Warjuna: Shcyba

Moonlight streamed through the giant open windows of the palatial chamber - a vast room that was enveloped in darkness. A cool breeze flowed in, gently toying with the thin, transparent curtains that made lazy attempts to touch the royal sized bed.

The man awoke with a gasp.   

Strongly built and bearing intricate tattoos across his broad shoulders, the bearded man stared outside his window while trying to make sense of his dream. What he saw was nothing like the desert lands he was presently in, or the ones he had previously conquered.

His dream spoke of kingdoms built upon lush green mountains, rivers that carried clear blue water, mines that held sparkling stones, and a throne made of a strange shine that was inviting him to occupy. On its reflection he saw himself, but wearing a mask that depicted diabolical authority.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead.

‘I am the true blood child of the golden sands. Mere visions do not provoke me.’ he assured himself. ‘It will take more than that to rattle Shcyba-the-conqueror.’

“…Bharata…” whispered a voice in the wind.

Shcyba reached for the dagger under his pillow. “Who goes there!” he commanded to the darkness.

“…ready your men…”

Warjuna: Song of War

“This day brings the news of our victory,

This day fortifies our destiny,

Rise, O protectors of Niharrkul,

Rise, O champions of Niharrkul,

We have defeated the enemy,

We have defeated the enemy,” the man sang, and then blew his blood stained bugle. 

On a battlefield that was enveloped by a thick early morning fog, Balyunath walked over the bodies of both the Hayacree and Niharrkuls. The bugle call was a tribute to the soldiers of the land. His song was meant to instill spirit within those who were still breathing. With weary eyes, he watched thousands of civilians rush to all sides in search of survivors; the Hayacrians, of course, were being stabbed with knives and pitchforks to ensure they stayed down.

Soon the wails of widows and children began to rise, overpowering cries of relief and joy. Only a handful of Niharrkul soldiers got up from the sea of corpses; one managed to rise halfway and then vomited blood before collapsing into the arms of his woman.

Balyunath turned away from the sight.

“Why did you stop?” asked a firm voice, and Balyunath turned around to find General Shihaara- the powerfully built commander of the armed forces, her armor torn and hacked at, revealing the wounds she had sustained over the days of battle. The steed she was mounted upon was no ordinary beast as well; it continued to stand tall despite the injuries to its neck and legs.

“I am sorry, Wayan-Ur.” Balyunath replied with a bowed head, addressing the General with respect.

With a strange calm, General Shihaara gazed at the remains of the carnage. “I know your songs can only heal the brave, not raise them from the dead. But it is imperative that we heal as quickly as possible. Do you know why?”

Balyunath took his time. His voice wavered. “The songs of battle have been sung, but the tune of a greater war lingers in the air.”

General Shihaara responded with a slight nod before moving away.

The Champions’ Arena

Night had arrived, and the rains that descended upon the land could do very little to stop the two silhouettes from fighting. The boy, armed with a kattari blade, swiveled and struck repeatedly to penetrate the defenses of his master - Bhavanu, but to no avail.

The boy retreated, adopting an aggressive stance.

Bhavanu stood still, eyes unblinking in the rain, his broad sword pointed gracefully to the ground. “Let go,” he spoke loudly.  

The boy screamed, tightly gripping the blade in his hand, and rushed towards his master. Bhavanu grunted, a sign of dissatisfaction, as he sidestepped and leaned back on his back foot to parry the boy’s strike. He immediately swiveled forward, and all at once whacked the boy on his arm while kicking him in the belly.

The boy gasped for air as the pain in his stomach shot to all parts of his body, thereby losing his blade. Within no time, his head was locked within Bhavanu’s arm.

“Let go,” the master grunted again.

The boy was beginning to lose consciousness.

“Let go of everything you have learnt,” said the voice, and Arjuna returned to the present. He was pinned to the ground by the Hayacrian soldier, fighting to stop the pointed edge of a blade that was inching closer towards his face.