Free The Guardians of the Halahala by Shatrujeet Nath Page A

question.
    Interpreting Dhanavantri’s silence correctly, Vikramaditya swallowed hard and stared vacantly at the opposite wall. “I wish I could reach out to her... somehow. Speak to her and tell her I love her and that I am waiting for her...” He turned to Dhanavantri once again, his eyes pleading. “She’s been like this for two years. Isn’t there some cure for this, somewhere?”
    â€œYou know that I’ve tried everything I can. Unfortunately, nothing has worked so far.”
    â€œYes, you’ve tried your best, I know,” the king hung his head in dejection. “If the affliction is beyond even the finest physician in Sindhuvarta, I have to accept it as my fate.”
    Dhanavantri reached up and placed a comforting hand on the samrat’s shoulder. “Don’t lose hope, friend. I promise you that I shall keep trying to bring her back. Now get some rest.”
    â€œYou sleep well, too, my friend,” replied the king.
    The two men parted, the royal physician taking the flight of steps down to the level below, Vikramaditya turning into the passage that led to his bedchamber.
    As the sound of the men’s footsteps receded, a figure slowly detached itself from the shadow of a big pillar in the hallway downstairs. The light from a faraway lamp immediately fell on the figure, revealing a man’s dark, bearded face under a black turban.
    It was the sadhu from the boat.
    The sadhu paused stealthily, looking right and left to ascertain no one was around. The coast was clear, so he began mounting the stairway leading toward the king’s bedroom. As he crept his way up, he reached into the rough shawl he was wearing – and his fingers curled around the hilt of the long dagger that was carefully tucked away into the folds of his dhoti.

Dagger
    T he cloaked rider had been on the road for nearly two hours, and though the steed was a strong beast in the prime of health, it was beginning to show signs of fatigue, its mouth foaming from exertion. This wasn’t surprising, considering the rider had ridden swiftly and without stop since leaving Ujjayini’s gates, just after sundown and a little before dinner was served at the palace.
    â€œPlease talk to your grandmother and ask her to get us some news from the Great Desert,” Vikramaditya had said, speaking to the rider in the privacy of his royal chamber. “The sooner we get some information, the better we can plan our defense against the Hunas.”
    The path that the rider had taken led westward from Ujjayini, and after an hour’s ride, it had petered into rocky, scrub-laden hills. The rider had pressed on until, at the end of the second hour, the horse had drawn up to the rim of a flat, open plain. Two small fires burned in the middle of the plain, their diffused glow silhouetting a few crude tents pitched on the dusty ground.
    As the rider dismounted and began stroking the neck of the tired horse, the high-pitched trill of a nocturnal bird split the stillness from the right. Almost immediately, another bird answered the first one’s call from the darkness to the left. The rider paused for a moment, and then looking skyward, let out a warble that was a close imitation of the first two calls. Then, taking the horse by the bridle, the rider began walking toward the glow of the fires.
    Halfway to the tents, three figures emerged from the darkness and stood in the rider’s way.
    â€œGreetings, sister,” one of the figures spoke in a friendly voice. “What brings you in search of the Wandering Tribe at this hour?”
    â€œI’m here to speak to the Mother Oracle.”
    â€œAh!” The three figures fell in step with the rider. “But how did you know where to find us?”
    â€œYou forget that I too have the blood of the nomads in me. The snowflake that melts on a mountaintop intuitively knows the way back to the distant sea.”
    The rider and the three escorts