Mahayoddha Kalki, Book 3

Arjan woke up to screams.

Horrific, screeching yells and shrieks from outside could be heard in his room, followed by the boom of explosions. He instantly lurched from his bed, and went to the window to see what was happening.

Death greeted his eyes.

From the third floor of the fortress, he could see what was attacking the city of Indragarh, the place he had been living in for a month now with Lord Nalakuvera, the Yaksha king, a man who was considered a god in his Tribe.

Desperately scanning the dark purplish horizon, Arjan’s eyes fell on the disturbed skies where the enemy soldiers were hovering. There were wings protruding from their backs, emitting blue flames. Armed with fire arrows and crossbows, they were shooting at the soldiers below in his city.

Close to the eastern gates of the city, multitudes of black-armoured soldiers toppled the city guard, slashing their way through, opening the way for an invasion.

What is happening?

He couldn’t wrap his head around it.

Are these men flying?

They had chosen to attack in the dead of the night. Arjan knew about war strategies—attacking at night was a smart move, maybe even the best time to catch an enemy unawares.

Arjan heard someone knock incessantly at his door. Before he could reach it, the door swung open, and a dwarf-like man entered. Yakshas were of diminutive size, but regardless of that, they were exceptional in battle. The soldier had a bow and arrows tightly slung on his shoulder.

My lord, the entire city is being attacked. Lord Nalakuvera seeks your presence in the armoury where the soldiers have gathered.

Who’s behind this? I don’t see any banners or flags.

It’s an alliance. The flying warriors, they are Suparns. And the others, the ones on the ground . . . the Yaksha soldier’s eyes filled with hatred, they are Nagas.

One week ago.

Arjan stood in front of the thorny, ornate, golden throne. It was the same one on which Urvashi had sat last month before he . . .

I killed her. I strangled her. I made sure her life ebbed away.

There was so much evil in him; he had realised it recently. But there was guilt too, pooled in the crevices of his heart.

It’ll be yours one day, a voice proclaimed.

Arjan turned to see a tall man wearing a golden coat. He had a goatee, and his hair was shaggy, and he was wearing a crown. The man was bare-chested, and wore his pants low, held in place by a belt that glistened under the silvery light of the throne room.

I don’t want it.

It’s not about wanting it, dear, Nalakuvera said with a smile. It’s about doing the right thing. This city needs a god. When I told you that I will be announcing you as a candidate in the council meeting, you were happy.

I know. I’m just . . . scared.

I understand. Fear is important. Nalakuvera’s eyes widened. "They don’t need just any king. They need you. You have powers that no other man possesses."

Except my brother.

And you can lead this city. This entire empire will belong to you, once you sit on that throne. With my help, of course.

The council wouldn’t agree, Arjan responded.

Gah! Nalakuvera growled. We strive for monarchy and yet we choose democracy to vote for our king.

For me to sit on the throne, all councilmen will have to vote for me. Arjan knew this because he remembered how Urvashi had coerced these councilmen to rally behind her, so she could follow her father’s legacy. And no noble would vote for the killer of the queen.

Nalakuvera came to stand next to Arjan, and patted him on his bare-chested body. Let me worry about that. That comes after you decide to sit on the throne. Have you made your decision?

Arjan clenched his jaw and before he could respond, Nalakuvera planted a kiss on his cheek, while whispering in his ears, Embrace yourself. You are the only person who can save this city, this world, my dear.

Present.

I don’t believe I’m worth being a saviour.

Arjan had had this conversation with Nalakuvera about being the king a week ago, but he still couldn’t make up his mind.

One part of him wanted to leave for Lord Bajrang’s temple and hide with his mother, while the other wanted to be here in the midst of all this blood and gore to save the people.

The city was being attacked in front of him. It was plunging in darkness . . . he didn’t know what to do.

But he had to do something.

He grabbed the spear lying next to his bed and said to the Yaksha soldier, Tell Nala, I’ll be late.

And then he jumped from the window, grabbed it from the ledge, and pulled himself up to the top of the fortress, where he stood on the strong, concrete floor.

He was at the top of Nalakuvera’s fortress, and from there, he could see the flying soldiers, firing arrows at the people.

His long shoulder-length hair fluttered as the shine of the silver-dipped moon embraced his shadow, delightfully showcasing his chiselled body which had developed after a period of intense workout and training he did every day.

Looking at the flying soldiers’ machines, Arjan deduced that the machines were burning Soma, since blue liquid was spraying around and thrusting the men in the air.

I never thought I would be fighting Suparns. The very Tribe I once wanted to study and learn about.

Hey! Arjan shouted at the four soldiers who had surrounded the fortress.

They instantly zapped towards him with their arrows, ready to strike. Arjan leapt high up in the air, his spear tightly clutched in his hand. He dodged the incoming attack from one of the soldiers and rolled over on the ground.

Another came flying towards him and instead of jumping this time, he knelt down and pushed up the spear high in the sky towards the soldier. It pierced the soldier’s gut, pouring out his entrails on the floor.

Arjan looked at the three soldiers who had backed away. He ran towards them. The ledge was getting close now, and from its edge, he jumped—uncaring about the fact that if he didn’t catch the soldiers, he would fall three floors down.

But he caught them.

He held on to one and stabbed him with the spear. From the dead soldier’s crossbow, he fired an arrow at the other soldier. The soldier clutched the arrow helplessly before falling to his death.

He jumped from one soldier to the other, using his fists this time to beat him. The soldier tried to stop Arjan, but Arjan hit him like a man possessed. Soon, the soldier lay dead on the floor. His skull had cracked.

Arjan kept hitting the soldier, not realising that the man was already dead. His punches were so strong that the floor cracked and they came crashing down to the ground floor. It was littered with rock and pebbles.

There were bruises on Arjan’s knees but he didn’t care. Now, he noticed that the soldier was already dead.

He came on his feet, dusted himself off, and held on to his spear, making his way to the entry gates of the fortress.

Arjan trusted Nalakuvera to handle the intruders in the fortress. He had to help the civilians in the city.

And as he exited the fortress, he turned back to give it one last look before heading out in the streets. And at that moment, close to the main door, stood the Yaksha king. As soon as the soldier had given him Arjan’s message, Nalauvera had come out of the armoury and was on his way to Arjan’s room.

A huge grin was plastered on his face, almost as if he wanted to say . . .

See, you are a god.

A few days ago.

Arjan strolled in the streets but no one took notice of him. Ever since Urvashi’s death, things had been quiet. The Yakshas had been appointed as guards and the Manav soldiers were only tasked with protecting their noble houses and forts.

He was in the bazaar, and his eyes fell on a small stack of leatherbound books being sold by a kid. He had brown skin and dark eyes, and was wearing tattered, soiled clothes. All his books were spread out on a carpet.

Arjan smiled. It had been such a long time since he had picked up one of these and just rushed to read them in the comfort of his home.

Home . . .

But I have no home.

I am a killer. An angry madman with powers.

You’re him, the small bookseller said.

Arjan frowned. I’m uh . . .

The man who killed the queen, said the kid. There are rumours about you everywhere. People are scared of you.

They wouldn’t choose a king they fear.

A king is supposed to be loved.

And I’m a killer.

And you are walking like you own this bazaar. The boy gestured to the shops around him. There were carpets and low-hanging ceiling drapes in multiple colours in some of the shops. Snake charmers were sitting on the ground, ready with their pipes and baskets. A shopkeeper had displayed ornaments of value and a wide range of weapons, calling the passers-by to come and buy.

Arjan turned to leave. He was afraid someone would recognise him.

Don’t leave, my lord, said the kid. At least buy something from me. He had a sparkle in his eyes that reminded Arjan of the way he used to be, once upon a time.

I’m not a lord.

I’m a killer.

Even though people fear you, they can’t stop talking about you. You are so famous and yet many don’t recognise you. I do. I butt in places I’m not supposed to. It will be an honour if you buy any one of my books. No, you should have my finest item. He presented a red-coloured leatherbound copy to Arjan.

What are the people saying?

Some say the young queen was inexperienced and mad. The rich favoured her only because she was from a royal family. But no one asked us—the lower castes, the poor—what we wanted. We aren’t even allowed to vote. What would a princess who has had everything know about our problems? Nobody cares about what we think. But you . . . you removed her from the throne for us. Rumour is that you can battle a hundred armies. Is that true?

Arjan chuckled as he grabbed another book and flipped through it. It was a book about the adventures of an explorer. The author had exaggerated the traits of Tribes, describing Rakshas as blood-thirsty monsters and Pisach as ghosts and Vanars as full-blown monkeys. And Asuras were demons, with horns on their heads.

Is it true then? the kid asked. You are the fiercest warrior, our saviour, a righteous hero?

Arjan looked at the kid, thoroughly amused. What’s your name?

Amar.

Amar, Arjan said, I don’t know. All I know is . . .

I’m a killer.

Present.

Dead bodies were everywhere. Crimson threads of blood were seeping from them into the gutters. Tears welled up in Arjan’s eyes as he walked through the bloody bazaar and saw the mangled faces of men, women, and children.

The night was a time to rest; it was when people slept. But the bazaar closed late at night. The enemy had not left a single person in the street alive. As he witnessed the carnage in front of him, Arjan remembered something.

No.

Arjan rushed to where the bookshop was and when he reached, his eyes laid on Amar, who was now just like the others. He had been stabbed multiple times.

Amar looked peaceful with his eyes closed, but the books around him had been sprayed with his blood. Arjan knelt, weeping as he looked at the young boy.

He thought I was his saviour.

Why would the Nagas and Suparns do this?

Let’s leave. Lady Manasa said to kill anyone we could find, a man said. He was walking with another man a few steps away from Arjan.

The other said, The guards at the fortress are patrolling the streets, so let’s make a move now.

Arjan saw the Naga soldiers walking about like mercenaries, as if they owned the street. They were heading towards the main city gates, where Arjan could see a huge mound of corpses of the Yakshas guards.

He had read about this kind of military attack. It was called the Night Combat—surprise the enemy at night and destroy them internally with a small band of soldiers.

I am a killer.

No.

Arjan sprinted towards the Nagas with his spear. He didn’t give them the opportunity to even notice him as he swung his blade and stabbed all three of them in succession. They fell down, unconscious, unable to comprehend what had just happened.

Arjan panted, anger surging in him as he clenched his jaw and walked back to Nalakuvera’s fortress, carrying Amar in his arms.

I’m sorry I let you down.

As he reached the fortress, he saw Nalakuvera waiting for him with the rest of the Yakshas. They circled around their lord like bees hovering over honey.

We have gotten rid of them for now, killed most of the ones who had entered but some escaped. Intel says, Nalakuvera began, it was Manasa, the queen of Naagpuri. She ordered this attack. Her camp is miles away from us and we don’t know why she did it.

Arjan still held on to Amar, tightly. Nalakuvera looked at the dead boy but he didn’t say anything. How many have we lost?

Many. The nobles have called for a meeting in the next few hours. Apparently, they don’t trust the city guard anymore. Yakshas are unreliable, they say. They also want to speed up in getting their wards to be king. Nalakuvera sighed. I’ll handle them. But this attack happened because the snake queen thinks we can’t protect ourselves, because no one is sitting on that throne.

I am not a killer. Urvashi had been responsible for Rudra’s death. I had a reason to end her life. But what excuse does Manasa have to slaughter hundreds of innocent people? Manasa is a killer.

Arjan handed Amar to a guard and ordered him to arrange a proper funeral for him. He squared his shoulders and looked at the worried Yaksha king, and said, I’ll contest for the kingship, Nala. I’ll go to the council soon and make sure everyone votes for me.

Nalakuvera’s face lit up. Really? But I thought—

I know.

I am not a killer.

Arjan said, I have changed my mind.

I am a king.

Narasimha . . . Varaha . . . Raghav . . .

Kalki felt like his head was splitting into two as he walked through mounds of cold, undulating snow. Along with him was Devadatta, majestically white, like the snow they walked on.

A shooting, searing pain went through his head. He instantly put his hand on his forehead, massaging it in the hope of reducing the pain.

It’s been happening for days.

And he had been out here, deep into the hills of Mahendragiri Mountains for a month now. He had to seek shelter now. The cold had seeped in his body and chilled him down to his bones. He felt extremely exhausted as he rested close to the caves, away from the storm that was brewing in the skies.

Devadatta stood next to him, neighing.

You’re lucky I don’t eat that much. I usually have a good appetite.

Kalki sighed. Well, you are a talking horse and you have a good appetite. Thank the graces of Lord Vishnu.

I don’t talk. I mind-talk. There’s a difference.

Kalki laid back, massaging his head. What’s going on with me?

Your powers . . . they are uncontrollable. Perhaps, you need to control them.

You don’t say? Kalki scoffed.

As he blinked, he saw blurry images forming in front of him. Trying to make sense of what he was seeing, he squinted and focused on his surroundings, but the images had disappeared.

Is there anyone out here? he shouted and then turned to Devadatta. Did you see someone?

Nope. You are imagining things now. Great. I’m on a journey with a madman.

Kalki growled under his breath and pulled out a blanket from the horse’s saddle bag, wrapping it around himself. An Avatar’s body was such that even in extreme cold and heat, it would be unaffected, but Kalki had been travelling for a month. His body had given up, his skin had turned coarse, and he felt like the blood inside his body had frozen.

He looked back at what had happened ever since he had left Lord Bajrang and Padma and come here to the uppermost crust of the snow-capped hills, where an eerie silence engulfed the night and the harsh winds were his enemies. He missed Padma and her nonchalant attitude. He missed Kripa and his drunkard wisdom. Most of all, he missed Arjan. He hadn’t received a reply from him since he had sent his message last month. Shuko had come back empty-handed, though Shuko was positive that he had delivered the message and said there was something off about Arjan.

Kalki had left Shuko with Padma so that he could be there for her in need. And if something happenend to her, he had been briefed to come back to Kalki and tell him about it. In some way or the other, Shuko always knew where to find Kalki, even in the worst of places. Perhaps because these three—Devadatta, Shuko, and Kalki—were somehow cosmically connected.

I hope this training is worth it.

It must be.

You don’t know anything about it, horsey?

Horsey? Really????

I’m amusing myself.

Well, amuse yourself then, but not at my expense. And yes, I don’t know anything about it. I just know you and I . . . we understand each other and we are meant to be with each other.

That’s sweet.

Ew! It wasn’t supposed to come off as cheesy.

A sound reverberated in the air. Kalki sprung up, throwing the blanket aside and reaching for his sword.

There’s someone outside.

A snow monster? Who would live here in this cold?

You have a point. Kalki trudged forward, his feet sinking in the snow, his sword up high, when there was a squeak.

Oh hello there. Please don’t hurt me, the voice said.

Kalki turned his head to see a dwarf. He had a bald head, a saffron-coloured robe hung on his tiny body, and an umbrella was in his hand.

I am quite queasy when it comes to these weapons. Never liked them. Though that sort of feeling comes from the fact that I don’t know how to wield them. He began to hop away from Kalki, who sheathed his blade and furrowed his brows.

Who is this man? Isn’t he feeling cold? And what in god’s name is he doing up here?

The dwarf leaned on his umbrella, which was half his size, as he walked along with it. So this is Kalyug, eh? Quite snowy, isn’t it?

Who are you? Kalki asked, frowning.

Well, I’m you. And you are me. We both are the same. The dwarf smiled.

Am I . . . he looked back at Devadatta who had come out of the cave to see what was going on.

Do you see this?

Who? I see only a madman talking to himself.

Great. I am imagining stuff. He looked back at the dwarf who was standing with a huge smile on his face. You are not real.

Well, of course not, my dear friend. I’m a product of your Channelling.

Channelling was a power of an Avatar which allowed him to meet his past selves, his past forms, and learn from them. But Kalki always travelled to the past; no one till now had come from the past to the present on his own.

How have you reached here? I mean—

Your Channelling is getting stronger, my dear friend. Initially, you could only see images, then you began talking to the Avatars, and now your Channelling selves can grow their own consciousness, like me, who hopped on here. This is the doing of your mind and it’s doing wondrously. Soon, you’ll be able to . . . he trailed off. Oh my my, I shouldn’t be saying more than I’m supposed to.

I’ll be able to do what?

Do you know who I am?

Kalki looked at the dwarf from top to bottom, but he couldn’t figure it out. He frowned and was almost embarrassed when the dwarf said, Oh, it’s all right. I am not surprised. Why would you remember a person like me? I am not monstrously strong like Narasimha, neither am I as good as Raghav, or as cunning as Govind. No, wait. Maybe I am cunning. I should explain. He looked up at Kalki. I am the dwarf who defeated the greatest Asura king, Mahabali. And I did it with this size. I made sure Asuras never came back after I made a pact with them. I am Vaman, the fifth Avatar of Lord Vishnu.

You defeated an Asura? How did you fight?

Ah, well, he shrugged, I didn’t. I used my mind. Unlike you. He chuckled. Everyone thought I would never be successful. He and Kalki began to walk. But being underestimated is a blessing in disguise—when your enemy thinks that you are not good at all, you can surprise him. That is exactly what you need to learn.

They reached a cliff from where Kalki could see a village, which he had not noticed earlier.

Kalki beamed, seeing some life. He saw humans after such a long time, walking and doing chores, battling the wind and snow. It was so close, but I didn’t know.

We often miss things when we don’t look closely, and things often change when we do. Vaman looked grave as he turned to Kalki. My dear friend, always remember that appearances can be deceiving. Don’t forget that. My enemy did and look who conquered him. He grinned, before vanishing in a puff of smoke right in front of Kalki.

Kalki remained frozen for a moment and looked back at Devadatta, who began to neigh. His Channelling power was growing stronger and he hadn’t even realised it.

Well, we should go to this village. By the graces of Vishnu, we need food.

I am also a grace of Vishnu, Devadatta said.

Kalki gave him a look of derision.

Kalki reached the village, and was hoping to obtain some food and shelter. But the people seemed weirdly quiet. And he also noticed that there was fear in their eyes. Most of them looked pale and a little bit sickly. Maybe it was the cold; they all lived so high up in the mountains, after all.

He walked on, noticing that the huts and shops on either side of the road were devoid of any sign of activity. Some villagers glanced at him and his horse, whispering to each other.

Kalki was searching for a tavern to barter a few knives in return for food, but he couldn’t find one. He approached an old man who was busy talking to someone else, and said, I am a traveller, Sir. I seek shelter and food.

The old man looked at him suspiciously. "We don’t keep leftovers. We don’t have anything left to feed a traveller."

It looked like a ghost town. And the old man in front of Kalki looked like a ghost himself—his skin was wrinkled, he was weak, and he looked exhausted, as if life had taken its toll on him and he was barely managing to stay alive.

But . . . come. The old man moved away from the person he was talking to and urged Kalki to follow him. Where are you going, lad?

Up.

Kalki had no idea where Bhargav was. He often met him through Channelling and Bhargav had said to keep going to the top, and he would eventually reach Lord Parshuram’s temple. Parshuram was Bhargav’s other name.

But it had been a while since Kalki had spoken to Bhargav through Channelling. Bhargav was the only person he could talk to right now. He was always to the point. Not like Vaman or other Avatars who spoke in riddles. Their conversations sounded more like recordings of wisdom and learning than actual conversations.

I seek Parshuram’s temple.

Are you a pilgrim?

Kalki nodded. Of course.

The old man grunted at Kalki’s response.

And what kind of a pilgrim carries a sword? The old man pointed at the scabbard hung on Kalki’s waist.

Uh . . .

You stay for tonight, boy. Only tonight. I don’t like sheltering liars.

Kalki saw they were nearing a huge, bronze statue of a bear-like creature wearing a crown and around him, there were several plates of food, fruits, jars of wine, and drinks of all kinds.

You are close to the temple. It’s just a few miles away, the old man said. But you look like you need some rest.

What is this? Kalki stopped with the reins of Devadatta in his hand, as he pointed to the statue.

Lord Jambavan, the son of Lord Brahma, the mightiest Rakshas lord of all time. He has been blessed by Lord Raghav with a long life and the strength of ten million lions. The old man bowed to the statue as he continued. We are all his children and he protects us from the world.

And you feed him . . . Kalki lowered his gaze, food?

Yes, the old man said, gazing reverently at the statue. He comes when he pleases and he takes our offerings. It’s usually every fourteen days.

Have you seen him?

No. No villager has ever seen him. We think he doesn’t want to show himself to any human . . . maybe. His blessings are enough for us.

Kalki had a hard time believing that an immortal would come here and eat food, but it made him wonder.

Immortals are real. And they die too.