novelraw Arc 1 - Śalya-vadha Parva - Chapter 6 - The Slaughter Continues
Arc 1 - Śalya-vadha Parva - Chapter 6 - The Slaughter Continues
Sañjaya said:
After the Kuru army had been rallied, O King, there arose from its ranks a mighty roar, for the lord of the Mlecchas, King Śālva, blazed forth in wrath. Mounted upon a gigantic elephant, vast as a hill, streaming with ichor from its temples and radiant as Airāvata himself, he rushed toward the host of the Pāṇḍavas.
That elephant, sprung from a noble line and trained by masters of the lore of elephants, had long been cherished by Dhṛtarāṣṭra’s son and worshipped as a royal beast. Armored and adorned with bells and gold, it moved like a living mountain upon the earth. Seated upon its neck, Śālva shone like the morning sun rising over crimson clouds, and his arrows fell thick as rain from a monsoon sky.
Swift as the thunderbolt he sped,
His shafts like lightning, cold and red;
The earth beneath his onset shook,
As forest beasts to cover took.
Neither Kaurava nor Pāṇḍava could find a flaw in his aim, even as the Daityas once found none in Indra when the wielder of the thunderbolt broke their ranks in heaven’s war. Around him, the hosts of the Pāṇḍavas and the Sṛñjayas saw that elephant—huge as a thousand elephants—rushing upon them, and their hearts quailed as the Asuras had before the white steed of Śakra.
The ground thundered beneath its tread; its trunk whirled like a storm. Many chariots were crushed; men fled crying out to gods and kinsmen. Broken and terror-struck, the Pāṇḍava host scattered in flight, unable to withstand the fury of that living mountain. Beholding this rout, the warriors of thy side, O King, raised their conchs and shouted aloud, praising Śālva’s prowess as though the victory were already won.
Hearing those cries of exultation, Dhṛṣṭadyumna, the son of the Pāñcāla king, burned with wrath. Unable to bear the triumph of the Kauravas, he wheeled his chariot about and rushed like blazing fire upon that mighty elephant, even as the Asura Jambha once charged the white Airāvata that bore Indra to war.
Then Śālva, fierce as a lion, goaded his beast toward the advancing prince. The Pāñcāla hero, seeing that thunderous charge, drew his bow and loosed arrows bright as molten gold. Three keen shafts struck the elephant’s forehead; five more sank deep into its swelling temples.
The monster reeled, its ichor ran,
Its eyes grew red, its breath began
To thunder like the storming deep—
Yet still it charged, it would not sleep.
Though wounded, the beast wheeled about in agony; but Śālva, skilled in the goad, checked its flight and turned it once more upon his foe. With iron hooks and pointed lances, he urged it forward, crying, “Crush him! Crush the son of Drupada!”
Beholding the infuriate elephant bearing down upon him like a thundercloud against the wind, Dhṛṣṭadyumna, seizing his mace, sprang from his chariot to the earth. The beast, in its rage, caught the golden car with trunk uplifted, flung it high into the air, and dashed it down, shattering horses, yoke, and charioteer into dust.
When the Pāñcāla prince beheld his driver slain and his car destroyed, Bhīma, Śikhaṇḍin, and the grandson of Sini rushed forward like flames toward the monstrous foe. Showering it with arrows, they checked its advance; the mountain-beast trembled beneath their storm of steel.
But Śālva, like the sun scattering rays, rained shafts upon the opposing heroes till their armor blazed with feathered light. The Pāñcālas and Sṛñjayas cried aloud in dismay, their hearts shaken by the Kaurava king’s valor. Still, they closed around the elephant on every side, tightening their circle like hunters about a snared beast.
Then Dhṛṣṭadyumna, fearless and radiant as Rudra in wrath, raised his mace high above his head and rushed forward through the dust. He struck the elephant upon its brow—once, twice, thrice—with blows that split the air.
The blows fell heavy as the rain
That splits the forest’s heart in twain;
Its globes burst forth in bloody foam,
The beast cried loud—and met its doom.
Vomiting torrents of blood, the great elephant crashed to the earth with a sound like mountains cleaving during an earthquake. The field shook; the sky grew dim with dust; and thy warriors wailed aloud, for their last pillar of strength had fallen.
As the beast lay dying, its vast sides heaving, the Satvata hero—valiant Sātyaki—drew his sharpest arrow and, taking aim, loosed it like a flash of fire.
That shaft, broad-headed and golden-winged, struck Śālva upon the neck. His head leapt from his shoulders and fell, crowned and still gleaming, upon the trampled earth. Thus perished the lord of the Mlecchas, together with his elephant, like a mountain peak smitten by Indra’s thunderbolt.
The dust of Kurukṣetra stilled,
The roars of wrath and glory filled;
For where the Mleccha monarch lay,
The sun seemed dark, the world turned gray.
Sañjaya said:
After the heroic Śālva, that ornament of royal assemblies, had been slain, thy army broke, O King, like a mighty tree shattered by a tempest. Their banners fell, their ranks dissolved, and fear spread through every heart like wildfire through dry grass.
But then arose from amidst the fleeing hosts the great car-warrior Kṛtavarmā, lion of the Sātvata race, steadfast and terrible in resolve. His chariot gleamed like fire amid smoke, and he stood unmoved, pierced by countless shafts, resembling a mountain scarred by thunderbolts.
Beholding him thus firm and resplendent, the Kaurava warriors, who had fled in despair, rallied once more and returned to battle. O monarch, the encounter that followed was wondrous and fierce — for those men, having made Death their goal, rushed again to fight beside their Sātvata ally.
The cries of battle filled the sky,
The conch and drum gave forth reply;
And hearts that faltered once in dread,
Now burned again, by valor fed.
The Pāṇḍavas and the Pañcālas beheld Kṛtavarmā shining alone before their host, and the air trembled with the twang of his bow. Standing unyielding as a cliff against the sea, he loosed a storm of shafts that struck the foe like sleet upon the face of flame.
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Then came forward Sātyaki, the bull among the Sinis, eager for battle and radiant with fury. Beholding King Kṣemakīrti of the Kaurava ranks, he slew him with seven arrows, swift and straight, and sent his soul to Yama’s gate.
The son of Hṛdika, Kṛtavarmā, blazing with wrath, urged his steeds forward and met the grandson of Sini upon the field. Those two lions of the Vr̥ṣṇi race, equal in lineage and might, roared aloud as they charged, and their clash was like thunder meeting thunder.
The Pāṇḍavas, the Pañcālas, and all the princes of both armies paused to behold that duel — two kinsmen of noble blood, both heroes of Madhu’s line, matched in skill and wrath.
As twin storms crossing meet and break,
And lightnings leap from cloud to lake,
So flashed their shafts through smoky air,
Each fire to match the other’s glare.
Each wounded the other with long and slender arrows, feathered with gold and keen as serpent’s fang. The sky grew dark with their flights — a ceaseless rain of death. The whizzing of their shafts, O King, was like the hum of ten thousand bees around a flowering grove.
Kṛtavarmā’s arrows struck the four steeds of Sātyaki’s car, and the noble beasts trembled under pain. Then Sātyaki, enraged, smote his foe with eight arrows that flashed like tongues of fire. But Kṛtavarmā, calm and relentless, pierced his kinsman thrice and severed his bowstring with a shaft whetted on stone.
Laying aside the broken weapon, the grandson of Sini seized another, strong and well-curved, and stringing it in an instant, rushed forward like the wind against the storm. With ten keen shafts he smote the steeds, the driver, and the banner of Kṛtavarmā’s chariot, making them reel under his power.
Then the mighty son of Hṛdika, bereft of his horses and driver, rose in fury, grasping a shining lance of broad steel. Lifting it high, he hurled it with all his strength at Sātyaki, roaring like a lion in wrath.
But the warrior of the Sātvata line, calm in the midst of chaos, struck the flying lance with a flurry of arrows and shattered it in midair into a hundred gleaming fragments. The shards fell flashing to the earth like meteors through the dusk, and Kṛtavarmā, bewildered by the feat, stood still for a heartbeat.
Then Sātyaki, fierce as Garuḍa descending upon serpents, drew another arrow, broad-headed and bright as lightning, and shot it into his cousin’s chest.
The shaft flew straight, the gods looked down,
It pierced his mail, it rent his crown;
His car fell still, his driver slain—
And silence shrouded him in pain.
Made steedless and driverless, Kṛtavarmā leapt from his broken car to the earth, his armor ringing like thunder. At the sight of that mighty warrior fallen, the hearts of thy sons were struck with grief and fear.
Then Kripa, son of Śaradvat, seeing his comrade endangered, came forward through the press of battle. Lifting Kṛtavarmā onto his chariot in the sight of all, he bore him away like a sage rescuing fire from a dying altar.
After that single combat wherein the grandson of Sini triumphed, the army of Duryodhana again wavered and turned to flight. The field was dark with dust and confusion, and none could see clearly who fought or fled.
The sky was veiled, the earth was red,
The living stumbled o’er the dead;
And only Duryodhana’s might
Still flamed unquenched amid the night.
Then, O King, Duryodhana alone remained unmoved amid the rout. Beholding his host in ruin, he rose like fire upon the altar, blazing with wrath. Alone, he charged against the Pāṇḍavas and the Pañcālas, scattering arrows as the sun scatters rays. None could withstand him in that hour; he shone terrible and resplendent, like Yama himself risen to judge the slain.
Duryodhana pierced Dhṛṣṭadyumna, Śikhaṇḍin, the sons of Draupadī, the princes of the Pañcālas and the Kaikeyas, and the ranks of the Somakas with unending showers of shafts. The warriors of the Pāṇḍava army could not approach him, even as mortals cannot draw near the fire of dissolution.
He stood alone, a storm of flame,
And death itself forgot his name;
For wrath was crown, and grief was brand—
And doom obeyed his fierce command.
Then, O monarch, from the dust and tumult, the son of Hṛdika — Kṛtavarmā — returned, mounted upon another chariot, eager to stand once more beside the embattled king.
Sañjaya said:
That foremost of car-warriors, thy son, O monarch—riding upon his chariot and filled with the courage of despair—shone in the field like Rudra himself, the destroyer of creation, blazing in wrath at the end of time.
Drawing his mighty bow, Duryodhana poured forth his shafts in endless showers, till the very earth seemed woven over with steel. The ground trembled beneath his arrows as clouds pour torrents upon the breasts of mountains. No man, no steed, no elephant, no chariot of the Pāṇḍavas was spared by his hand.
As rain that drowns the summer plain,
As storm that breaks the grove in twain,
So fell his shafts on friend and foe—
A fiery rain, a ceaseless flow.
Wherever I turned my eyes, O King, I beheld thy son’s arrows gleaming. The host of the Pāṇḍavas seemed buried beneath a storm of iron feathers. The whole earth, to my sight, became a single sea of shafts, each bearing the mark of Duryodhana’s wrath.
Amid that countless multitude of men and beasts, it seemed as though Duryodhana alone stood alive, a flaming heart of battle. Such was the wonder of his valour that even united, the sons of Pāṇḍu could scarce approach him.
He pierced Yudhiṣṭhira with a hundred arrows, Bhīmasena with seventy, Sahadeva with seven, Nakula with four and sixty, Dhṛṣṭadyumna with five, the sons of Draupadī with seven, and the great Sātyaki with three. Then with a broad-headed shaft he struck down Sahadeva’s bow.
The son of Mādrī, fearless and quick, seized another bow, stringing it with force, and struck Duryodhana with ten keen shafts. Nakula followed, piercing the king with nine more and uttering a lion’s roar that shook the hearts of men. Sātyaki smote him once; the sons of Draupadī thrice and seventy times; Yudhiṣṭhira five; Bhīmasena eighty.
Yet Duryodhana, pierced and bloodied, stood unmoved—his body trembling not, his will unshaken—while all around, men marvelled at his speed and skill, surpassing every warrior there.
Bleeding, he stood, yet would not yield;
His wrath alone his blazing shield.
So glows the fire, though lashed by rain—
So fights the lion, rent with pain.
Meanwhile, the Dhārtarāṣṭras who had fled a short distance returned to his side, clad in mail and rallying to their king. Their shout rose terrible, like the roar of the ocean in monsoon, and the whole host of the Kauravas surged once more toward the foe.
Then the son of Droṇa, mighty Aśvatthāman, met Bhīmasena upon the field, and between those two lions raged a combat dreadful to behold. The air grew thick with arrows till east and west were one, and no man could tell direction from direction. Both were tireless and fierce, both scarred from the bowstring’s draw, both unyielding as fate itself. Their blows echoed like the beating of celestial drums, and even the gods looked down in wonder.
Elsewhere, Śakuni, the son of Subala, assailed Yudhiṣṭhira. With a cry, he slew the king’s four steeds and uttered a triumphant roar that chilled the blood of men. But Sahadeva, rushing forward, bore away his elder brother from that peril and placed him upon another car.
Then Yudhiṣṭhira, calm as the sea yet terrible as its storm, took up his bow anew. Piercing Śakuni first with nine arrows, then with five, he uttered a cry of victory that resounded across the field. The Siddhas and the Cāraṇas, gazing unseen from the heavens, applauded that noble sight.
At another quarter, Ulūka, son of Śakuni and warrior of immeasurable pride, rushed upon Nakula, showering arrows like monsoon rain. But Nakula, steady as a pillar of iron, received the storm and answered with his own, till the two were shrouded in a veil of glittering death. Both well-born, both valiant, they fought in wrath, the string of their bows singing like twin thunderbolts.
At the same time, Kṛtavarmā, leader of the Sātvatas, engaged again with Sātyaki, his kinsman and rival. Their combat shone upon the field like Indra’s battle with the Asura Vala—each a whirlwind of flame, neither yielding nor relenting.
Meanwhile, Duryodhana cut off Dhṛṣṭadyumna’s bow and pierced that son of Drupada, weaponless, with keen shafts. But Dhṛṣṭadyumna, grasping another formidable bow, shot swiftly and fought on, his wrath as fierce as fire upon a forest floor. The two rushed upon each other like rutting elephants, their armor streaming with blood, their eyes red as dawn.
At another front, the aged Kṛpa of the Gautama line, roused to fury, fell upon the sons of Draupadī. His arrows struck them like the sting of serpents; yet they, united and strong, surrounded him and returned their shafts in kind. That battle between the sage-born warrior and the five young lions was like the strife between embodied spirit and the five senses—unceasing, perilous, and consuming.
Five flames assailed the ageless one,
Five storms against a single sun;
Yet still he burned, serene, entire,
Their fury feeding on his fire.
Men fought with men, elephants clashed with elephants, steeds reared against steeds, and chariots smote chariots in terrible unison. Once again the field of Kurukṣetra was transformed into a sea of death. Here the fight gleamed like lightning, there it roared like storm, and elsewhere it blazed like the wrath of Time itself.
From every side rose clouds of dust, raised by wheels and hooves and the breath of elephants. The sky was darkened, the sun veiled, and the earth herself seemed to vanish beneath that choking shroud. Yet when the blood of heroes fell like crimson rain, that dust was stilled, and once more the vision cleared.
Then, O King, I beheld anew the countless duels that filled the noon of battle—each warrior burning with the will to conquer or die. The field shone like a plain of fire, and the sound of falling shafts was as the crack of bamboo forests aflame on every side.
Thus raged the war — vast, pitiless, and beautiful in its terror — while the eye of day looked down, and the wheel of fate turned toward its close.