AJAYA - RISE OF KALI (Book 2) (13 page)

“Where are the bastards hiding?” Aswathama asked, more to himself than of the Captain.

“Sir, I think we have lost our way again.”

Aswathama heard the pain and frustration in the Captain’s voice and his anger returned in a flood. “No, we have not!” He watched the words escape his mouth in white puffs. An argument would have been welcome, but his Captain refused to oblige.

As silence crawled back, Aswathama loosened the reins and the horse sauntered forward. His army of thirty-six men dragged itself behind him along the treacherous mountain path. It had started to snow again.

Boom! A scream followed the crash. Aswathama almost fell from his saddle. They had been hit. In that instant he knew the first boulder had been no coincidence and that more were on their way. The second one hit the rear of the column and carried away two men, along with their horses. Aswathama knew that all his skill as a great archer was futile in this battle. He was not fighting on the vast and dusty plains of India. Gandhara had the reputation of teaching reigning superpowers and invaders hard and unforgettable lessons.

The next boulder crashed down just behind Aswathama, hitting the Captain and his horse. He saw them topple over the cliff and vanish into the depths below. The agonized screams of the man and his beast echoed around them, making the survivors edgy. He could sense the fear of his companions. What was that moving there? Rather, who was it? Aswathama peered up towards the top of the mountain, shading his red-rimmed eyes with his hand. He had seen someone moving. Or was the snow playing its usual games of illusion? As he gazed at the point high above, a silent scream began to rise from his belly. The warrior in him sensed it long before his eyes could see. The enemy had waited until they reached this narrow path – the cliff face towered on one side and the deep abyss plunged into darkness on the other. It was the perfect spot for an ambush.

Aswathama’s right hand inched towards his sword. At that moment, the entire mountain began to reverberate as mounted warriors began descending on them at great speed. “Advance!” he shouted, galloping like a man possessed. He had to get off the narrow path. It was now or never. The mountainside began exploding behind them.

The Brahmin warrior and his daredevil companions rushed across the gravel-strewn goat trail. Boulders rolled down, frightening the horses and threatening to dash them all into the waters far below. Behind them, men with faces masked with the ends of their turbans, chased them towards their deaths.

“Either we will get that bastard today or we will all perish. We owe ourselves warrior’s deaths in the service of Prince Suyodhana and our country,” Aswathama shouted over the din, trying to motivate his companions. He could not be sure they heard him.

But his next action inspired them to follow suit. It was one of reckless courage, yet the very insanity of it made his small band of men delirious. Aswathama let go the reins of his horse and stood up in his saddle, facing the Gandharans, his back to his galloping horse’s head. Balancing perilously, he drew his bow and arrow. His men did the same. His first arrow pierced the throat of the man leading the attack; those of his companions caused many others to fall.

“Shoot only to kill...shoot...shoot!” Aswathama kept screaming as he showered lethal arrows on his foes.

Although they had managed to slow down their pursuers, Aswathama knew they could not continue holding them off. A single missed step by one of the horses or a hit by any of the boulders falling around them would finish everything.

Then Aswathama saw him and almost slipped from his saddle. The cloth covering the face of one of the pursuers fluttered back in the wind. There was no mistaking that face... He had never expected Shakuni to lead from the front. Though it was said he was a great warrior, trained by Bhishma himself, it was difficult to imagine the conniving bastard doing well under fire.

‘One direct hit, is all I need,’ thought Aswathama desperately. His next arrow shaved Shakuni’s neck but the Gandharan did not wince. Those burning eyes did not even flicker when an arrow hit the man riding behind him. He kept staring at Aswathama and the Brahmin shuddered at the hatred emanating from the depths of those eyes.

There was just a couple of hundred feet to go to escape the narrow path. “Hold on! Hold on!” Aswathama urged his men as another boulder rolled by so close that it showered them with powdery ice. Despite the men Aswathama had taken down, Shakuni had dodged the arrows with an ease that bordered on magical, the glint of madness in his blue eyes. Another shot and another miss. The man had nine lives.

Aswathama heard a huge crash behind him and looked back. A huge ice-covered boulder had fallen onto the path, cutting off their retreat.

“Good bye, Brahmin!” Shakuni’s laughter echoed around them.

Trapped! Aswathama felt panic-stricken, but he could not let down the dozen surviving men with him, nor his country or Suyodhana. ‘Father!’ he prayed in silent despair. The smiling face of Karna, who might already be lying dead on some battlefield in the South, flashed before his eyes. ‘Suyodhana, I have earned your friendship, perhaps even more than Karna, for I chose this battle, unlike Karna, whom it was thrust upon,’ muttered Aswathama, trying to rally his thoughts. If he had to die, it should not be in vain. Something had to be done to finish the bastard who had ruined the country.

Time stood still as another arrow struck the Brahmin warrior. He scowled in pain as he removed the two arrows from his shoulder. Blood gushed from the wounds, bright against the pure white snow. What was the lesson his father had taught him about snowy mountains? It was something that had captured his imagination as a child. Aswathama’s hands went to the sealed clay pot that contained powdered sulphur rock.
“Gandhakastra!”
he bellowed, ignoring the look of horror among his followers. The men immediately pulled out the small clay pots they all carried.

“It won’t be enough to take them out,” a soldier near him whispered.

“Not all of them,” Aswathama agreed, as he pulled the arrow that would carry the small clay pot to its destination, from his quiver. He scanned the mountain for a visible crack in the ice. He found one, unsure whether the small explosion would trigger what he wanted. “Fire the
Gandhakastra,”
he shouted as his arrow arched high over the mountain. It was followed by a dozen more from his men.

“No!
Are you crazy, you bastard?”

It was good to hear the panic in Shakuni’s voice as his men scrambled back, trying to retreat along the slippery trail. They were men of the mountains and knew what was coming as the mountain rumbled under their feet and the horses panicked. They knew nothing would survive in the path of the avalanche the mad Brahmin had triggered with his explosive arrows.

The mountain of snow started at a glacial pace at first, but soon gathered frightening momentum. The air was rent with the sounds of panicked neighing of horses and the terrified cries of men.

“Har Har Mahadeva!”
Aswathama screamed as the mountain vibrated in anger.

His men answered in full throat. They waited for the embrace of Shiva as the mountain came rushing towards them.

*****

12
   
D
IGVIJAYA

KARNA OPENED HIS EYES TO DARKNESS.
‘Have I gone blind?’ he wondered. Pungent powders burnt his throat and he tried to cough out the bitterness. Everything was silent. ‘My life cannot end like this. Oh, Lord Surya, have you forsaken me at my death?’

From a small crack, water came trickling in. Water! From where could it have come? The river was some distance away, as Karna remembered; no water could flow in. He used all his strength to break through the crack. The chariot wobbled. Had it become lighter? Water was seeping in from the ground below. There was the faint sound of rain splattering on water. ‘Surya! The river is flooding.’ The water was making the chariot buoyant but it was also rising fast, threatening to drown him.

Karna put an injured hand to the crack and tried to lift the heavy chariot. It rose a little and then crashed back, splashing water all over him. He could hear the river fighting to push in. With all his might he pushed again and finally the chariot toppled over with a huge splash. River water rushed to embrace him. He kicked hard and came up to the roaring surface of the Narmada, spluttering and coughing. When he climbed to the shore, the devastation caused by the war elephants was a shocking sight. Limbs were strewn everywhere, some mashed to a pulp. Carcasses of horses and men lay rotting, half-eaten by wolves and crows. A few men stood shivering in the drizzle. Who had won the battle?

Some of the men who had seen Karna climbing out of the river, now walked towards him. The river was gobbling up the shore at an alarming rate and Karna waded in through knee-deep water. It had been dry just a few moments before. From their attire, Karna could see the men were Kalinga soldiers. What had happened to the soldiers he had taken on loan from Jayadratha? How many had died?

A movement near him caught Karna’s attention. A half-broken chariot lay buried in the slushy earth. A crow, pecking on the carcass of a horse, tilted its head and peered at Karna for a second before hopping away. Was there someone pinned to the ground? As he moved closer, he could hear the wheezing sound of a dying man. Karna looked down and a familiar face stared back.

“Suta, if you value your life, use your sword to end my agony.... If you do not, it will be the biggest mistake of your life...”

Uthayan lay under the rubble. Even at death’s door he remained defiant and proud. Such brave men should not be allowed to die. Karna put his shoulders to the toppled chariot and tried to move the weight crushing Uthayan. A few soldiers watching him from a distance, ran to lend their support. Together, they extricated the Chera King. Uthayan’s hands were still pinned to the shaft of the chariot. Karna extricated his arrows from Uthayan’s palms, feeling the pain of his foe. He stole a glance at Uthayan’s grim face, a small hope in his mind craved gratitude from his old foe but all he saw in the eyes of the man he was saving was the glint of unadulterated hatred. Uthayan collapsed on the earth as soon as his hands were freed and lay in a heap, wheezing with pain and exhaustion at Karna’s feet.

Soldiers on both sides whispered to each other about the valour of the Suta. Awareness of his magnificent victory began sinking into Karna’s mind. He could feel the rays of the rising sun on his shoulders, warming his tired muscles like a caress, almost like a blessing. He was the chosen one of the Sun God. He smiled at the thought. ‘Suyodhana, I have done it! It will be fun to watch Lord Bhishma’s face when this Suta enters the Sabha. Arjuna, are you watching? A Suta, the son of a charioteer, has done the impossible. Krishna, where are you?’

Karna looked at the carnage around him and then up at the heavens. ‘This is not enough. Like the warriors of yore, I must conquer the whole earth – a
digvijaya
– winning victories in all directions. Suyodhana, my friend, you gave me a tiny kingdom to rule but this Suta will repay you by giving you all of Bharatavarsha. Our friendship will no longer be based on your charity.’

The men around Karna bowed deeply in homage. He felt powerful, invincible, and immortal.

That evening, after cremating the dead, the Suta’s quest for
digvijaya
commenced. Karna raced south, ignoring the proud King of an ancient race sitting behind him. Nor was there any thought in the Suta’s mind about the outstanding valour shown by a Brahmin warrior from Kalinga. The fine equestrian who had made his victory possible lay burnt to ashes on the cremation pyre. Such things did not matter to Karna now. He was chasing his destiny.

The news of their rout at the hands of the Suta reached Parashurama much before Karna did. When his aides asked him whether they should prepare to defend the city, Parashurama answered, “No, invite Karna to my chamber. We will offer no resistance.”

As his surprised subordinates withdrew, murmuring to each other, Parashurama sat wondering whether his gamble would work. If it did, it would be the greatest victory of his life. The North would be conquered without spilling a drop of blood.

The temple outside was closing after the night prayers. Parashurama folded his hands in prayer as the last bell and prayer sounded and the doors of the
garbagriha
closed with a screech. Let the Suta come. He did not know what lay in store for him. Parashurama smiled grimly to himself.

*****