The Aryavarta Chronicles Book 03: Kurukshetra

by Krishna Udayasankar

  Kripa did not fully understand. ‘They told him you were dead.’

  ‘Really? Even better. I’m sure my father must have thanked them for it. Who performed the honour? Govinda? Or was it Partha, the beloved son my father never had?’

  ‘It was Bhim. He said he had killed Asvattama. Your father did not believe him, so he asked Dharma.’

  ‘Ah, Dharma Yudhisthir the Righteous. Go on, Uncle. This is a most interesting story and we have all day. No man dares come within feet of me while I hold my sword. Well,’ he chuckled, ‘not even otherwise.’

  ‘You don’t understand, Asvattama,’ Kripa was stern. ‘I don’t know what you think of your father, or what you believe he thinks of you, but I can tell you this: You are all he has ever lived for. You are his dream, his hope, his greatest creation – not just in the fact that he sired you but also in that he taught you and trained you. Partha? Partha is his student and dear to him, no doubt. But you are his son. He never forgot that, though I know he did not show it – not the way you expected him to. If you still don’t believe me…’

  Asvattama frowned, a sense of unease stirring in the pit of his stomach. ‘What happened, Uncle?’

  Kripa drew a deep breath, forcing evenness into his voice. ‘Your father would never disbelieve Dharma, you know that. When Dharma was deliberately ambiguous, saying things about death being everywhere and who could say whether a man or an elephant named Asvattama was dead, your father was too distraught to think, to wonder why Dharma said what he did. Before I could stop him, he rode right into their hands. I tried to help him, my son, but…’

  ‘Who?’ Asvattama’s voice had lost all levity. It was low and cold.

  ‘Dhrstyadymn. He attacked Dron and…’

  ‘Where is my father?’

  Kripa pointed, unable to say the words out loud.

  Asvattama ran over to his rig, where one of the two horses and his charioteer lay dead. He used his sword to cut the other steed free of its reins and, mounting the horse, set off in the direction Kripa had indicated. Kripa followed close behind.

  ‘Father!’ Asvattama cried out when he saw the wreckage of Dron’s chariot. Syoddhan and Vasusena were already on the ground next to the rig, kneeling over a blood-covered figure. Asvattama jumped off his horse and ran to join them. ‘Father!’ he called out. ‘Agni be damned! No! Father!’ He sank down on his knees and, raising Dron’s head, placed it on his lap. He felt a wet warmth soak through his robe and stain his thigh. Only then did he see that Dron’s neck had been partly severed from his body. It was a miracle that his father still held on to life.

  ‘Father…? Syoddhan, get another rig. We need to get him back to the camp right now! Where…where are the medics? Father!’

  Slowly, the Acharya opened his eyes. He blinked hard, focusing on the figures around him till he finally saw his son. Asvattama nodded in acknowledgement, fighting back his tears. His eyes fixed on his son, Dron reached into his waistband and took out a small bundle of linen, the humble wrappings belying the worth of what lay inside. With great effort, he held it out to Asvattama. His tongue moved in speech, but no words came from him.

  Asvattama understood, though he did not know what hurt him more: that his father had no words of affection for him even as he lay dying or that the war had come to this. ‘Father, I….’

  Dron raised a bloody hand, placed it on his son’s head in blessing, but then drew it down his face in a taunt. His blessing would be a curse, till he was avenged.

  This time, when Dron held out the small bundle, Asvattama took it. He knew what ghastly power it contained; in fact, it had been beyond his father to wield. If anyone could use, it would have to be him.

  Little Rudra, his father had called him in childhood. Lord of Destruction.

  Dron’s eyes remained wide open, but the fire in them ebbed away, along with his life. Asvattama could swear that in death too, his father was staring at him, goading him on to destroy and to kill. He could take it no more.

  With a ferocious howl that held hatred, fury, pain and every dark emotion imaginable, Asvattama stood up, shedding all reason and emotion from his being like a cloak to reveal the darkness under it. His tall frame was taut, as though he was stone come to life; not the flawless marble that his pale skin was often compared to but harsh, hard granite, bleached of its true colour into an otherworldly skeleton of itself. All that was warm and alive had seeped out of him. He was now the embodiment of Death.

  Snarling, he unwrapped the linen bundle his father had given him and stared at the telltale wooden box. Inside, he knew, was a soft, powdery metal as deadly as it was fragile. For years now, his father had kept this one secret from everyone, including the Grandsire and Dwaipayana. An astra-weapon like no other. Always, the Firstborn and their servitor kings had supposed the Bramha-weapon and the Naga-weapon were the most infallible of all Firewright discoveries. Few knew of the last and most potent discovery the Wrights had made, the discovery that had led to the beginning of their end. Now, at the cost of revealing this secret, Asvattama would have his vengeance.

  It doesn’t matter any more, he told himself. In these two weeks of war, all secrets had been revealed, hidden hoards of weapons destroyed and old powers cast down. First Bhisma, then he and his kinsmen, now Vasusena – every single vassal and ruler had emptied their hearts and arsenals, revealing the last remaining traces of Firewright weaponry. All except Govinda.

  Asvattama smiled, as he saw Govinda’s plan, the genius of it. Dharma’s Empire had been a way of setting free the true knowledge of the Firewrights – the knowledge that brought prosperity and peace. Now, Govinda had used the war in a most effective manner to cleanse Aryavarta of its old, decaying beliefs and the last vestiges of all that had been wrong and dangerous in the Firewrights. In his understanding Asvattama found peace, knowing that he had played his part. For a moment, his mind drifted to the man he suspected to be the Secret Keeper but had not questioned in all these years, for no reason other than his innate trust in Govinda Shauri. It occurred to him for an instant that it had taken him long enough to identify the sentiment.

  Then he cast all thought aside. Thinking, reasoning, feeling, mourning – those were things that human beings did, and being human was a luxury his father had just taken from him. He was, had always been, nothing more than a finely honed instrument of destruction.

  The warrior studied the battlefield and instructed the aghast yet delighted Syoddhan: ‘Get all our men to withdraw. Tell them to take cover under anything wooden, or under cloth. And you and the other commanders better get away from here, too.’

  ‘Asvattama…’

  ‘Go!’

  The tone brooked no argument and an awed Syoddhan rushed to comply.

  Throwing aside his weapons, Asvattama used both hands to open the box. Carefully, he took but a piece of the fragile metallic rock from inside it and held the fragment in his closed fist. It stung the skin of his palm, and he felt his eyes begin to water. His nostrils flared as he breathed it in, the odourless substance burning away at his insides. Clenching his teeth, he bore the searing ache, remembering nothing but his father’s final breath.

  As though spurred by his vengeance the wind turned, moving away from his men and towards the enemy. With an angry yell, the warrior hurled the rock into the air with all his might. It splintered into dust with the very force of the throw. And then, like some demon from Patala, the dust came alive.

  Chest heaving, Asvattama watched with satisfaction as it floated, hovering briefly in the air before descending like a black mist over Chief Virat’s divisions. As the screams began to rent the air, a smile spread slowly across his face.

  28

  ‘…A WHOLE DIVISION, ALL VIRAT’S MEN,’ DHRSTYADYMN was briefing the others when Dharma stormed into the command tent.

  ‘And Bhuminjaya?’ Partha asked, referring to Virat’s son.

  Dhrstyadymn shook his head. Save the broken Uttara, none of the warriors in Chief Virat’s family was now alive.<
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  ‘You can stop him,’ Dharma declared, looking straight at Partha. ‘You can stop Asvattama. Dron taught you both the use of the Bramha-astra, the deadliest of weapons. At least, it was the deadliest known weapon till this new abomination, whatever it is called, was unleashed upon us. Be that as it may, you can still use the Bramha-weapon…’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘If you’re concerned about my approval, it is all right. I’ve known for long that the Acharya taught you to use astra-weapons. Dwaipayana told me about it when he arranged for the Gandiva to given to you. He told me just as the Grandsire had defended Aryavarta using Wright-weapons, someday, so would you…’ he trailed off as a childhood conversation and a pleasant memory of the one he now considered his mortal enemy flitted through his mind.

  Dharma continued, as though quoting another’s words: ‘There are but two things worth guarding in the world – uncorrupted good and undiluted evil. Good is a great power, and it must be preserved and passed on. Evil must be protected from itself. That is what the Grandsire did. That is what I have tried to do. And that is what we must do now. I mean it, Partha. When the enemy is not bound by morality, our priority is to preserve the greater principle at stake. What Asvattama has now done…This is precisely the kind of warfare the Grandsire fought against, this is why men like him were needed, to rein in the might of the Firewrights. And now… The only hope for righteousness lies in our victory. Use the Bramha-astra, Partha.’

  ‘I’m telling you, I can’t!’

  ‘Here we go again,’ Govinda muttered under his breath. ‘What is it this time, Partha? Asvattama’s your secret brother-in-law? Oh wait, he doesn’t have a sister, does he?’

  ‘No! I…it’s just that it won’t work against him. The Bramha-weapon, it’s useless against him…’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Dharma challenged. ‘How can he be immune to it?’

  ‘Not immune. Just resilient. He just shuts his senses down against it. I don’t know, it’s not a skill Dron taught either of us but Asvattama does it.’

  ‘Is that possible?’ Bhim asked.

  Govinda affirmed, ‘It is.’

  ‘How do you know this, Partha?’ Shikandin asked.

  ‘I… Asvattama and I, we got into an argument once, when we were very young, and I…’

  A combined gasp of dread filled the room.

  ‘Did the Acharya know about this?’ Dharma finally said.

  ‘No,’ Partha replied. ‘He assumed Asvattama had used the weapon against me. For some reason, Asvattama did not protest…’

  ‘That explains how you suddenly became a hero overnight,’ Shikandin’s tone was scathing.

  Govinda raised a calming hand. ‘All right. Just do what you can to keep Asvattama in check, Partha. Let’s focus on this new weapon he’s got. Bhim, you saw it being used, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, Govinda. And, I confess, it just didn’t make sense! I have no idea how he can control it, but I saw him mutter an incantation and release it into the air. Moments later, the black rain began and like some cloak of darkness it turned towards the Matsya divisions…’

  Govinda inhaled sharply, but then said, ‘Go on, Bhim.’

  ‘It was… I don’t know what it was, Govinda, but it was like he has the powers of the Wrights of old. Asvattama, Devala…I can’t imagine which bastard created such a weapon, one that can destroy so many at a time! And to think of the pain those soldiers must have endured… Yabha!’ The hardy man shuddered as he remembered the massacre he had witnessed, the way the men had run in blind terror, screaming, tearing at their own eyes, their skin, in a bid to rid themselves of their agony.

  ‘Mih!’ Govinda let out a curse and then a few more. The others watched, astonished, as the usually placid man stormed about the tent in a fit of rage. After an exchange of worried glances with his brothers, Partha was about to intervene when Shikandin flashed him a look of warning. Reluctantly, Partha waited.

  At length, Govinda’s fit wore down. He breathed out hard and stood still.

  Panchali asked him, a hint of amusement in her voice, ‘You know exactly what this weapon is, don’t you, Govinda?’

  ‘Yes, Panchali. It’s called the Narayana-astra, the weapon of Narayana.’

  ‘But the Narayana-astra is just a myth!’ Partha began. ‘The weapon with no counter…I assumed that was just some aggrandized tale concocted to make the Wrights seem all-powerful… Ghora Angirasa’s greatest and deadliest work…’

  Govinda snorted, disdainful. ‘That’s what you said about Bhisma’s Agneya-astra, the black-nitre weapon, too. Trust me, Partha, most of what you call myth existed at some point or the other.’

  Panic set in anew at the prospect of hitherto unknown weapons, and the discussion grew animated.

  ‘Swasti! Peace!’ Govinda finally called out, at which everyone settled down, though not without some mumbled protests and residual complaints.

  ‘The Narayana-astra,’ Govinda explained, ‘is not as terrifying as you think. It’s not something that the Wrights created, but rather something that they discovered.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Nakul asked.

  ‘There are many elements whose existence we know of, but we do not always know what they are made of or what they can be used for. Things we today apply as medicine; some herbs, for example, were once just that – herbs. It takes keen observation and curiosity to wonder why things are the way they are, and to examine…’

  ‘What does this have to with…?’ Dharma impatiently interrupted.

  ‘What is called the Narayana-astra is simply a metal, a very rare element and one that is rather unstable. It is difficult to find, even in impure form. But what makes this element special is that it is attracted to iron and things made of iron. Weapons, for instance.’

  ‘So that’s why it went towards the Matsya division!’ Bhim gasped.

  ‘Yes. What Asvattama would have done was wait for the right wind conditions and then hurled a piece of this metal into the air. It would have broken at once, but the pieces would still hover together like a cloud because each piece would attract the other. Carried by the wind, this black cloud, or mist as you saw it, would move along till a huge body of iron – weapons in this case, attracted it. At which point, it would come down as black rain…’

  ‘What does this…this thing or mist do…?’

  ‘The dust isn’t heavy enough to hurt if it falls on to you. But its effect is not meant to be that. If inhaled, it can cause the lungs to bleed, possibly burst. It burns the eyes and nostrils, the skin… Trust me, it’s excruciating; like being charred alive…’

  ‘Then why isn’t it used in their poisons?’ Dhaumya ventured. ‘I’ve never heard of this substance, Govinda…’

  ‘It was used in poisons. In fact, for long, that was the sole possible use because purifying it was very difficult. But as far as toxins go, it was too troublesome to bother with. It was after the Firewrights discovered a way to extract pure dust or small pebble-like pieces that the Narayana-astra became possible.’

  Dharma said, ‘This is all very instructional. But it doesn’t tell me what to do! Or do you want me to do nothing?’

  ‘Actually, Dharma,’ Govinda was unruffled, ‘that’s exactly what I want you to do. It is the only way there is of escaping the astra. There is no counter, only a defence.’

  Dharma stared at Govinda, his silence more disparaging that any words of incredulity he could have found.

  Govinda sighed and said, ‘Do you know how a lodestone works, how it can attract iron and some other metals? Well, this works in exactly the same way, except that a tiny piece of it is far more powerful that a chunk of lodestone. So, imagine you had hundreds and thousands of pieces of dangerous lodestone hurled at you, how would you try and escape that?’

  ‘I’d throw away my weapons… my armour as well…’ Partha said.

  Sadev said, ‘But that would still leave the problem of what happens if you go back for your weapons or say, inhale some of the air aroun
d the region… the lodestone – or in this case, the Narayanaastra – would still be stuck onto the iron.’

  ‘Lodestone, yes,’ Govinda said. ‘Not this. This is a fragile, white substance that crumbles to the touch. The closer it gets to the ground, the more it tends to be drawn to the earth, to the surface. Once it is mixed with mud and dust, it ceases to be effective till you re-extract and purify it again…’

  ‘So, all we have to do is lay down our weapons? And cover our heads and eyes? Hu!’ Dharma exclaimed. ‘Are you sure, Govinda? This sounds stupid. Hardly like a strategy to repel a feared astra-weapon.’

  ‘I’m sure, Dharma. Absolutely sure. You see, Ghora Angirasa did not discover this weapon alone. He had a student…’ Govinda waited, letting the implications sink in.

  Fear and revulsion flickered across some of the faces but was dispelled with practised politeness. The anger, however, stayed. Govinda met their enraged gazes without flinching. ‘I will not justify its discovery. Nor will I apologize for it. If you can bring yourselves to, consider for a moment the circumstances of its creation. Imagine living in terror of footsteps at the door of your hut, of soldiers with heavy iron weapons who would drag you out in the middle of the night, rape men and women alike in a bid to extract information and, at the end of it all, burn alive those they wished to condemn as Firewrights…’

  Partha said, ‘So you wanted to find a way to defend yourselves and so… well, I must admit it is as brilliant as it is brutal. I suspect that the dust is not attracted to Wright-metal at all, is it? It wouldn’t affect you at all, but it would decimate your enemy.’

  Govinda was taken aback. Then he sighed, accepting the bloody accolade. ‘I deserve that, I suppose. But if you can still find it in your heart to believe it, Partha, the idea of the Narayana-astra was not to decimate the enemy; it was to protect the defenceless. Not those who sought power on the back of Wright-weapons and science, nor those whose reason had given way to their dogmatic beliefs, their mindless rivalry with the Firstborn. It was to protect those who were victims, simple victims – the innocent villagers of Surasena, Panchala, Kashi… All the realms that now pride themselves on living in consonance with Divine Order.’