At first, he simply assumed it was Raghunath Rao, from the logic of the matter. Even the keen eyes of the man who was probably India's greatest archer could not distinguish features at the distance of a thousand yards. The more so, when he had not seen the features themselves in over two decades. The famous duel between him and Rao had happened when they were both young men.
Long ago, that was. A thousand years ago, it seemed to the greatest king of Rajputana. Between then and now lay a gulf that could not be measured in simple years. The young Sanga who had faced a young Rao so long ago had been sure and certain in his beliefs, his creed, his duty, his loyalties, and his place in the universe. The middle-aged man who was about to meet him again was no longer sure of anything.
Except in his prowess as a warrior, of course. But Rana Sanga knew full well that was the least of the things that were meeting today on a new field of battle. Something much greater was at stake now. He only wished he knew exactly what it was. But the only thought that came to his mind was. .
Onions.
It was bizarre, really. All he could think of was onions, peeling away. With every horse's pace the distant figure shortened between them, Sanga could sense another peel, falling.
Soon enough-still long before he could recognize the features-he knew it was Rao.
"I'd half-forgotten," he murmured.
* * *
Next to him, Damodara raised a questioning eyebrow.
"How frightening an opponent he is," Sanga explained.
Damodara squinted at the coming figure, trying to discern what Sanga seemed to see in it. Damodara himself was. .
Unimpressed, really. Given the reputation of the Panther-or the Wind of the Great Country, as he was also known-he'd been expecting some sort of giant of a man. But the Maratha warrior approaching across the field seemed no more than average size.
Very wide in the shoulders, true. So much was obvious even at a distance, and Damodara didn't think it was due to the armor Rao was wearing. It was not elaborate armor, in any event. Just the utilitarian gear than any hill-fighter might bring into battle.
But as Rao neared, he began to understand. It was a subtle thing, given that the man was on horseback. Still, after a time, it became apparent enough.
"The way he moves, even riding a horse. ."
Sanga barked a harsh laugh. "Hope you never see him move up close, with a blade or his iron-clawed gauntlet! Not even the Mongoose is so fast, so sure. Always so balanced. I remember thinking I was facing an asura under the human-seeming flesh."
The Rajput king eased his sword out of the scabbard. Just an inch or so, making sure it was loose. Then, did the same with the lance in its scabbard by his knee.
Then, drew his bow. He'd start with that, of course. With a bow, Sanga out-matched Rao. With a lance also, probably, especially now with the added advantage of stirrups.
Still, given Rao, it would probably end with them on foot. The last time they'd met, they'd fought for an entire day with every weapon they'd possessed. And then, too exhausted to move, had finished by exchanging philosophical barbs and quips.
"Wish me well, Lord," he said. Then, spurred his own horse into a trot.
* * *
A great roar went up from the Malwa army. Matched, a moment later, by one from the Marathas across the field.
* * *
"Oh, splendid," murmured Ajatasutra. He and the assassin he'd kept with him exchanged a little smile.
"Let's hope they keep it up." The assassin glanced at one of the nearby munitions wagons. The mahaveda head priest and the two mahamimamsa who guarded it were standing, their eyes riveted on the two combatants approaching each other. They were paying no attention at all to the men who, in the nondescript and patchy armor of common infantrymen, were quietly spreading through the munitions wagons.
"You will give the signal?"
Ajatasutra pinched his hawk nose, smiling more widely under the fingers. "If need be, yes. But unless I'm much mistaken, that won't be necessary. The thing will be, ah, quite obvious."
The assassin cocked his head slightly, in a subtle question.
"Look at it this way. The two most flamboyant men in India are about to meet. True, one is the sternest of Rajputs and the other is reputed to be a great philosopher. Still, I don't think subtlety will be the end result."
* * *
Narses just watched, perched on his mule. Whatever he could do, he had done. The rest was in the hands of whatever God existed.
So, although he watched intently, he was quite calm. What would happen, would happen. There remained only the anticipation of the outcome. The greatest game of all, the game of thrones.
For the rest-whatever God might be-Narses was quite sure he was damned anyway. But he thought he'd have the satisfaction, whatever happened, of being able to thumb his nose at all the gods and devils of the universe, as he plunged into the Pit.
Which, he reminded himself, might still be some decades off anyway.
* * *
Damodara was far less relaxed. He was as tense and as keyed up as he'd ever been, on the edge of a battle.
It could not be otherwise, of course. It was he who would, as commanders must, gauge the right moment.
* * *
Once Sanga and Rao were within seventy yards of each other, Rao drew up his horse.
Sanga did likewise. He already had the bow in his left hand. Now, relinquishing the reins, he drew and notched an arrow with the right.
Then, waited. Gallant as ever, the Rajput king would allow the Maratha chieftain and imperial consort to ready his own bow.
Titles had vanished, on this field. Everything had vanished, except the glory of India's two greatest warriors meeting again in single combat.
Rao grinned. He hadn't intended to, but the sight of Sanga's frown-quite obvious, even at the distance, given the open-faced nature of Rajput helmets-made it impossible to do otherwise.
Always strict! Sanga was obviously a bit disgruntled that Rao had been so careless as not to have his own bow already in hand. Had the great Maratha warrior grown senile?
"The last time," Rao murmured, "great king of the Rajputs, we began with bows and ended with philosophy. But we're much older now, and that seems like such a waste of sweat. So let's start with philosophy, shall we? Where it always ends, anyway."
Rao slid from his horse and landed on the ground, poised and balanced on his feet.
First, he reached up, drew his lance from the saddle scabbard, and pitched it aside. Then, did the same with the bow. Being careful, of course, to make sure they landed on soft patches of soil and far from any rocks. They were good weapons, very well made and expensive. It would be pointless extravagance to damage them. From a philosophical standpoint, downright grotesque.
The arrow quiver followed. Holding it like a vase, he scattered the arrows across the field. Then, tossed the quiver aside. He was less careful where they landed. Arrows were easy enough to come by, and the utilitarian quiver even more so.
Armed now only with a sword and hand weapons, Rao began walking toward Sanga. After ten steps, the sword was pitched to the ground.
Laid on the ground, rather, and carefully at that. It was an excellent sword and Rao didn't want to see it damaged. Still, it was all done very quickly.
The dagger, likewise.
His iron-clawed gauntlet being a sturdier thing, he simply dropped it casually as he moved on.
He walked slowly. Not for the sake of drama, but simply because unlacing and removing armor requires some concentration.
The helmet was the easiest, so it went first. Tough and utilitarian, like the gauntlet, it was simply dropped from one pace to the next. The rest took a bit of time. Not much, given Rao's fingers.
By the time he was done, he stood thirty yards from Sanga. And wore nothing but a loincloth.