Prince of Ayodhya (Ramayana) [Paperback]

'A thundering good story. Here are all the heroes and gods, demons and sorcerers you can possibly want. Banker does a wonderful job of bringing this great classic to modern readers' Dave Duncan 'Banker creates a marvellous landscape of princes, demons, mages, and lovers. I love good fantasy, and this one-of-a-kind epic charmed and delighted me' Kate Elliott, author of THE GATHERING STORM

The original Ramayana was written three thousand years ago by a reformed thief-turned-sage named Valmiki. Now, with breathtaking imagination and brilliant storytelling, Indian writer Ashok K. Banker has recreated this epic for modern readers everywhere. Ayodhya the Unconquerable: legendary capital of warriors and seers. Never invaded, never defeated, greatest fortress of the civilised world. Soon it will be a wasteland of ashes and blood. For Ayodhya lies in the shadow of a demon's wrath, a demon that even the gods fear, a demon that even now is sending all its dreadful power to ravage the world of mortals. And only Rama, Prince of Ayodhya, can hope to prevent the onslaught of darkness and halt the demon invasion. But Rama will not fight alone. The sword of his brother will shield him, the wisdom of a seer will guide him...but in the final battle it will be Rama's courage alone that will save or damn Ayodhya.

Ashok Banker is 38, a full time writer living in Bombay. THE PRINCE OF AYODHYA is his first novel to be published in the UK.

The blow-heat of rancid breath against his face, guttural whisper in his ear. He snapped awake. Sweat-drenched, fever-hot, bone-chilled, springing from his satin bed, barefoot on the cool redstone floor. Sword, now. A yard and a half of gleaming Kosala steel, never out of reach, a bolt of lightning in his fist. Soft rustle of the silken gold-embroidered loin-cloth around his tight abs. Naked feline grace. Taut young muscles, supple limbs, senses instantly attuned to the slightest hint of threat.

He scanned the moonlit expanse of his bedchamber with the sharpness of a panther with the scent of stag in its nostrils. Barely three seconds after rising from deep, dreamless sleep, he was ready to take on a dozen armed men. Or worse.

But the bedchamber was empty. The moon was full tonight and the room was caught in a silvery net, more than sufficient for his trained eyes to scan the princely apartment. Jewelled ornaments and regal furnishings gleamed richly in the silvered dimness. The far wall, some twenty yards from where he stood, showed him a pale imitation of his own reflection in an oval mirror framed in solid gold. He had heard enough descriptions of his appearance in kavyas composed by the royal bards to know what the mirror would have shown had the light been sufficient. A distinct dynastic resemblance, unmistakably related to one of those towering portraits of his illustrious ancestors adorning the walls of Suryavansha Hall. Classically handsome (the bards would sing), a fitting heir to the dynasty of the Sun: the reality was harder, leaner and more austere. His piercing brown eyes, as sharp and all-seeing as a kite-hawk’s thousand-yojana gaze, scoured every square inch as he traversed the apartment with quick military precision, his movements graceful and flowing. Bedchamber, clear. Gymnasium, clear. Bathing chambers, clear. Enemy not sighted, repeat, not sighted.

Circuit complete. Return to bedchamber.

Breathing in the pranayam style, he executed a martial asana that was part attack and part spiritual discipline. In three breathtakingly graceful leaps, it took him to the veranda that ringed one side of the circular chamber. Sword slashing through the gossamer folds of the translucent drapes that could conceal an assassin. Turn, turn, breathe, slice, follow-through, recover, resume stance. Guru Vashishta had trained him superbly. A quad of assassins striking with two weapons apiece would have been hardpressed to put a scratch on his lithe body.

The veranda was empty.

He checked his perimeter in a sweeping three-hundred-and-sixty-degree arc that put him back precisely in his original position, and scanned over the ornately carved redwood balustrade, first checking topside then below. Above, the complex vaulting architecture of the mahal rose up in an ingeniously layered design that allowed efficient guard-watches without the royal residents ever seeing their vigilant protectors, out of their line of sight. But he had to be sure; the sense of mortal dread was too real, too powerful. He vaulted out on to the lip of the ledge that encircled the veranda, flicked the sword from one hand to the other, gripped the sculpted corner of the balustrade, then leaned out over a twenty-yard fall into darkness. In the bright wash of the purnima moon, he could see the helmeted heads and spear tips of the night watch patrolling the south grounds, moving in perfect unison in the regular rhythmic four-count pattern of a normal chowkidari sweep. Ground level, clear. Topside, clear, all the way to the roof. Silvery gleam of the tip of a lance held in defensive position: roof watch on guard and alert.

Leap down to the veranda. Turn, arc sword in a sweeping action that cleared the first circle of personal safety.

Circle clear.

Hold stance. Sword blade flat on right shoulder. Cold steel on sleep-warm skin. Breathe. Exhale. Scan down. Move to the far end of the long veranda, twenty yards running the length of the princely chambers, covering the distance in a cheetah-swift instant. From here, he could see down to the western grounds, the distant front gates of the palace and the darkened length of Raghuvamsha Avenue beyond. Again, deserted, except for the night-watch, patrolling alertly even at this silent hour. Armour and sandalled feet clinking and tramping in precisely co-ordinated rhythms. Quads of four armed and armoured royal guards scouring every square yard in an endlessly overlapping pattern. Squares interwoven with squares interwoven with more squares, in a grid extending outwards in every direction. The grid extending to the seventh wall, the outermost defence of the greatest fortress city ever built by the Arya nations. Ayodhya the Unconquerable.

From the south, a gentle wind, carrying the scent of battle elephants, horses, camels, buffaloes, boar, deer, cow, fowl, a thick murky soup of animal odours. Source: the royal stables and stockyards behind the palace.

Somewhere in the still, silent night, a domesticated wolf-hound baying uneasily, as if feeling the same sense of not-quite-rightness that stirred Rama’s hackles. An elephant trumpeting sleepily in response. A rooster clearing its throat, croaking once irritably, then lapsing into silence, stealing a last few moments of sleep before the imminent dawn.

He forced himself to stand down from the martial asana of full alertness, changing the pattern of his pranayam breathing, dialling down his biorhythm using yoga techniques. From battle readiness to mere watchfulness. There was no danger anywhere to be seen.