The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (29 page)

Already, Dhrstyadymn was giving the command to retreat, trying to get the men out of range of Bhisma’s weapons. He looked over at Govinda, his eyes holding numerous questions, but Govinda had already flicked the reins, urging his horses ahead. He whistled, signalling to Pradymna and Shikandin to join him, and made directly for Bhisma. Partha understood. They had to hold Bhisma away and give Dhrstyadymn a chance to pull their men back.

‘Who is that fool?’ Partha said as they neared Bhisma. A single commandant wearing Chief Virat’s lion emblem stood with his small group of men in Bhisma’s path, preventing the Grandsire from advancing.

‘A brave, selfless fool,’ Govinda replied. ‘A fool who shall die today.’

‘Not in vain.’ Partha declared. Raising his bow, he sent an array of shafts through the air at whip-speed, trying to distract Bhisma and give the courageous commandant some reprieve. But it was too late. Bhisma’s shafts caught the commandant’s charioteer in the throat, and he lost control of the horses. As the rig overturned, the commandant was thrown to the ground. When the dust settled, it revealed Swetha, Chief Virat’s second son, his head severed from his body by a distinct white-metal, crescent-tipped arrow.

Partha gasped.

Govinda’s eyes narrowed but he did not speak, his attention entirely on getting close to the enemy. Partha saw the opportunity, and sent yet another host of arrows towards Bhisma. His intent was merely dissuasion and not retaliation, and the shafts missed their target completely. ‘Hai! Kill him, you cross-eyed son of a Kuru!’ Govinda shouted.

Bhisma laughed, and others in Syoddhan’s army jeered as Partha faltered. Govinda glared at them, wishing he could fight, and had nearly resolved to fling himself bodily at Bhisma when he heard a familiar and welcome voice.

‘Calm down, Cousin!’ Yuyudhana said, drawing up alongside to release a stream of arrows, his speed and skill rivalling Partha’s. ‘I don’t know which bewitching woman told you that anger becomes you. Frankly, it doesn’t.’

For a moment Partha was shocked. Then, his wounded pride caught up with him. ‘Jahayata! Jahayata! Strike!’ he let out a battle cry, and threw himself back into the fray. Bhim echoed his call and followed suit. Kripa, Dron, Syoddhan and Dussasan had already rallied to Bhisma’s support and now faced off against Partha and his companions.

Each man fought against one opponent, using no weapon other than his bow and arrows. Speed, aim, strategy would all combine to decide who would win or lose in this breathless skirmish. Soon, unable to face Shikandin’s wrath, Kripa fell back, and a well-aimed arrow from Yuyudhana cut through Dron’s armour, wounding the Acharya. Dron would have fought on, but Syoddhan, knowing his teacher’s obstinate nature, called out an order to retreat.

Yuyudhana grinned and, leaving the battle to his lieutenants, leant against his heavy bow, catching his breath and exchanging banter with Shikandin. ‘He’s as good as his father,’ he commented, watching Pradymna.

‘What do you mean good? He’s better!’ Shikandin riposted.

‘Hah! No way!’

Pradymna let rip a series of arrows that cut through Dussasan’s bowstring and also the straps of his armour. ‘How is that for a decider?’ he called out to Yuyudhana and Shikandin.

Bhim, however, was having a less enviable time against Syoddhan.

‘He is formidable. I mean Syoddhan…’ Govinda said, as he and Partha tried to follow Bhisma while the others kept his protectors engaged.

‘He is,’ Partha replied, a little breathless. ‘But somehow, he never did get the adulation he deserves.’

‘Balabadra used to…’ Govinda began but stopped, his attention elsewhere.

Asvattama blocked their way, his rig coming in from the side to stop squarely in their path, his lion’s-tail banner standing firm with the steady breeze. His charioteer bore the restrained expression of a man more fearful of the warrior he served than the ones he faced as he kept the brown steeds yoked to the rig steady and still. Asvattama himself had the satisfied aspect of a man to whom battle was the true reward for dealing with the inconvenient inevitability of victory. Moving slowly, he took aim with his bow and drew the string back, long fingers barely touching the taut skein, relishing the way the arrow’s metal shaft felt cool against his skin. He let go of the string, the resultant husky twang sounding like a courtesan’s moan of pleasure in his ear, the sharp string lovingly grazing his cheek. With immaculate form and speed that belied his sensation of pleasure, he followed up with a rain of arrows.

‘Watch out!’ Partha called, as Asvattama’s arrows curved in. Govinda dodged the assault, but snarled in anger as the steed Shaibya took an arrow on his well-muscled flank.

‘That damned Angirasa!’ Govinda swore and jumped off their rig to pull the arrow out of Shaibya’s flesh. Asvattama watched, tight-lipped, but then raised his bow to the skies to release another hail of arrows. Partha retaliated in kind, though not without noticing that, by accident or otherwise, not a single shaft from Asvattama’s bow landed near the silver-white stallions again.

Impatient, Govinda climbed back on the rig. ‘We don’t have time for this!’ he called out to Partha. ‘Bhisma is getting away!’ At a flick of the reins, the stallions reared up with a whinny and charged straight at Asvattama. A dumbstruck Partha held on to the grab-pole on the side of the rig as the vehicle hurtled forward. Around them, ally and enemy alike watched open-mouthed as the rig bore down on Asvattama. Collision was inevitable, and death almost certain.

Asvattama stood his ground, a curious look on his face.

Govinda was not deterred. He called out to his horses: ‘Now Balahak, steady! Steady! Shaibya, Megha, turn! That’s it, Sugriv. Pull, Balahak, pull!’

Partha yelled despite himself, but his voice was drowned out by Balahak’s piercing whinny. The silver-white stallion flashed past Asvattama’s horses, hardly a couple of feet between the two facing steeds. Sliding on the ground, Balahak came to a stop. On his left, Shaibya and Megha charged on, turning in a tight circle as they felt the counter of his weight. In the middle, Sugriv, the youngest of the four steeds, daintily kept them all balanced. The rig, along with its occupants, hurtled through the air in an arc and landed with a jarring thud.

Govinda grunted with exertion as the reins were nearly yanked out of his grip. The muscles in his shoulders burned as though they had been ripped apart. It was all he could do to flex the reins in yet another signal to the battle-hardy horses. In that fraction of a moment the four stallions turned where they stood, aligning themselves perfectly with each other. Before Asvattama could react they were off at a gallop.

But it was too late. Bhisma was gone. From the far end of the battlefield, screams rang loud and the smell of burning flesh wafted through the air once again.

2

IT WAS DARK AS GOVINDA AND PARTHA SLOWLY RODE BACK OVER
the battlefield. Men from both camps worked side by side, clearing the dead. The first of the many huge pyres that would blaze that night came alight next to the river, beyond the battlefield. Over one of the pyres, the two men knew, stood Chief Virat, mourning his son. It made the bitterness they felt all the more difficult to bear.

‘What happened, Govinda? How did things turn so quickly? One moment we were laughing, cutting Dussasan’s bowstrings and exchanging harmless arrows. The next…’

‘Harmless? Open your eyes, Partha.’

‘But…but it wasn’t supposed to be this way.’

Govinda merely grunted by way of response.

Partha tried to keep quiet, but could not. ‘What was that…thing, Govinda? That horrible thing, which Bhisma…?’

Govinda did not reply immediately, lost as he was in thought. Dully, he said, ‘The Agneya-astra. Essentially, they are projectiles made of black nitre, also known as saltpetre. The substance is not very different from what’s coated on flaming arrows, like the ones you used at Kandava; except, much larger amounts are condensed and packed into hollowed arrow-shafts. The shaft’s impact shakes up the nitre, making it burn and explode. That’s what you saw today. Each of those infernal things has cost us at least a hundred men, maybe more. I shudder to think what will happen if he has bigger missiles – weapons large enough to launch with catapults.’

‘Surely, those are just rumours and exaggerations? I mean, I’d heard of such things, but…they don’t really exist, do they?’

Govinda snorted, disgruntled. ‘Who knows what astra-weapons have lain hidden in the dusty armouries of Aryavarta’s kings, their purpose and powers hitherto undiscovered. Bhisma’s arsenal is somewhat predictable. If Vasusena eventually does agree to fight, I don’t dare imagine the weapons he has in store for us. As for Asvattama and Jayadrath – not even the best of our spies can tell us what their arsenal comprises. Dharma was right, we are facing an army of Firewrights, though not in the sense that he meant those words.’

‘What if
we
…?’ Partha excitedly began. ‘What if we use astra weapons?’

‘You mean your secret horde?’

Partha frowned. ‘How did you know…?’

‘Oh please, Partha. During the Imperial conquest and afterward too, your fascination for weapons like the Gandiva was evident. I know your arsenal better than you do!’

‘Surely I’m not the only one on our side to possess Wright weapons?’

Govinda said, ‘No… Panchala’s armouries have Wright-weapons, and Dhrstyadymn knows how to use them – that is why his father sent him to study under Acharya Dron. We’ve all played this game in our own ways, Partha… None on this field is truly free of intrigue.’

‘That is the answer then – we counter astra weapons with astra weapons.’

Govinda raised a scornful eyebrow. He said, ‘I doubt Dharma would allow it.’

‘He allowed it at Kandava.’

‘Kandava was different. Gandiva, your Firewright-wrought bow is different.’

‘How?’

‘You should know the story by now, Partha. The Great Scourge was not meant to rid Aryavarta of astra-weapons. It was meant to move them into the hands of those who were faithful to the Firstborn, and so these trusted kings were asked to take control of and use Firewright weapons. Bhisma Devavrata was the foremost of such rulers, and his arsenal, now sanctified by the Vyasa Dwaipayana himself, was built on the death or surrender of the Firewrights. It is the same with Dron and Kripa. When they swore their allegiance to the Firstborn, forsaking the Angirasa affiliations of their birth, they did not forsake their weapons. Nor did the Firstborn ask them to. The Firstborn have never had any problem with the craft of the Firewrights, only with the issue of who has control over such craft. Unfortunately, getting rid of the Firewrights also meant that we got rid of those who could keep these terrible devices in check, control their numbers and power. Not all their inventions were meant for war, certainly not in their original form or intent.’

Partha thought for a while. ‘And black nitre?’ he then asked. ‘What other possible use could there be for this grotesque substance?’

Govinda said, ‘The Firewrights originally used black nitre as a means to conquer rock and stone, to break through mountains and build over them. But that is the trouble, is it not? All craft becomes a weapon in the hands of those who want power. That problem goes far beyond the conflict between the Firewrights and the Firstborn.’

The two men trudged into camp, expecting to find a Council of War in progress at the Command Tent. To their wonder, the tent was empty.

‘By Yama and Yami…!’ Partha mumbled.

‘Ah, there you are,’ Yuyudhana came towards them. ‘The Council is over, but don’t worry. You didn’t miss anything. All Dharma said was to send you both to see him as soon as you arrived.’

Govinda and Partha exchanged silent words. ‘Go,’ Govinda finally said out loud. ‘I’ll meet you there shortly.’

Partha left. Govinda followed at a slower place, Yuyudhana alongside.

‘Well? How is Chief Virat?’

Yuyudhana was grim. ‘How do you think? He took it in his stride, as did Uttara. But, frankly, I don’t know what to make of what happened on the battlefield. Whatever it was that Bhisma used… Anyway,’ he forced himself to take on a level tone. ‘Dharma has decided that tomorrow we will form a more strategic formation. He expects that this will demonstrate to the enemy that we are superior in term of skills and thus serve to further intimidate them into surrender. We are to form the array known as krauncharuma – the crane – which, he informed us, allows for great flexibility and speed of attack. Shikandin’s forest people are to form the head of the crane, with the Panchala armies led by Dhrupad behind them, holding the centre of the formation. Dharma and Bhim will form the tactical attack teams that comprise the right wing of the crane, and Sadev and Nakul lead the left wing. King Virat’s troops will be the rearguard, and hold the line in case the rest need to retreat.’

‘And what about Partha and I?’

Yuyudhana snorted in contempt. ‘Partha is to fly his banner in the lead, but stay well-protected. Don’t you see what Dharma is doing? Is it that you do, Govinda, but you don’t care? Or, like the others, will you too be taken in by his grand descriptions of how the celestials themselves successfully used the crane formation against the demons of Patala?’

‘He said that?’

‘That, and more. I couldn’t say this in front of Partha, but Dharma has become worse than his usual self-righteous self. He’s suddenly remembered that he’s a king and commander. I tell you; this evening’s meeting was unbearable! I wasn’t sure whether to kill myself or kill him, but I was certainly tempted to do one of the two! It was just…I say, Govinda, are you listening to me?’

Govinda only said, ‘Come. Dharma waits.’

Yuyudhana chose to remain outside Dharma’s luxurious tent while Govinda went in. He found Dharma pacing, restless. Panchali sat on a cushioned stool, gazing into the distance, lost in rumination. Partha stood in a corner, staring at his brother. He shrugged as Govinda gave him a questioning look, to say that he did not know why they were there. Dharma chose not to notice them as he continued to pace the carpeted tent.

‘You sent for me, Dharma?’ Govinda said. His armour was dirty and scraped against his bruises, and he longed for a bath and some sleep – but it would all have to wait. Dharma was their leader and this was his war.