Enjoy this exclusive excerpt from The Blood of Yoddhas: Ramayana Retold, Book 1
Chapter One: The Slaughter
Nemi was enjoying a perfect day until they came across the caravan.
The sun hung directly overhead, merciless and bright, baking the path into cracked veins of dust. His nine companions rode beside him, their laughter and easy camaraderie a stark contrast to the burning heat of the day. They had been on a hunt for the past week, and the wagon that trailed them was heavy with game they had stripped and cleaned. Their destination was a small village only a few dozen miles further up this way—a familiar stop before they would complete the journey back to the capital.
This is how life should be, Nemi thought, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face and breathing in the scent of the wild mountain herbs crushed beneath their horses' hooves. No royal protocols, no courtiers watching my every move, no endless meetings with ministers. Just the open road and good friends.
At twenty summers, Nemi cut an imposing figure even among his well-built companions. Tall and broad-shouldered, with the lean, sinewy muscle of a practiced warrior rather than the bulk of a brawler, he moved with the easy grace of one comfortable in his own skin. His face, bronzed by weeks in the sun, bore the high cheekbones and strong jawline of the Kosalan royal line, though softened by youth. It was his eyes that truly marked him—deep-set and observant, the color of dark honey, missing nothing and revealing little except to those who knew him well. Though he dressed plainly now, in a hunter's leather vest and simple garb, there remained something in his bearing, in the way he sat his horse, that spoke of nobility no common clothing could disguise.
This journey meant more to him than his companions knew. It was his first real taste of freedom since completing his training at Guru Vashishta's ashram. From the age of 5, he had been immersed in the acquisition of knowledge. Fourteen years of rigorous education in everything from martial arts to statecraft, philosophy to astronomy, had finally culminated in his honorable graduation this spring with a headful of knowledge and an itch to travel wide and run free.
On returning home to Ayodhya, his father had asked him what he wished to do next. An ambassadorship to foreign lands, a stint with the military, or, the choice his father had probably hoped he would pick, sitting by Aja’s side in the court to understand and absorb the complex, often convoluted business of administrative politics and governance.
His response had been none of these.
Then what do you wish to do, son, Aja had asked with a bushy raised eyebrow.
“Nothing!” had been Nemi’s response.
And that was exactly what he had set out to do with nine of his most trusted childhood friends. This summer had been one long season of blissful nothingness, unless you could count swimming, fishing, riding, hunting, singing around campfires, and general boyish pursuits as something. For the first time in his life, he was finally able to roam beyond the boundaries of Ayodhya with just his friends for company and he had made the most of it, ranging far and wide, camping in canyons and sleeping with the howling of wolves for accompaniment, eating food roasted over an open fire on sandy beaches while the surf roared and splashed lustily, tracking magnificent Himalayan stags the size of small elephants on snowy trails.
He had travelled the breadth and width of one part of this splendid country, and it had only given an appetite to travel farther and see more. Experience more. He wondered what King Aja might say if his son told him he was considering taking up the life of an itinerant wanderer? He could only imagine the patriarchal temper tantrum that would follow!
He smiled now as he imagined his father’s face if he told him he didn’t want to be tied down to a courtroom and throne, compelled to act as judge and general and police chief and administrator and governor and tax collector all rolled into one; he wanted to roam free, explore and experience. A life of adventure, not administration!
Nemi's lion's mane of hair was tied back with a leather cord, sweat beading on his forehead as he led the group along the shortcut through the hills. It was an old hunter's path, rarely traveled except by those who knew the land well.
Behind him, Dhruv and Krishnan were engaged in a good-natured argument about the largest deer they'd each brought down.
"It was at least twenty hands high at the shoulder," Krishnan insisted, his stocky frame bouncing slightly in the saddle as he gestured expansively. His booming laugh carried across the hillside. "The biggest stag in all of Kosala!"
"In your dreams, perhaps," Dhruv countered, the scar along his left cheek pulling tight as he grinned. "I've seen bigger does in my village." His angular features and perpetually watchful eyes gave him a severe appearance, but the warmth in his voice revealed his affection for his friend.
Vikram, riding just behind them, began to hum a hunting song, the melody rising and falling with the rhythm of their horses' hooves. Arjun, the youngest of their band at barely twenty summers, joined in with surprising clarity, his voice sweet and strong.
"Come on, Sujoy," called Varun from further back, his thin face appearing from beneath his ever-present hood. "Show them how it's really done!"
Sujoy, the nobleman's son with a carefully groomed appearance, reluctantly added his voice to the chorus, and soon Akshay's deep bass joined them as well. The massive smith's son might have the gentlest nature of them all, but his voice rumbled like distant thunder.
"Gods preserve us," groaned Jayesh, the perceptive one whose quiet wisdom often balanced the group's more impulsive tendencies. "Gautam is joining in."
True enough, Gautam—whose keen eyesight had earned him the nickname "Hawk-Eye"—had added his voice to the melody, though "melody" was perhaps too generous a term for the sounds he produced. As someone had once remarked to Nemi, perhaps they should change Gautum’s nickname to “Frog-voice” instead!
"You sound like a bullfrog with a head cold!" laughed Rohan, the tenth of their company, whose scholarly nature and perfect memory made him their unofficial chronicler. "Please, for the love of all the devas, stop before you scare every animal from here to the Vindhyas!"
Nemi couldn't help but laugh along with them. These were his brothers in all but blood, each as familiar to him as his own reflection. They had grown up together, trained together, hunted together, seen each other through triumphs and failures. There was no one else in the world he trusted more.
This is freedom, he thought again, feeling truly content for the first time in months. Away from the palace, the courtiers, the endless protocols. Out here, I'm just Nemi, not the crown prince, not the heir to the throne of Kosala. Just a man among friends.
"—And then he climbed over the palace wall," Krishnan was saying, continuing a tale from their youth. "Only to land straight in the Queen Mother's lotus pond!"
The men erupted in laughter at the memory of a much younger Nemi, dripping with pond water and covered in lotus petals, being marched back to his chambers by a furious royal guard.
Nemi smiled at the memory. Then the wind changed, and something caught his attention. He lifted his hand.
The laughter died instantly. The song cut off mid-verse. Their merriment vanished as swiftly as morning mist under the hot sun.
His men knew better than to ask why. They were his closest friends, his band of brothers in all but name, and had grown up together, hunting, carousing, seeing each other through thick and thin. They were as familiar with Nemi's ways as the wind was of the mountain. He did nothing without reason and if he thought something was wrong, then by the gods, something was wrong.
What is that? Nemi thought, his senses suddenly alert, his mind instantly shifting from relaxed companionship to focused awareness. Something primal and instinctive within him had registered a warning.
A moment of stillness. The group of ten held still, even the horses barely making a sound as they waited.
Then they smelled it too.
Blood, old and thick, mingling with the char of burned wood. Nemi's nostrils flared at the familiar scent—not the clean blood of a fresh kill, but the sickly-sweet stench of death baking in the sun.
Something is very wrong, Nemi thought, his mind suddenly alert, his senses sharpened by years of training and instinct. That smell... too much blood. Not animals. Humans.
He pointed ahead at a copse of trees within a stone's throw of the king's road that travelled roughly parallel to this path.
The carefree mood of moments ago vanished completely, replaced by tense vigilance. Gautam's hand moved to the bow slung across his back, while Arjun, despite his youth, drew his sword with practiced ease, his eyes darting nervously to the surrounding hills.
"Could they still be nearby?" Arjun whispered, giving voice to the concern that had immediately entered Nemi's mind as well.
Nemi shook his head slightly. "The blood is old. But stay alert."
He pressed his heels and rode his horse down the hillside and up the other hill toward the copse, the others following close behind, weapons now drawn, eyes scanning for any sign of threat.
They saw Nemi slow his horse, raising his clenched fist again in warning. They came to a halt beside him, ten abreast, and scanned the scene ahead.
The youngest among them, Arjun, swore under his breath, his knuckles white around the hilt of his sword. Beside him, Gautam narrowed his gaze, an arrow already nocked in his bow, ready to draw at the first sign of danger.
"By all the gods," murmured Sujoy, his carefully cultivated courtly composure cracking at the sight before them.
Nemi dismounted, his boots landing silently in the dust. Something cold settled in his chest as he moved forward, hand resting on the hilt of his blade. He signaled for three of his men to flank him, the others to spread out.
A sign with his fingers pointed at his eyes then sketched to and fro instructed them to keep a watch out for danger.
They did as instructed, senses alert, weapons ready. Dhruv and Krishnan moved to his right and left, while Gautam took position on a slight rise, bow at the ready, his hawk-like eyes scanning the surroundings.
Even if the killers are gone, we must be careful, Nemi thought, his training coming to the fore. This could be a trap.
Nemi studied the tracks to the side, indicating where several mounted riders had arrived from the direction of the king's road. They had been herding about three heavily laden wagons, probably a small merchant's caravan travelling to the capital to sell local craft wares and other rural goods at the city fair where they would fetch a better price.
The riders–bandits, quite evidently–had accosted and halted the caravan on the king's road, then forced them to ride through the woods to this copse. A trail of dried blood showed where they had cut one of the wagon drivers, no doubt as a means of coercion to convince the rest of the party.
Leaving the king's road had seemed logical enough as the road was routinely patrolled by marshalls. The caravan party had complied, assuming that once the bandits had stripped them of all valuables, they would leave them to go their way.
It was a logical assumption. It was also wrong.
Where their tracks ended, so did their lives.
Nemi clenched his fist as he surveyed the scene of the massacre.
By all the gods... The thought barely formed in his mind as his eyes took in the horror before him.
Corpses. Strewn across the clearing within the roughly circular ring of trees.
A wagon sat tilted on its side, half-burned, its shattered wheel turning lazily in the breeze. The contents of a merchant's life scattered like fallen leaves.
A woman lay in the dust, her arm stretched out, fingers still curled around the small body of a child. Nemi saw the dark stain of dried tears streaking through the dirt on her face, the savage mutilation of her body speaking of cruelty far beyond simple murder.
The child beside her bore marks of wanton brutality, the kind that spoke of killers who took their time, who enjoyed the suffering they inflicted.
She looks like Purvi, the thought came unbidden, a lance of pain through his heart as he stared at the little girl's face. His sister's features superimposed themselves over the dead child's—the same delicate nose, the same innocent expression frozen in death.
The memory rushed back, unwelcome and raw despite the years. Purvi, just six summers old, her body broken and mangled by the runaway chariot, crushed beneath the horses' hooves. His mother's howl of grief, a sound he had never heard before or since, inhuman in its anguish. His father, the mighty king, brought to his knees beside his daughter's corpse, weeping without shame.
Nemi felt that same howl building inside his own chest now, threatening to tear free from his throat. He swallowed it down, the effort making him tremble.
Not now, he told himself, forcing the grief back down. This girl isn’t your little sister. Purvi’s death was a tragic accident, and was no one’s fault. This poor thing is a victim of bloody murder. Focus. Understand what happened here. Find who did this.
Nearby, a man lay gutted like a deer, his entrails spilling over what was once a merchant's fine silk. Even in death, he seemed to reach for the woman and child. His face was frozen in an expression Nemi had seen before—the helpless horror of watching loved ones die while being unable to save them.
Further down—the smallest corpse of all. A baby. No older than a few months. The manner of its killing suggested nothing but pure sadism. Nemi turned away, jaw clenched so tight he felt his teeth might crack.
They had not even spared an infant.
What kind of monsters could do this? Rage began to build within him, starting as a cold knot in his stomach, spreading outward like ice through his veins. This isn't banditry. This is... sport. They enjoyed this.
One of the men staggered back—Vikram, who had been born in the village they were heading to and still had family there, his face pale as death. "That's my cousin Asit," he choked. "His wife Suman. They were recently married. Their baby. They were travelling with my sister Maneka, her husband Jashan, and their three children, my nieces and nephews—"
His voice choked off, unable to name the three smaller corpses that lay in diverse states of brutal violation.
Gods, no, Nemi thought, the horror deepening as he realized the personal connection. Not Vikram's family. Of all the caravans on the king's road, what cruel fate led these monsters to people we know?
Nemi did not speak. But his knuckles turned white, his jaw locked. His fury became a thing unspoken but felt. He had seen death before—had been forced to deliver it himself when all else failed—but this was different. This wasn't killing. This was sport for monsters wearing human skin.
A ragged gasp.
Nemi's head snapped toward the sound. He gestured sharply for his men to hold position as he moved quickly, boots crunching over blood-stained gravel, hope and dread mingling in his chest.
One of the victims was still, impossibly, alive. Just barely clinging to life despite his wounds, his being out here for hours.
Nemi knelt beside the man whose fine clothes marked him as a merchant, pressing a waterskin to the man's lips. The man's chest rose and fell in shallow, irregular bursts.
Live, Nemi silently urged, supporting the man's head. Live long enough to tell us who did this.
The merchant drank greedily, choking. His hands trembled, grasping at Nemi who held him. Blood bubbled at the corner of his mouth.
His eyes, clouded and fading, flickered with something desperate. Recognition, perhaps. Or just the universal plea of the dying—to be witnessed, to have their passing marked by another soul.
"Bandits." A shuddering breath. "Told them…take it all…Spare our…lives. But still they…killed. Took…their time. Laughing…laughing as they…tortured us."
His fingers tightened on Nemi's wrist. Nemi grimaced as the dying man's final, desperate grasp grew vise-like, grinding the bones in Nemi's wrist. Then, as suddenly as he grasped him, the merchant let go, hand flopping to the dirt. He was gone, Nemi saw, eyes still wide open in shock, as if unable to believe the manner of his and his family's deaths.
Nemi reached down and gently closed the man's eyes, then sat for a moment, closing his own eyes as well, and sent up a silent prayer for the dead. Surya, guide these innocent souls to the heavenly realms. Yama, judge them with compassion. They did not deserve such an end.
Why was it always the innocents who paid for the crimes of the wicked? Why?
He rose finally, his heart heavy with unspoken thoughts.
If these monsters did this here, they've done it elsewhere. They'll do it again. No one who kills like this stops willingly.
"Vikram," Nemi called softly. The grief-stricken man looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and haunted. "Take one of the horses and ride to your village. Bring back your people so they can take their loved ones for the last rites."
Vikram nodded wordlessly, moving as if in a dream. Nemi watched him mount and ride away, the slump of his shoulders telling its own story of grief.
Such senseless cruelty, Nemi thought, his initial shock giving way to a deep, smoldering anger. These people were no threat. They had surrendered everything. And still they were slaughtered like animals—no, worse than animals, for even a predator kills only for food, not for pleasure.
He turned to his remaining companions. The earlier joviality had vanished completely, replaced by grim expressions and tense postures. Arjun looked physically ill, while even Krishnan's usually jovial face was drawn tight with anger. Gautam had not lowered his bow, still scanning the surroundings, as if hoping the killers would return so he could put an arrow through their hearts.
"We will not leave the dead behind to be eaten by animals," Nemi said, his voice quiet but firm. "We chanced upon these unfortunates for a reason. I believe that. Therefore we now have a responsibility to them."
Dhruv nodded, understanding without needing explanation. "We'll lay them out properly," he said, already moving to the nearest body. "Give them what dignity we can."
The gods placed us on this path today, Nemi thought grimly. Not for the hunt we planned, but for a different kind of hunt altogether.
He worked with his friends to lay the corpses in a row, using cloth from the wagon to cover up their ghastly wounds, closing their eyes, placing hands on chests in restful poses. It was bad enough that the village folk would find their loved ones and neighbors killed, there was no reason why they should be traumatized by the sight of how they had suffered.
As dusk approached, Nemi ordered a camp made nearby. He paced the perimeter, unable to rest. The faces of the dead haunted him, especially the infant. How many more would die if these killers weren't stopped?
This is my domain, he thought, watching the shadows lengthen across the clearing. My father's kingdom. These people died under my protection, and I failed them. I cannot fail others.
The rest of them sat around a fire that no one tended, watching Nemi in silence. They knew this mood, this cold fury that settled on him like a shroud. They had seen it before, on battlefields and in judgment halls. They knew what was coming.
Finally, Nemi spoke. "We go after the ones who did this. We leave at first light."
Krishnan gestured to the wagon behind them, heavy with their spoils from days of hunting. "What about all our game?"
Nemi didn't even glance at it. "Leave it. Leave it all."
No one argued. They had seen enough meat and blood for one day.
Besides, they now had a new mission.
They would still be hunting. But not game.
A different kind of quarry. The most treacherous and deadly of all species.
Men who have become monsters, Nemi thought grimly as he stared unblinking into the flames. And these monsters will answer for their crimes. By the blood of my ancestors, I, Nemi of Kosala, son of Aja and grandson of Raghu, swear I will make them pay.