Chapter 7 — A sighting
Year 63, Kali yuga
Present day
Ripunjaya’s day began hours before sunrise when Mārthāndan himself would come and wake him up. They quickly dived into Ripunjaya’s training, and it lasted till it was dusk.
Mārthāndan started the day with archery, teaching Ripunjaya to shoot in the low light. He learnt the usage of different kinds of bows, some shot upright from firm ground, and shorter, lighter ones from horseback. Certain factions in the Thattān army also employed a peculiar horizontal bow, brought in by travellers from far away lands in the north. Ripunjaya practiced with these too on occasion.
As daylight broke, they switched to swords, duelling, and trained for another couple of hours. Ripunjaya often sparred with the soldiers, and proved quickly to be an formidable opponent. Mārthāndan always chose new partners for Ripunjaya each time, to learn better from different styles.
Then they stopped for breakfast, and Mārthāndan would leave to take care of his administrative duties, entrusting Ripunjaya’s training with a few of his best soldiers. Later in the day, Mārthāndan would train Ripunjaya as a vēlveeran, learning the use of a spear and the staff. Completing that, they would walk around the city, and Mārthāndan would tutor the eager student the nuances of statecraft and government. After dusk, they would sit in Mārthāndan’s tent along with the court poet, where Ripunjaya studied language, its script and subtleties. He would speak of the various gods and goddess, which Ripunjaya found quite amusing, the notion of worshipping stone idols was still strange to him. He listened nonetheless with rapt attention, he found the various tales to be fascinating.
Some days, he learnt the skills of the kolaipādhagan, an assassin. Mārthāndan taught him the use of small hidden blades, and bare-handed combat. He studied the use of various poisons and their effects on men. He learnt the art of kallam, or stealth. He also learnt the craft that went with an assassin—lock-picking and the art of distraction.
At the end of the day, Ripunjaya would then retire to his own smaller tent, and slept, exhausted by the day’s proceedings, only to begin again the next day. Mārthāndan’s routine was punishing, but ‘there was no other way to learn’, he would often say. Ripunjaya proved to be an able student, quickly mastering all that he was taught, and his immense will to learn pleased Mārthāndan.
It was towards the end of the eighth month when this routine broke. It was late afternoon, and time for their usual walk around the many streets of Karkottai. Ripunjaya pulled the door flap of Mārthāndan’s large tent and peeked inside.
“Ah, yes, Ripunjaya, come in.” Mārthāndan was kneeling beside his desk, rolling up a small bundle. “I have an errand to run for the Emperor. It is a good day and a half ride through the country, and you shall come along, I could use the company.”
“Where are we going?”
“To meet the family of the Emperor Kumudhan’s late wife. Do you remember your lessons, son?” Mārthāndan asked.
“Yes, Rajamāthā Aralai, I do remember. She refused to return to Karkottai after the victory, and chose to stay with her tribe in the forests.”
“Very good!” Mārthāndan tied the bundle with thick twine, and tossed it over his shoulder. “Her brother is the chieftain now, and has requested an urgent meeting. Why, I know not. His messenger would not tell us more.” He stood up, passed Ripunjaya and stepped outside the tent. “Go pack for a few days journey, and meet me at the stables.” He looked up at the amber sky. “Let us make the most of this evening light.” The sun was turning bright gold, inching towards the horizon, but there were still a few hours before twilight.
Ripunjaya bowed, and ran to his tent. This seemed important. He had been on a few routine patrols with the soldiers, but this would be the first time he’d accompany Mārthāndan on an assignment. He quickly bundled up his things, and made his way to the stables. Mārthāndan was sitting on his horse Dheeran, with Nalā in tow. He offered Ripunjaya Nalā’s reins, and they set down the road towards the city gates.
They rode out of a small western gate, and gathered speed on the wide roads connecting the towns around Karkottai. The towns became steadily smaller, first into villages and then into quaint hamlets. They reminded Ripunjaya of Thillai, and he thought of Siva Kannanār. He recalled Kannanār’s trance, and the narration of his past life. Ripunjaya sighed inwardly, the names and places still meant nothing to him. His thoughts then drifted to Malasāra, and wondered where the yamadūta might be. Mārthāndan had never once mentioned Malasāra since his departure. The yamadūta had promised to return in a few months, but the seasons had passed, and there was no sign of him. Yet Ripunjaya had no reason to complain, he had settled well into this new life, and the demons and the dark caverns of Pātalalokā seemed like a long-forgotten dream, a far cry from the quotidian bustle of Karkottai.
“There!” Mārthāndan broke Ripunjaya’s reverie. He pointed to a small hillock in the distance. On its peak was a large hut, a traveller’s rest house silhouetted against the evening sky. “We can stay the night there, and resume at dawn. The horses need the rest, we will be on the road all day tomorrow.” He patted Dheeran’s neck affectionately, and the horse snorted.
The sun was starting to dip beyond the horizon, and the sky turned a deep indigo. They turned away from the road, and into the gently sloping path that meandered up the hillock. It was narrow, and they rode up slowly, Mārthāndan leading. Halfway up the hill, they turned a bend, and Ripunjaya noticed a small boy standing a little further down, in the middle of the path. These rest houses were maintained by a caretaker, who usually lived on the premises with his family.
The boy faced them, and stood still, like a statue. Mārthāndan did not seem to slow down, and nor did the boy show any signs of moving out of their path. Ripunjaya squinted in the failing light, and his heart started to pound.
It was a yamadūta. It stood resolutely, its small black form in stark contrast against the light sandy path. It was staring at Mārthāndan, its pale yellow eyes glowing in the twilight. Its intense gaze unnerved Ripunjaya, and fear quickly rose in his chest. Is that Tanvarōka? His spirits rose a little, maybe Malasāra was also close by. As they rode closer, Ripunjaya saw the yamadūta’s face a little better. It was not.
It then occurred to Ripunjaya that the yamadūta was invisible to Mārthāndan. He reached for his sword in instinct, but hesitated. Should he warn Mārthāndan? Or attack? How does one challenge a yamadūta? Anxiety turned into confusion. Ripunjaya’s breath quickened. He tightened his grip on the hilt, still unsure of what to do. He slowed Nalā, and allowed Mārthāndan to pull ahead. The yamadūta still took no notice of Ripunjaya, its gaze fixed on the first rider. Ripunjaya saw no malice in the creature’s beady eyes, they were empty, as if in a hypnotic trance. Mārthāndan was now almost upon the black figure. In the very last moment, the yamadūta stepped sideways and Mārthāndan passed, completely unaware. The yamadūta turned its neck, still following Mārthāndan, never once taking its eyes off him.
Ripunjaya blinked, and the yamadūta vanished. He looked around frantically, half-expecting to see the emissary floating in the air. But it was gone, and all that remained was a small puff of dark grey smoke where the figure had stood. The smoke quickly dissipated in the gentle evening breeze, and Ripunjaya’s breath slowed.
Ahead of him, Mārthāndan had reached the rest house. “Time for a meal!” he called out. Ripunjaya took a deep breath. What did this mean?
He reached the rest house, and unmounted by the hitching post. Dheeran and Nalā drank deeply from the water trough. Mārthāndan and Ripunjaya walked towards the hut. It was made of stone, with a sloping tiled roof. They stepped into a small anteroom with a stone bench. Two small oil lamps burned strongly in the corner. Mārthāndan called out, but there was no reply. There was a small door on the side, and it led to a larger hall inside, for the travellers to rest.
“Where is this caretaker?” Mārthāndan looked around impatiently. He walked into the hall, and Ripunjaya followed. Small clay lamps lined the wall, a few of them lit. Mārthāndan called out again, but again in vain. “Never the matter. We rest here tonight,” said Mārthāndan. He threw his bundle on the floor, and pulled out two mats and blankets from a large rack by the wall.
“Attend to the horses. I shall check the backyard for the caretaker.” Mārthāndan said, and walked to a heavy latched door set in the far wall.
Ripunjaya went back through the rooms, and stepped out. The sun had almost completely set, and the sky was now a dull grey. He looked around for any signs of the yamadūta, but there were none. He stood there, lost in thought, absently staring at the spot in the middle of the path. Was the yamadūta a sign of something about to happen? Was Mārthāndan in danger?
To the side, Nalā whickered. He sighed and walked to the side of the hut, where he had seen a stack of hay bales. He hauled a few of them to the horses, and watched them munch the dried grass heartily.
Ripunjaya walked around to the back. Mārthāndan had started a small fire. A packet of the food they had brought was open by his side. He offered another to Ripunjaya, and they ate the rice pancakes silently.
Ripunjaya broke the quiet. “Why did the Rajamāthā refuse to come to Karkottai?”
Mārthāndan swallowed a mouthful, and wiped his bristly moustache. He swatted at a mosquito. “She was a daughter of the tribe, the forests were her home. She did not want to live in lofty stone and marble palaces, she was content among the tall trees and pristine streams she had known all her life. I too was born there, it truly is paradise. She was a simple woman, you could not tempt her with luxuries. That was nearly two decades ago. When we won the war, and began to rebuild Karkottai, she wanted to remain with her tribe. It saddened the Emperor, but she was adamant.
“Then, some eight years back, Rajamāthā Aralai took a fever and died. Her brother, the Chieftain Vēlan, says he has some important news for us. He only said it was a matter of great urgency, and requested that I meet with him immediately. The reason, we shall find out soon enough, tomorrow.” Mārthāndan slapped at another mosquito on his arm. “Come, let us go inside before we are eaten alive by these wretched insects.”
They doused the fire, and went back into the hut. Mārthāndan laid down on the mat, and quickly fell asleep. Ripunjaya lay beside, and pulled the blanket over his chest. He closed his eyes, exhausted from the ride. His head slowly lulled, and suddenly the bright eyes of the yamadūta appeared before him. He jerked awake, gasping. It was a dream. Beside him, Mārthāndan snored softly. A weak shaft of moonlight filtered through a window high up on the wall.
Ripunjaya took a few deep breaths, and laid back down. The mat felt cold on the stone floor. He pulled the blanket tighter around him. He closed his eyes again and tried to go back to sleep. But the face was back again, like an omen of impending doom. Every time he closed his eyes, the yamadūta would reappear, the sinister face clearer than before. The night progressed, and sleep still eluded Ripunjaya. He pulled his blanket off, and sat up.
Ripunjaya got up, and walked to the first room. One of the lamps still burned, and filled the room in a dim light. He stepped outside, and took in a deep breath of the cool night air. The waning moon was high in the night sky, and a gentle breeze caressed his face. Deathly silence was all around.
And then, suddenly, a twig snapped. It was loud, even more so in the quiet night. He spun around, searching for the source of the sound. It seemed to have come from behind the hut, from the sparse woods that covered the western slopes of the hill. He made his way to the side of the hut, and listened intently, straining his ears for any more sounds.
Ripunjaya waited, pressed against the wall. Then there was another noise, this time, dried leaves crunching under quick, heavy steps. He slowly inched his way to the back wall, and peeked, kneeling in the dirt. The tree line was some distance away, and he squinted. Low shrubs grew below the tall trees. One of them moved, and Ripunjaya watched as a masked man emerged from behind the bush. The man knelt beside it, surveying the hut. He wore dark sleeveless robes, old and tattered. The man watched the hut for a few moments, and pulled down his mask. He made a noise like a low cricket chirp, and more men appeared from the trees.
Ripunjaya silently made his way back to the front door, and into the hall. He shook Mārthāndan’s shoulder. “Awake!” he whispered. Mārthāndan stirred, and sleepily opened his eyes.
“Awake! Dacoits in the backyard!” Ripunjaya said in a low voice.
Mārthāndan was instantly up. “How many?” In a flash he pulled out a large dagger from his side, and unsheathed it.
“Around a dozen, there maybe more. I couldn’t sleep, I went outside and saw them come out of the woods.”
“By Shiva’s grace!” whispered Mārthāndan, and stood up. “Close the entry door and tie a cloth around the latch, tightly as you can. Quick!” He began unrolling the remaining mats from the rack, and laid them on the floor, next to one another. He piled the blankets on the mats in the rough shape of a man. “Blow the lamps out, boy. We’ll take them by surprise, these rats. And hide behind the door, quick!”
Ripunjaya blew out the lamps on the wall, and wrapped a torn piece of blanket around the metal latch. He then joined Mārthāndan by the door. They crouched beside it, Mārthāndan unlocked it, and they waited. The moonlight from the window filled the room, but it was barely enough to see.
The footsteps outside were now closer, and one of the thieves tested the back door, and finding it open, pushed it in slowly all the way. The open door now hid the crouched forms behind it. The thief took a step in and stood in the doorway, and looked around the room, struggling to see. His bare arms glistened in the moonlight, smeared with oil, to help slip away if caught.
He turned back and gestured to one of his companions. Another man appeared in the doorway. “Horses, only two.” he whispered. “Both well raised, and one richly decorated. Seems a wealthy owner.”
The first thief pointed to the mats on the floor, and raised up all his fingers. The second thief left, and brought the rest of the band, and they all shuffled into the room, as silently as they could. Each picked a mat, and positioned themselves beside it. They took out small knives from within their robes, and stood ready. The first thief, obviously their leader, signalled, and they plunged their blades into the rolled blankets. There were no screams, no spurting of blood. The thieves all looked at each other, confused. One of them lifted the blanket, and held the torn cloth up for the others to see. There was a sharp gasp of exasperation from the leader. “Bring me a lamp, you fools!” He was not whispering anymore.
Mārthāndan and Ripunjaya sat crouched behind the door, still. One of the men had noticed the lamps on the wall, and lit a few of them with a piece of flint. The flames rose slowly, and filled the room in a weak light. Mārthāndan now stood up, and pushed the door. The heavy teak door swung noisily, and crashed against the frame. The bandits all jumped, and turned to see Mārthāndan brandishing his dagger, an angry grin on his face. Ripunjaya still crouched on the floor, his heart pounding, unsure of what to do.
The thieves all looked at their leader. “One against thirteen of us? You must be mad, traveller.” He mocked. He nodded, and the thief closest to Mārthāndan lunged with his knife pointed at Mārthāndan’s chest. Mārthāndan parried effortlessly, and slashed the thief’s neck in a smooth motion. The man fell, gasping and clutching his throat, dead in moments.
“Twelve.” said Mārthāndan. He turned to Ripunjaya. “Watch this door, son.” Mārthāndan took a step forward, the dagger in his left arm. With his right, he reached into his wide cloth belt, and slowly pulled out an urumi that had been carefully concealed inside, wound around his waist. It was a six-foot long piece of flexible, double-edged steel, attached to a sword hilt. It was ribbon-like, thin yet strong. Mārthāndan whipped it around once, it clashed loudly with the floor, with a noise like rumbling thunder.
The bandits looked at each other, eyes wrought with fright. Behind them, their leader stood still, jaw clenched in anger. “Kill him!” he cried, and pushed the nearest thief. The man stumbled, but quickly stood up again, and took a few steps back. Hesitantly, they flanked the large challenger. Mārthāndan’s grin widened, and slowly raised his right arm high. The urumi slithered along the floor noisily. Three of the thieves ventured a small step forward, and the melee began.
Eleven men formed a haphazard circle, stabbing wildly at arm’s length, afraid and unwilling to come any closer. In the centre, Mārthāndan danced. His large form moved swiftly, belying belief. He picked at the bandits with ease, and the thin blade sliced through their flesh like butter. Blood splashed everywhere. Their screams grew deafening, confined by the stone. A few pressed themselves against the walls, but the flying steel found them all the same. One by one, they all slumped to the floor in agony. Wide gashes covered their bodies, and the floor turned slippery with blood.
The slaughter lasted less than a minute. The leader alone remained, by the door, struggling with the cloth around the latch. He turned back, quivering with fear and drenched in sweat. His eyes were wide, and his hands shook as he pulled hopelessly at the cloth. Mārthāndan calmly stepped over the men on the floor, and pulled the leader up by his tunic. The thief swung his knife desperately, trying to drive Mārthāndan back. Mārthāndan parried, and drove his dagger deep into the bandit’s chest. The thief gasped, and coughed up blood. He fell on his knees, sputtering. Mārthāndan pushed him aside, and broke the latch with the dagger hilt, and stepped out.
At the other end of the room, Ripunjaya slowly stood up, his heart thumping. Around him, bodies lay covered in deep cuts, oozing blood. The walls and the ceiling glistened with crimson streaks. Shaking, he stepped over the men, and joined Mārthāndan outside.
Mārthāndan stood with his hands clasped behind him, staring at the horizon. He was covered in blood, but none of it his. A little to the side, Dheeran and Nalā stood still, lazily flicking their long tails. By Nalā’s hooves lay a body, another bandit. A dark stain covered his tunic, and he lay with his dead eyes wide, staring up at the sky, and mouth open. It seemed like he had tried to make away with the horses, but Nalā had kicked him squarely in the chest. A cold gust of wind washed over the hillock. Ripunjaya shivered.
Mārthāndan glanced back. “Did you notice the grey mark on his neck? Have you heard of the Descendants?”
Ripunjaya shook his head.
“They were an outlaw guild bent on destroying the Thattān name. They were prominent decades ago, when Emperor Kumudhan’s father Thanmayan ruled over these lands. It was during the time of the Great War. Thanmaya Thattān had sent the Nākala army and every able-bodied man in aid of the Pāndava clan in the north, to fight against the Kuru dynasty. The War was short, and the Pāndavas were victorious. It lasted only eighteen days, but proved to be disastrous, and both the armies perished. Not one of our men returned home alive to their families.
“It was a dark time for Nākalam. The kingdom grieved together. The families of the soldiers held token funerals, for there were no bodies to cremate. It was the son of one of our generals, who formed the guild. Descendants of the Ashes, they called themselves. They slowly fanned the people’s sorrow into a full-scale civil war and it spread throughout the kingdom like a disease. Violence and riots became commonplace, people were killed on the streets for showing support to the monarchy. Thanmayan could not control the chaos, and unable to watch the kingdom disintegrate, died from grief. Emperor Kumudhan was driven into the forests, just a small child forced to live an impoverished life. The Thattān rule was ended, and Nākalam fell into utter ruin.
“But now the Thattān banner flies high again in Karkottai, and the Descendants have been mostly destroyed. A few destitute bands still roam the countryside, robbing innocent travellers and villagers.” Mārthāndan gestured at the hut, and turned back to gaze emptily at the horizon. “That was them, the Descendants.”
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