||- Thorns of every rose -||

Two wolves battle inside us all. One is evil; the other good.

Who wins, then?

The one you feed.

___________

Dusk, on its wake had stroked mauve and shell - pink to the western skies. A vermilion red sun was bleeding into the night. Sunset was red, like a blotch of blood in the golden fabric of heavens, much similar to the view below, where the heated sand was soaking rapidly in the blood spilled in battle. The day was dying, taking along with it countless lives, the man astride a stallion as dark as an omen of death itself, mused as he eyed the cosmos above.

This man, Akif Fisal Khan he was called, was a Mughal General. Many called him a warlord, and a ruthless superior. He was a man who prided on his ability to wait patiently for victory to come. Khan saw victory for what it really was; the simple conclusion of not being defeated anymore. It was the emptiness beyond the dejection of loss and physical deprivation; nothing more than the relieving silence that followed a battle cry.

Beyond that enlightenment, which many warriors still lacked, victory was nothing but a slave at your command. If there was anything that Khan did not believe, it was fate. His lips curled mockingly as he eyed the cosmos above, the first cluster of stars were popping up. He wondered if the fate of those fighting his men in the valley below, was written in these stars, if any of those men had paused to decipher them. He wondered what it might feel like, to read your doom spelled in the heavenly bodies.

Khan was a broad shouldered man with an unruly mane and a neatly trimmed beard of copper framing his face. There was a jagged scar, half hidden by his facial hair, running down the length of his right cheek, starting just below his eye. There was another across his throat, as if someone had attempted to slit it once. The desert sun had tanned his skin to the colour of a sickly blend of henna, burn patches resting under his eyes. His eyes themselves were untouched by the heat; they remained an icy hue of grey, flakes of olive green swirling in their depths. In the sunset they were now focused on, his eyes shone in a reddish glimmer and Khan standing amidst bloodshed and miles of wasteland around him looked nothing less than the devil himself.

The land dipped and rose stretching ahead from where Khan was stationed. At the edge of his vision the fortress of Chandranagara rose to kiss the indigo skies with its red - sand stone tips. There was an echo of several generations worth heroism in those stone pillars that held the giant structure. But its grandeur was failing and the glory of his brave forefathers was no longer a shield enough for the present king of this forsaken citadel.

Thinking along the lines Khan let his eyes follow the swirling sand down to the valley below, where the last of Chandranagara forces were engaged in a lonely battle. He could not help but admire the loyalty of those soldiers who knew the end was nearing as their follow warriors collapsed on bloody heaps, but kept going forward. His eyes did not linger on any fighter for long, instead they swept the entire scene assessing the progress of his own men down there, waiting for the time for him to join in, waiting for his call.

Finally, his eyes rested on a sight that he never grew tired of. To his surprise, the awe that gripped his mind at the vision was still the same. Terrifying and pleasing it was at the same time, to watch Ram Singh in battle.

Khan distantly recalled one of the Hindu courtiers in Agra mentioning something about a war god and a divine dance that depicted the destruction of evil; Rudra Tandav it was called. To his credit, the image that had popped into his mind had been similar to the sight he now beheld.

Ram Singh was a tall man, taller than Khan himself and was of more agile built. His bare torso was tanned copper and glistened in sweat and blood. His dark hair long and dump lay plastered to the sides of his neck. As he moved, with the grace of a dancer, waving the two double edged blades in his hands, like a messenger of death himself, he cut his way through a wave of opponents.

Never did he strike the same man twice for one cut was enough to deliver death. None of his opponents managed to cut him twice, for by the time the man aimed to strike again, death had already embraced him. Khan was sure, although his vision was limited by distance that most of the blood dripping from his hands did not belong to him. It was then the last remaining General of Chandranagara, forced his way through the battling soldiers and challenged Ram to a dual.

The two men circled each other, the battle ground momentarily forgotten, like two predators marking their territories. There was a low toned exchange of words, hushed by the dry winds before their blades collided. The sound of metal clanking together vibrated through the sand, or so Khan had felt as he watched his best warrior finally meeting his match.

The two men complemented each other in grace and skill; it was pity that one of them had to die. What a waste of valour, Khan mused as he watched them locking blades, a low grant escaping the Chandranagara general. He was not entirely convinced but Khan felt as if Ram was not fighting with all his ability. His blows had softened to defensive, his steps often faltering. Narrowing his eyes, Khan wondered if Ram knew his opponent from before. Was it possible that his brother in arms, the most honoured warrior he had known had his roots buried in the sand of Chandranagara?

There was an exchange of words once more and agitation swept over Khan. Was a betrayal finally coming his way? Why was he wasting his time? Before Khan had made his mind to bypass their battle plan and ride down there himself and kill both the fighters if he has to, Ram Singh's blade tore through the gut of his opponent unforgivingly.

Nothing had changed; the falling night, the popping stars, the sandy breeze nor the shell pink crescent of moon had paused to pay respect to the fallen warrior. But Ram Singh had. As the general fell to his knees, and collapsed on the sand the victorious warrior let go of his blade and helped the man to gently lie down on the ground. Khan was not privy to the last words they exchanged as Ram closed the eyes of the dead General.

The remaining Chandranagara forces did not notice them as Ram stood up. The men surrounded him with foolish bravery as he was the mightiest of the remaining opponents in the valley. If it has been any other day Khan would have laughed at their folly. Ram took his conch from his belt and blew, simultaneously cutting his enemies with the blade on his other hand. The resulting sound was nothing more than a lament of wind. Three times it vibrated the air surrounding them. It was the moment Khan had been waiting for.

With a terrible war cry that resonated in the lines of the horsemen behind him, Akif Fisal Khan rode to battle. Wave after wave of Mughal army followed him, crashing into the blood bathed valley. The night fell, swallowing the grand fortress of Chandranagara with shadows of doom, defeat and dust. The glory of their victories was confined to the history and their downfall written in blood. A tale of a new era had begun.

**

Night had descended upon the camp in a cluster of stealthy shadows. There had been a lot of celebrations, narrations of battle events and quite a lot of drinking. It had been a part of the entire business that Narmada despised. Khan knew of her distaste very well and had done what he could to keep the commotion of the common soldiers as far from her as possible. Therefore the silence around her reminded her of two things; her own strong will and the General's need to have her there.

Narmada Singh Rathod, was the brain behind Akif Fisal Khan's blade; although it was a truth many were not privy to. The woman who was standing at the opening to a secluded tent, leaning against one of its wooden bars and staring at the stars overhead had made a fortress fall mere hours earlier. Her hair was exceptionally dark, plaited into a thick coil and tossed around her shoulders. Her eyes matched in hue, dark like a moonless night, they stood out in her angular face, highlighted by the strokes of kohl outlining them. There was a large bindi, resting between her brows, and a nose ring on her shapely nose. Other than that, she was dressed in a dark grab that befitted a solider rather than a lady. A bejewelled hilt of a dagger was secured by her belt.

It seemed she was waiting, for something or someone. Her eyes narrowed in distaste and lips pursed as the time ticked away. Sighing to herself after a moment, she went inside brushing her palms together to occupy them rather than to ward off the chill. Ram had not been back with the best of news. Indeed, she had not expected him to bring her anything but heartbreak from a battle for Chandranagara. She dare not wonder if Khan had realized it yet. Narmada would be surprised if the man had not guessed it, or if he was not curious at all as he had pretended to when she had greeted both of them hours back. Involuntarily her mind went back to a night before the battle, when they had been riding with the troops, plans still being laid out and she had spoken with Ram.

No, it was he who sought her out, while she was trying to prolong the moment of confrontation as much as possible.

"I will not ask you to promise me not to kill him," she had told him then. It was one of the things women associated with battle knew; that one simply could not make promises of saving and surviving on a battle field. "If you have to face him - give my brother the farewell he deserves."

Had it not been for her brother Gangadar, Narmada would have been a very different woman. They had been orphaned at an early age, brought up at the home of a distant uncle. It had been her brother who had allowed her to learn the war lore, the art of not just yielding the weapon but also of harnessing a troop to victory. Their bond had been an exceptional one, until Narmada's path crossed with Ram Singh and the sparks between them had reduced the strings that attached her to her brother, down to ashes.

It was as if Gangadar did not understand the full aptitude of what he had created. Narmada never had royal ambitions. Gangadar was already a high ranking official; he could have done without his sister being married to the king. It was the only thing she failed to make her brother understand and had finally driven her away from him, away from the golden cage she was promised and everything that was associated with Chandranagara and her childhood memories.

She did not wish to return here ever again; hardly as an enemy. But, even away from the shackles of gold, Narmada was not truly the master of her own fate. She doubted even Ram could truly say that he had the ability to decide his own path. There were always kings vying for more power, Generals expanding borders, soldiers dying.

She had not gone more than two paces in, when the sound of urgent hooves on dust tore through the silence. Narmada jerked back, immediately rushing back to her earlier position; she was greeted with the sight of a lone rider followed by a gang of horsemen. Words they shouted in coarse voices were mulled together in a way that it made no sense by the time they reached her ears.

It was only the first rider that she recognized. It was Ram, even with his face covered and only his flashing eyes visible Narmada was certain of it. He did not slow down to explain, coming at her with a speed that made her worry he was going to run her through, he simply lifted her up to the saddle in front of him and continued at his thundering speed before she had even caught her breath.

"What - Why?" It was all she could croak as in a flash they were out in the open sand, away from the boundaries of the campsite and the fortress of Chandranagara only a assembly of uneven shapes in the skyline.

"Not now," he breathed against her ear, hardly audible against the sound of the men trailing them. The starlight was merely sufficient for them to see where they were going and the ends of their clothes flapped against them. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, Narmada could see they were surrounded by dunes, stars ahead the only guideline available. And the men were catching up.

"Do they realize Akif would kill them for this?" She mused out loud, gritting her teeth in fury. Narmada knew that soldiers sometimes rebelled against their own men, but it was something she did not expect from Khan's men; after all they were under the man's iron control. Something wheezed past her ear, disappearing into the darkness ahead. Ram's hand holding the reins jerked briskly as he tried to hold back a groan. She twirled around in shock, realizing for the first time that he was injured and the men were shooting arrows at them.

Cool and wet darkness was seeping against Ram's dark tunic, the wound that lay beneath could not be from an arrow. There was another gash against his arm, where the cloth was ripped and a dart was still sticking out from his shoulder.

Narmada asked no more. Simply, she took the reins from him and urged the horse forward, faster if it was possible. She knew these parts of the desert like the back of her hand, having spent most of her youth riding around at her will. It was not only her experience and the night in their favour. Soon the men trailing them found themselves at a maze of sand dunes, with no idea of the trail they were to follow. It seemed as if the sand had swallowed them and the man, woman and the horse had vanished without a trace.

"It's that damn woman," one of the riders cursed. "She is employing a trick on us, we'll be stranded here if we don' break through the labyrinth she had created."

"We're safe for the time being," Narmada echoed the idea, although in different words as they halted in the middle of nowhere.

It was the edge of a cave, its entrance opened like a mouth of a predator with sharp rocky teeth protruding from ground and the cave roof. Ram offered her a weak smile, as she helped him inside and they collapsed on the cold, hard ground inside the cave.

"You need to leave, without me." He said then, to which Narmada looked at him sharply.

"Whatever has gotten into you!" She exclaimed, kneeling closer to examine his injuries. "As if I would ever -"

He held her wrist and stopped her from reaching out to tear his already ruined outfit. Their eyes locked and he exhaled deeply.

"Akif has betrayed us," he stated calmly.

Narmada drew in a rattling breath, the words seemed to hung around them heavily. She shook her head, as if in a trance trying to make sense of what she had just heard.

"No, no it could not be!" she could not think of the alternative. After everything they had sacrificed to reach where they were, they could not possibly be misled could they? But when her gaze returned to Ram's, his eyes remained as bitter and steady as they had been.

"This had never been about Chandranagar, nor Agra. This is not a battle for the empire's wellbeing. He was after Gangadar, all along."

"My brother? But he did not know, he could not..."

"He didn't earlier," Ram confirmed bitterly. "But he does now, which is why you need to leave."

"But he let you kill him, without a word of protest!"

It seemed her protests and counter arguments had tired him down, or perhaps her denial was simply agitating him, Ram sat up straighter and grabbed her shoulders, shaking them lightly.

"That was because he thought battle codes were written in papers, with ink! He thought the Chandranagara King had them. He was no longer content with what you could offer, he wanted more."

"So now he has realized, that he cannot read them...?"

"You told me that a power hungry man should never profit from war lore, did you not? Then you should not give him a chance to benefit from this conspiracy."

Narmada's hands shook as she withdrew them from Ram's grip.

"But I cannot leave you!"

Ram reached out and took her hand, his grip did not have its previous strength, but his voice made up for that shortcoming.

"You and I both know that Akif has the devil's blade," Narmada's intake of breath was so loud that it echoed in the emptiness of the cave around them.

"He did not, He cannot possibly -" her voice shook and died, as she buried her face in her hands. "What have I done? It was me who poisoned that blade and paved way for him to strike you down."

"Both of us trusted him," Ram bit back a groan. "It's not your fault."

"I'll kill that man!" Narmada's eyes shone like liquid fire in her absolute fury, but Ram tugged at her hands, bringing them to rest against his heart.

"Leave," he said softly, she shook her head, tears finally leaking from the corners of her eyes, draining down her cheeks in small rivulets of smudged kohl. "For the sake of our child...Leave Narmada; leave now!"

**

A week later

James McLane surveyed the sky above him. If anything, the last thing he wanted was a storm to hinder their journey by another couple of days. The heat was ominously unbearable, something he had always associated with unexpected storms. The wind was thick and salty as it always was. It slapped against the sails violently.

"What do you think Robert," he asked his follow officer, standing beside him gazing at the harboured vessel with a gloomy expression of his own. "Are we good to sail, or not?"

Robert Kent cleared his throat. He knew his captain was feeling uneasy. He himself felt rather startled recently. Since they were scheduled to return, the feeling kept mounting. However, unlike McLane, he did not associate it with an oncoming storm. Kent was more bothered with his captain's reaction to their departure.

He had known his superior for a long time and McLane simply did not respond well to failures. Kent found it hard to believe that his captain was content with being sent home, his stronghold rendered useless by the higher authorities. It was very unlike McLane to let go of something so easily that Kent feared the man privately harboured some sinister scheme of taking it all back.

It was only once Kent had dared to broach on the topic, McLane had laughed out loudly at him then. He had clapped Kent on the back and said, "All in good times, my dear fellow, all in good times." And Kent feared, with his god fearing mentality, when that good time would come. So, it was with those uncomfortable thoughts that he tried to form an answer to McLane's question now.

"The fellows expect the wind to die out by noon captain sir, we're good to sail."

Looking at his captain, Kent thought the man looked pleased with his answer as if he was eager to leave than ever before. McLane clapped his hands together, chuckling to himself.

"Well, that's jolly news, is it not Robert? I'm sure you're eager to leave all the bitter disappointments behind!"

Robert shook his head slightly, as if to get rid of the ominous feeling the lingered and tried to smile. He thought of his infant daughter back in England, of his wife and his sister who would be married this summer and the gesture was no longer forced. Kent wanted to go home, more so than ever before, but he could not vouch the same for his Captain.

"Morning, Captain sir!" One of the lads from the decks was coming towards them, his bronze skin glittering in the sun and his hat in his hand. He offered Kent a smile and turned to McLane. "We're all docked and ready to depart sir!"

McLane nodded, only half interested, his blue grey eyes remained fixed upon the sails, his brows slightly narrowed.

"Did you look into what I inquired earlier Thompson?"

The lad bit his lip, noticing McLane's eyes were elsewhere leaned in to mutter against Kent's ear.

"Is it true what the fellows say, that Captain caught himself a mermaid?"

Kent widened his eyes at him, clearly caught bewildered. This was a rumour he was unfamiliar with. However, Thompson did not get a chance to elaborate any further as McLane had turned towards them and was looking directly at them with his hands folded against his chest. There was a vein throbbing at his throat.

Both men stood straighter and avoided each other's gaze as Thompson stared at his shoes and Kent was suddenly very interested in examining the sails.

"Well, Thompson?"

"Yes sir!" Thompson offered rather relieved. "The ship's a doctor and he is well equipped to treat any injured person."

Kent knotted his eyebrows, deep in thought. He found it odd that the captain would inquire into something so mundane. Any vessel usually carried medical help, perhaps not always highly equipped and skilled but still...none of them needed any immediate medical attention.

"If you don't mind me asking," Kent said, clearing his throat. "Who is injured Captain Sir?"

"An acquaintance of mine," said McLane briskly almost immediately turning around to leave. "Keep the preparation going Thompson," he called as he walked away. "We're leaving at noon!"

"He seems eager..." Thompson's voice trailed off as the two men watched the broad shouldered figure of their captain being swallowed by the distance.

"It'll do him good," Kent replied in no nonsense tone.

"Of cause," the other man agreed. "Unless..."

"Unless what?"

"Unless he had indeed caught him a mermaid and is trying to smuggle her out." Thompson smirked at the dumbfounded look on Kent's face.

"For the love of God man, what gives you such blizzard ideas?"

Thompson simply laughed at him, burying his hands in his pockets and stepping backwards. "Well, for the sake of Captain McLane let's hope he hadn't caught an injured mermaid. Good day, Mr. Kent sir!"

The lad went, leaving a scowling Kent behind him who looked back at the sails and sighed, losing battle to his inner desire to go back home against his concerns for his superior.

"For the sake of captain..." he repeated Thompson's words. "For the sake of Captain indeed..."

**

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