Prologue

960 AD, Gunung Sembatu (Stony Mountain), Upper Galas River Valley, in the land named Amdan Negara (City of the Valiant).

The sun peeked from over the treetops in the east, beaming out the first rays of brilliant golden orange to light up the morning world. In the west, the rolling curves of mountains, riding high over the clouds, alternately rising and falling, looked like the silhouette of a giant serpent peacefully meditating on the earth’s breast.

Prince Adhi Vira gazed at the distant horizon, his face clouded with gloom. For seven nights running, he had not slept a single wink. Blade and battle no more fazed the powerfully built warrior, but now the fight he had to fight ground and grated deep into his soul. Watching his beloved wife grow weaker moment by moment, struggling with constantly diminishing strength against the unrelenting pain wrought by the Lord of Death, until she had little energy left for even more struggle. While he himself had no means whatsoever within his power to help her.

“What fate awaits my lady, Kejora?” Adhi Vira watched his wife, lines of extreme worry etched deep in his face. As she lay on the mattress of kekabu jungle fruit cotton, her disturbed look, even as she slept, suggested that she had not had much peace. “I see, from her face, that she is in great suffering.”

“I am sorry, Lord Prince,” the middle aged midwife cum healer handed him a mug of water. “Lady Permata Sukma (Gem of the Soul) had lost way too much blood. Her body is extremely weak now. I have tried my utmost best to stop her bleeding. But her fever has still not yet subsided.”

“What about my daughter?”

“The young princess will be fine,” another female voice interjected, making Adhi Vira turn around.

“Teratai Putih (White Lotus)!” Adhi Vira looked surprised. “It's been a long time."

"Greetings, my Lord."

"Greetings to you, Teratai. We were talking about you just a while ago. You were prominent by your absence."

“I was held up on the way, Lord," the elderly seer continued, "what with these old ankles and knees also slowing me down."

"Poor soul. You should have let me know beforehand. I’d have sent a pedati to fetch you."

"Oh no, Lord. I can't. My legs and feet need the exercise. Or they'll just go to rust even faster. Anyway, I am come to pay my respects, and to see the baby."

"Thank you, Teratai. We really appreciate that. It’s good to see you again.”

“And you too, Lord. Your daughter’s crying voice, it's so loud and strong. She sounds like one boisterous bundle of energy. My instinct tells me that she will be blessed with good health and peace all her life. It’s like, I can almost feel, that she carries the fortune of the Dharmakusuma Dynasty in her.”

“And what else do you feel, Teratai?”

“She will one day be queen of Tanah Serendah Sekebun Bunga (Valley of Flower Gardens).”

“You mean, Kelantan Amdan Negara?”

“Oh well, Lord. Whether Kelantan Amdan Negara, or Tanah Serendah Sekebun Bunga, or Sambhu Gita or Imbang Jaya, or Sri Saujana Vijaya Mala, for me they all mean the same one kingdom, heir of Raktam Rttika or Chi Tu, the Red Earth Kingdom, our kingdom and that of our ancestors since the ancient past. Your daughter, according to my intuition, will be the first sovereign ruler of this land, since such a long, long time, from the Dharmakusuma Dynasty.”

“Only you sound a bit too certain, Teratai,” Adhi Vira rolled a small piece of dried nipah (swamp palm) leaf around some shredded tembakau (tobacco), then lit it up, “making me a trifle anxious.”

“I can only peer ahead by the ways that I have been taught, Lord,” said Teratai, “insofar as the ability that I possess. Still, I have made more than a few predictions, and a fair number of them have come to pass. The throne of Amdan Negara will return to its rightful owners, the progeny of Nayaka, Bhaga Datta, Buddha Gupta, Rama Unibha and Wan Sri Mara.”

Adhi Vira's face brightened up a bit upon hearing Teratai’s soothing conviction, her reverent recital of the names of his family's ancient ancestors bringing a warm glow to his heart.

“She smells so pleasant,” Adhi Vira bowed low to inspect his three day old newborn daughter even more closely. The child's eyes were still tightly shut, its tiny hands bunched tightly as Adhi Vira held one of them gently in his own.

“Yes, Husband,” Permata Sukma had to struggle hard to muster the strength she needed just to get up from her lying position. “She does, doesn’t she? As fragrant as glorious musk, she is. Allow me my last pleasure, the sweet privilege, of giving our daughter her name.”

“Of course, my love. Anything you wish is yours.”

“I name her … Kembang Seri Wangi (Blossom of Fragrant Grace).”

“A splendid name for a princess,” her husband laid his palm lovingly on her cheek. It felt like it was fast losing its warmth.

“Husband,” Permata Sukma had to make a massive effort as she tried to eke out a few more words.

“My beloved, please don’t exert yourself too hard,” Adhi Vira pleaded with his wife. “You must save your energy for your recovery. You’re too weak now. You need to rest.”

“Take care of … our daughter … to the best … of your ability. She will … give you … pride and happiness. She will be … a suitable heir … for the … Dharmakusuma Dynasty. Good … bye … my … love.”

Adhi Vira just sat there, his tongue paralysed, his body frozen. His eyes were wide open, but they were not seeing. Then he buried his face in his hands. The weather outside looked shining bright. But Adhi Vira’s heart felt bleaker than the bleakest night.

“Great Lord,” he spoke at last. “Why do you do this to me? Why? Why?? Why???” His scream reverberated through the countryside.

Moments passed, which felt like ages to Adhi Vira, while deathly quiet reigned in the room. Then he felt a gentle hand on his shoulder.

“I shall come and see the baby every day, my Lord, if my services are required,” Kejora offered. “My house is only a short distance from here. My daughters shall help me if necessary.”

“And so shall I, Lord,” Teratai added. “Your daughter will be my godchild.”

"But then, what am I going to do, when my daughter cries for her milk again?" Adhi Vira wondered aloud, his voice sounding hoarse.

"Not to worry, Lord," Kejora comforted him. "My third daughter, Chempaka Murni, is nursing her two month old child Kenanga Sari, my youngest granddaughter. She is strong and healthy. She can feed two babies without difficulty. Princess Kembang Seri Wangi will never ever go hungry, Lord. I'll see to that myself."

"Thank you, Kejora. I wouldn't know what I would do without you."

Adhi Vira lifted himself up slowly, aided by Kejora and Teratai. His body felt heavy as lead, his muscles sore, his bones fatigued. A familiar pain coursed up his left thigh, the lingering effects of a months old spear injury, courtesy of a skirmish with the marauding Palembangian forces of Biduk Bota (Ogre's Ship).

Adhi Vira's fighters had begun to regularly inflict heavy losses on the Sumatrans every time they came on one of their random raids up the mountainous interior. Ambushing them on the march, striking at them when and where they least expected it, destroying them with all kinds of booby traps. But Biduk Bota's supply of men and arms seemed inexhaustible, and he kept those raids coming.

"I'll alert the neighbours, Lord," Kejora put up her shawl over her head, getting ready to leave.

"I'll go with you, Kejora," Teratai added. "We're going to need as many hands as we can gather to organise a proper funeral for the Lady. You take your time, Lord. Keep the child company. Get yourself together. The people must not see you in this state."

Teratai was right, Adhi Vira reflected. He felt like he was in a thousand little pieces then. But he could not dissappoint the people of Gunung Sembatu (Stony Mountain). To them, come what may, he must always remain their invincible, indomitable, indestructible Lord of the Mountain. A scion of the Dharmakusuma Dynasty could not be anything less. Even if it had been a dynasty in exile for two centuries.

“Thank you, Teratai,” Adhi Vira sighed. “Your wisdom is priceless to me.”

”And, Lord,” Teratai continued. “Do accept Lady Permata Sukma’s departure. Though she suffered much, at the moment she left us all her heart was at peace. Consider it a sacrifice, one of profound greatness, in order to bring Princess Kembang Seri Wangi safely into this world.”

”We’ll be back soon, Lord,” Kejora added before the two women walked down the wooden steps.

Adhi Vira straightened Permata Sukma’s now cold body on her mattress. Memories of their times together came flooding back, besieging him. Now in death, she looked serene and beautiful again. Like she always did. Perhaps it was because she had been completely freed from her pain. He held her face in his hands, and kissed her for the longest time. Then he draped a long piece of clean white cotton cloth over her.

The love of his life was gone now. Gone forever. But he has to soldier on. The family quest will continue.

§

Thus was how, in the same one week, his daughter’s birth brought a glorious ray of pleasure into Adhi Vira’s life, while his wife’s passing tore his heart apart. Now, the happiness of gaining a child was so cruelly mixed with the pain of losing the woman he loved. The feeling of good cheer brought about by the arrival of Kembang Seri Wangi was shared by neighbours, relatives, friends and followers of Adhi Vira. Likewise, the departure of Permata Sukma, who had become a shining light in their reclusive mountain stronghold, equally grieved them all.

Quite a number of them comprised migrants from the area around Bukit Panau, a morning’s boat ride downriver from Gunung Sembatu, who had been forced to leave their ancestral lands, after their homes, farms, rice fields and livestock were seized by Biduk Bota and his henchmen. Supposedly as punishment after a large scale rebellion by the villagers protesting a sudden hefty raise in taxes on farm produce and on travel and transport of goods by both land and river.

 

Chapter 1: The Hen with the Ducklings

960 AD, city of Rajbadi Danga, province of Karna Suvarna, kingdom of Gauda, in the land of Bhangala.

Prakasha received the various leftover foodstuff brought down by the family cook from the kitchen. His youngest son ran excitedly after the ducklings following a surati mother duck, trying his utmost best to grab hold of one. The ducklings scampered away all around from the boy in fright. The mother duck’s feathers bristled in a show of hostile resentment.

“Bhava, why are you disturbing those poor ducklings?” Prakasha squeezed and mixed the old cooked rice, vegetables, meats and gravies with milked-out grated coconut and some freshly grated sago to make feed for his chickens, ducks and geese. “If their mother suddenly turns on you, then you’ll know what it’s like to be on the receiving end of her wrath.”

“I only want to hold them, Father. I only want to play with them.”

“If you want to hold them, then you have to approach them gently, Son. Feed them, coax them, gain their trust, like I do. If you just keep rushing them and scaring them, they’re always going to run away from you. Here, look. When I call out to them, they come tamely to me without any fear. Look now, they even poke their beaks into my hand to look for food.”

“Why are those ducklings following a surati duck, Father? Why aren’t they following their own mother?”

“Because they think that she is their own mother. Because she was the one who brooded them until they hatched, then cared for them since they were small.”

“Why didn’t their own mother brood them herself?”

“Because she died before they hatched. A hungry cobra tried to steal her brooding eggs one night. When she fought the snake, she got sprayed with venom before the snake slithered away. So I had to continue brooding the eggs using a surati mother duck, until they hatched."

"What? That's weird!"

"Heck, you know, my old friend Sarghuna even had a hen continue to brood his duck’s eggs when the duck died from an infection. So the ducklings that hatched later are now following the hen around like their own mother.”

“Crikey! A hen mothering ducklings, that’s even weirder!” Prabhava first shrieked in astonished disbelief. "Does she enjoy a good swim too?" Then he broke into a shrill laugh of kiddy mirth. "I want to see that! I have to! I must!" To his little mind, the world was often full of mystery and magic, making life constantly merry and wondrous.

"Well, it happens that I'm going to pay Sarghuna a visit tomorrow. I haven't seen him for some time. You can tag along with me then. If you promise me that you'll behave yourself."

"I promise, Father. I promise."

Just past seven years of age, Prabhava was always so ebullient and inquisitive. Seldom stationary for any prolonged period of time, he was a ball of energy in perpetual motion. Whether running around, playing, chattering away with someone, or pestering someone else to tell him yet another tale, from morn till dusk.

§

The day was bright and sunny. A warm, gentle breeze blew from the eastern plains. It had not rained for several days. The air felt dry.

The old man watered the beds of okra, long beans, tomatoes and brinjals with water which his sons had fetched from the well. The newly fruiting vegetables would be ready for harvesting in a couple of months or so.

He then looked to the other side. The rows of tapioca, sweet potato and sugar cane looked thick and luxuriant in their foliage. The tapioca and potato would give him plump succculent tubers. The sugar cane would carry plenty of sweet juice. A smile came over the man's wrinkled, weather beaten face. 

"Uncle Sarghuna!" a little boy's excited shout from the direction of the gate to Sarghuna's farmstead jolted the man from his ponderings.

Sarghuna turned around, looking pleasantly surprised by the unexpected appearance of his distinguished visitors, a tall smart looking well dressed man and his equally well dressed young son.

"Greetings, young man!" the man greeted the little boy gingerly. "Still looking hale and hearty as usual, aren't you?

"Greetings to you, Uncle. Where's the hen with the ducklings? I want to see them!" the boy continued, brimming with eagerness.

"They're foraging around in the backyard of the house now, I think. Go have a look there, Son."

The boy scooted off at speed to find the object of his wonderment. 

"Your veggies are looking good, my friend," Prakasha surveyed the area. He was still sweating from the morning walk with his son from their home across the foothills. "Must be the soil around here."

“Yes, Lord Commander,” Sarghuna watched the ducks and geese picking out the snails, beetles, worms and borers on his plants. "They are, aren't they? You could be right. But I still sprinkle some manure on the beds, though."

Sarghuna had known Prakasha from his days as a young recruit in the cavalry. Their friendship had endured since then, Prakasha often turning to the older man for advice.

"Let's go up to the house for a cup of tea and a proper chat, Lord. It gets too warm down here after some time."

"Thank you. I could use a drink."

"Rita!" Sarghuna called out aloud to his wife, Amrita.

“Yes, Ghuna,” answered Amrita from the kitchen. ‘What is it?”

"Boil a kettle of of your best tea. We have special guests."

The two men talked about the latest developments, the weather, their own respective farms, the local politics, and pretty much everything else.

”Oh, Uncle,” Prabhava appeared.

“What’s the matter, Bhava?” Sarghuna enquired. “You sound disappointed.”

”Why wasn’t the mother hen swimming with her ducklings?" the boy whined. "She was just standing there at the edge of the puddle.”

”Of course not, Bhava," answered Sarghuna. "Because she’s a hen. So she’ll always act like a hen. While the ducklings she’s mothering will always behave like the ducklings that they are.”

"The important thing, Bhava," Amrita interjected, "is that the mother hen considers the ducklings as her own babies, and loves them and protects them, and takes good care of them."

"And that the ducklings trust and love the mother hen like she's their own mother," added Sarghuna.

Prabhava was then invited by Vishala, one of Sarghuna’s sons, to go with him to the rice paddy swamp to look at the fishes.

”Shala,” Sarghuna turned toward his son. “Pick some kangkung and some shoots, get enough fish from the traps, then bring them all back soonest to your mother. Our guests shall be having lunch with us.”

”All right, Father,” Vishala then walked away with Prabhava.

”Oooh, this tea is divine,” Prakasha leaned back on the rattan chair, enjoying the drink served to him. ‘Where did you get it from, Amrita?”

”Where else if not Darjeeling, in western Bhangala, on the eastern Himalayas?” the woman smiled. “The place created by a thunderbolt issuing from the mace of Indra.”

”And whose winds come from the breath of Shanker Mahadeva,” added Sarghuna.

”Well, that explains it then,” said Prabhava, bringing another smile from Amrita. “So what does the future hold for this youngest son of mine then, Sarghuna?” Prakasha broached the subject of his son's future as he continued sipping his tea. “If I could have the benefit of your sage wisdom."

“Lord,” the old seer crushed small bits of betel nut in his dusty, worn out betel nut crusher with his wiry hand. “It pleases me greatly to hear a highly respected Ashvaka soldier seek my humble counsel. As befits his proud name, Prince Prabhava will grow up into a brave and strong warrior. However, he will be imbued with the restless spirit of an adventurer. Taking after his father, I would believe. His life, therefore, will be driven by his wanderlust. His many journeys abroad will end in a distant place, far, far away from here."

“And where would that place be, if I may know?”

“Yonder, across the Bay of Bhangala, roughly in the direction of the rising sun from Singhala Dvipa (Singhala Island). In a blessed land, on a peninsula that leads from Suvarna Bhumi, the Golden Continent, to Suvarna Dvipa, the Golden Islands. There would be where he will eventually find the ultimate happiness and peace that he will then crave."

"He also always gets so excited every time he hears about Daivi Khadga, that so called Sword from the Sky. He says that he wants to go and look for it, when he grows up."

"Oh! Daivi Khadga? The Sword of Arjuna. Of course. That's every young warrior's dream."

"Sorry, Sarghuna. But to the Kambhoja people, it will always be the Sword of Kambhujiya."

"Is that so? Now, I wonder why."

"Well, King Kambhujiya, ancestor of the Kambhoja people and king of the first united Kambhoja kingdom, won it fair and square in battle from King Kuvala Shava of Kosala. But Arjuna, descendant of Kuvala Shava, only obtained it after he had slain Prince Sudakh Shina, descendant of Kambhujiya, with his arrow in cold blood."

"Really? That’s bad."

"You can say that again,” Prakasha’s face now turned grim. “Sudakh Shina had given Arjuna a sound thrashing in an individual duel without arms, in the battle of Kuru Kshetra which story was told in the Mahabhrata. But Arjuna later loosed his arrow at Sudakh Shina from the back, from his divine bow Gandhiva, after Sudakh Shina had well and truly bested him in a face to face, man to man fight. You know, Sudakh Shina even seriously wounded Sri Krishna in that battle."

"You sound so sure about that story, my friend."

"Of course. I'm a Kambhoja. The blood of King Kambhujiya is in me."

Talk of the ancient Kambhoja never failed to fire Prakasha up with fierce pride. They had always been known throughout the Himalayas as a valiant, heroic people.

"Now we're arguing about some mythical sword of more than twenty centuries ago," Sarghuna smiled.

"And we don't know if it even exists, much less where it lies," Prakasha smiled back. "It's all ancient legend now."

"So tell me, Lord. According to the Kambhoja version of the legend, where did Daivi Khadga come from originally?"

"If we go by the story first passed down to me by my grandfather, the sword was originally a gift to Sharma-Adad, a king of Great Ashuria, from Tudhaliya, king of the Hittites, whose kingdom was centred in the city of Hattusa. The Hittites were neighbours, allies and trading partners of Ashuria. The Hittites were legendary iron workers, their mastery of the metal unmatched anywhere else in the world. The sword was then among the most prominent items of a friendship treaty forged between former foes turned friends."

“Not bad. Not bad at all. Continue.”

“Some time afterward, Sharma-Adad in turn gave the sword to Prince Chander Burman, an ancestor of King Kambhujiya, when Sharma-Adad gave his consent to the marriage of his daughter, Princess Nin-Harrissi, to Chander Burman, to further strengthen the good political relationship between them. A relationship that had budded when Chander Burman answered Sharma-Adad’s request for special military assistance, by bringing a large contingent of Kambhoja mercenaries, comprising elite Ashvaka cavalry, to serve with the Ashurian army.

"Amazing. So Daivi Khadga did not come from the heavens then? What a shame." Sarghuna sighed with exaggerated dissappointment.

"Well, if it's any comfort, that lump of iron from which it was forged did come from the sky. It was a big block of star rock (meteorite). That's what gives the best steel for a sword, or so they say."

”No wonder it was so powerful.”

“As it goes among some of us Kambhoja, the legend of the Sword of Kambhujiya, or Daivi Khadga, as a magic sword, is merely a reflection of the first development stage of iron weaponry, which was beginning to replace bronze weaponry and taking the world of warriors and warfare by storm.”

"Now I understand,” Sarghuna nodded. “Oh well. Let's just put it this way, Lord. If the quest for Daivi Khadga makes Prince Prabhava go out to the world, drives his ambition, and helps make a man out of him, it can only be good for him. By that time, whether Daivi Khadga really exists or not then would be a moot point."

“If that is his destiny, then so be it,” said Prakasha. “For it was also destiny that once brought me here all the way from Badakshan, my Kambhoja homeland in the Western Himalayas. That was how my life as a cavalryman in the Bhangala army began.”

"Do you still miss Badakshan, Lord?"

"I'll never cease to do, Sarghuna. Its magnificent scenery, its urvara bhumi, its elegant horses, its sturdy ponies, its excellently fragrant musk, its beautiful precious and semi-precious stones. If only I could experience all those things again, maybe some day."

The royal court of the ruling Pala Dynasty of Bhangala and its army, especially the cavalry, was dominated by men of aristocratic Ashvaka ancestry. The Ashvaka, their name meaning horseman in Sanskrit, was an elite Kambhoja clan of accomplished riders who could shoot an arrow in any direction from the back of a horse in full gallop, who came from the west of Bhangala.

Prakasha could have exploited his illustrious lineage and the good connections that came with it to speed up his career advancement, but, like a good soldier, he had opted to work his way by merit up the ranks. In the end, he had still impressed his superiors enough to eventually rise to Maha Senapati (Chief Commander) of the Cavalry. It was a most coveted position, because the cavalry formed the cream of the Pala army.