Read Online Prince of Dharma by Ashok Banker - Free Book Online
Authors: Ashok Banker
Tags: Epic Fiction
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rituals. The Dark Lord desires acolytes such as yourself to join His cause. We are islanded here in the midst of these deva-worshipping hordes, tiny isolated islets in an ocean of wretched Brahman. We must join together and ensure our lord’s victory.’
She paused, opening her purse and reaching into it once more. ‘As recognition of our new alliance, I offer you in our lord’s name this special dispensation. Use it as you see fit to recruit new acolytes to His cause. There is much, much more where this came from. The Dark Lord knows how easily these mortals are seduced by the lure of gold. Keep as much as you think fit as your own reward. You have served Him well and He is greatly pleased.’
She held out a handful of gold and silver rupees that would be enough to purchase a comfortable house in the upper avenues of Ayodhya. His pupils dilated even more as he stared roundly at the small fortune in her fist. His throat jumped as he swallowed, and he nodded dumbly, acquiescing. He held out his hands, cupped together, to receive the lavish payment, probably more money than he had ever seen in all his wretched life.
She turned her hand to drop the coins into his open palms, then pretended to lurch sideways, spilling the money across the floor. It jangled and clanked and rolled in several directions at once. He stared dully at the coins for a moment, then dropped hard to his knees and began scrambling around frantically.
Manthara watched him for a moment, then she parted the folds of her thick robe and pulled out the long curved dagger she had sheathed in a specially made leather-lined pocket. She had poured several drops of a potion of her own making into the sheath before sliding the dagger in before she left the palace a half-hour ago, a precaution she took whenever she went on one of these illicit nocturnal forays. As she exposed the dagger to the smoky candlelight, the tip of the wavy blade gleamed yellowish-green with the lethal poison. She gripped the dagger’s hilt tightly in both hands, the double-grip ensuring a steadier stance with her deformity.
Then she bent and struck the tantric on the back of his neck with the dagger. Just a prick, barely enough to break the skin. He seemed not to feel it at first, still pawing the floor in search of his lost reward. Then, after a moment, he stopped, grew still, and slowly reached up to touch the back of his neck. The tiniest spot of blood came away on a fingertip. He stared at it for an instant, then put the fingertip in his mouth, sucking. Slow recognition dawned on his scrawny features. He started to raise his eyes, seeking out Manthara. Before he could find her, the poison—admitted through his blood as well as through his mouth by now—took effect. His nerves spasmed and he fell face-down on the floor, the coins he had managed to gather falling again noisily.
Manthara watched his death throes for a moment, then turned to the serving girl. Her face had turned as white as a Brahmin’s dhoti. She was pressed back against the door, as if trying to melt into the wood and disappear.
‘Take the bag to the carriage,’ Manthara said harshly. ‘Make sure the footmen don’t know what it contains. Place it in the usual khazana box inside. Carefully. You bruised the last one.’
The serving girl looked as if she would bolt. Her hand crept down to the door latch. But at the last moment, her eyes returned to the spasming, choking tantric on the ground and she remembered the fate that befell those who crossed Manthara. She darted forward, picked up the gunnysack, threw it over her shoulder like a bag of potatoes, and preceded Manthara out of the door.
Manthara stayed a moment, surveying the foul-smelling candle-lit room. There was something here that could be used to her advantage. There was always something. She pulled a scarf from within the folds of her robe, an anonymous silk garment used by the titled and untitled
She paused, opening her purse and reaching into it once more. ‘As recognition of our new alliance, I offer you in our lord’s name this special dispensation. Use it as you see fit to recruit new acolytes to His cause. There is much, much more where this came from. The Dark Lord knows how easily these mortals are seduced by the lure of gold. Keep as much as you think fit as your own reward. You have served Him well and He is greatly pleased.’
She held out a handful of gold and silver rupees that would be enough to purchase a comfortable house in the upper avenues of Ayodhya. His pupils dilated even more as he stared roundly at the small fortune in her fist. His throat jumped as he swallowed, and he nodded dumbly, acquiescing. He held out his hands, cupped together, to receive the lavish payment, probably more money than he had ever seen in all his wretched life.
She turned her hand to drop the coins into his open palms, then pretended to lurch sideways, spilling the money across the floor. It jangled and clanked and rolled in several directions at once. He stared dully at the coins for a moment, then dropped hard to his knees and began scrambling around frantically.
Manthara watched him for a moment, then she parted the folds of her thick robe and pulled out the long curved dagger she had sheathed in a specially made leather-lined pocket. She had poured several drops of a potion of her own making into the sheath before sliding the dagger in before she left the palace a half-hour ago, a precaution she took whenever she went on one of these illicit nocturnal forays. As she exposed the dagger to the smoky candlelight, the tip of the wavy blade gleamed yellowish-green with the lethal poison. She gripped the dagger’s hilt tightly in both hands, the double-grip ensuring a steadier stance with her deformity.
Then she bent and struck the tantric on the back of his neck with the dagger. Just a prick, barely enough to break the skin. He seemed not to feel it at first, still pawing the floor in search of his lost reward. Then, after a moment, he stopped, grew still, and slowly reached up to touch the back of his neck. The tiniest spot of blood came away on a fingertip. He stared at it for an instant, then put the fingertip in his mouth, sucking. Slow recognition dawned on his scrawny features. He started to raise his eyes, seeking out Manthara. Before he could find her, the poison—admitted through his blood as well as through his mouth by now—took effect. His nerves spasmed and he fell face-down on the floor, the coins he had managed to gather falling again noisily.
Manthara watched his death throes for a moment, then turned to the serving girl. Her face had turned as white as a Brahmin’s dhoti. She was pressed back against the door, as if trying to melt into the wood and disappear.
‘Take the bag to the carriage,’ Manthara said harshly. ‘Make sure the footmen don’t know what it contains. Place it in the usual khazana box inside. Carefully. You bruised the last one.’
The serving girl looked as if she would bolt. Her hand crept down to the door latch. But at the last moment, her eyes returned to the spasming, choking tantric on the ground and she remembered the fate that befell those who crossed Manthara. She darted forward, picked up the gunnysack, threw it over her shoulder like a bag of potatoes, and preceded Manthara out of the door.
Manthara stayed a moment, surveying the foul-smelling candle-lit room. There was something here that could be used to her advantage. There was always something. She pulled a scarf from within the folds of her robe, an anonymous silk garment used by the titled and untitled
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