Sita rolled as she fell to the ground and quickly steadied herself behind a tree. She stayed low, her back against the tree, protected for now. She looked to her right. The unfortunate Makrant lay on the ground, drowning rapidly in his own blood. The arrow point had exited through the back of his neck. He would soon be dead.
Sita cursed in anger. And then realised it was a waste of energy. She began to breathe deeply. Calming her heart down. Paying attention. She looked around carefully. Nobody ahead of her. The arrows had come from the other direction, obscured by the tree that protected her. She knew there had to be at least two enemies. There was no way a single archer could have shot two arrows in such rapid succession.
She looked at Makrant again. He had stopped moving. His soul had moved on. The jungle was eerily quiet. It was almost impossible to believe that just a few short moments ago, brutal violence had been unleashed.
Farewell, brave Makrant. May your soul find purpose once again.
She caught snatches of commands whispered in the distance. ‘Go to … Lord Kumbhakarna … Tell … she’s … here …’
She heard the hurried footsteps of someone rushing away. There was probably just one enemy now. She looked down at the earth and whispered, ‘Help me, mother. Help me.’
She drew her knife from the scabbard tied horizontally to the small of her back. She closed her eyes. She couldn’t afford to look around the tree and expose herself. She would probably be shot instantly. Her eyes were useless. She had to rely on her ears. There were great archers who could shoot arrows by relying on sound. But very few could throw knives at the source of a sound. Sita was one of those very few.
She heard a loud yet surprisingly gentle voice. ‘Come out, Princess Sita. We don’t want to hurt you. It’s better if …’
The voice stopped mid-sentence. It would not be heard ever again. For there was a knife buried in the throat that had been the source of that voice. Sita had, without bringing herself into view, turned quickly and flung the knife with unerring and deadly accuracy. The Lankan soldier was momentarily surprised as the knife thumped into his throat. He died in no time. Just like Makrant had, drowning in his own blood.
Sita waited. She had to be sure there was no one else. She had no other weapon. But her enemies didn’t know that. She listened intently. Hearing no sound, she threw herself to the ground, rolling rapidly behind low shrubs. Still no sign of anyone.
Move! Move! There’s nobody else!
Sita quickly rose to her feet and sprinted to the slain Lankan, surprised that his bow was not nocked with an arrow. She tried to pull her knife out, but it was lodged too deep in the dead Lankan’s vertebra. It refused to budge.
The camp is in trouble! Move!
Sita picked up the Lankan’s quiver. It contained a few arrows. She quickly tied it around her back and shoulder. She lifted the bow. And ran. Ran hard! Towards the temporary camp. She had to kill the other Lankan soldier before he reached his team and warned them.
The temporary camp showed signs of a massive struggle. Most of the Malayaputra soldiers, except Jatayu and two others, were already dead. Lying in pools of blood. They had been ruthlessly massacred. Jatayu was also badly injured. Blood seeped out from numerous wounds that covered his body. Some made by blades, some by fists. His arms were tied tightly behind his back. Two Lankan soldiers held him up in a tight grip. A giant of a man loomed in front, questioning the great Naga.
Naga was the name given to people of the Sapt Sindhu born with deformities. Jatayu’s malformation gave his face the appearance of a vulture.
The other two Malayaputras knelt on the ground, also bloodied. Their hands were similarly tied at the back. Three Lankan soldiers surrounded each one, while two more held them down. The Lankan swords were dripping with blood.
Raavan and his younger brother, Kumbhakarna, stood at a distance. Looking intently at the interrogation. Focused. Their hands clean of any blood.
‘Answer me, Captain,’ barked the Lankan. ‘Where are they?’
Jatayu shook his head vehemently. His lips were sealed.
The Lankan leaned within an inch of the Naga’s ear and whispered, ‘You were one of us, Jatayu. You were loyal to Lord Raavan once.’
Jatayu cast a malevolent look at the Lankan. His smouldering eyes gave the reply.
The Lankan continued. ‘We can forget the past. Tell us what we want to know. And come back to Lanka with honour. This is the word of a Lankan. This is the word of Captain Khara.’
Jatayu looked away and stared into the distance. Anger fading. A blank expression on his face. As if his mind was somewhere else.
The Lankan interrogator signalled one of his soldiers.
‘As you command, Captain Khara,’ said the soldier, wiping his sword clean on his forearm band and slipping it back into his scabbard. He walked up to an injured Malayaputra, and drew out his serrated knife. He positioned himself behind the youth, yanked his head back and placed the knife against his throat. Then he looked at Khara, awaiting the order.
Khara took hold of Jatayu’s head such that his eyes stared directly at his fellow Malayaputra. The knife at his throat.
‘You may not care for your own life, Captain Jatayu,’ said Khara, ‘but don’t you want to save at least two of your soldiers?’
The Malayaputra looked at Jatayu and shouted, ‘I am ready to die, my Captain! Don’t say anything!’
The Lankan hit the young soldier’s head with the knife hilt. His body slouched and then straightened again with courage. The blade swiftly returned to his throat.
Khara spoke with silky politeness, ‘Come on, Captain. Save your soldier’s life. Tell us where they are.’
‘You will never catch them!’ growled Jatayu. ‘The three of them are long gone!’
Khara laughed. ‘The two princes of Ayodhya can keep going, for all I care. We are only interested in the Vishnu.’
Jatayu was shocked. How do they know?
‘Where is the Vishnu?’ asked Khara. ‘Where is she?’
Jatayu’s lips began to move, but only in prayer. He was praying for the soul of his brave soldier.
Khara gave a curt nod.
Jatayu suddenly straightened and loudly rent the air with the Malayaputra cry. ‘Jai Parshu Ram!’
‘Jai Parshu Ram!’ shouted both the Malayaputras. The fear of death could not touch them.
The Lankan pressed the blade into the throat of the Malayaputra. Slowly. He slid the serrated knife to the side, inflicting maximum pain. Blood spurted out in a shower. As the youth collapsed to the ground, life slowly ebbing out of him, Jatayu whispered within the confines of his mind.
Farewell, my brave brother …