The Burning Lotus

Prologue - The Magic of Ink

The court poet sighed and picked up his pen. He hated following his master into the forts they had conquered, to witness all the beautiful things there ruthlessly destroyed. He hated war and the screaming of horses and the clash of metal on metal.

He fancied that he could still smell the stench of blood that had risen when they had slaughtered all the men in the village, the acidic smell mingling with the hot dust to sear his nostrils. The women had been spared but only to serve the pleasure of the soldiers who had hacked them to death when they had grown bored.

He had followed after the army had rushed the walls, content to watch from a distance as they took control of the fort. The poet had had to make his way through the battlefield. His mare had snorted nervously as the stable boy his master had sent to guide him coaxed her over mutilated bodies. The ground had been drenched red. It wasn't visible against the original rich brown, except as darker splodges around severed limbs.

Broken weapons lay scattered everywhere. A man appeared to be impaled on a spear, his limbs limp like the rag dolls that little girls play with, his eyes just as unseeing. His cheek had been cut open and his teeth were exposed in an awful grin.

Already the scavengers were gathering. Crows pecked at lifeless eyes that stared into the heavens. A jackal ran away in the distance, a bit of arm or leg hanging out of his mouth. They were making the most out of the sea of destruction. The poet looked away, preferring to concentrate on the saddle in front of him. He chose to compose a poem about how glorious the battle was. The poet didn't need his eyes to tell him how wrong his words would be, his nostrils filled that role suitably well.

If the poet had thought that the sights and smells of the eerily quiet battlefield would have prepared him for the scenes that met him inside, he quickly changed his mind. Chaos ruled inside. Hoarse shouts greeted him, mingling with the wails of terrified children and the screams of their mothers.

Outside every house, the bodies of men lay strewn across the threshold, their lifeless hands still gripping their makeshift weapons, their mutilated innards trampled into the dust. A woman came screaming out of a doorway. Her clothes were in tatters and her arms were outstretched as if to embrace him. His horse shied away from the sudden noise. As he watched a shout of laughter echoed from inside the house and an armoured hand appeared to lace its fingers into her open, black locks. The pleading light in her eyes died as she was jerked backwards into the gloom of the interior. The poet just shuddered and went to meet his patron.

At the next corner, a child stood wailing, clutching a doll to its chest. The poet hurried away. Behind him he heard harsh voices.

"Oh, shut that thing up!"

There was a dull rasp of steel exiting the scabbard, followed by a soft thud. The crying stopped abruptly.

Thankfully, the poet found his patron inside the courtyard of the main palace. Alauddin Khilji, the Sultan of Delhi, sat erect on his horse. His armour was covered in dried blood but it was obviously not his. Khilji slapped the poet on the back as he entered the courtyard.

"At last! I was wondering if that old mare of yours would ever make it up to the fort!"

The poet murmured something under his breath. It was never a good idea to get on the wrong side of the king, as his predecessor had found out.

"I hope that you've got something beautiful planned to commemorate my victory?"

The King of Kings might have seemed to be in a good mood, but the poet knew his master better. He caught the faint sound of bitterness in his voice.

"Not as beautiful as what should be waiting for you within these walls, Sire."

The air immediately grew tenser as the king's attendants edged discreetly away from him. Khilji, however, would not demand the head of his court poet. Men with the same command over pen and ink were rare enough.

"Would you believe that the royal women burnt themselves? Nothing left but ashes and dust. Come, I'll show you."

The poet allowed himself to be escorted to an underground cellar. The floor of the room was covered in white, cold ashes although the smell of burning flesh still lingered strongly. Here and there burnt bones stuck their charred ends into the air. What caught the poet's eye, however, were the innumerable handprints etched into the clay plastered on the walls.

"Yes," Khilji said, the bitterness more evident now that they were alone. "They apparently leave behind only their hand prints as a reminder that they ever existed. Come, I tire of this place."

They emerged into the evening sunlight. The air seemed quieter now, the screams fewer and farther apart. He was glad to be out of the dingy cellar. The hairs on the back of his neck were still raised, as if the spirits of all those women had somehow managed to curse the rest of his life.

Hesitantly, the poet voiced his innermost thoughts. "There should have been a queen waiting for you with open arms, my lord."

"I did not attack this fort for its women." Khilji barked out a harsh laugh. "You see, this is only the beginning. Delhi is mine, and Gujarat and now most of Rajputana. I have done what even my uncle could not do. And I will do more than any other before me. The whole of Hindustan will be brought under my reign. Observe it carefully, poet, for I shall want you to sing my praises so that our grandchildren's grandchildren might remember my name."

The poet refrained from reminding the king that Padmini's beauty had set him on the path of war, not the lands of Mewar.

"My lord, come quick, the..." the soldier belted out some problem or the other that the poet failed to catch. Khilji swore under his breath. "These idiots are incapable of dealing with the simplest of things," he snarled and spurred his horse after soldier.

The poet was used to such dismissals. It was not his place to follow the king. He would only prove a nuisance. Besides, the King was in a dangerous mood. Some poor fool was going to lose his head tonight.

He sighed and dragged his thoughts back to the parchment in front of him. The sun had long since set and now the flickering lamp cast its glow on the empty sheet. He really didn't need it because the moonlight was enough. He dipped his pen into the ink well. The words blossomed on the empty paper as he endeavoured to hide blood with ink.