Nine: Vengeance of the Warrior

Shobha Nihala

NINE: VENGEANCE OF THE WARRIOR

Book Two

Contents

About the Author

By the Same Author

Prologue

1. Tejaswi

2. Anita

3. Raakin

4. Tara

5. Akash

6. Zubin

7. Tejaswi

8. Anita

9. Raakin

10. Tejaswi

11. Anita

12. Tejaswi

13. Raakin

14. Anita

15. Tejaswi

16. The Three

17. Tejaswi

18. Anita

19. Tejaswi

20. Akash

21. Tejaswi

22. Anita

23. Zubin

24. Akash

25. Tara

26. Anita

27. Raakin

28. The Three

29. Anita

30. Akash

31. Tejaswi

32. Anita

33. Akash

34. Tara

35. Zubin

36. Anita

37. Akash

38. Tara

39. Zubin

40. Akash

41. Zubin

42. Tara

43. Akash

44. Tara

45. Tejaswi

46. Tara

47. The Senior Six

48. Raakin

49. Tejaswi

50. Akash

51. Anita

52. Raakin

53. Raakin

54. Anita

55. Tejaswi

56. Zubin

57. Anita

58. Raakin

59. Akash

60. Tara

61. The Senior Six

Acknowledgements

From the Same Author

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NINE 2

Shobha Nihalani is the author of
Nine: Curse of the Kalingan
, the first book in the NINE trilogy, and
The Silent Monument
. Her debut novel,
Karmic Blues
, was translated and published in Denmark. She lives in Hong Kong with her family.

Also By Shobha Nihalani

Nine: Curse of the Kalingan

The Silent Monument

Karmic Blues

She saw the myriad gods beyond man, God beyond the gods, and beyond God his own ineffable eternity; she saw that there were ranges of life beyond our life, ranges of mind beyond our present mind and above these she saw the splendours of the spirit

—Sri Aurobindo

Prologue

Patna
232 BC

The palace was resplendent with the luxuries of many victories in battle. Buddhist hymns reverberated through the lofty panelled halls. Subtle aromatic incense perfumed the air. However, the mood was bleak. On a large bed, the frail figure of the great King Piyadasi Ashoka lay dying. The room was opulent, with thick rugs on the marble floor and beautiful tapestries on the panelled walls. The high ceiling was adorned with intricate carvings of Buddhist Dhamma teachings. Surrounded by his most trusted ministers, his wives and his loyal servants, the emperor was taking his last few breaths.

Within his line of vision, the king could barely make out the smoky shape of a warrior hovering above. He blinked repeatedly, as though wishing the presence away. But the ghost of the warrior remained. It watched the dying king. The heat of the warrior’s rage penetrated deep into the king’s soul. ‘Who are you?’ the king asked in a trembling voice. ‘Are you my conscience gnawing at me again? Leave me alone!’

‘The Kalinga king sheltered you before you inherited your kingdom, yet you invaded our people. You are a cruel and ruthless man, a heartless being. Your legacy shall suffer as brutal a defeat,’ the warrior spirit roared, flitting around the king, unseen by the others.

A feverish and delirious Ashoka mumbled incoherently, ‘I did not mean to destroy your kingdom. I apologize to you and your king, oh great warrior spirit. Not a day passes that I do not feel remorse for my actions. I have changed, and have not killed a living being since. I have built edicts to spread the word of peace and love.’

‘Hah! But it has gone down in history that the Kalingans were defeated by the Mauryans. You were blinded by power. I do not accept your apology. My spirit is restless. It will exact revenge for your deeds!’

‘Please don’t—’

‘Die Chandashoka, die! Your empire, your children, they are all cursed. The world may think of you as a worthy king, but you brought shame upon us. Your people look up to you as the righteous one, as the pious, non-violent king. But they must know the truth. I shall make sure the world knows that your mammoth destruction of my people was a cruel, selfish and deplorable act. You have unfairly used knowledge from the ancient scriptures to conduct mass slaughter. I shall destroy your legacy, Chandashoka! You will never rest, just as I have never rested!’ His words were severe. The king could not take it any more. Ready to face his destiny, Ashoka breathed his last. As his clasped hands fell open, a small wooden chakra—the wheel of life—fell to the floor with a rattle.

1

Tejaswi

Mayong, Assam
Present day

Through shadowy winding paths, Tejaswi hurried purposefully to the small hut. She moved as if one with the night, cloaked in a dark shawl, a patch covering her right eye. The moonless night amplified the ghostly silence and edgy darkness. She reached a deserted house and pushed open the door. There was darkness within, except for a pair of malevolent eyes that glittered in the gloom. A wrinkled hand grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her inside. She had come to visit a witch, a tall black-clad, wild-haired woman of the Ojaa tribe. Tejaswi’s keen sense picked up another presence in the room apart from the woman.

‘Do you believe in ghosts?’ the Ojaa witch asked in a hiss, studying her as if she were prey.

‘Yes, I do,’ Tejaswi replied in a steady voice.