to the temple myself. Let your wife rest here in the meanwhile.”

Kannanār beamed. “He has turned our fortunes around so quickly! Indeed His benevolence knows no bounds. I shall return as quickly as the wind. But before that...tell me your name, kind priest!”

The priest smiled. “Ah, yes—Kalikāman.”

——

Year 2380, Dwapara yuga.

The aged midwife stood in the middle of the darkened street, and shielded her eyes from the driving rain. The downpour was heavy, and seemed to get stronger by the minute. She was already drenched, and she needed to get back to the mother and her newborn. The young woman had been in labour since afternoon, and it was close to midnight now. The father had run out of the house towards the evening, unable to bear her screams of agony.

A loud bolt of lightning lit up the entire lane, and she noticed a figure hunched in the nearby shrine. She sighed, and struggled up to the entrance. The man knelt on the floor, oblivious of the rain.

“Ayya Kannanārae!” she shouted over the howling wind. “Your prayers have been answered! Your fourth child lives—a boy!”

The man sprang up. His face remained blank for a moment, and then he wept. “A...a boy?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

“Indeed, a healthy boy. This one is sure to live. Come, your wife looks for you.”

Kannanār stood up, and brushed his unkempt jet-black hair away from his face. He turned to the small stone idol before him, and fell once again to the floor. “You have not forsaken me, Eesanae! I will sing you a thousand praises every day until I am no more.” He got up, ran out the arched gateway. The midwife tried to follow, but her old legs could not keep up with the ecstatic father. She hobbled after him, careful in the slippery mud.

“Meenakshi!” Kannanār burst through the door, and his wife slowly opened her eyes. He walked to the cot and embraced her. Her face glistened with beads of sweat, and her clothes were soaked. She smiled wearily and tried to sit up, but her body ached. Gently Kannanār wiped her brow, and looked at the tiny form next to her.

The baby was wrapped tightly with a silk cloth, and only the face was visible. It was sleeping soundly in spite of the deafening rain, and tears welled up in Kannanār’s eyes again. He picked up the bundle, and brought it close to a lamp. The baby’s dark skin glowed in the soft light. A drop of rain oozed from the roof, and splattered on to the baby’s cheek, and it shivered, clenching its eyes tighter. Kannanār smiled. “Mukhilan.” he said. “My son, born in the downpour of a thunderous storm cloud.”

He turned to his wife, but she had fallen asleep, exhausted. He kissed her forehead, and outside, the rain continued, unabated.

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Year 63, Kaliyuga
Present day

The day rolled on, and the men slowly but steadily made ready. Towards dusk, the moon rose in the sky, shedding a dim light across the land. The bell in the barracks rang once, its report loud and clear. Mārthāndan and Ripunjaya made their way to the palace, where Vagaimāran stood with his battalion chiefs near the gates. The captains of the ūsippadai had also arrived earlier, and Ilarāyan saluted Mārthāndan as he entered the compound. Together, they walked towards the large steps in the courtyard. A small company of soldiers stood awaiting them.

“All is ready, Māra?” asked Mārthāndan.

“Yes. I have already dispatched a five battalions to Solaipuram, and the rest of the men await us at the north-western gate, and the ūsippadai, at the western ramparts. They only await our arrival.”

They reached the steps, where the Kalikāman stood with a few noblemen and attendants beside a large stone pedestal with an ornate statue atop it. It was of a four-armed god seated on a peacock, carrying a large golden spear. Ripunjaya realised it was the idol of Skanda, the God of War. Kalikāman was offering flowers to the idol, and the people around him all had their hands clasped in silent worship. Mārthāndan, Vagaimāran and the rest of the chiefs also followed suit, and Ripunjaya try as he might, could not bring himself to pray. He still had a meagre distaste for deities, and he recalled his imprisonment with a slight shudder. It seemed ages ago, and Malasāra seemed like a distant dream. He shook his head to clear those thoughts, and watched as Kalikāman continued his ritual.

A herald quietly signalled the Prince’s arrival, and the soldiers all stood still, their spears upright. Aranvēndhan walked down the stone steps. A young maiden followed him. She was dressed in blue silk and wore simple jewels, and seemed to float rather than walk, her anklets on her bare feet making the faintest of sounds. Her long black hair was braided at the back, and a few tresses and caressed her face, like bees around a blooming flower. White malligai flowers adorned her head, their fragrance filled the cool nightly air. Her eyes twinkled like stars in a cloudless sky, she stood radiant like the full moon in the falling light. She slowly walked down the steps, and stood by her father. A small smile played on her lips as she clasped her hands in silent prayer.

Kalikāman made his offerings, and walked to the people gathered, a small silver lamp in his hand. He smeared sindhuram on the foreheads of Mārthāndan and Vagaimāran, and walking to the steps, raised the lamp high in the air for all to see. The soldiers in the courtyard raised their hands towards the lamp, in a gesture of worship. “Vettri namakke!” exclaimed Kalikāman in a low voice, and everyone bowed, and touched the ground near their feet. “Uyir Nākalam-ukke!” they all uttered in unison. They all quickly formed ranks and marched to the barracks, where their horses stood ready. Ripunjaya stood with Mārthāndan, who waited until the soldiers had left, and walked up to Aranvēndhan.

“Bless me, brother,” he said, offering his sword up to the Prince, and bowed. Aranvēndhan pulled him up by his shoulders, and embraced him. “I have no doubts in your victory, brother. It irks me that I too am not able to be at your side, and ride to battle like old times.”

“Pulithēvan is a rat, Vēndhā. Princes aren’t meant to catch rats. Leave that to me, I shall have Pulithēvan’s head by day rise.”

“Let this be an example to all other snakes at our borders. Godspeed, brother. May Skandan guide your path.” Aranvēndhan turned to the maiden standing next to him. “Come, Valli, let us prepare for Mārthāndan’s victorious return.” Together they walked up the steps and entered the palace, and the large doors shut behind them.

Mārthāndan bowed again, and walked to the idol, and offered a few flowers himself. Kalikāman placed his palm on Mārthāndan’s head and blessed him, and Mārthāndan touched his feet. Bidding farewell, Mārthāndan and Ripunjaya joined Vagaimāran and the men who were waiting with their horses.

Mārthāndan and Ripunjaya mounted their horses, and Mārthāndan signalled their departure. Silently, the soldiers on horseback slowly moved down the paved road. At a juncture, Vagaimāran veered right, with his chiefs, and Mārthāndan continued on straight with Ripunjaya and the captains. They did not take the main road out of the city, instead chose a much smaller gate off to the west. As they neared, the heavy wooden gate swung open. Outside, the rest of the corps had gathered on horseback, some ten dozen men all dressed in black fabric with light leather armour. Mārthāndan stopped for a moment, and raised his hand in the air and gestured toward the road, and the ūsippadai rode out.

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