18

Days later, Kamsa stood on a rocky escarpment and looked out towards the distant spires of a great city.

Magadha.

A kingdom so rich and powerful and strong at arms that the thought of ever overrunning it by force had never even occurred to him. Yet, because of its strategic position, Magadha was a crucial player in the empirical politics of Aryavarta.

Ever since his mortal father Ugrasena’s days of warmongering, Kamsa had heard its name uttered with with respect, fear or frustration, often all three in the same breath. He had fantasized often of standing on this very rise, with a great army behind him, akshohinis upon akshohinis spread out for yojanas, sufficient to cast terror into the heart of any king; of falling upon the great city like a bear upon an unsuspecting prey, crushing it before it could utter a single cry or flail out. For that was the only way that Magadha could be taken: by an enormous force and completely by surprise. Anything else would result in failure and ruin.

Now, here he was, alone, exhausted from the long ride. He had told nobody where he was going. The instant Brahmarishi Narada’s instructions were completed, as per those same instructions, he had turned his panicked horse’s head and ridden off without a word, gesture or backward glance.

Several of his Marauders had caught up with him shortly after, shouting to ask him what he desired of them. He had waved them back furiously, and, when they still followed, he had shot arrows at them from his shortbow, turning in the saddle and aiming above their heads. They had understood then, and had slowed to watch him ride on.

Had the encounter with Vasudeva not occurred shortly earlier, they would almost certainly have tailed him despite his violent objection, if only because, as the crown heir and king-in-waiting, it was their sworn duty as well as their dharma to protect his life. But the encounter had unnerved them, and his behaviour probably made them assume he needed some time to himself. He suspected they would have made camp and would be waiting for him to return, and might even send out regular patrols to see where he went and to observe from a distance.

Alone.

The thought of riding into Magadha on his own, without anyone to back him up, was so far removed from anything he had ever thought or dreamed, it seemed absurd now. And foolish. He literally feared for his life. The shifting politics of the northern kingdoms made it difficult to be certain of one’s relationship with one’s neighbours at all times – without a specific treaty or alliance between Mathura and Magadha, he had no way of knowing if his unannounced unaccompanied arrival would be regarded as an act of hostility or perhaps even an insult. Arya society thrived on parampara and sanskriti – tradition and culture – and many preparations before a royal visit, as well as the pomp and ceremony of the visit itself was an important ritual which enabled both lieges to observe, prepare for, judge and measure one another. The royal procession through the streets of the city were in effect a parade for the citizens to view and measure their neighbouring king’s net worth and military strength. A holiday was always given to enable all to view a royal visit.

Yet here he was, alone, bearing no gifts, unannounced and with unclear politics. He knew almost nothing about the ruler of Magadha apart from the fact that he must be a strong and violently decisive ruler, because he wouldn’t be able to hold the reins of a kingdom this strong and unwieldy if he was not. But that was like saying a kshatriya could use a sword.

Yet Narada-muni’s instructions had been crystal clear:

The first thing you will do is go to Magadha…

He shivered as that echoing voice reverberated in his memory again. Kicking his horse, he drove it down the slope of the escarpment.

Beast and rider stumbled downwards, leaving a curling trail of dust that rose lazily into the clear light of afternoon. At the bottom of the slope, they broke into a shambling trot that soon turned into a canter, heading towards the city.

Their progress was noted and then marked by shielded slitted eyes below curved visors.

As they approached closer, the tips of arrows fixed in strung bows followed the head of the rider, eager to be loosed and embed themselves in his skull.

But the orders were clear and had come from the highest level, down through the ranks:

“A single horse and rider will come. Both as pale as milk. They are to be permitted to pass into the city unharmed, untouched. Nobody will speak to the rider except I. Anyone who attempts to speak with him or slow his progress is to be killed on the spot.”

Orders were obeyed without question in Magadha. Men were executed for looking too sharply at those giving the orders, let alone questioning or disobeying them.

At the city gates, a pack of dogs that strayed into the rider’s path, barking at the stranger, rolled over yelping then lay still in the dust, their thin bodies riddled with arrows.

People in the streets gave the rider a wide berth, windows were shut hurriedly, doors barred, livestock brought indoors, children shushed.

The soldiers in the street who kept the curfew – Magadha was constantly under curfew, around the clock, all days and nights of the year – glanced briefly at the dusty, saddle-weary man of obvious royal bearing and garb, careful not to meet his eyes and to look away instantly. Even their horses shied away from his mount, frothing and almost at the end of its strength.

His horse collapsed on a public street, eyes rolling back to reveal their whites completely before shuddering one final time and then lying still. The rider kicked it several times, too tired to flay it as he usually would have back home, then walked the rest of the way. It was obvious that he had neither received food, nor drink, nor rested or slept for several days.

He wandered through bazaars bursting with produce and wares, an explosion of colour and commerce. He was too exhausted to marvel at the richness of goods on display or the profusion of choice. As princes were wont to do in those times, he had lived mainly within the circumference of his father’s power, the risk of assassination or attack being too great outside his own kingdom for him to travel far. In his childhood years, his father had been at war with most of the world, his ferocity tempered only by age and prudence as he had finally given up the campaigns, the conquests and finally even the rivalries and clashes with neighbours, to sign the recent peace treaty. Those long decades of war had made it unwise for Ugrasena’s young to be permitted to go very far from Mathura. The end result of all this was that Kamsa had seen very little of the world, and almost all that he had seen he had either owned or had some power over.

Here, he had no power, no protection, no friends or servers.

Had a thousand pairs of eyes not watched him every step of the way, he would have been waylaid a dozen times, killed well before he reached even within sight of the vaulting palace gates. Thieves, crooked merchants, corrupt guards…Magadha seethed with dangers and threats as difficult to spy out as its rich market wares and goods were easy to see.

Finally, he reached the palace and was not too tired or dehydrated from travel to note that he was neither questioned nor stopped. Spears were turned away, gates opened before him, shields lowered, eyes looked aside…

At last he stood in an inner courtyard of the king’s own private palace, by a great fountain.

The enormous carved doors inlaid with precious gems and decorated with a great sigil worked in battered gold sheets that were so fine as to be imbedded in the grain of the wood itself through great artisanship, swung noiselessly to, and were shut and barred with booming echoes.

The first thing you will do is go to Magadha and meet privately with Jarasandha.

He had done as the saptarishi had instructed.

He was in the private palace of one of the most powerful kings of present-day Aryavarta.

Now, he waited to see what happened next.

Thank you for taking the time to read these exclusive excerpts from SLAYER OF KAMSA: Book 1 of The Krishna Coriolis. Do take a moment to leave your feedback below for the author!

The fantastic adventures of the Hindu God Krishna have entertained and inspired people for millennia. Playful cowherd, mischievous lover, feared demon-slayer, the legendary exploits of this super-being in human form rival the most rousing fantasy epics. Now, the author of the Ramayana Series®, the hugely successful epic retelling of the ancient Sanskrit poem, works his magic once again with the tales of Krishna. All the pomp, splendor and majesty of ancient India come alive in this extraordinary eight-book series.

SLAYER OF KAMSA

The Krishna Coriolis: Book 1

Click here to request a signed copy (limited availability)

The mass market edition will be in Indian bookstores October 2010!

Kamsa seethed on the ride homewards.

He could not believe he had been bested by a gowala, a mere govinda, a milk-sodden cowherd armed with nothing more than a crook. His head still spun from what he had witnessed. He rode alone, even his Marauders avoiding him for fear that he might take out his frustration and bitterness on them: those he was closest to he tended also to be harshest on at such times. The rows upon rows of cavalry and foot-soldiers straggled on towards Mathura, attempting to keep their voices low to avoid incurring their commander’s wrath, but not wholly succeeding.

He heard snatches of talk everywhere, always about Vasudeva and the ‘chamatkar’ they had witnessed. He knew that the incident would become a great legend over time, and that it had already damaged his leadership badly. He had held together his army by brute force and fear of his own viciousness. They obeyed him because he was their lord and because they believed that none other could stand up to his brutal belligerence in battle. Now that someone had stood up to him, and triumphed so extravagantly, they had no reason to fear him anymore. Yadavas were too independent minded to enjoy the rugged discipline and command structure of a standing army; if he could not hold these men together, they would soon drift back into their traditional occupations. And if he could not keep his core contingent together, the army at large would lose morale as well.

What had happened was an unmitigated disaster. There was no other way to view it. He was still badly shaken by it. Outwardly, he succeeded in keeping up appearances. Inwardly, he was trembling with shock. How had Vasudeva done it? It was impossible! Yet it had happened before his very eyes. He had tested it every which way he could think of, and found no trickery, nothing to indicate maya or sorcery.

But if not sorcery, then what?

The other explanation, the one his soldiers were bandying about, was too preposterous to consider for even a moment. Hand of Vishnu indeed! As if almighty Vishnu would reach down from Vaikuntaloka and protect a simple Vrishni clan-chieftan!

But what else could have accomplished such a feat?

He was still lost in his own morose thoughts when his horse whickered and came to a halt, stamping his feet.

He looked up to see what was obstructing his way.

It was a sadhu. A penitent hermit clad in trademark tattered red ochre robes, restin his weight on a rough staff. But unlike most tapasvis, he had no flowing white beard or the stick-thin body of one who had wasted away through prolonged fasting and self-deprivation.

Kamsa’s horse whickered and shied away from the man. Kamsa squeezed his already tight grip on reins, pulling the horse’s head down, yanking the bit hard enough to cut its mouth to remind it of the consequences of acting up. It settled reluctantly, but he could see its eyes looking off to one side, rolling to show their whites, as if afraid of the man who stood in its path.

Kamsa frowned down at the sadhu. “Old brahmin,” he said impatiently. “Get out of my way. Do you know who I am?”

The sadhu looked up at him imperiously with that supremely arrogant brahminical look of superiority that Kamsa had loathed ever since he was a boy.

Ugrasena-putra, Padmavati-putra, your end is nigh.

Kamsa’s horse reacted before he did, bucking hard. It took a few sharp applications of the stick and some mouth-twisting to keep it from bolting. Only then did Kamsa allow himself to feel the shock that had struck him the instant that booming bass voice had resounded in his mind.

It’s the same voice, the one that spoke to me on the field before I attacked Vasudeva.

He was overcome by a powerful urge to spur his mount on and run the brahmin over. But the horse was acting very strangely now; despite his warnings to it, still it persisted in shying and whickering incessantly, trying desperately to twist its head away from the old brahmin. He raised his stick and was about to administer a harsh reminder of his mastery when he saw something that further chilled his heart.

The old man cast no shadow.

The sun was off to their front and to the right, low in the sky, casting long shadows behind them. The old brahmin’s shadow ought to have stretched from where he stood down towards Kamsa, leaning diagonally to the left. That was how the shadows of the trees and passing soldiers on either side were falling, moving and distorting as they intermingled. But where the old man stood, with everyone leaving a clear berth for Kamsa to ride along, there was not so much as a whisper of shadow.

“What are you?” Kamsa cried out, suddenly feeling more apprehensive than he would have at any other time. The encounter with Vasudeva had shaken him to the core, disturbing him more deeply than he had realized. He knew that now, when he saw his horse’s reaction, the lack of a shadow and the obvious way his own passing soldiers were paying no attention to the old man standing just a few yards ahead – as if they did not see any old man standing there at all.

He suddenly wished he were anywhere but here.

I am Narada, said the brahmin, one of the original saptarishis, the brahmarishis who walked the mortal realm when it was newly made, before men and asuras and amsas and avatars and all other manner of beings. We were giants then and we lived inside the earth.

Kamsa found himself unable to speak.

The old rishi peered up at his face and nodded, his ancient face creasing in what might have once passed for a look of amusement.

You are not as feeble-minded as some think. You have already fathomed that I am here only in spirit not flesh.

“Bhoot,” Kamsa said, the word emerging as a croak from his throat, “preyth.”

Narada-muni’s face wrinkled in that almost-smile again, taking on an almost sinister cast.

Neither ghost nor ghoul. Merely transporting between planes on an errand. Usually, I would use a vortal to pass from one world to the next. But today’s errand required a different means.

“Vortal,” Kamsa repeated mechanically. He seemed incapable of saying anything original. A band of his Marauders passed on the left hand, their chatter dying out as they registered their lord standing in the middle of the clearing staring and speaking to apparently no one.

A manner of portal that enables one to travel between worlds. But vortals require a physical movement from one universe to the other. They also have specific laws governing them, such as the Law of the Balance.

“Balance,” Kamsa croaked. His horse had subsided and now hung its head to one side, eyes white, mouth frothing, as it seemed to resign itself to a certain death or perhaps even some far worse fate.

So I used a Mirror.

“Mirror,” Kamsa whispered, barely audible.

What you see here is merely a reflection of my physical form. That is why I cast no shadow and why, if you were to ride forward now, you would pass through this image of me as easily as through a cloud of smoke. My voice is projected astrally into your brain which is why you hear me.

“Astrally,” Kamsa said, starting to feel afraid, very, very afraid.

Suddenly, Narada-muni’s face grew sombre.

But enough preamble. The reason I am here, Kamsa son of Ugrasena and Padmavati, is to impart valuable knowledge and advice to you. I know of your failure against Vasudeva, despite my exhortations to kill him. That is why I have resorted to this method to impart my message to you. Heed well my words. For what I am about to say will serve you well in the days and years to come. It may even save your life and enable you to accomplish the great ambition you harbour in your heart. The ambition to be emperor of the entire world. That is what you desire, is it not?

This time Kamsa could not speak even a single word. He merely nodded vigorously.

Narada dipped his ancient visage in response.

So heed me well. I shall tell you that which shall change your life entire and make the impossible possible. Pay close attention to every word I say now for I am about to hand you your future on a golden tray. The world shall unfold before you like a lotus in water, offering itself freely. You shall be king of all Prithviloka as you desire. Every dream shall be realized, every enemy destroyed, every ambition fulfilled.

Kamsa was surprised to hear his voice ask hoarsely: “Why?”

Narada looked just as surprised.

He raised his head, frowning, turning his vast sloping forehead into an ancient crumpled leather map that had been folded too small too many times.

Why, you ask? Impudent fool. I am about to gift you the secret by which you will rule the world and you question why I do so?

He seemed about to lose his temper, the legendary epic temper of brahmarishis. Both Kamsa as well as his horse cringed but Narada visibly regained control of himself.

Harumph. It does not matter. Someday I shall return, in person, and demand of you guru-dakshina as is my right, and you shall grant me my wish without hesitation or question. Does that answer your ‘Why’?

Kamsa, eyes wide with shock and fear, nodded several times more than necessary. Passing soldiers glanced at him curiously then looked at each other. Their commander was known for his eccentricities and extreme behaviour, but this was unlike even him: standing in the middle of the woods, staring white-faced at nothing, and making absurd gestures! Perhaps defeat at the hands of Vasudeva had loosened the last hinge on his door.

For now, all you need do is listen and do as I say. Exactly as I say. Precisely as I say. Do you follow me, boy?

Kamsa nodded vigorously again, his chin striking his chest armourplate more than once.

Narada nodded, satisfied. Then he began to speak:

The first thing you will do…

Click here to read the next excerpt from SLAYER OF KAMSA

The fantastic adventures of the Hindu God Krishna have entertained and inspired people for millennia. Playful cowherd, mischievous lover, feared demon-slayer, the legendary exploits of this super-being in human form rival the most rousing fantasy epics. Now, the author of the Ramayana Series®, the hugely successful epic retelling of the ancient Sanskrit poem, works his magic once again with the tales of Krishna. All the pomp, splendor and majesty of ancient India come alive in this extraordinary eight-book series.

SLAYER OF KAMSA

The Krishna Coriolis: Book 1

Click here to request a signed copy (limited availability)

The mass market edition will be in Indian bookstores October 2010!

16

Finally, with dozens of his own soldiers lying in bloody splotches on the field, Kamsa’s anger dissipated.

He leaned over the mane of his horse, leaning on its neck, sword blade dripping blood. He was more exhausted than after a battle.

He looked up at Vasudeva at last.

“I accept,” he said in a voice unlike himself. “I will respect the terms of the treaty.”

He gave the command to break camp and return to Mathura. This order his soldiers obeyed happily, glancing back with fearful respect at the uks cart as they gathered up their implements and weapons and other materials and prepared for the journey home. Throughout their ranks, men spoke with hushed voices of the miracle they had witnessed, of the will of the devas, of the great hand of Vishnu that had protected Vasudeva from Kamsa’s adharmic attack. For Vasudeva’s devotion to dharma was legendary, and while Yama was Lord of Death and Dharma, it was Vishnu, in his many avatars who was the ultimate upholder of dharma. The Sword of Dharma as some called him. There were many who whispered that Vasudeva was no less than Vishnu’s amsa on Prithviloka, descended to restore dharma to the earth.

By dusk, Kamsa’s battalion was riding homewards.

Vasudeva and Akrur sat in the centre of the empty field, scarcely able to believe what they had accomplished.

The last stragglers disappeared from sight, their passing lit by the fading saffron glow of the setting sun.

Vasudeva turned to Akrur. “When we set out this morning—” he began. Then stopped.

Akrur looked at Vasudeva with brimming eyes. They shone in the sunset like golden orbs. He joined his palms in anjali and bowed his head. He touched Vasudeva’s feet.

“My Lord,” he said. “Forgive me for having doubted you.  I did not recognize you in this mortal guise.”

Vasudeva clicked his tongue impatiently. “Come now, Akrur. You have known me since we were both boys with snotty noses. I am no amsa of Vishnu. I am merely a mortal man, like yourself.”

Akrur shook his head. “What I witnessed today, no mortal man could accomplish.”

Vasudeva nodded. “I confess I cannot explain how or why that happened. But even so, I would credit my conviction in the power of dharma and my belief in ahimsa. I came here determined to convince Kamsa without resorting to violence, and I succeeded. Today’s victory is a triumph of dharma and pacifism.”

“Whatever name you give to it, bhaiya, it was a miracle. Call it a miracle of dharma or Vishnu’s hand intervening. Either way, you are a deva among men. Of that, there is no doubt at all.”

Vasudeva smiled ruefully. “I am a deva in name only. But if my sense of dharma pleases the gods above and helps me serve my people, so be it.” He looked around at the empty field. “At least, I think now that Kamsa will not come again to these parts to do his wicked work.”

Akrur made a sound of disgust. “Rakshasa. The way he butchered his own men! I wish that you had killed him.”

Vasudeva had taken the reins from Akrur. He clucked his tongue, driving the uksan forward, starting the journey back home. “Had I done so, I would have been no better than he. Nay, Akrur. I think what transpired today was a shining example of the power of peace over the path of violence. Violence only begets more violence. Peace ends violence. Had I slain Kamsa today, his people would still have had just cause in attacking my people again, and yet again, the cycle continuing endlessly. By not raising a weapon or causing anyone harm, I proved my point more effectively than a dozen battles could ever have done.”

“This is true,” Akrur acknowledged. “I do not think we shall see Prince Kamsa again this side of the river!” He laughed. “Who knows. He may even have to retire from warmongering forever. I do not think his men will follow him with any modicum of respect from now on, what do you say?”

Vasudeva chuckled. “He might have some difficulty in that regard.”

Their laughter rose above the treetops as the uks cart clattered and rattled down the bumpy path, mingling with the cries of birds seeking their nests for the night. The news they carried back that night would occasion celebrations across the Sura nation, jubilation at the departure of Kamsa’s marauders and the prevention of what had seemed to be certain war with the Andhakas.

Sadly, they were mistaken in their assumptions, their confidence misplaced.

The worst was yet to come.

Click here to read the next excerpt from SLAYER OF KAMSA

The fantastic adventures of the Hindu God Krishna have entertained and inspired people for millennia. Playful cowherd, mischievous lover, feared demon-slayer, the legendary exploits of this super-being in human form rival the most rousing fantasy epics. Now, the author of the Ramayana Series®, the hugely successful epic retelling of the ancient Sanskrit poem, works his magic once again with the tales of Krishna. All the pomp, splendor and majesty of ancient India come alive in this extraordinary eight-book series.

SLAYER OF KAMSA

The Krishna Coriolis: Book 1

Click here to request a signed copy (limited availability)

The mass market edition will be in Indian bookstores October 2010!

15

Fury rose in Kamsa like bile in a drunkard’s gorge.

He reached down and yanked out a javelin from its sheath. It too was finely wrought and bejewelled at the hilt, his sigil carved into the base. He always left one such javelin at the site of any place he attacked, standing from the chest of the chief or leader of the enemy, as a symbol of his conquest.

He raised the javelin, hooked it beneath his shoulder, in his armpit, like a lance, and kicked his horse forward. He charged at the uks cart, aiming the javelin at Vasudeva’s chest, screaming as loudly as he could.

This time there was no answering roar from his soldiers. They were still too stunned by the shattering of the sword.

But as the point of the javelin plunged directly at Vasudeva’s chest, the cowherd chieftain raised his crook again, barely a few inches, and countered the powerful lunging weapon with barely enough force to push back a gnat.

Yet it was force enough.

The point of the javelin shattered, the pole itself splintering into a dozen shards. The pieces toppled to the ground, some knocking woodenly against the forward right wheel of the uks cart before tumbling to the churned ground. Only the base remained in Kamsa’s armpit, a jagged edge poking out, and a small piece in his fist. He stared at it in disgust as he rode past the cart, turning his mount around again, then tossed it aside. It was good for no more than starting a fire now. He had brought down elephants with that javelin, men by the dozen. Now it was kindling.

And yet his arm and body thrummed as if he had struck against a stone wall. His fingers were numb from the impact, his armpit and shoulder sore from the force of the strike. He had struck armoured shields with lances at top riding speed and experienced less resistance than with this impact.

He stared at Vasudeva in fury. The Vrishni had an expression of frank wonder on his face, as if he too could not understand how what was happening was happening. Kamsa desired nothing more than to smash in that face, demolish that expression.

Kamsa turned to look around. He saw a mace in the hands of one of his soldiers, a burly muscled fellow who had been exercising with the weapon as most of his men often did, swinging it round over their head to build upper body bulk and strength.

Kamsa rode over and without a word, snatched the mace from the man’s hands. The soldier stepped back to avoid being knocked down by Kamsa’s horse, lost his balance and fell into the mud. Kamsa turned back, the soldier already forgotten, and hefted the mace in his left hand – the right was still numb and senseless from the javelin impact.

He roared with rage, and rode straight at the uks cart again. He saw the whites of the eyes of Vasudeva’s friend, who was as shocked as Kamsa’s soldiers, but with a notable difference. The soldiers were merely watching as spectators; Vasudeva’s companion was in the firing line of Kamsa’s assaults. Kamsa saw the man flinch as he rode straight at the cart, swinging the mace overhead in a classic mace attack approach, then, instead of swinging the mace at Vasudeva’s body, he flung and released it.

The mace flew through the air barely three yards or so.

It ought to have caught Vasudeva in the chest, neck and jaw, shattering bone, smashing flesh, battering the heart to pulp. It was a death blow. The mace weighed no less than half a hundred kilos. Flung with that force from a cantering horse, it would have struck Vasudeva with ten times that weight in impact.

Vasudeva raised his crook just in time to meet the oncoming mace.

The mace turned to pulp.

Kamsa saw the solid metal crumple as if striking against a house-sized boulder, heard the sound of the metal being crushed, and saw the mace wilt like a flower sprayed with poison. It thumped to the ground, no more than a piece of twisted metal.

Kamsa roared his fury.

Then he turned and pointed at the company of archers who stood, staring in disbelief as these extraordinary sights.

“Archers! Raise your bows!”

He had to repeat the order twice more before they obeyed, even so they moved sluggishly, like men underwater. One of them remained gaping open-mouthed and Kamsa vented his fury by pulling out another javelin from its sheath on his saddle and flinging it at the man. The javelin punched through the archer’s neck and out the other side in an explosion of blood and gristle, almost decapitating the man. His corpse fell, shuddering and spitting blood from the horrific wound for several moments, accompanied by a wet gurgling sound as the air in his lungs was expelled out the severed throat. After that, the archers moved more efficiently, their years of training and relentless discipline taking over from their numbed minds.

“Aim!” Kamsa cried. The target was obvious.

The officer commanding the company of archers called out in alarm. “Sire, if we miss our mark, we shall hit our own!” The danger was obvious: In a field crowded with their own compatriots, the arrows were bound to overshoot their mark and strike friendly bodies.

Kamsa didn’t care. “Loose!” he cried.

White-faced and blinking, the archers loosed.

Over three dozen longbow arrows flew through the air at Vasudeva and his companion. This time, Vasudeva did not even bother to raise the crook. There was no way to block forty arrows with a single stick.

Vasudeva faced the barrage calmly. His face had progressed from the expression of wonderment Kamsa had seen earlier to a look of acceptance. It was almost beatific in its calmness.

The arrows shattered in mid air as if striking an invisible wall.

Blue light sparked where their points struck nothingness.

Vasudeva’s companion flinched, then stared around in amazement, as splinters fell around them in a harmless shower.

Kamsa screamed with frustration.

“AGAIN!” he cried. “LOOSE AGAIN!”

Another barrage. The same results.

Kamsa lost his senses completely then.

He pointed at the cart, yelling, “ATTACK! KILL THEM BOTH!”

But not a soldier moved on the field. The archers lowered their bows, ashen. Those nearest to the cart gazed up in wonderment. Several joined their palms together in anjali, as if paying darshan to a deity in a temple.

Kamsa rode forward, striking these men down, crushing them under his horse’s hooves.

He whipped others, roared again and again. “ATTACK! I COMMAND IT. ATTACK!”

But not one man of the thousand moved to obey.

Kamsa rode around in a red rage, killing and maiming his own men. Unable to get them to respond to his commands, he took a fresh sword and hacked them down where they stood. He killed at random, not bothering to check if the man was dead, leaving many mortally wounded. None cried out, none protested. All gazed at Vasudeva and joined their palms in wonderment, dying without argument.

Click here to read the next excerpt from SLAYER OF KAMSA

The fantastic adventures of the Hindu God Krishna have entertained and inspired people for millennia. Playful cowherd, mischievous lover, feared demon-slayer, the legendary exploits of this super-being in human form rival the most rousing fantasy epics. Now, the author of the Ramayana Series®, the hugely successful epic retelling of the ancient Sanskrit poem, works his magic once again with the tales of Krishna. All the pomp, splendor and majesty of ancient India come alive in this extraordinary eight-book series.

SLAYER OF KAMSA

The Krishna Coriolis: Book 1

Click here to request a signed copy (limited availability)

The mass market edition will be in Indian bookstores October 2010!

14

Vasudeva saw something occur to Kamsa, though he was not sure what it was. For an instant or two, it was as if the world went dark and a black storm surrounded himself and the Andhaka prince. He saw Kamsa staring around, wild-eyed, struggling to control his panicked horse. So. The horse could see the black storm as well! But nobody else could, not even Akrur, Vasudeva sensed. What did it mean? When the booming voice began to speak, he was startled. It was clearly directed at Kamsa, yet he heard it too, quite distinctly. Nothing of this sort had ever occurred to him before…

Or perhaps it had.

He recalled the sensation that had struck him when Kamsa flung the barbed spear at him in Mathura. The way the world had seemed to reduce to only a few yards, only Kamsa and he contained within an oval surrounded by roaring rushing wind. Beyond the roaring wind, he knew the world still existed, but within that space, there was only Kamsa, himself and the flying spear. And then a white force had flashed before his eyes, tinged with blue at the centre, and the spear had imbedded itself into the light!

It struck home as hard as if it had struck flesh and bone, and for a moment, Vasudeva had thought it had hit his flesh and bone. He had looked down at his chest, certain he would see the spear protruding, his life blood spilling out onto the marbled floor of the Andhaka palace. Instead, he had seen the tip of the spear, captured by the white-and-blue light, as securely as a dragonfly in amber.

Then the roaring wind had receded, bringing back the sound and cacophony of the mortal world, and Kamsa had attempted to dislodge the spear, to twist and pull and turn it – without success. And Vasudeva had known instinctively that were he to reach down and grasp the pole of the weapon, it would come free of the insubstantial light easily.

He had done so, and been rewarded with success. As he took hold of the spear, the white-and-blue light had dissipated. He saw motes of blue drifting away, sparkling like starlight on a moonless night, then they were gone.

Now, something similar had occurred. Kamsa and he had once more been detached from the mortal world by some supernatural force, and once more he had seen that blue light glow around himself. He had also seen the fear flash in Kamsa’s hot red eyes as Ugrasena’s son also recognized what was happening. Then the voice had spoken, urging, commanding, demanding…and Kamsa’s fear was replaced by malevolence.

The world cracked back to life, like a tree split by lightning.

The sound of a thousand soldiers roaring with shocked emotion struck him like a wave. They were roaring not out of battle rage, for this was no army they were facing on a field of war. They were roaring with outrage at their own prince’s actions. Yet, mingled with their outrage and shock was the warrior’s throaty rasp of blind rage. Their’s not to question why; their’s but to kill or die. Their prince, their commander had spoken his orders, and with Kamsa, it was either follow and obey without question or be killed without question.

And so they all leaped forward, encircling the two men on the uks cart, unarmed and defenseless.

A thousand against two.

Had slaughter ever been this simple?

Vasudeva heard Akrur’s cry of outrage and frustration. His friend had warned him against precisely this event. He had expected no less of Kamsa. Vasudeva felt sad that Akrur had been proven right and he, Vasudeva, had seemingly been proven wrong. Yet he knew that he was not the one who was wrong. It was Kamsa who had chosen to act against dharma. Kamsa’s actions here would be condemned by kshatriyas everywhere, and after Vasudeva’s and Akrur’s death under such grossly unfair and unacceptable conditions – two unarmed men cut down by a thousand belligerent soldiers! – the story itself would serve to unite the Suras and Bhojas against the Andhakas. The war that would follow would be to the bitter end, for no Yadava, let alone a Vrishni, could stomach such adharma. Kamsa would be destroyed in time by his own precipitious folly. And Vasudeva and Akrur would be martyrs forever, held up as shining examples of courage and dharma for millennia to come.

But I do not wish to be martyred, Vasudeva thought sadly. I came not to die but to win. All I desired was to win peaceably rather than through violence. Is this your justice, Lord? Is this how you would treat your children who desire peace? Then why should not every Arya raise a sword and let a steel edge speak instead of his tongue?

And then Kamsa came at him, standing in the stirrups of his horse, sword raised at a diagonal angle, the slashing blade aimed at Vasudeva’s neck.

Vasudeva raised his hand instinctively, unaware that he was even doing so. It was a reflexive action, and he had no more conscious awareness of raising the limb than he was aware of the intake and outtake of each breath.

He was unaware of the fact that he held his crook in his hand, the cowherd’s crook that he carried everywhere when travelling. It had been lying across his lap on the journey here and once or twice he had used it to swish away flies from the haunches of the uks. Other than that, it merely lay there, virtually forgotten.

Now, he raised his hand and the crook rose with it.

Kamsa’s descending sword blade met the length of the crook. Two broad inches of finely honed Mithila steel, sharpened well enough to split a silk scarf into two halves, struck an inch-thick yew stick, veined and cracked with age, for it had been Vasudeva’s father’s crook before him, and who knew when he had cut it and shaped it and how many decades it had served both father and son.

The warrior’s sword met the cowherd’s stick.

And the sword shattered.

For a moment, the world was still. The roaring of the thousand died away to silence. Every pair of eyes was transfixed. Every face turned. Every voice stilled.

As if time itself had slowed, the earth paused in its turning, the sun and wind and heavens transfixed as well, the sword struck the crook, and splintered into a thousand thousand parts. Not pieces or shards or even splinters…

Dust.

One moment, a beautifully lethal Mithila sword, capable of hacking easily through Vasudeva’s neck, or halfway through the trunk of a yard thick sala trunk in a single stroke, was descending to its butcher’s work.

Next instant, the sword’s blade struck the crook, and shattered to powder.

Only the hilt remained in Kamsa’s hand, and the battle cry in his throat.

The cry died as well, as he swung the bladeless hilt, the lack of impact and his own considerable strength almost toppling him off the horse.

He held his seat, then stared at Vasudeva as his horse, spurred on, trotted past the uks cart a yard or three, turned smartly and turned another complete circle before coming to a halt beside the cart. Kamsa stared up at Vasudeva’s neck with stunned incomprehension.

Then he turned his eyes to the hilt of the sword in his own fist. Bejewelled, intricately carved with the sigil of the Andhakas, finely worked by the most illustrious craftsmen of the kingdom.

Now merely an objet d’art, to be mounted on a marble cup and displayed in a museum, utterly useless as a weapon.

He stared at the hilt in disbelief, blinking.

All around him, his soldiers stared as well.

Then he looked up again, staring at Vasudeva, who was lowering the crook to his lap again.

A few motes of silvery dust were still swirling in the air, and as Kamsa looked at Vasudeva – alongwith a thousand Andhaka soldiers – the motes swirled round, rose up and were carried away by the wind. They were tinted by blue, and sparkled as they dissipated.

Click here to read the next excerpt from SLAYER OF KAMSA

The fantastic adventures of the Hindu God Krishna have entertained and inspired people for millennia. Playful cowherd, mischievous lover, feared demon-slayer, the legendary exploits of this super-being in human form rival the most rousing fantasy epics. Now, the author of the Ramayana Series®, the hugely successful epic retelling of the ancient Sanskrit poem, works his magic once again with the tales of Krishna. All the pomp, splendor and majesty of ancient India come alive in this extraordinary eight-book series.

SLAYER OF KAMSA

The Krishna Coriolis: Book 1

Click here to request a signed copy (limited availability)

The mass market edition will be in Indian bookstores October 2010!

12

Kamsa could scarcely believe his eyes as he approached the uks cart. He slowed before it, feeling his mouth twist in a leery grin.

“Vasudeva? Clan-chief of the Vrishnis, Lord of the Sura Yadava nation? Riding only an uks cart?” He laughed, and his men, tired and satiated from another successful and richly rewarding raid, laughed as well. “Does your nation have no chariots for a king? No entourage, royal guard, nothing?”

He turned to his men, grinning and winking. “At least they could have sent a few of those Gokuldham milkmaids along to protect you!”

A loud round of guffaws greeted that comment. The camp’s attention was centred on their leader now, and word spread quickly up and down the cantonment of Vasudeva’s presence. Many off-duty soldiers and other workers crowded around to catch a glimpse of the great Sura king, whose prowess as a general as well as a ruler was legendary. Kamsa saw their surprised reactions as they took in the rusticity of Vasudeva’s transport and his simple gowala apparel.

He also noted the absence of any visible weaponry.

Vasudeva replied in a disarmingly good-natured tone, “We are like this only, Prince Kamsa. Simple cowherds and dairy farmers, we are not sophisticated castle dwellers like you Andhakas. We live close to the soil and love the smells of earth and cattle around us.”

There was a buzz of amusement at these words. Some of Kamsa’s men even clapped and cheered at the response. He glared around in sudden fury, losing his good humour instantly.

Conscripted soldiers though they were, even the most hardened Andhaka veteran was at heart a gowala. Cowherds with swords, Kamsa called them contemptuously during drill practise, working his whip arduously “to beat out the traces of milk from your bloodstream”. Never having worked a field or milked a cow, growing up in the lap of luxury in his father’s palace, Kamsa had a deep enduring resentment towards rustic men. The resentment came from envy, from hearing other boys and men talk of crop cycles, soil types, the affect of climate on harvests, bird migrations, cow feed, cattle ailments and such matters. These were things from which he had always been excluded, and his lack of knowledge had often been greeted with laughter and derision in the early years, giving him a powerful sense of inferiority. His first fights had been over this very difference between him and other Yadavas, and he had never truly gotten over being an outsider to such things.

Now, he sneered at Vasudeva: “Yes, well, we seem to be stamping your fellow countrymen back into the soil they love so much, mingling their blood and brains with cow shit. I’m sure they’re very content now.”

At once, the gathering grew grim. His men, knowing Kamsa’s peculiarities and nature, immediately lost whatever good humour they had, and began to drift away to their respective tasks. Curious to a fault though the Yadavas were, they knew better than to incur the wrath of their lord. Kamsa was given to flinging maces randomly at his own men, killing anyone who happened to be unlucky enough to be standing nearby. His sensitivity at being reminded of his lack of rustic skills or knowledge was equally well known.

The sight of Vasudeva’s face – and that of his companion – helped restore much of Kamsa’s good cheer.

“Then you admit to killing innocent Suras,” Vasudeva said in a level voice.

“Suras, certainly. Innocent, no.” Kamsa shifted his horse a few steps closer to the cart, putting the head of his Kambhoja stallion almost nose to nose with the uksan who made unhappy sounds and tried to retreat. Kamsa’s horse snickered and snorted hot breath down on them contemptuously, showing his superiority. “They were about to transgress onto our territory, some even in the act of crossing the river, others illegally diverting channels from the river for irrigation. My soldiers and I were merely upholding the terms of the treaty.”

Vasudeva’s companion glared at Kamsa with a cold rage that promised blood and mayhem if only he had a sword in his hand. He was clearly controlling himself only under duress. Kamsa tilted his head and smiled cattily at the man, tempted to toss him a sword just to see how well his self-control held.

“And you can prove these transgressions?” Vasudeva asked.

Kamsa shrugged. “There were several witnesses. Hundreds. Take your pick.”

He gestured vaguely at the mounted contingent behind him, still seated astride their horses until their leader dismounted.

Vasudeva kept his eyes on Kamsa. “And if I question your word and produce witnesses of my own?” He added sharply, “Survivors of your ‘treaty’ raids. Who will counter your claims and give witness that you were the transgressors, entering unlawfully onto our lands, giving no notice of your approach, grossly violating all rules of kshatriya dharma, slaughtering unarmed innocents, including children and old and infirm, and abusing our women… If I provide this countermanding evidence, what say you then?”

Kamsa shrugged, looking away from Vasudeva. For a milk-sodden cowherd, the man had a manner that was unquestionably kinglike and commanding. He could see how the Vrishni had developed a reputation for leadership. He reminded Kamsa of his father when Kamsa was young and soft and Ugrasena was one of the hardest military commanders in all Aryavarta, notorious for his campaigns of conquest.

“You can drag out anyone you want, claim anything,” Kamsa said, “As crown prince and heir of Mathura and military commander of her armies, I am answerable to no one. I pass summary judgement based on my observations and conclusions. No so-called witness or ‘survivor’ can question my actions.”

“But I can.” The statement was simply spoken, with no trace of challenge or defiance. Yet the steel in that statement was undoubted. Vasudeva’s face was a granite carving, his eyes cold lights shining like beacons in darkness. “I am king of the Sura Yadava nation, lord of the Vrishnis. It was I who signed the peace treaty with your father King Ugrasena. I stamped my seal to the terms and conditions of the treaty. I have every right to question your actions and intentions.”

Kamsa raised his eyes to meet Vasudeva’s. The atmosphere on the grounds had suddenly changed. Not a sound could be heard anywhere along the length and breadth of the clearing: every single man was watching and listening.

“Are you calling me a liar, Lord Vasudeva?” Kamsa asked softly.

Vasudeva looked at him with unblinking gaze for a long moment. He seemed to be considering, weighing, debating. Though his face remained outwardly calm and composed, it was evident that a great battle was raging within his soul. Even his companion turned to glance quickly, searchingly at his lord, as if wondering what his next words might be. Finally, a truce was declared – as one side won out over the other.

“I am asking you to uphold the peace,” Vasudeva said. “To return to Mathura at once with all your forces and leave the policing of this side of the river to me. This is my territory to control, not your’s. You are here without my authorization or permission. I request you kindly– ” he raised his hands and joined them together in a sincere anjali, “–I beseech you, as one king to another, to let me control and police my people myself. Go now, at once, and kindly give my eternal love and best wishes to your father and mother as well. The Sura nation and Andhaka nation are now allies and neighbours in peace. I beg you, let us stay in peace.”

There was a long deafening silence after this pronouncement. Vasudeva remained standing on the cart with his hands joined in anjali, head bowed.

Kamsa heard the distant calling of birds across the clearing, and glimpsed a flight of kraunchyas out the corner of his eye, rising from the forest and taking to the skies in a long wheeling half circle.

Every last man on the field had heard – or been informed about through word of mouth – Vasudeva’s unequivocal command couched in humility, and was now waiting with bated breath for Kamsa’s response.

Click here to read the next excerpt from SLAYER OF KAMSA

The fantastic adventures of the Hindu God Krishna have entertained and inspired people for millennia. Playful cowherd, mischievous lover, feared demon-slayer, the legendary exploits of this super-being in human form rival the most rousing fantasy epics. Now, the author of the Ramayana Series®, the hugely successful epic retelling of the ancient Sanskrit poem, works his magic once again with the tales of Krishna. All the pomp, splendor and majesty of ancient India come alive in this extraordinary eight-book series.

SLAYER OF KAMSA

The Krishna Coriolis: Book 1

Click here to request a signed copy (limited availability)

The mass market edition will be in Indian bookstores October 2010!

11

Akrur put a hand on Vasudeva’s shoulder as they approached the Andhaka camp.

“Bhaiya,” he said, for to him Vasudeva was no less than an elder brother. “I beg you, reconsider your decision. I fear nothing good will come of this.”

Vasudeva patted his friend’s hand affectionately. “When our mission is for good, the outcome will always be good.”

Akrur dropped his hand back to the reins. The track was heavily pitted and holed from the passing of large numbers of troops and wagons and it required close attention to avoid cracking a wheel or breaking an uks’s foot. But that was not the main reason why he stayed silent the rest of the way. He was dead set against Vasudeva’s visit to the Andhaka camp and had not hesitated to show his disagreement with his elder’s plan. For all their formality and love or ritual and tradition – parampara was the correct term – the Yadavas were fiercely independent people, quick to express their own individual opinions, no matter how contrary, unproductive or impractical. It was the reason why the Yadava nations functioned as true republics; no other system would suffice to encompass such an independent-minded individualistic people! And of all the Yadava clans, even among the three largest nations of clans, the Vrishnis were the most independent, idealistic and individualistic. As the old saying went: Easier to draw milk from a bull daily than to convince a Vrishni Yadav.

And after all, Vasudeva was as much a Vrishni as Akrur. None of his friends or allies had been able to talk him out of this impossible mission. He was determined to take this petition to Kamsa in the sanctity of the latter’s own camp and risk his neck.

And he was adamant that he would do it alone and unarmed, with just Akrur to drive the cart. “One cannot petition for peace with a sword in hand,” he had said and had then joined both palms together to demonstrate, “when one joins one’s hands in anjali, you would cut your own hands with the blade!”

Nobody smiled at his wit. They were all too anxious that he would lose his life.

“You are putting your head in the lion’s jaws,” they said.

And Vasudeva had smiled his good-natured smile and said, “I shall check for rotten teeth while I am in there!”

Now, the uks-drawn cart trundled around the long curving marg that led through the thickly wooded area towards the Andhaka camp. After running amok across several border villages and towns, Kamsa and his Marauders had settled camp here. Nobody was quite sure why but the theory was that the Andhakas had ruffled too many local feathers and realized that were they to continue further into Sura territory, there might be consequences. Kamsa was notorious for such lightning raids, often under cover of foul weather, at night or during festivals, rather than risking full-frontal confrontations and in the past, when things got too hot for him to handle, he went scampering back across the river. Vasudeva prayed that this camp was only a temporary show of bravado before Kamsa retired from the current campaign of ‘patrolling’ the borders – which was the official excuse, even though this spot was yojanas within Sura Yadava territory. It was on the verge of Vrishni territory in fact, and the Council had believed that Kamsa lacked the guts to risk facing the wrath of the heartland farmers who were now forewarned and enraged by the reports of Kamsa’s atrocities on their fellow countrymen further south and west.

He frowned as the cart came around the final curve and the road dipped sharply. As Akrura handled the uksan, Vasudeva stared with consternation at the field ahead. This was not merely a clearing housing Kamsa’s hundred odd Marauders. The Andhakas had obviously cleared a much larger space in the centre of this thickly wooded region, creating a clearing large enough to house a small army.

Indeed, from the rows upon rows of horses, tents, and even large makeshift shacks, and the hustle and bustle everywhere, there was a small army here!

From the far end of the egg-shaped clearing, sounds of timber being felled and axes chopping away furiously meant that they were still widening the field even further. Already, the length of it was at least three hundred yards, and almost every inch of it was bustling with Andhakas.

Vasudeva glanced sideways to see Akrur gaping open-mouthed at the same sight.

His friend’s eyes met Vasudeva’s with an expression of horror. “They’re mobilizing an army! They mean to invade us, Vasu!”

Vasudeva struggled to find an alternative explanation. “Perhaps they’re setting up a cantonment to house a border brigade.”

Akrur made a sound of disgust. “Look at them, they’re still clearing more area. And there, at the south end, that’s a marg they’re making, broad enough to carry a dozen horse abreast. That way lies the pass across the ranges into Vrishni territory. They’re planning to invade the heartland, Vasu.”

Akrur clicked his tongue furiously at the uksan, working the reins energetically. The cart began to turn slowly back in the direction which it had come from.

“What are you doing?” Vasudeva asked.

“What does it look like? I’m getting us out of here so we can go back and warn the Council. We have to prepare for war.”

Vasudeva stopped him. “Akrur. I still mean to speak with Prince Kamsa.”

Akrur stared at him, white-faced with shock. Vasudeva recalled that he had family in the hilly tribes on the far side of the ranges, only a few dozen yojanas from here. They would be the first Vrishnis Kamsa’s army would encounter if it indeed meant to invade. If, Vasudeva reminded himself, is a very big word. “But bhaiya, see for yourself. What good will talking do? These rakshasas mean to attack us!”

Vasudeva held his gaze firmly. “If they do, and mind you, that’s still a big if, all the more reason why I should be attempting to talk.”

Akrur stared at him as if he was insane.

Vasudeva turned to face front again, saying calmly, “Ride on into the camp. Let’s do what we came here to do.”

Akrur started to say something else again, but Vasudeva showed him only the side of his face, hard and determined. After a moment of silence during which Vasudeva thought he heard the faint tones of several curse words spoken under Akrur’s breath, mostly at himself for having thrown in with a pacifist, the uksan were turned straight ahead once more and they resumed their trundling progress.

As they reached the main camp and rolled past men at work sharpening weapons, eating, drinking, chopping wood, and various other chores, Vasudeva noted with surprise that nobody seemed to give a damn about them. They may as well have not existed.

The same thought occurred to Akrur as well. The younger man said in a strangled tone that failed to disguise his anger: “The devils don’t even know that two of the enemy are right in their midst. We could run amok here before they realize it.”

Vasudeva replied quietly: “Oh, they know all right. They just don’t care. Even if we run amok, what would we achieve except get ourselves killed in a hurry? The lion doesn’t tremble when a rabbit enters its den.”

“Speaking of which, how are we supposed to find this lion? Do you want me to ask somebody where their Commander is billeted?”

“Not just yet.” Vasudeva thought that while his mission was most certainly one of peace, there was no harm in learning as much as they could about the Andhaka camp.

As they rolled on, Vasudeva’s heart sank. Any doubt he might have had about the camp’s purpose was made abundantly clear as they took in more and more of the sights. There were people putting up solid wooden cabins and raising thatched mud huts. There were cooks and cleaning people and all manner of craftsmen, all hard at work. This was no temporary camp or even a token ‘border’ brigade. This was indeed an army mobilizing. He heard the sounds of elephants lowing not far away and realized there were soldiers in the woods as well, probably clearing more areas to either side of the main clearing. He realized it was impossible to tell the full extent of this operation, but one thing was certain, this was a cantonment for thousands, even tens of thousands perhaps. Not a border force but an army.

They had barely reached halfway across the length of the field when the rumbling thunder of hooves announced the arrival of more cavalry and he saw a sizable contingent come down the new road that had been cleared through the south end. Cheers and whistles went up all over the camp as a band of some two hundred riders rolled in with obvious jubilation.

“I think our lion has just returned home,” Akrur said with a telltale flash in his eyes. Vasudeva was glad he had insisted that they bring no weapons along, to demonstrate how serious they were about peace. “His jaws still red with the blood of our people.”

He was right. At the head of the riders came a familiar arrogant straight-backed man in full armour.

Kamsa was here.

Click here to read the next excerpt from SLAYER OF KAMSA

The fantastic adventures of the Hindu God Krishna have entertained and inspired people for millennia. Playful cowherd, mischievous lover, feared demon-slayer, the legendary exploits of this super-being in human form rival the most rousing fantasy epics. Now, the author of the Ramayana Series®, the hugely successful epic retelling of the ancient Sanskrit poem, works his magic once again with the tales of Krishna. All the pomp, splendor and majesty of ancient India come alive in this extraordinary eight-book series.

SLAYER OF KAMSA

The Krishna Coriolis: Book 1

Click here to request a signed copy (limited availability)

The mass market edition will be in Indian bookstores October 2010!

10

Ugrasena and Padmavati sat on the royal dais. Except for the mandatory royal guards at the far end of the hall, by the doors, they were alone. The dhoot had finished his report in Padmavati’s presence, recounting further episodes of Kamsa’s vileness. From the sighs, head-shakes, shrugs and other gestures and reactions of the others, she had understood that these reports were now commonplace. She had shuddered at that realization: innocent lives butchered and destroyed by her own son and even Mathura’s wisest heads accepted it as commonplace. She did not know which was worse, the fact that he had committed and was still committing such terrible acts, or the fact that they were tacitly accepted and tolerated by those governing the kingdom.

She turned to Ugrasena now, her mind raging.

“We must curb him,” she said. “This cannot be allowed to go on.”

He sighed, rubbing a hand across his face, looking terribly weary and old, a pale shadow of the man she had wedded, loved, and shared her life with for over two decades.

She now understood why he had taken ill these past several weeks, why he had not come to her bed at nights, why an endless procession of royal vaids seemed to always be coming from or going into his chambers, why the annual festival had been cancelled, why no entertainers or artists were invited to the palace of late…

Her father had once told her that no matter how comfortable and luxurious it may appear, a royal throne was the hardest seat to sit on. And to remain seated on it meant foregoing all comfort forever. All these things, he had said, gesturing expansively at the rich brocades, luxurious adornments, gem-studded furniture, statuary, art, all these exist to pay homage to the seat itself, to the role of king or queen. For the man or woman who sits that hard spot, there is no luxury, no comfort, no rest.

She saw now the truth of those words. Truly, Ugrasena, at the peak of his reign, at the helm of the greatest Yadava nation that had ever existed, had no comfort.

“Yes,” he agreed at last. “This ought not to be permitted to continue.”

She waited, knowing that he was not merely echoing her words but qualifying them.

“Ought not,” he repeated, still rubbing his forehead, “yet, what can we do to stop him?”

She felt her throat catch as if she had swallowed a dry prickly thing and it had stuck in her gullet. “We can speak to him.”

He laughed softly. There was no humour in the sound, it was merely an acknowledgement of the inherent humour in her suggestion. “Yes, of course we can. And he will talk back. And then go out and continue doing what he is doing now. And then what shall we do?”

She licked her lips. “We will have him confined to the palace. To his chambers. Prohibit him from leaving Mathura. Take away his privileges.”

He removed the hand and looked at her. There was no anger or irritation in his face, merely sadness, perhaps even sympathy. “How shall we do that? Kamsa is commander of all our armed forces. It is he who is in charge of even the city’s security, the royal guard. You recall I had vested him with those powers when I crowned him heir and king-in-waiting.”

Yes, of course he had. And he had done so precisely because they had felt at the time that once he was given power and responsibility, and all the administrative and other burdens of state that entailed, he would cease his adolescent antics and be compelled to settle into a more serious state of mind. Instead, he had simply used the power and leapfrogged to a whole new level of adolescent rebellion.

“There must be somebody you can depute with the task.” She glanced around, looking at the empty seats, trying to remember the faces and names of various courtiers. “What about—?” She named a senior minister, formerly a general in the King’s Akshohini, the most prestigious regiment of all. “Or…” She named several others.

Ugrasena shook his head. “He has grown too strong. He commands the loyalty of the troops now. They would mutiny to support him if we act overtly.”

She was shocked. “But surely they know of his brutalities?”

Ugrasena looked away. “He gives them freedom to enjoy the spoils of war as they please. He plays cleverly upon the natural rivalries between our Andhaka clans and the Sura clans. He uses past enmities, petty feuds, tribe-conflicts, anything that serves his purpose…Recruitment is at its highest mark ever. Every eligible young boy old enough to hold a weapon is lining up to join Kamsa’s army. That is what they call it now, by the way, Kamsa’s army. Not Mathura’s. Or Ugrasena’s. Or even just the army. Kamsa’s Army.”

She looked around for water, wishing they had not sent away the serving staff. There was wine everywhere, as always, but no water to be seen. Water was too precious to be kept lying around, it was always brought fresh, untainted, and closely checked on command. And only royals and the wealthiest courtiers could afford to have clean potable water served at will. The vast majority of their people still had to draw it from wells or drink it from rivers or pools when they desired to slake their thirst. Water, after all, was the main bone of contention of the troubles of the past decades. Although, like all causes of war and violence, it was merely the most visible evidence of the deeper social dissatisfaction. If she understood Ugrasena right, it appeared that Kamsa had cleverly tapped into that deep groundwater source of discontent, using it for his own devious purposes.

“When did he become so savvy?” she wondered aloud. “Where did he learn to do such a thing?”

Despite her horror and digust at his misdeeds, she was impressed at his ability to command such loyalty and adulation. Kamsa’s army? And for years, Ugrasena had always grumbled to her that Yadavas were good for fighting in brawls over stolen cows, but utterly useless when it came to disciplined armed combat. Apparently, all it had required was someone like Kamsa to come along and promise them the pleasures of unlawful spoils and the setting aside of the laws of kshatriya dharma that forbade a soldier from doing anything other than defending his nation under duress.

“That is what troubles me the most, my queen,” Ugrasena said, leaning on the armrest of his throne. “He must have advisors and they must be wily ones to enable him to gain so much power and loyalty so swiftly.”

She frowned. A part of her was loathe to accept this view, for it undercut the last vestige of motherly pride she could hope to take in her son’s dubious achievement. But she knew at once that Ugrasena was right in his assessment. However brilliant Kamsa’s political skills might be – and she had seen no great evidence of any such skills in his growing  years – this achievement was too great from him to have accomplished entirely on his own. There was another hand at work.

“Whom do you suspect?” she asked with growing dismay, now trying to remember the faces and names of all those who might qualify as opponents of Ugrasena’s rule and harbour sufficient ill will to plot outright treason against them. The sensation in her throat now resembled a parched throat in a desert climate. She could almost taste sand.

“Jarasandha, Bhauma, Trnavarta, Baka, Arista, Pralamba, Putana, Agha, Mustika, Dhenuka, Bana, Canura, Dvivida, Kesi,” he said, reeling off the names as if by rote. “But most of all, Jarasandha. There have been reports from all these places of curiously similar developments to those in Mathura.” He paused thoughtfully, “Almost as if some great plan was being executed and Kamsa is only playing out his part in the scheme.”

Padmavati’s mind had frozen cold at the sound of the first name itself. “Jarasandha,” she repeated fearfully. “The King of Magadha.”

“Yes, and a demon in mortal form if the tales of his misdeeds are to be believed.”

Suddenly, she felt as if her throat was filled with sand. “But he is exceedingly powerful.”

Ugrasena nodded. “Powerful enough to crush us in open war. But also shrewd enough to know that if he declares against the Andhaka nation, the Suras and Bhojas will set aside all our differences and stand by us, shoulder to shoulder to the end. And that would outmatch even Magadha’s considerable resources by two to one.”

“And if all these kings you just named were to align with him…?” she asked, agitated.

“That is not what worries me.”

She stared at him intently. “You mean…” She swallowed hard, putting into words the thought she could barely bear to hold in her head for a moment. “Kamsa might be deluded into allying with him? Our greatest enemy? Surely not!”

The thought itself made her feel sick to the stomach. But Ugrasena’s response made her feel sicker yet.

“I fear that he might already have allied with him.”

Click here to read the next excerpt from SLAYER OF KAMSA

The fantastic adventures of the Hindu God Krishna have entertained and inspired people for millennia. Playful cowherd, mischievous lover, feared demon-slayer, the legendary exploits of this super-being in human form rival the most rousing fantasy epics. Now, the author of the Ramayana Series®, the hugely successful epic retelling of the ancient Sanskrit poem, works his magic once again with the tales of Krishna. All the pomp, splendor and majesty of ancient India come alive in this extraordinary eight-book series.

SLAYER OF KAMSA

The Krishna Coriolis: Book 1

Click here to request a signed copy (limited availability)

The mass market edition will be in Indian bookstores October 2010!

9

Queen Padmavati listened with mounting horror as her spasa, a personal guard specially deputed to collect intelligence by travelling abroad through the land, recounted the many atrocities and war crimes perpetrated by her son. At last, she shuddered and interrupted him in mid-sentence.

“Enough! Enough! I can hear no more.”

She rose from her lavender seat and went to the casement, fanning herself. Summer had come down upon Mathura like a hot brand and even the coolest chambers in the palace were barely tenable. The whiff of wind from the window was like steam off a boiling kettle.

She turned away to see maids watering down the flagstone floors to cool them. Her spasa waited, head bowed. The sight of him made her stomach churn. If she had not already heard rumors and other snatches of news corroborating parts of his report, she might have ordered her guard to drag him away to be executed instantly. As it was, she was tempted to give the command if only to prevent him from recounting the same horrific things to others in the palace. But, she reasoned with herself, what good would that do if these things were already known. In fact, it appeared that she was the last to learn of her own son’s misdeeds – or the extent and severity and sheer volume of those misdeeds. No, it was no fault of the spasa; the poor man had only done his job as she had commanded.

Even the scent of the fragrant water being sprinkled on the floors, drawn from the deepest well and made fragrant with the scent of roses from the royal gardens, could not calm her nerves. Her son, doing such terrible things? How had it come to this? Oh, that she should have lived to see such a day.

Suddenly, she lost her patience. Trembling, she shouted at the maids, the spasa, even her personal guards standing at the doorway.

“Out! Everyone out! I wish to be alone.”

A moment later, she sat in the privacy of her chamber and broke down, sobbing her heart out. She thought of little Kamsa, a pudgy fair boy with curling hair and a fondness for young animals of any breed. He had always had a kitten, a pup, a fawn, a cub, or some other youngling in his chubby arms, cradled close to his chest.

She remembered calling out to him on numerous occasions, “Kaamu, my son, give the poor thing room to breathe. You’ll smother it with love!” And both Ugrasena and she laughing as Kamsa had blushed, his milky fair face turning red in the same splotched pattern everytime as he ran away in that shambling hip-swinging toddler’s gait, his latest acquisition clutched close to his little chest.

She smiled, wet-eyed, remembering how adorable he had been, how proud Ugrasena and she had been of their son, their heir. What dreams they had spun, what plans, what ambitions…

But then she recalled something she had almost forgotten, a seemingly insignificant fact suddenly made significant by the spasa’s report.

All those tiny kittens, puppies, fawns, squirrels, calves and other younglings…where had they gone?

Kamsa had always had a different pet every few days or weeks. At first, they had stayed for longer periods, she thought, with one or two even growing noticeably larger and older. But over time, they seemed to change with increasing rapidity. Until finally, by the time he was old enough to play boys’ games and outgrew the toddler phase, he seemed to have a different pet everytime she turned around, at least one every day, until it had become a matter of great amusement to his parents. She even recalled Ugrasena’s joke about Kamsa being an avatar of Pashupati, the amsa of Shiva who ruled over the animal kingdom.

What had happened to the earlier pets? Where did they go once Kamsa finished playing with them? Where did the new ones go to each week?

A cold sword probed her heart, piercing painfully deep, her feverish blood steaming as it washed upon the icy tip.

Where indeed?

And there, with a lurch and a start, her memory gave up the recollection of a day when she had found Kamsa crouching in that peculiar toddler way at something in the recesses of a corner, something wet and furry and broken that had once been a kitten, or perhaps a whelp. Kamsa standing over a pile of burning rags and a tiny charred corpse in the back corridor, eyes shining in the reflected light of the flames. Kamsa carrying a stick with a sharpened tip sticky with fresh blood.

There were more memories. Many, many more.

It was quite obvious now that she had dismissed all those incidents as accidents or merely the passing phase of a young boy’s normal growth pangs.

But now, they sent the point of that icy sword deep into her bowels, raking up a terrible guilt and regret.

There had been signs. Kamsa had never been quite like other boys, other princes. Even when older, he had not made friends easily, had gotten into fights that ended with terrible consequences for at least some of the participants – almost always those who defied or failed to side with him – and there had been incidents with servants, serving girls, maids, a cook’s daughter… A minor scandal over a young girl found dead and horribly mutilated in the royal gardens, last seen walking hand in hand with Kamsa the day before his 12^th naming day.

Yes, signs.

Many signs.

But nothing that had prepared her for this.

A mass murderer? A leader of marauders, ravagers, rapists, slaughterers of innocent women and children?

Her Kamsa?

Her little boy with the fair pudgy face and curls grown up to be the Rakshasa of Mathura, as they were calling him now?

It wasn’t possible! There had to be some mistake.

She stormed out of the chamber and went striding through the palace, her guards and serving ladies in tow. Curious courtiers and minister’s aides watched her sweep imperiously through the wide corridors with the marbled statuary, brocaded walls and art-adorned walls.

She stopped outside the sabha hall only long enough to ask the startled guards if the king was alone or in session.

He was, they replied with bowed heads, not daring to meet her agitated eyes. A dhoot had just arrived bearing news and the king was in private session.

She cut them off abruptly, ordering the sabha hall doors to be opened to let her in. They obeyed at once without protest. Like most traditional Arya societies, the Yadava nations had long been a matriarchial culture. Women owned all property, from land to livestock right down to even the garments on everyone’s back. Inheritance was by the matriarchial line, as was lineage. Every stone, brick and beam in Mathura was quite literally the property of Queen Padmavati.

She strode into the sabha hall, past the startled guards and surprised courtiers. There were not very many. Only Ugrasena himself, a few of his closest advisors and ministers sat listening keenly to a road-dusty courier – a dhoot – who broke off and peered fearfully over his shoulder at her unexpected entrance as if afraid it might be someone else.

Padmavati strode up to the royal dais. Ugrasena frowned down at her, openly surprised.

“Padma?” he said, lapsing into informality.

“My Lord,” she said, “I have urgent private business to discuss with thee. Kindly send away these honourable gentlepersons of the court.”

Ugrasena looked at her for a long moment. In the guttering light of the mashaals she saw how he had appeared to age in the past weeks. The peace treaty seemed to have taken a greater toll on him than the troubles of the preceding years, was what the wags were saying around court.

No, not the peace treaty, our son’s devilry.

“It is about Kamsa then,” he said, with no tone of inquiry in his words.

She did not answer, not wishing to say anything unpolitic before the others.

He nodded as if he understood.

“Come, my queen,” he said kindly in a weary voice. “Seat thyself and listen to the latest tales of derring-do of our beloved son.”

Click here to read the next excerpt from SLAYER OF KAMSA

The fantastic adventures of the Hindu God Krishna have entertained and inspired people for millennia. Playful cowherd, mischievous lover, feared demon-slayer, the legendary exploits of this super-being in human form rival the most rousing fantasy epics. Now, the author of the Ramayana Series®, the hugely successful epic retelling of the ancient Sanskrit poem, works his magic once again with the tales of Krishna. All the pomp, splendor and majesty of ancient India come alive in this extraordinary eight-book series.

SLAYER OF KAMSA

The Krishna Coriolis: Book 1

Click here to request a signed copy (limited availability)

The mass market edition will be in Indian bookstores October 2010!

8

Kamsa rode grinning through the smoke and chaos of a burning village.

His marauders were busy ransacking the remaining houses for anything of value before setting them ablaze. He would give them time to enjoy themselves and relish the spoils of war. Stopping on a high verge, he watched with amusement as the settlement was razed to the ground. It amused him that these govindas could be so easy to kill, their villages so defenseless, their women and children so unprotected…

A high-pitched scream exploded from behind. He turned to see a young boy in a coloured dhoti tied in the Vraj-vasi style charging at him with a shepherd’s crook of all things.

Kamsa laughed and deflected the point of the crook easily with his sword. A twist of the reins drew the bit tightly enough into his horse’s mouth to make the beast side-step. The boy lunged past and sprawled on the ground. His turban, the same bright saffron colour as his dhoti, fell into a muddy puddle and was sullied.

Kamsa sheathed his sword and pulled the reins up short, making the horse rear. There might have been blood on her mouth as he had a habit of whipping his mounts on their mouths if they failed to respond quickly, but he hardly noticed it. He was the crown prince of Mathura. He could have any number of mounts he desired.

The boy moaned and struggled to his elbows. As he turned and looked up, he froze at the sight of the massive Bhoja mare rearing up before him. Kamsa brought the horse’s forehooves down with a loud thud. The boy cried out and moved his legs out of the way just in time to avoid them being smashed.

A gust of breeze from the village carried the voice of a woman screaming pitifully for her children to be spared, followed by three short, sharp cries that cut off abruptly as each of her wretched offspring were despatched by Kamsa’s efficient soldiers. The boy turned his head to listen; his pain and empathy marking him out as either the woman’s son or a close relative. In a moment, the desperate woman’s voice rose again, now launching into wailing cries of grief and self-pity for her own plight as the soldiers turned their attention to her.

The boy glared up at Kamsa with hot brown eyes filled with hatred. “Rakshasa!” he cried. “Only a rakshasa would attack unarmed gokulas protected under a peace treaty!”

Kamsa grinned. “Then why don’t you call upon your devas to protect you? What good are they if they can’t defend their own bhakts?”

The boy shook a fist. “They will come, our devas always hear the prayers of the righteous. Lord Vishnu Himself will come down and make you pay for your crimes!”

Kamsa roared with laughter. “Lord Vishnu Himself! I must be very important, to attract His attention!”

While talking, the boy had managed to get hold of a fist-sized rock. Now, he flung it hard at his aggressor, his aim good enough to hit Kamsa a glancing blow on the temple. Kamsa’s right ear rang and warm wetness instantly poured down the side of his head. He stopped laughing and grinned down at the boy who was scrabbling around in search of more missiles to throw.

“It’s a sad deva who arms his devotees with only stones to defend themselves,” he said, as blood trickled down his neck.

The grin stayed on his face as he yanked back on the reins and forced the horse to rear, bringing down both forehooves on his intended target with a bone-crunching impact – again, and again, and yet again, until what remained on the ground was no more than a crumpled bundle of shattered bones and leaking flesh.

“Lord Vishnu can’t be here today to help you,” he said to the corpse. “He has more important things to attend to than saving weak, pathetic cowherds in remote Vraj villages.”

A contingent of riders approached at a brisk canter, slowing as they reached.

Bana was in the lead, Canura beside him. Both exclaimed as they saw Kamsa’s head streaming with blood.

“Lord Kamsa, you are injured,” said Bana, dismounting and coming to Kamsa’s side to examine the injury more closely. “Canura, call for our Lord’s vaids at once.”

Canura barked an order, sending two riders back to the Andhaka camp a mile or two upstream. Kamsa and his marauders tended to ride much ahead of the main force, leaving the sluggish supply caravans trailing in their wake.

“It’s just a scratch,” Kamsa said absently, gazing out across the village. The woman’s screams had just stopped, although other equally terrible cries could be heard across the ruined settlement as other women and victims suffered at the hands of the Andhakas. To Kamsa, the screams were like sweet music acknowledging his superiority as a military commander and soldier.

“Tell me,” he said to Bana, who knew at once what he wished to know.

Bana began recounting the tally of the dead. The ratio of enemy dead to their own dead was ludicruous. They had killed or left for dead some two hundred enemy and lost only three men. “Because we take them by surprise and after the treaty many have returned to herding and farming, so they rarely have weapons close at hand,” he smirked, licking his lips, “and the women and children are almost always alone and defenseless in their homes.”

He recounted the spoils of private treasures they had appropriated as tax – Kamsa had forbidden the use of the term ‘looted’ on pain of death, measuring up to a substantial amount.

Bana chuckled as he finished the tally. “A good day’s work, my Lord. These herders and farmers make for easy prey. Almost too easy. We roll across the landscape like chariots across millet, crushing them underfoot like crisp grain.”

“Yes, well, that won’t continue much longer,” Kamsa said. “Word must be spreading already about our campaign of liberation. We should expect to meet some resistance soon.”

He raised a clenched fist, adding, “I pray we do. I am tired of hacking down feeble herders caught unawares and boys with sheep crooks!”

Canura grinned slyly. “It has its advantages.” He jerked his head in the direction of the village where the screams of dying women and the crackling of briskly burning straw-and-mud huts filled the smoky air. “The men enjoy it too.”

Kamsa didn’t respond. He stared into the distance. Bana and Canura exchanged a glance. Kamsa fell into these moments when he would just stare at the horizon, brooding. They almost always preceded some new plan or strategy.

Finally, he said, “We shall swing north and east,” he said. “Towards Vrindavan.”

“Vrindavan?” Bana repeated. Even Canura gaped. “But my Lord, that is the heart of Sura territory. King Vasudeva will not brook an assault on his heartland silently.”

“Bhraatr Bana speaks the truth,” Canura added cautiously. Kamsa did not always appreciate being corrected or having his plans critiqued. A scar on Canura’s own cheek testified to that fact, as did the rotting corpses of Kamsa’s two previous advisors. “Until now, we have only, uh, taxed outlying villages and border territories of the three nations. Our actions could be defended as legitimate actions against border crossings and water or cattle thefts. But if we ride that far into Vraj heartland, it would be a total violation of the peace treaty and a declaration of open war against Vasudeva himself. The Sura nation might respond with an all-out war. And the Bhoja Yadavas also might feel outraged enough to get involved as well.”

Bana cleared his throat, also careful to couch his suggestions in cautious terms. “Besides which, Vasudeva does happen to be the betrothed of your sister Lady Devaki, my Lord. The marriage is set to take place in—”

Kamsa gestured them both to silence. They subsided at once. The wind changed, bringing a heavy odour of smoke and the stench of burning corpses along with the fading screams of the last suffering victims.

“I am sick of this peace treaty,” Kamsa said. “My father did not consult me, the crown prince, before signing it. Why should I be compelled to uphold it?” At the mention of his father, his eyes glinted – both Bana and Canura noted this with growing nervousness – and a gleam of naked rebellion shone there. “It is time to put it to the test. Let us see how long Vasudeva upholds his end of the treaty when I come galloping into his lands and lay waste to his townships.”

Both his advisor and friend glanced at each other with increasing nervousness. Yet none dared speak a word. It was one thing to offer a suggestion or two, but quite another to defy his gesture ordering them to be silent; if either one spoke now, he would find his own corpse piled upon one of the several dozen burning heaps that were all that remained of the village.

“They call me rakshasa,” Kamsa said, unmindful of the blood still streaming down the side of his head. “They call upon Lord Vishnu to protect them from me. Let us see if Vishnu has the courage to descend to Prithvi-loka again in yet another avatar, this time to confront Kamsa. It will be good to have a worthy opponent to sink my sword into for a change! I am tired of stabbing cowherd flesh and slaughtering hairless boys.”

He raised his head to the smoke-filled sky and bellowed: “You took an avatar on earth to battle Ravana. They say whenever your people are unable to defend themselves, you descend to protect them. Now descend to face me, Kamsa of Mathura! I challenge you!”

Bana and Canura exchanged startled glances. Even the soldiers looked shocked at Kamsa’s bold blasphemous pronouncement.

As if in response, a deep rumbling sound came from the smoke-stained sky followed by an angry crash of thunder. Canura winced, his horse neighing. The smell of imminent rain filled the air, along with a damp coldness. Thunder crashed again far away to the distant horizon.

Kamsa listened, head cocked to one side like a curious hound. Then, threw his head back and laughed long and hard. The sound echoed across the razed settlement, silencing the last desperate cries of the hopeless and the dying.

Click here to read the next excerpt from SLAYER OF KAMSA

The fantastic adventures of the Hindu God Krishna have entertained and inspired people for millennia. Playful cowherd, mischievous lover, feared demon-slayer, the legendary exploits of this super-being in human form rival the most rousing fantasy epics. Now, the author of the Ramayana Series®, the hugely successful epic retelling of the ancient Sanskrit poem, works his magic once again with the tales of Krishna. All the pomp, splendor and majesty of ancient India come alive in this extraordinary eight-book series.

SLAYER OF KAMSA

The Krishna Coriolis: Book 1

Click here to request a signed copy (limited availability)

The mass market edition will be in Indian bookstores October 2010!