The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (34 page)

‘Watch out!’ Govinda warned. ‘He’ll go for something bigger now…’

Shikandin nodded, again releasing his arrow at exactly the right instant. Despite his precise aim, the shaft was no match against Bhisma’s Wright-weapon, a horror unlike anything they had seen before. Ominous serrated blades emerged from the tip and shaft of the arrow, spinning as the weapon twisted through the air, but they did not detach into many pieces. Instead, the single, malicious projectile came unerringly towards Shikandin and his friends. Partha released a slew of arrows at the object, trying to destroy it, but the spinning blades made short work of the shafts. With a loud, unearthly whine, Bhisma’s weapon continued to fly towards the three men.

‘Hah!’ Govinda yelled as he swerved at the last moment, causing the horrendous mechanism to hit just the tail end of the chariot. Partha was thrown about from the impact, but Shikandin took the worst of it: Barbed prongs slashed at his chest and arms, ripping skin and flesh from bone. The pain seared through him like fire and his body burned as nerves and muscles were slashed to shreds. He could hear Govinda calling out to him, but found himself too breathless to reply. Through blurred eyes, he saw Bhisma readying another of the deadly projectiles with a satisfied countenance. Then Shikandin’s eyes shut of their own accord, and the image of the world beyond his closed lids began to fade.

The sins of the father…

I now burn, as Amba did. Rudra, let my death mend the broken promises of the Panchala kings, let my house be redeemed. Spare my siblings and my sons. Let this end with me
.

He reached out into the blurred haze around him. His fingers touched melted flesh and bare bone, and the acrid smell of burnt skin flooded his nostrils. Amba, he knew, was calling to him; she held out her blazing arms to embrace him, to burn him on her stone pyre. He laughed, the sound hollow in his ears, and surrendered to her call. Willingly, Shikandin drew the fiery image in his mind closer, till he was one with the flames. Her bead necklace felt cool against his skin.

‘Shikandin!’ Govinda’s voice was calling him from somewhere in the distance. ‘Come on! We didn’t make it through everything for us to die this way, out here. Shikandin! Get up! Get us out of this mess. You’re the responsible one, remember?’

Shikandin wanted to laugh at that statement, years of memorable companionship turning into the happiness of the present, but it came out as a guttural, rasping noise. Nevertheless, he opened his eyes.

‘Get up!’ Govinda urged him, loud and clear, shaking his shoulder as though he were asleep.

At length, Shikandin found the strength to speak. ‘Help me up,’ he said, blood seeping out from between clenched teeth. ‘If you don’t mind, Govinda – the horses?’

Partha helped Shikandin to his feet, as Govinda turned the horses around to make another run at Bhisma.

Shouts went up from the battlefield, the uncertainty of what was to happen holding each sound suspended in mid-air. Dron and Kripa were already at Bhisma’s side and were ready to engage the opponents, but the Grandsire waved them aside. Partha looked from Shikandin to the Grandsire and back to Shikandin. The wounded warrior could barely stand. His breath came in a wheeze, suggesting a broken rib, possibly several.

‘What…’ Partha began, but then stopped. With a grim draw of breath, he took up his weapons and aimed at the Grandsire in a reluctant attempt at defence. After what felt like a long time, though it was not, Shikandin too raised his bow and reached out for an arrow. His actions were smooth, as though he felt no pain. Partha was briefly relieved, more at not having to attack Bhisma than at Shikandin’s ostensible recovery, but then realized their position was no different for it.

‘It won’t work, Shikandin,’ he said. ‘Those things the Grandsire has are of Wright-make. The others are right; we can’t counter astra weapons without astra weapons of our own. This is a lost cause…’

But Shikandin’s mind was elsewhere. His long, matted hair streamed loose in the wind and a placid smile played on his face. Bhisma hesitated, but the sentiment passed and he let loose his astra-arrow. Once again, the deadly weapon made its way towards Shikandin and Partha.

Govinda held their course steady, showing no signs of dodging or swerving.

‘You’re mad, both of you!’ Partha shouted.

Govinda chuckled. ‘There are some things in the world more powerful than Wright-work, Partha. Like madness.’

‘Or,’ Shikandin finished, ‘justice.’

In the blink of an eye, Shikandin tore the chain of beads off his neck, twisted it around his arrow and let the shaft loose. Before anyone could breathe, another arrow, black-tipped and adorned with feathers, followed. He watched as his makeshift missile made its way through the rain of arrows on the battlefield, and shattered against Bhisma’s astra and dropped to the ground in pieces, its work done.

The Firewright chain, however, had wrapped itself around Bhisma’s twisting weapon, the beads as hardy as the astra. Blades and wheels strained with the effort to spin but the beads held it tight. With a final groan, the body of the astra snapped and the heavy missile fell, bounding over the battlefield in a last bid for lives before finally coming to a stop.

Govinda tugged at the reins, slowing his horses down as a lull fell over the battlefield. All eyes were on Bhisma, as the patriarch stared, uncomprehending, at the destroyed astra. And then Bhisma toppled over from his chariot-rig to the ground.

Shikandin’s second arrow, made from the black-metal of kali, its tail feathers gifted by the birds of the Eastern Forest, had pierced the Grandsire right through his heart.

11

HOSTILITIES CEASED FOR THE DAY AND A RESTLESS PEACE TOOK
over the field. A crowd, quiet for its size, had gathered at a corner near the riverside. Partha sat on the banks, weeping loudly despite Bhim’s and Nakul’s attempts to calm him down. In the middle of that sombre group, Bhisma Devavrata, patriarch of the Kurus and veteran of innumerable battles, lay dying. Syoddhan and Dharma both stood respectfully by the Grandsire’s side, listening attentively to all that the old man had to say.

At length, Bhisma finished his instructions and mournfully noted, ‘Who can resist the tides of destiny? Yet, it is in the name of submission to destiny, to Divine Order, that we fight each other. Is there any chance of peace, my sons…?’

Dharma and Syoddhan shared a long glance and then shook their heads to say there was none

‘Then,’ Bhisma said, ‘you’d better get back to your respective camps. You have much to do. I cannot wish one of you victory over the other, but hope that together you’ll do this family proud. Fight fair and fight well. My blessings are always with those who uphold morality and justice.’

Syoddhan was quiet, but his eyes held a clear, dark pain. Dharma, on the other hand, let his tears fall openly. The two men drew back so that the others gathered there could honour the fallen Elder. Every noble who was at Kuru’s fields was now present at Bhisma’s deathbed. All save Vasusena.

If the dying patriarch noticed the King of Anga’s absence, he did not comment on it, focusing instead on whispering apt messages and words of blessing to those who now paid him their respects. For Panchali he had only an elaborate sigh as she bowed at his feet. She ignored the lack of words and stepped back into the crowd, showing only the humility and composed grief that were expected of her. Bhisma watched her go, his mind wandering to another bold woman he had known once. With some effort, he caught himself and forced all anger out of his mind. That was in the past. He was now ready to die. But he would go with honour. He crooked a finger, calling Dharma to his side. ‘I want to see those three…’

‘Yes, Grandfather.’

The crowd parted and the awed silence that it held disguised many emotions, from rage to admiration, misery to pride. As one, all eyes followed the three men who walked up to where the Grandsire lay. Politely, they waited, as the dying man ran his eyes over them – Govinda, who returned the gaze with boldness; Partha, still tearful and penitent, and a heavily-bandaged, limping Shikandin, whose humble arrow was still wedged deep within Bhisma’s chest. With each breath the fallen patriarch took, the arrow threatened to rent his heart and end his life.

Bhisma managed a weak sneer and said, ‘Shikandin, is it not?’ He continued without waiting for an answer, ‘Don’t fret, my boy. I hold nothing against you. You see, this was destined. Just as it was destined that Amba – my nemesis of old – would face me again, in your form. She told me that in one lifetime or the next… Ah, how then could I truly fight you…deep inside your man’s body you hide a woman’s soul. This isn’t your arrow that kills me, Shikandin. This is simply my destiny, the fulfilment of an old promise. And so I hold nothing against you or your kin.’

The statement drew a palpable sigh of relief from Dhrupad, who went down on one knee next to Bhisma and took the patriarch’s bloody hand into his own, glaring at Shikandin with unfettered hatred.

Shikandin made to speak, but before he could do so Bhisma addressed Partha. ‘You are a great archer, my son. It’s an honour to have gone down in fair combat against you…’

Partha was shocked. ‘Grandfather, I…’

But Bhisma would have none of it. He had one last barb left to deliver. ‘Shikandin! Here.’ He feebly held up a bloody string of beads. ‘Come closer; take back what is yours. My blessings go with you…’

Shikandin felt his heart pound as he realized what the Grandsire meant. Then, holding his breath, he hobbled forward. He bowed as best as he could with his injuries, took the proffered beads and stared, forlorn, at them. Then, placing them back around his neck, he walked away without another word.

‘Svasti! Enough now, all of you,’ Bhisma said. ‘Get back to your work, and leave an old man to say his final prayers. My blessings, such as I may have left to give, go with you all.’

The crowd dispersed. Govinda was one of the last to leave. As he walked away, he noticed Vasusena arriving, Sanjaya alongside, to pay his respects to Bhisma. The two men studied each other before Sanjaya ushered Vasusena along. Govinda moved away, thinking. He had no doubt that Bhisma’s fall would leave Syoddhan with no choice but to ask Vasusena to join the battle. Indeed, he was quite sure that Bhisma himself would make the request before his conversation with Vasusena was done. What that also meant, was that Dharma’s forces had a new and mighty enemy to face in the days to come.

He was about to walk on, when he heard a soft voice behind him: ‘Poor Shikandin…’

Govinda spun around, his eyes blazing.

Sanjaya continued, unconcerned. ‘After all that he has done for you, his reputation has come to nothing. His valour has come to nothing. How many more will you destroy this way, Govinda, before you yield? You turned traitor, destroyed us all – or so you thought. But see, we’re back and we’re more powerful than ever. Or will you now pretend you don’t know who Vasusena truly is? Today, I have the authority of the Firstborn and the might of the Firewrights at my feet! Suka and Devala both dance to my command, and past and future will be as I decide to tell it. Why do you still resist? Let me make you an offer. Accept, and this whole tragedy can end now!’

Govinda said, ‘I have no doubt that I won’t resist, but you stir my curiosity. And since I think we are done with battle for the day, I might as well let you entertain me. Speaking of battle, I don’t remember seeing you on the field. Still playing messenger boy?’

Sanjaya did not rise to the bait. He said, ‘You know what happens now…now that the old man has fallen.’

‘Suppose you tell me.’

‘Bhisma Devavrata was the cornerstone of Dwaipayana’s elaborate system of control over Firewright technology, his way of harnessing its power by placing it in the hands of an elite few. Now, with Bhisma gone, the harness is broken. Anybody and everybody who has a weapon at his disposal will seek to use it or barter it for power. You know as well as I do that each king and vassal lord hoarded what they could of Firewright-made weapons, whether they understood the use or not. Now countless astra-weapons will emerge from the dust of hiding. We stand on the brink of a new system, a new society, where Firewright might – our might – is the core of everything. Needless to say, Dharma Yudhisthir and his kind have no place in the new world. As for you…your time is running out, Govinda. I would not put it past Dharma Yudhisthir to have you beheaded in an act of penitence before he gives in to his despair. Or maybe he will let you live, but what a miserable life that would be, without kith or kin or allegiance.’

‘And,’ Govinda said, ‘in your kindness, you wish to offer me an alternative?’

‘Come over to our side. I know there are secrets, things that Ghora has taught you that you alone know. Do you realize what a powerful man you would be in the world I seek to forge? All that you could want: land, wealth, respect…why, even the woman you want – and don’t bother denying it – can be yours. The winners make the rules, Govinda; they write history. Be a winner. Be one of us.’

With a soft smile, Govinda replied, ‘No.’

‘Why not? Do you still think Suka and Dwaipayana can turn the tide in any way? All they care about is their precious Books of Knowledge, and they will gladly do what it takes to see that endeavour through. But the price they pay for that will be high; they will have to legitimize us, the Firewrights, as the ultimate authority. This feud will end, Govinda. How can you not want that?’

‘Do you really care for my explanations, Sanjaya? You just want what you want of me. My answer still remains no.’

Sanjaya studied Govinda. ‘The Secret Keeper. You place your faith in the one who refuses to stand by you. You’re a fool, Govinda. I’m telling you again, join me. Together we can destroy the Secret Keeper before he destroys you. Suka will have no choice but to help us…’

‘Shut up, Sanjaya.’

‘I repeat: Govinda, you’re a fool.’

‘A stupid fool, I’m happy to add.’

‘And how many more will pay for your stupidity?’

Govinda’s eyes were undecipherable. ‘Millions, Sanjaya. The very Universe will pay. Now, I think you’d better go and offer your respects to the Grandsire before you end up preceding him in the afterlife.’