The Aryavarta Chronicles Kaurava: Book 2 (44 page)

Exchanging calls of resolution and determination, the men mounted their horses and began riding east.

26

THERE WAS LITTLE, IF ANYTHING, TO SUGGEST THE PRESENCE OF
enemy soldiers in the village as the party of six – Bhim, his three brothers and the three sons of Chief Virat – came up to the village. The number was, Bhim had argued, a strange one, but none of the others had agreed to being left behind. They had changed into the simpler armour of common soldiers, which Nakul and Sadev already wore, and tried their best to adopt a tired, war-worn look that would go with it.

Sankha called out to the woman who was filling water from the small oasis-well by the mingled light of the setting full moon and not-yet-risen sun as a man looked diligently on. ‘You there! Summon your head or village elder.’

The frightened woman did not answer and looked instead to her escort. The man stepped forward. ‘Who are you and what do you want?’ he questioned Sankha.

‘Can’t you see, you blind fool? We are soldiers. Soldiers of the Matsya army, in case you wandering idiots don’t know the difference between friend and foe. We have orders to gather all the men in this region, to come fight for the Chief. Quick now, get all the men out. We haven’t got all day.’

Sankha set his face in an expression of weary impatience. The others began guiding the horses through the village, repeating the instructions as and when men and women emerged from their hutments. In truth, each of the seven was making his way to an assigned position, as per plan. Except for Bhim. His task was to find Chief Virat and protect him at all costs.

The opportunity came when he saw an ashen-faced woman being pulled back into the shadows of her doorway. She re-emerged to ask, in a trembling voice, ‘But…. But if you take all our men away, who will protect us?’ It was, Bhim noted, a tactical mistake on the enemy’s part. Matsya’s women were anything but dependent on their menfolk, and he could hardly imagine the burly matron asking him that question of her own will.

‘And is your man teaching you to give such excuses? Bring him out! Bring him out before I come in there and drag him all the way to the battlefront.’

The threat worked. Rather than letting Bhim in, a sullen-looking, bearded man stepped out of the hut. ‘Go in,’ he roughly commanded the woman. He looked around him, exchanging discreet glances with three other men, before all of them joined the group of villagers – pretended and otherwise. Assuming all four were Trigarta’s soldiers in disguise, that would leave at least six or more to deal with, Bhim reasoned. They could easily harm any of the hostages, or even the Chief, unless the rescuers acted carefully.

‘Right,’ Bhim turned in his saddle to address Bhuminjaya. ‘Get that lot of men outside the village and lined up in marching order.’

The group of about twenty-five men were herded outside the makeshift perimeter of the settlement, where both Bhuminjaya and Swetha stood guard over them. Bhim realized it was now or never. He slid off his horse, declaring casually to Sankha, ‘I’m just going to take a look around, make sure there are no more cowards hiding in their homes.’ Knowing he had to move fast, he ran towards the hut in which he suspected the Chief was being kept, ignoring the rising sounds of activity around him. Men and women were screaming, shouting, threats filled the air, as did the sound of weapons being drawn. Bhim left his companions to deal with it all and rushed into the dark doorway of the hut as the burly matron got out of the way.

‘Drop your sword or the Chief dies,’ a hoarse voice commanded. Bhim complied, letting his weapon fall to the ground, biding his time while his eyes got used to the dark.

‘Now, on your knees.’

As Bhim slowly got down on his knees, he could see the outline of two soldiers in full armour. The third figure was that of Chief Virat. The Chief’s mouth was tied with a piece of cloth, and his arms and legs were bound with rope. His eyes, however, were open and bright, and he looked at Bhim with recognition.

‘Down!’ one of the men barked. Bhim placed his palms on the straw-strewn floor and went down on all fours. An instant followed in which he could hear the bustle outside, but he could not make sense of the situation. Apparently, neither could the Trigarta soldiers. The second of the two was about to step outside, when the first one ordered him back. ‘Tie this one up first. Or, better still, kill him.’

To dissuade Bhim against any attempt at resistance, the man drew a knife from his belt and held it to Chief Virat’s throat. The second man grabbed a length of rope and began moving, with caution, towards Bhim. He bent down to grab at Bhim’s hands and made the fatal mistake of taking his eye off the man.

In that instant, Bhim acted. He bounded lightly to his feet, catching the head of the bending Trigarta soldier in the crook of his left arm. At the same time, he pulled a thin, sliver-like dagger out from where it was strapped around his ankle and hurled it with all his might at the first soldier. Using both his hands he snapped the second soldier’s neck in a move that he realized had now become characteristic of him. The man fell dead to the ground. Bhim turned to Virat. The captive Chief was safe, not even shaken from the experience. The soldier who had held a knife to his throat lay sprawled next to him, Bhim’s thin dagger driven into the middle of his forehead like a nail.

Bhim sprang forward to cut the Chief’s bonds. Virat gave him a nod of gratitude and warmth, but wasted no further time. Bhim drew his sword and handed it to the Chief, who took it. He then bent down to retrieve the dead men’s weapons.

‘Wait here,’ he told the Chief, who merely growled his refusal and strode out the doorway, eager for battle. Bhim shook his head and followed.

The scene that greeted them outside was, given the circumstances, an agreeable one. Three of the captors lay dead, Swetha and Nakul’s arrows pierced through them. Dharma stood over another fallen Trigarta soldier. The villagers had beaten the four other pretended enlisters to death.

‘The children?’ Bhim asked. Sankha gestured towards a large hut, which Sadev had begun hacking down with his sword. Bhim saw the children were already outside and safe though still looking afraid, being seen to by their mothers and fathers. The last two Trigarta soldiers were lying face down on the ground, the matron, who he surmised was the leader of the settlement, standing proudly over them with a blood-smeared iron pestle in her hand.

Bhim bowed in respect, and she returned the gesture.

At the villagers’ insistence, Virat, Bhim and the others waited till the settlement was returned to order and refreshments were served. With many thanks and an emotional farewell, Chief Virat prepared to lead the men back to camp.

By the time the company returned to the front, the victory over Trigrata’s troops was complete. Scouts reported that what remained of the enemy troops were drawing back into their kingdom. To the resounding cheers of his men, Chief Virat raised his sword in a sign of triumph. The soldiers responded with unrestrained adulation, beating their shields, and calling out praises till, with one voice, they began chanting ‘Jayeti! Jayeti! Victory to the Chief! Victory to Matsya!’

Dharma, delighted and amused by the scene, whispered, ‘Have you ever seen anything like this?’

Bhim frowned as the remark stirred an old memory. ‘Yes, Agraja,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard and seen people adore Jarasandha this way. What does that say about what we believe?’

Dharma did not reply in words, but placed a reassuring hand on Bhim’s shoulder. For the first time in many years, Bhim felt younger, less burdened. He had found Dharma Yudhisthir, the brother he had once sworn to obey and follow till death, once again.

27

PANCHALI DREW DEEP, EVEN BREATHS AS SHE WAITED FOR THE
sun to breach the horizon. Timing and patience were imperative to her task. She had not wanted Partha to worry about her and had left him and Uttara without much argument. But she had not ridden far, staying well within the city limits so as to not draw attention from the city guards on her return.

Even as Partha, Uttara and she had made their plans, Panchali had recognized how redundant her task was. She reasoned that if there was an old Firewright path in and out of Matsya, Govinda already knew of it. What she feared was that he was not the only one. There had been no question – she would have to stay back at Upaplavya.

By the time Panchali returned to the palace, Partha and Uttara had slipped quietly out of the city and were long gone. Panchali set about making sure that their absence would not be discovered for as long as possible – a precaution that the two of them had not discussed at all, intent as they had been on moving towards their dramatic encounter with Syoddhan’s armies. She went through the usual actions of settling a pretended Uttara into bed, leaving strict instructions with the other attendants that the princess was not to be disturbed, for she had a tough day ahead, considering the nation’s plight. After that, Panchali visited Sudeshna, Virat’s queen and Uttara’s mother, reassuring her that her daughter was indeed in control of the situation, and that the best she could do was to show faith in her daughter’s leadership. These matters settled, Panchali went back to her rooms and sat in silent contemplation. At first light, she had made her way out of the palace and across the grounds towards the forge.

For a nation at war, life had changed little in its capital city. It was quieter in parts of the city, with entire garrisons being called away to battle, but in most other respects daily life continued uninterrupted. Panchali wondered whether this ambivalence came from the generations-long seclusion the people had faced from the rest of Aryavarta, or from a quiet confidence that their armies would prevail. Indeed, security around the city had not been intensified – though she had no doubt more scouts had been sent out into the countryside. As she had expected, there were no guards around the forge, dawn being one of the few instances when a change of guard left the structure unattended. Panchali quickly slipped inside.

Inside the forge, it was silent: the craftsmen were yet to come in for the day. Panchali waited till her eyes adjusted to the darkness, and began her descent into the forge. She made her way across the work floor and towards the small room she had earlier been brought to.

The night Keechak had died, Panchali had considered taking his keys. But she had rightly guessed that Chief Virat would change the locks the moment the General’s disappearance came to light. She had concluded, too, that the only way to put in new locks would be to change the door. And the Chief had done exactly that, replacing the old iron door with one made of the new alloy from Matsya’s forges.

A simple mistake, Panchali noted. There was a reason why the Firewrights of old had put in an untempered iron door to seal off a forge where Wright-metal was in constant use: It took different means to melt down the two metals. Now, entering the inner room would not take much. She found what she needed next to the smelting area. Carefully picking up a small wooden bowl filled with a thick, black liquid and the wooden ladle lying next to it, she carried it over to the new door. Using the ladle, she began applying the liquid to the edges as though she were tempering the door with oil. Unsure of how much to use, Panchali waited, stepping away a fair distance to be safe. It took time, but she saw the effects – subtle at first but rapidly becoming more pronounced. The door was softening around the edges, curling away from its surrounding jamb as its inner layers peeled off.

Panchali applied more of the corroding liquid – this time only to at the hinges. A short wait later, she pushed at the door, nearly laughing out loud with delight when the door swung open with a soft yawn. Panchali stepped inside. A pang of regret hit her as her eyes ran over the array of bottles and containers on the shelves of the room. But time was running out and, resolute, she set herself to the task at hand.

Panchali stared at her own handiwork, wondering how it was that she had not killed herself with some potion or the other. It crossed her mind that the power of the old Firewrights may just have been nothing more than a symbol, a dead force.

The sound of a person descending the stairs made her turn. She felt sick to her stomach at the sight of the man who came into view. Fists clenched tight, she turned and stepped out of the small room, revealing its empty shelves to the new arrival. Asita Devala took one look at the debris, the broken shards that were all that was left of the Firewrights’ greatest creations, and his delight turned to despair. ‘
No!
What have you done? How could you do such a thing?’

Panchali sneered. ‘How could
you
do what you have been doing? Don’t you see? This is why the Firewrights had to be destroyed!’

‘You think it’s just the Firewrights? You’re a fool then, just like your dear Govinda Shauri. You two think the world runs on reason, but there is no greater reason, no greater justification in the world than power. Power makes its own morality, Panchali. You should know that by now. And the one who has power gets to make the rules, dictate morals, and call himself whatever he likes. Firstborn, Firewright, rebel – these names are but illusions. Power is the only reality. It is the only thing that distinguishes man from man. There are those who have power. And there are those who fear. I think you know what that feels like.’

‘Yes, I do. I think you will too, soon, if you don’t already. You have failed. I know you came for the Naga-astra. You may now leave, empty-handed.’

Devala advanced on her, as though to hit her. Panchali stood her ground, defiant, but the Firewright did not raise his hand. Instead he put his face close to hers and laughed, cold and mocking, and said, ‘You think that by destroying the Naga-astra, you will balance power in Aryavarta, don’t you? You believe in all that prattle about trade and equality and new ways of life that Govinda has filled into your head. When will you come out of your make-believe dreams to see that the world is much larger than Aryavarta? There are many more lands to conquer beyond these tiny borders, Panchali. When the world goes to war, what is it that you wish for Aryavarta – that it will conquer, or be conquered?’