The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 (50 page)

Syoddhan took the ring from Asvattama and studied it. ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s meet this messenger Devala has brought back.’

Sanjaya admitted the visitor into the tent along with a tired and travel-weary Devala. The visitor was a tall man with a thick, scraggly beard, dressed in the robes and beads of an ascetic. Dirty, matted hair fell over his eyes, obscuring his face. Syoddhan took in the obvious scars on the man’s hands and flashed a look at his uncovered feet. The faint but perceptible mark left by tough hide sandals on the little toe was enough to show that this was simply a disguise. ‘You bring a message from King Takshaka?’ he asked.

The man nodded in response.

‘You’re amongst friends now,’ Syoddhan said as he walked over and smiled his reassurance. He could tell by the way the man held his gaze that he was no petty spy or hired scout. This was a warrior, possibly one of the Naga princes or nobles. ‘Won’t you trust us and reveal your identity?’

‘Haven’t you guessed it already?’

Even as the gathered warriors tried to place the voice, the man reached into his matted hair to undo the thin string that held the scraggly false beard in place over a neatly maintained one. Vasusena gasped audibly, while Asvattama muttered under his breath.

Syoddhan, however, was less astonished. ‘King Takshaka,’ he formally greeted the man. ‘I regret that our meeting had to take place this way and under these circumstances. I’m ill-placed to welcome you as you deserve.’

The Naga king inclined his head in greeting. He made his apologies for the ruse, but the surprise he had caused most of them was still apparent. Syoddhan spoke casually, dissolving the tension. ‘Come, sit down,’ he said, leading Takshaka over to a seat of honour on his right. ‘Well, then…’

‘My son Brihadbala has already died for you,’ Takshaka began. ‘With him have died many of our people – the Naga and Nishada tribes of the various forests.’

Syoddhan nodded.

Takshaka shifted. ‘I am all that is left. And when Devala came to me, when he found me despite my attempts to retreat from all Aryavarta with nothing but my sorrow for company…well, I realized I had once last chance to redeem my honour and the honour of my ancestors. I am here to offer you my service.’

‘Why?’ Syoddhan was gentle.

‘He killed my son,’ Takshaka said, his voice tremulous. ‘He killed Aswasena. I don’t care what justifications he gives – he killed my son. That is why I am here.’

‘You wish to avenge your son’s death? You wish to kill Govinda Shauri?’ Syoddhan was taken aback. ‘There is a war going on out there, and all you care about is the death of one man? Is that why you sent Brihadbala to fight for us? Is your anger worth the lives of so many?’

‘Did you have a better reason? What is it that you sacrifice the lives of thousands for?’ Takshaka retorted. His eyes flashed with anger, but the moment passed. ‘Syoddhan, I’m an old man and you, and your friends here, are all young enough to be my sons. I shall presume on the privilege of age to speak from the heart.’

‘Please do.’

‘You are no better than Govinda Shauri. Your grandfather and father left us to rot inside Kandava, not caring whether we perished in floods or died of disease. You kept us out of sight, though we lived within your lands – it was more expedient for you to ignore us than claim us as subjects for we had little to offer you. When war came to you, however, you did not hesitate to reach out to us.’

Asvattama bristled. ‘And what has changed since? First you sent us Brihadbala and your men. Now you have graced us with your presence. How have we suddenly redeemed ourselves in your eyes?’

‘Ah, Acharya. You and your kinsmen have a special place in our hearts. The story of our families goes back years.’

‘Then you are here for the sake of old friendships?’

‘Yes and no.’ Clearing his throat, Takshaka continued. ‘Nearly forty years ago, on a stormy monsoon night, my father ordered me and my fellow soldiers to escort a man he wouldn’t name on a journey from Mathura to a village across the river. I met that man just outside the gates of Mathura’s palace. He held a bundle in his arms. I did not ask what was inside; nor did he offer to tell me. It struck me of no consequence until we reached the banks of the river. Kans, King of Mathura, had an entire division of his men waiting to attack us…’

Vasusena drew in a sharp breath, making Takshaka smile. He said, ‘Yes, you can guess what that little bundle was now, can’t you…? I first set eyes on Govinda Shauri when he was but a newborn, hardly muhurttas old. I defended him with the lives of my men that night, and I swore never to reveal who he was as long as Kans lived. I tell you this, not to show what he owes me but to make you see what I’ve been driven to. You see, we found the courage to save Govinda Shauri against those odds because we believed that he could defy tyranny. When he killed Kans, we hailed him as our redeemer. It took me years to see that Govinda Shauri does not act for anything but his self-interest. The same man who set us free to claim his legacy as Prince of Mathura came to barter, cajole and convince us to forsake our home, our freedom and self-respect, in order to install Dharma Yudhisthir on the throne. But neither of these betrayals compares to the one that drives my need for vengeance. It’s not just my son I seek to avenge, but a dear friend, one who made it possible for us to survive all those years in Kandava… Now do you see, Acharya?’

Asvattama nodded. Syoddhan did not speak, but saw Sanjaya open and close his mouth as though he had thought to say something but changed his mind.

Tears of anger brimmed in Takshaka’s red eyes. ‘Govinda Shauri, the destroyer of the evil Firewrights. Govinda betrayed and abandoned the Wrights. Hah! Agniveshya Angirasa was my friend,’ he confessed, through clenched teeth. ‘He asked for my help. It’s true that for many years, Agniveshya stayed in Kandava and that we learnt much from him. The Wrights have paid for trusting that bastard Govinda; they’ve paid with their lives! In the name of the friendship I owe them, I swear by the thousand heads of the great snake Sesha, I offer you my complete loyalty, Syoddhan. Whatever we have left from the Wrights, I shall gladly share with you. Use it to bring down the man who brought them down.’

‘Hu!’ Vasusena snorted in contempt. Malice and derision gleamed in his eyes. ‘And what can you do for us now? You bring us no men – we know that you have come alone. You have nothing to offer us… He slowly added, as Takshaka glared at him, ‘Your Highness…’

Takshaka said, ‘There is a weapon…’ He paused purposefully as everyone turned to him with renewed interest. ‘Agniveshya Angirasa created it by our flesh and blood, which is why he called it the Nagaastra. It is yours, with the blessings of Indra himself.’

‘And you know how to make it?’ Asvattama asked. His expression remained neutral but his eyes blazed with an eagerness that bordered on lust.

‘No, I don’t know how it’s made. But I still have some of what was once made…to share with you.’

‘And the antidote? No Wright would have made a poison without making its antidote!’

In response, Takshaka took a vial out of his waistband and let it drop. The vial shattered on the ground, its contents spraying in all directions. Sanjaya let out a muted yell, Dussasan leapt back, and Vasusena flinched. Syoddhan and Asvattama alone stood as they were, uncaring of the splatters they felt on their skin and robes. ‘There,’ Takshaka said. ‘The only antidote is now lost. There is no counter to the poison, nor is there any other way of preventing its effects.’

‘You are sure that no more exists – of the toxin or the antidote?’ Asvattama asked.

Devala interjected, ‘What is it, Your Highness? Are you jealous that after all these years of your searching, of torturing every Wright you could lay your hands on, it is I who have brought us the Nagaastra and not you?’

‘On the contrary, Devala. If you remember, you were busy looking for snake-venom. It was I who pointed you in Takshaka’s direction.’

Takshaka said, ‘Then you answer your own question, Acharya. If you have looked and the poison or its antidote was not found, surely there is none left.’ He turned to Vasusena. ‘There is enough poison here to turn a simple arrow into an infallible astra. All we need is an unerring marksman. Kill Partha. None of them will fight on after that. I’ll leave it to you to decide whether to take Dharma dead or alive. Either way, victory is yours.’

Asvattama frowned but said nothing more.

Vasusena did not notice. Nevertheless, he protested, ‘It’s not that easy… You forget who drives Partha’s chariot-rig… I need someone as skilled with horses as Govinda.’

‘King Shalya of Madra will do it,’ Syoddhan said. ‘Like his nephews Nakul and Sadev, Shalya has an uncanny knack for dealing with animals. The people of Madra are excellent horsemasters, their king not the least of them.’

‘Shalya? But…’

‘He gave me his word of honour as an Arya to fight for us, heart and soul. He has, without doubt, kept his word. I trust him completely. Shalya will be your charioteer today.’

Vasusena punched his fist into the palm of his other hand. ‘Now you begin to make sense. Well then! What are we waiting for? Let us crush them! Today, we shall end this war.’

He strode out of the tent, his left arm around Dussasan’s shoulder, in conversation with Takshaka on his right. Syoddhan watched them leave and then followed, signalling to Asvattama to join him.

‘You need a bath,’ Sanjaya began turning to his sole companion in the tent now. He did nothing to hide the amusement he felt at Devala’s condition. ‘And a shave. Two, actually…’ he said, referring not only to the stubble that covered Devala’s chin but also his usually smooth pate.

‘I need news. I need good news,’ Devala growled. ‘I need to know what is going on. I had to bite my tongue every time one of those idiots spoke for fear of saying that which I ought not to say.’

‘Ah yes, I wondered why you were so quiet. As for news: Well, the sun will rise today on the seventeenth day of battle and…’

Devala interrupted, ‘I can see for myself how the battle goes, Sanjaya, but I need to know if
our
plan is still in place.’

‘What plan do you mean, Devala? The one you, Suka and I crafted? Or the one you and I have held close to our hearts from long before that Varuni and his ambitions were known to us?’

‘You don’t mean…?’

‘I once told you that the Firstborn shall pay a thousand times over for what they have done to us, to our kind. I stand by that. Sukadeva Vasishta Varuni is but a means to an end. He thinks he can use us to his gain, but the truth remains that we have used him to ours. This war demonstrates beyond doubt the living might of the Firewrights, of our craft. And now that these foolish kings have spent what little they have hoarded of it, who will protect them from foreign invaders or even rebels from within? What means do they have to preserve their hierarchy? They need us, not the Firstborn. See how they drool and squabble over this Naga weapon, like a pack of rabid dogs. Imagine, Devala, we shall be their masters, feeding them scraps of meat to tame them to our will. We shall rule, and on our terms!’

Devala’s weary air fell away and he stood up straighter. ‘What would you have me do now?’

Sanjaya smiled. ‘When this war ends, and it soon will, the legacy of the Firstborn must end with it. You, my friend, shall make sure of that.’

‘Of course…but…what if…’

‘What if what?’

‘What if, Sanjaya, just what if Dharma’s forces win? What if Govinda Shauri wins?’

Sanjaya laughed, the sound filling the tent. ‘My, my Devala,’ he said. ‘I never knew you for a jester. Dharma…and win?’ His voice turning to a menacing rasp, he added, ‘Nothing can save them now. Absolutely nothing.’

32

FOR THE FIRST TIME SINCE THE BEGINNING OF THE WAR, IT
occurred to Dharma Yudhisthir how few of his people were alive. Against the vastness of Kuru’s fields, the armies that remained standing were pitifully small. Horses and elephants were seen in ones and twos, as though let out to pasture. Foot soldiers crouched and clustered in small groups, driven to near-madness by sixteen days of war and the omnipresent stench of death. Each step taken by man or an animal on the field fell on squelching flesh, spraying offal and entrails in the air, and sending feasting carrion crows and engorged vultures squawking to find another meal a hair’s breadth away. Here and there, cries of agony from the living and on occasion from those not-as-yet dead cut through the clamour of battle – for, yes, the fighting went on.

Dharma knew it was far from over, for those who were now left behind had everything to gain and nothing to lose, and he reminded himself of that over and over as he led what remained of his division to face Vasusena. This time, no one dissuaded him, nor did they converge to his protection, simply because they could not. Dhrstyadymn and Shikandin were desperately trying to hold their own against Kripa and Kritavarman respectively. Partha and Govinda tried to rally their men against Asvattama, but soon realized that there were few men left to rally. Battle was now a sentient monster with a mind of its own and countless arms. Strategy and formation had no value; weapons were thrown and cast without thought. Once in a while, some vassal prince or lord would use his few astra-weapons in the hope of buying glory with the blood of others. Eventually, though, he would stand defenceless and alone till some common soldier or cavalryman hacked him down like he was one of them. Against the vast spread of death and destruction, Kuru’s Fields seemed small, and smaller still for the one man who dominated the landscape, wreaking vengeance and wringing victory from the jaws of defeat: Vasusena.

There was, Dharma mused, something familiar about Vasusena, something that he had not noticed all these years – not till this war. It may have been the way Vasusena had aged, or simply the way he fought, but it stirred a memory, one that Dharma could not identify but found pleasant, as though the man reminded him of a friend or a loved one. Dharma dismissed the notion, blaming it on the stress of the moment. After all, he mulled, what else but war could bring two men, especially enemies, closer? The self-indulgent musing cost him dearly. He did not hear the warning shout Yuyudhana sent his way, nor did his horseman react quickly enough. Rather than feeling the explosion, Dharma heard and saw it for he was instantly thrown into the air. He landed, fortunately or otherwise, on the pulpy remains of an elephant that had fallen four days ago, the animal’s skin rent open by scavengers to serve as a cushion of entrails and flesh. His charioteer was not so lucky – the man lost his life impaled against the broken axle of his own rig.