The Guardians of the Halahala (32 page)

Borderworld

V
ikramaditya picked his way down the weed-infested bathing
ghat
with caution, stepping over the tentacled sprawl of tree roots, and skirting the larger clumps of soggy, putrefying vegetation that carpeted the stairs. In many places, the old, cracked stone had come loose, while rubble from Ujjayini's crumbling ramparts littered the
ghat
's steps.

Despite all his caution, the king's foot skidded every now and then to dislodge an avalanche of pebbles, which rolled down and disappeared into the fetid, gray-black waters of the Kshipra. The river barely moved, and even the ripples from the falling pebbles died prematurely on its sludgy surface.

Reaching the water's edge, the samrat peered around, looking for a means of getting across the river. Although the sun was directly overhead, the light was pale and feeble, failing to penetrate the shadows of the gnarled and withering trees lurking along the river's banks. Even the sun's heat was absent, and as he looked directly up at the anemic yellow orb in the faded white sky, the king shivered at the moldy dampness in the air.

All around him was the overpowering stench of decay and ruin.

Scouring the bank, Vikramaditya finally found what he was looking for: a small boat, almost camouflaged, imprisoned within a dense infestation of reeds and undergrowth. It was with considerable effort that the king liberated the vessel, its rotting wood crumbling under his fingers as he tugged it into the river. He surveyed the boat as it bobbed in the undulating water like a bloated carcass, his eye taking in the layer of slimy moss that masked the faint outline of the sun-crest of Avanti that had once been proudly inscribed on its hull. The boat was missing a couple of boards on one side, but seeing it still had one broken oar and was dry on the inside, the samrat decided it would serve to transport him to the opposite bank.

The row across the Kshipra was negotiated without event; however, just as he docked the boat and prepared to step ashore, a roll of thunder fell on Vikramaditya's ears. The same instant, the river underneath seemed to pitch and heave, throwing the rickety boat sideways and making the samrat lose his balance. The king made a grab at the boat's gunwales, steadying himself and the rocking boat –

– when he felt the dagger that he had stuck in his belt come loose and slip from his waist!

Looking down, Vikramaditya saw the slender blade cartwheel in little arcs of light, plunging straight toward the wedge between the boat and the river bank. Drawing his breath, the king lunged after the knife, his fingers grabbing and missing, catching and slipping...

The desperate juggle over the rancid, insidious Kshipra seemed to last forever, but with the dagger just inches from the water, the king's fingers caught its obsidian hilt and it was plucked back to safety. For a moment the samrat just stood in the swaying boat, clutching the dagger to his chest where his heart was hammering away from anxiety and exertion.

Having calmed himself, Vikramaditya stepped on to firm land and secured the dagger to his belt. He then turned to survey the bleached ruins of Ujjayini, choked by the encroaching forest of dead trees, desolate and utterly devoid of any form of life.

This was the fate that would befall his beloved city one day, the king realized sadly.

Then, looking up at the wan, dying sun, he saw that this was the fate that would one day befall everything that had ever come into being. What he was witnessing was nothing but Creation caught in the transition between life and death.

For this was the Borderworld, the eternal realm of the undead ghouls, the gloaming separating the world of the living from the world of the dead. The bridge over which everything that had been created had to pass when going from a state of existence to a state of destruction. A mirror world where things already existed in their doomed, decomposing state...

Vikramaditya turned and began ploughing through the coarse, knee-high grass that grew in profusion beyond the tree-lined bank. He realized he still had a fair distance to cover in his journey to the cremation grounds, presided over by the Ghoulmaster.

***

Shukracharya and Vararuchi rode at a steady canter through the night, the whistling of the quickening wind and the soft pounding of hooves filling the silence that stretched between them. The two had hardly exchanged a word since leaving Ushantha's house, and on the two occasions that Shukracharya had tried to make conversation, Vararuchi's replies had been offhand and indefinite.

The high priest wished he knew what was occupying the councilor's mind.

The bones had told him a lot about Vararuchi the previous night, yet there was much that the bones were incapable of revealing. So, while Shukracharya knew that the councilor had ruled the kingdom of Avanti until his half-brother was old enough to become king, he didn't know how Vararuchi felt about having to abdicate the throne to Vikramaditya. And while he had learned that Vararuchi had a wife in one of the Southern Kingdoms – from whom he had begotten a son and a daughter – the bones had said nothing about why the councilor's wife and children continued to live in the far south while he served in the court of Avanti.

For that matter, the bones had remained silent about the fact that Vararuchi kept his marriage a closely guarded secret – even from his own mother! That was something that Shukracharya had stumbled upon by sheer accident.

“It's the curse of life that we have no time for our children when they are young, and they have no time for us when we are old,” Ushantha had said as the high priest had begun drawing a
mandala
on the floor of her bedroom. The woman was plainly deprived of company, and the presence of an unexpected guest had cheered her to garrulity. “To answer your question, yes, it does get lonely here at times. I do wish Vararuchi got married – at least then I'd have some grandchildren for company.”

“Your son isn't married?” Shukracharya paused and looked up, his fingers hovering over the half-drawn
mandala.
Vararuchi had stepped out of the room on some errand, leaving the high priest free to probe the matter.

“No,” Ushantha exclaimed. “Whenever I raise the subject, he says he's too busy at the palace, and that he won't have time for a wife and children. How silly is that! It's just an excuse, I say. You're a Healer – can't you do something about this?”

The high priest searched the woman's face for artifice, but all he found was forthrightness staring straight back at him. He shook his head and smiled.

“I'm afraid not, mother. I have cures for most ailments, but I confess there is none for chronic stubbornness.”

Now as they rode back toward Ujjayini, Shukracharya peered at the back of the councilor's head with narrowed eyes. He knew the bones couldn't have been wrong – they never were.

“I take it that you are married, your honor?”

Shukracharya posed the question diplomatically, inflecting his tone with innocent curiosity, yet he was certain he saw Vararuchi flinch in his saddle.

“I'm not,” the councilor mumbled tersely after a brief pause.

“For some strange reason I always thought you were,” said the high priest, feigning surprise. “In fact, I could almost have been certain...”

“Wouldn't I know if I was?” Vararuchi turned to face his companion, his voice harsh and cold. “What gave you the idea? Have you heard anything being mentioned...?”

This time, the high priest thought he detected a hint of anxiety in the councilor's voice.

“No, your honor.”

“Well, even if you did, it couldn't have been anything but a silly rumor,” Vararuchi snapped. “Everyone knows I'm not married.” With that, he simply turned away and continued riding.

Shukracharya smiled in the dark – a dark, secret smile. The half-brother of the samrat intrigued him more and more.

They had been riding through a densely forested gorge with steep ridges on both sides, but moments later, they emerged into flat, open countryside. Immediately, the two riders were drawn to the northern sky, where flashes of lightning lit up a low bank of clouds.

“We must move fast,” said Vararuchi in a tense and edgy voice as soon as he had caught sight of the lightning. Without waiting for a response from Shukracharya, the councilor spurred his mount into a gallop.

Digging his heels into his horse's belly, the high priest gave chase, wondering why Vararuchi was in a tearing hurry to get back to Ujjayini all of a sudden. As far as he could tell, it wasn't the prospect of getting caught in a storm that was bothering the councilor.

It had to be something else...

***

The three drunkards were the last to vacate the tavern, having been coaxed and cajoled into leaving on the innkeeper's promise of a free pitcher of firewater to last them their way home. The three men now swayed down one of the narrow roads in Ujjayini's eastern quarter, clutching one another for support and passing the innkeeper's inducement from hand to hand, quickly depleting the last of the day's quota of grog. All around them the bracing wind blew, tearing at the treetops, moaning down alleyways and blowing detritus across the streets.

“Aaah...” sighed one of them, licking a final drop off the rim of the upturned pitcher. Shaking the empty pitcher to ensure that it had no more firewater to yield, he flung it to one side, the earthenware hitting a low wall and breaking with a loud clatter.

“That was good,” he beamed, smacking his lips in satisfaction and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Wish we had another pitcher,” slurred one of his mates, casting a forlorn look at the smashed pitcher lying by the roadside. With a burst of petulance, he added, “We should have asked the innkeeper to give us
two
of those.”

“Shhh...” said the third, placing a finger on his lips. Casting a bleary eye into the darkness around, he continued, “Shhh... no noise. If any soldiers of the City Watch hear us, we'll be in trouble for disrupting the peace.”

As luck would have it, no member of the City Watch appeared to be in the vicinity, and the men weaved and stumbled unhindered, alternating between silence and boisterousness. Passing an overgrown garden, one of them pulled himself free of the grasp of the other two. Using mime to indicate that he wanted to answer nature's call, he made for the shrubbery separating the garden from the road. Too impatient to wait, his partners simply continued teetering forward.

Ever since they had left the tavern, dull flashes of lightning and a near-constant roll of thunder had filled the heavens overhead. Now, as the drunk stood relieving himself, a sudden blinding flash of lightning hit the ground not far to his right. Reeling under the impact of rushing air, his skin tingling with heat, the explosive crack of thunder flooding his ears, the man turned and stared numbly into the darkness.

As his eyes – which had miraculously escaped injury – adjusted to the feeble light, he thought he saw a hulking shape rise from the spot where the lightning had struck. Blinking rapidly, the drunk watched as the shape gained height and form and assumed humanoid proportions. Then, as another flash of lightning backlit the sky, he noticed the four large horns protruding from the figure's head.

Rooted to the spot, his face contorting in terror, the drunk watched as the four-horned figure turned its head slowly and surveyed him with cold eyes that shone like dull, metallic moonlight. Almost the same instant, the beast bared its teeth in a noiseless snarl and lunged at the drunkard.

The drunkard let out a scream – but his own voice was lost in the flat hollow silence that now filled his ears.

His friends, who had come to a halt a little way down the road, heard the scream though. It was a high-pitched shriek of horror that tore through the rasping growl coming from the beast's mouth. The shriek leaped skyward and pierced the canopy of trees overhead, sending a flock of roosting birds into frenzied flight.

As his two friends stood arm in arm, watching in shocked silence, the beast swatted the drunkard with its large hand. The blow lifted the drunkard off the ground and sent him tumbling and rolling into the middle of the road. He immediately tried to scramble back to his feet, but the beast took two loping strides and kicked him brutally so that he once again fell on his face. He lay sprawled in the dirt for a moment, whimpering and mewling for help.

Then, clawing at the mud for support, he began to raise himself again... But before he could push himself off the ground, the beast raised its large foot and brought it down heavily on his back. The weight of the foot broke the drunkard's spine, and his torso imploded to the sound of cracking bones.

The two friends down the road trembled in unison and looked at one another. When they returned their gaze to the spot where their partner now lay dead, their eyes grew even wider in alarm.

The giant, four-horned beast had turned its cold, quicksilver eyes upon them!