The Aryavarta Chronicles Kurukshetra: Book 3 by Krishna Udayasankar

riding through forests, most of the time with Shikandin walking alongside, leading the horse. They had taken care to avoid villages and roadways and had not seen another living person during the entire journey. The girl had been amazed by Shikandin’s ability to negotiate the woods, whether it was to hide or to find food, and had also gradually realized that he was doing all he could to make her feel safe and comfortable.
    They had hardly spoken. Once, he had asked her if she was all right, and another time she had enquired, ‘Amba… You swore on her you’d keep me safe. What is she to you?’
    In response, Shikandin had pulled a string of immaculately wrought beads out from under his tunic and held them up for her to see. The beads had shone as fire by the light of the sun, the lotus-shaped engravings blooming to life as flowers that would never fade. ‘I…I don’t understand,’ the handmaiden had confessed. ‘My people, the forest-dwellers, worship Amba. Are you…?’
    ‘I am one of your people,’ had been the reply.
    The statement had given rise to more questions. She knew that Shikandin was a prince of Panchala, and did not see what his connection to Kashi or to the people of the Eastern Forest could be. But as the day progressed, she had grown too tired for thought. She hardly remembered when they stopped to make camp or when she had lain down on the ground and instantly fallen asleep.
    That had been last night and she must have, she realized, slept long, for the sun was now edging overhead towards noon. Shikandin and his horse were nowhere to be seen.
    ‘I won’t hurt you…Please don’t be afraid.’ The young man tried to approach her again.
    This time she was bolder. ‘Don’t you know me?’ she blurted out, causing the man to look as confused as she felt. ‘Shikandin, it’s me…’ she persisted.
    The words apparently made some sense to the man, for he laughed and said, ‘Being mistaken for Shikandin Draupada is probably the best compliment I get. It has happened once or twice before, but I never tire of it.’
    ‘But…’
    Her words were cut off by the metallic ring of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. She jumped, thought to move away, but found herself stunned by the scene before her. The young man had spun around at whiplash speed, pulling his sword out in the same move. The blade now hovered but a finger’s breadth away from the older – and undoubtedly original – Shikandin’s neck. Shikandin himself stood watching, his horse by his side. It amazed the handmaiden that she had heard neither of them approach and the younger man had, but the sentiment was lost as the situation became clear. ‘Don’t hurt him!’ she shouted at the young man, before she could stop herself.
    The man dropped his sword and sheathed it, a grin wrinkling the corners of his mouth. ‘I’ll try not to,’ he jested even as he was pulled into a single-handed embrace by Shikandin, who looked just as delighted. He then turned to pat the horse’s flank, adding, by way of explanation, ‘Besides, my father could take on ten of me any day!’
    ‘Your father?’ she looked from one man to the other, finally comprehending as she noticed the green-brown eyes and the sculpted nose that both men had.
    ‘Yes,’ Shikandin affirmed. ‘This handsome rogue is indeed my son. Uttamaujas.’
    ‘Father!’
    Shikandin turned around at the shout to see his youngest son, Kshatradharman run to him. Despite his height, the boy was only nine years old; young enough to throw his arms around his father’s neck. Shikandin lifted the boy up and whirled him around before setting him down next to his brother. ‘Where’s your uncle?’
    ‘He’s become a slow, old fool,’ a gruff voice answered. A hardy man, a forest-dwelling tribal by his aspect, emerged from the forest. He used his spear for support as he walked, and his left leg had an obvious limp.
    ‘When did that happen, Sthuna?’ Shikandin asked, concerned.
    ‘A lot