SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series – Excerpt#3

TWO

Luv fixed a bead on the lead wagon driver and kept his aim steady. The man looked like he had seen violence before, judging from the scar running down the side of his head and neck, and the way he had yielded without argument. Another veteran, for sure. What did they call them, those fellows who dressed up in those funny purple and black dhotis and vastras?

“PF,” Kush said softly beside him. “Tough old men willing to die rather than surrender. Keep your eye on that one. He looks like trouble.”

“I have him,” Luv replied. “You do what you have to.”

Kush disappeared.

Luv was watching the wagon driver’s eyes. They were looking downwards, at the ground, apparently not looking at anything in particular. Yet Luv clearly saw them widen as Kush vanished. Smart fellow, using his peripheral vision.

Yes, this one bore watching closely. Luv would have bet his straightest arrow on the grizzled old fellow being the head of the wagon train’s security force. An old ex-PF, retired, making a few cross-border trips like this one to keep busy and earn a little to keep up his sense of pride. There would be others in the remaining wagons, younger stronger men, more eager and less sensible, but this one was the head. Cut off the head and the body would flail uselessly. Or so it went in theory. He watched the old driver without staring directly at him – that was a sure way to ruin your focus and tire your eyes quickly – and didn’t miss the veteran’s veiled glances back up the path.

He’s expecting the next wagon to come around that curve any moment, hoping to use its appearance as a distraction to leap down to the right, roll quickly and use the wagon to shield himself.

Luv resisted the urge to grin. The man probably thought he could move pretty fast, even at this age.

And he probably can. But not faster than an arrow. Watch out, old uncle.

But it told him the man was an honourable fellow, willing to risk life and limb to earn his coin. And that made him dangerous.

Kush stood in the center of the path, directly in the way of the second wagon. Heavily laden like the first, it had taken a few moments to maneuver around the rock-strewn path. Two men rode in front of this one; an older man handling the reins, a younger one riding beside him with a shortbow laid on his lap. On catching sight of him, this man swore and raised the bow, fitting an arrow to the string. Should have held it loosely in one hand, ready to shoot. Before he could draw, Kush’s first arrow knocked the bow out of his hands. It struck the wooden frame of the wagon, bounced off and fell under the rear wheel of the wagon. Kush heard the sound of cured wood splintering. Waste of a good weapon.

The man swore again as he snatched up a javelin lying discreetly in a recessed groove beside his seat. He had the upper body bulk of a thrower and Kush had no doubt he had probably won many melas in his day.

He called out as the man raised the metal tipped wooden pole to shoulder height: “Drop the weapon. Keep your arm.”

The man showed his teeth and continued without so much as a sideward glance or hesitation. Kush sighed inwardly and wondered why they never listened. The javelin clattered back onto the wagon’s boards as the man stared uncomprehendingly at the arrow that had sprouted from his bicep, disabling his arm. To his credit, he didn’t scream or cry out. At least he’s a professional. He hated it when at times the vaisya traders too cheap to hire good protectors enlisted their own over-enthusiastic relatives to guard the trains. Someone always got badly hurt at those times.

Kush had already turned the bow back to the wagon driver, another arrow already strung and ready to be loosed. The older man didn’t need to have the basics of life explained to him. He was already clucking and prodding and yanking frantically at the reins. With an effort he managed to stop the wagon barely inches from Kush. The breath of the lead horses puffed warmly on Kush’s bare hairless chest.

He bent his head forward and nuzzled the dripping snout of the lead horse, a roan stallion with a white leaf-shaped patch on his forehead, whispering a few words of endearment, while keeping the bow cocked and aimed at the wagon driver. If the man jerked the team forward at that moment…Kush would have to dance merrily to somersault out of the way of the pounding hooves in time. But he trusted horses more than men. The roan’s eyes would flare the instant that happened, giving him the fraction of a second he needed to act.

He kissed the roan one last time: “Someday, I’ll own a herd of beauties just like you.” The roan whinnied in approval as he walked away.

He jerked his head sideways at the wagon driver and the protector, indicating to them to get off. When both men were on the ground, the younger one glaring balefully at Kush, ignoring the arrow stuck in the meat of his arm, Kush pointed the arrow at each one in turn, making sure they looked into his eyes and saw he was serious. The younger one still looked rebellious, so Kush shot an arrow past his head, nicking his scalp with the fletch as it hissed past, just enough to open a cut that would bleed without actually harming the man. The man cursed again, tried to clap his injured hand to the head cut, slapped his own cheek instead, then got busy trying to keep the blood out of his eyes. Head wounds never stopped bleeding on their own, and the man would need patching and herbs to staunch the small but troublesome trickle. That, along with the arrow still in his arm would keep him distracted enough. The driver would give Kush no trouble: he could see it in the man’s eyes. He probably had grandchildren in Ayodhya he wanted to get home to and fighting to protect some rich vaisya trader’s summer’s earning did not seem motivation enough to risk his life.

“Keep your arrows on them, brothers,” Kush called out as he ran past them. “I shall halt the rest of the grama.”

Their eyes flicked one way then another, attempting to seek out where Kush’s fictitious companions might be placed. Kush grinned as he turned the corner. Good. That would keep them well-behaved till he returned.

He rounded the corner just as the rest of the wagon train trundled into sight. He wondered what the Sanskrit highspeech word was for a train carrying only produce and goods for barter and sale. A grama was strictly speaking a travelling clan or extended tribe. These wagon trains that rolled through this neck of the woods were purely carrying loads of trade items guarded and ferried by hired hands from one market town to another. There were no families here, no kith or kin. Just male kshatriyas of every background possible, all armed to defend these goods. A vaisya-grama, it should be called, he thought scornfully. Not because there was anything wrong with the vaisya merchant class, but because a grama so wholly devoted to naught but the pursuit of wealth and individual profit was unnatural, an abomination. Then again, these were city gramas, and cities were corrupt places, breeding grounds of venial vices. These men probably thought they were merely fulfilling their dharma; not that they even knew what dharma truly meant.

“Halt!” he shouted in a voice far greater than seemed possible for one of his small frame and slender torso. His voice carried the conviction of a man who would enforce his own command with the unleashing of weapons if need be. Never mind that he was less than 10 years of age. It took more than years or kilos of muscle to make a man a man.

The line of laden wagons continued to approach without slowing down. The riders had to have seen Kush but they were urging their teams on regardless, chins tucked low, eyes narrowed. From the hunched, tensed way they sat, Kush sensed that they had either expected something like this to happen or were prepared for it. He also knew what they intended to do: ride over him. The foremost wagon rumbled at a steady pace towards him, just about twenty yards away now. He could see the colours of the eyes of the men riding on the rider’s bench. They looked grizzled and tougher than the ones on the front two wagons. Grama-rakshaks. Luve and he had heard of them, kshatriyas who travelled with gramas like this one, guarding them for a fee. It was the first time he was facing one.

He raised his bow, aiming it at them. They seemed to hunch a little lower but made no other move. The man beside the driver already had a bow in his hand with an arrow fitted to the string, stretched and pointed downwards. As Kush raised his bow, the grama-rakshak raised his own, both arrows ready to loose now. Other than that, there was no reaction to his shouted command.

He didn’t entirely blame them. A single bowman barring their way, that too one of his obvious physical appearance, probably seemed unworthy of any response.

He would just have to prove them wrong.

“Halt or I shoot!” he called again. The wagon was barely fifteen yards away now.

In response, the man beside the driver loosed his own arrow. It was well aimed and Kush felt the heated wind of its passing tickle his chest as he swung his body just enough to make space for the arrow to go by. His arrow was already loosed before he swung around, a fraction of a second after the grama-rakshak’s arrow.

The man cursed once, and stared down at the arrow sprouting from his muscled shoulder. It was not a serious wound but it rendered him incapable of using a bow for the time being, which was all Kush had intended.

The wagon driver cracked his whip and the team of horses lurched forward, breaking into a steady canter. The speed at which they moved startled Kush. It could only mean the wagon was not as heavily laden as Luv and he had thought. They covered the remaining ten yards to him in a trice and he barely had time to sling his bow before the towering Kambhoja stallions thundered down on him, fully twice his height and each weighing a half ton. More than two tons of horse and wagon pounded over him relentlessly.

Ten years have passed since Rama did the unthinkable and banished Sita. Now, she spends her days in quiet tapasya in the remote forest ashram of Maharishi Valmiki, even as her sons Luv and Kush grow ever more proficient at the arts of war. To the sorrow of many, they seem unlikely to ever cross paths with their estranged father. Yet destiny works in unexpected ways. Rama’s growing ambitions and his war-mongering advisors motivate him to launch the Ashwamedha yojana. The mightiest Ayodhyan army ever assembled follows the sacred stallion in a campaign of conquest that seems unstoppable…until a pair of improbable obstacles arise. Defying the military might of Ayodhya and the emperorship of Rama himself, two young striplings capture the Ashwamedha horse and challenge the great army. To Rama’s chagrin the challengers turn out to be none other than his own estranged offspring: the sons of Sita! Don’t miss the epic conclusion to the internationally acclaimed and bestselling Ramayana Series!

SONS OF SITA: Book 8 of The Ramayana Series
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