Arjuna: Blade of the Gods

By Gaurav Garg

From the vibrant tapestry of Indian mythology emerges a tale unlike any other—Arjuna: Blade of the Gods—an epic saga of celestial weapons, ancient prophecies, and the indomitable spirit of a warrior destined to shape the fate of a kingdom.

Arjuna, the chosen one, is plucked from the deceptive tranquility of Hastinapur's grand celebrations, where whispers of an encroaching darkness lie hidden beneath the surface. Called upon by the gods themselves, he embarks on a perilous quest to gather fragments of forgotten power, celestial weapons scattered among realms infused with their own dangers and trials.

With each step, Arjuna's power grows, but so does his awareness of the terrible toll these weapons demand. Agni, the fire god, tests his mettle in a volcanic inferno. The elusive Vayu challenges him to an aerial duel through ever-shifting skyways. In a haunting temple of illusions, Citrangada, the warrior princess, forces him to discern truth from falsehood.

The shadow of an ancient power begins to take shape – Varuna, an Asura rising from the depths, driven by a thirst for revenge and dominion. Yet, this growing threat is not the only enemy Arjuna must face. Temptations linger on his path, promising false peace and an escape from the heavy mantle of responsibility. Internal battles must be fought alongside external ones, testing the limits of his spirit and questioning the very righteousness he seeks to uphold.

In a world teetering on the brink of chaos, Arjuna is both a savior and a potential force of ruin. The path he carves is fraught with choices that will echo throughout time and leave an enduring mark on the realm. Friendships will be tested, lives will be lost, and sacrifices will be demanded, all leading toward a decisive battle where the destiny of Hastinapur will hang in the balance.

Arjuna: Blade of the Gods is not simply a tale of a warrior claiming power, it's an exploration of the price that power exacts – on the warrior, on his loved ones, and on the world he fights for. It invites the reader to walk beside Arjuna and ponder the age-old questions – how do we define heroism? Is unshakeable duty its own kind of sacrifice? And where does the line between hero and tyrant blur?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gaurav Garg
• Release date: Mar 5, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224456642

Book preview

Chapter 1: The Shadow Stirs

The Festival of Radiant Skies lit Hastinapur ablaze. Laughter and music echoed through streets festooned with shimmering silks, the scent of roasted delicacies and exotic spices hung heavy in the air. This was a celebration honoring Indra, god of storms, and his victory over the drought demon ages past. But beneath the joyous facade, Arjuna could not shake the disquiet coiling in his gut.

He moved through the throngs not with princely aloofness, but with the practiced eye of the warrior, the tension in his shoulders belying his easy smile. Something felt off. The festive birdsong held a frantic edge. The dazzling fire-dancers cast flickering shadows that seemed far too long, far too sharp.

His unease proved prophetic. Midday, a cry tore through the crowd. A famed astrologer, eyes bulging with terror, collapsed in the marketplace. His last words, choked out in a rasp barely audible over the din, chilled the blood: Black sun... the shadows rise... they come...

The whispers Arjuna had ignored grew louder, brought by merchants and travelers from the outskirts of the kingdom. Tales of livestock mysteriously slain, of villagers vanishing in the night. None dared speak the word 'Asura', but the old fear clung to the stories like a shroud.

That night, as fireworks painted the sky in imitation of Indra's celestial battles, the true darkness struck.

The palace guards were the first to fall. Not with clash of steel, but silent as serpents. Blurred figures, more shadow than substance, materialized from the pools of darkness cast by the revelry. Their touch was not death, but something worse—warriors slumped, their eyes rolling back, trapped in a nightmare only they could see.

Arjuna was already moving before the alarm was raised. Not through corridors, but leaping across rooftops, the Gandiva bow appearing in his hand as if summoned by the scent of battle. The palace was under siege.

The throne room was a scene out of a twisted myth. Creatures of smoke and starlight flickered in and out of existence, their laughter like shards of glass. Yet, for every shadow-beast Arjuna's arrow pierced, two more seemed to rise from the floor itself.

They feast on fear! Arjuna's shout cut through the chaos as he nocked another arrow, weaving through the melee. He forced eye contact with Yudhishthira, the eldest Pandava. Fear clouded his brother's usually composed face. Focus on the light, brother! Remember Indra!

With that, Arjuna unleashed an arrow not of wood and feathers, but one conjured from the festival lights blooming overhead. It streaked through the throne room, not striking flesh, but blasting radiance that made the shadow creatures shriek and recoil.

Seizing the moment, Bhima, the strongest of the brothers, roared and charged, shattering the spectral creatures with blows that echoed like thunder. The tide began to turn. Yet, as the last shadow-thing dissipated like mist, a cold certainty settled over Arjuna. This was a mere taste, the first tremor before the true earthquake.

In the aftermath, as dawn painted the sky a hesitant gold, Arjuna found himself in the temple of Indra. Wounded healers were still tending to the guards, their expressions haunted.

They touched my mind... one whimpered, clutching at his head. Arjuna laid a comforting hand on the man's shoulder.

A figure emerged from the incense-wreathed shadows—a priestess, ancient and stooped, with eyes that seemed to see far more than the ruined temple.

You perceive the darkness well, young prince, she croaked, her voice holding an odd echo, as though carried on the wind. The veil thins. The Asura Varuna stirs once more...

Arjuna's grip on his bow tightened. That name... a fragment of a legend, whispered in fear by his grandfather. A demonic lord thought destroyed long ago.

What must I do? His voice was steady, but a cold dread bloomed in his chest.

The priestess smiled, a disconcerting stretch of lips revealing teeth black as pitch. The gods themselves will guide you, Arjuna. Seek them out... and prepare. War is brewing on the horizon, a storm greater than any Indra has wrought.

Her words hung heavy in the air, mingling with the lingering scent of fear and incense. Arjuna was no stranger to war, but a chill ran down his spine that had nothing to do with the dawn's coolness. In the ravaged temple, the once-jubilant carvings of Indra seemed faded, their power a distant memory against this new threat.

Varuna... Arjuna tested the name, the syllables leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. The stories... they said the gods themselves cast him down.

Pride blinds even deities, young warrior. The priestess hobbled closer, her gaze unnervingly keen beneath bushy white brows. Asuras feast on such blindness. Varuna's defeat was but a long slumber, and even the mightiest chains wear thin with time.

A wave of unease, mixed with a spark of anger, tightened Arjuna's jaw. The carelessness of the gods echoed a familiar, frustrating refrain. How many times had human kingdoms suffered due to celestial squabbles?

Do not waste your anger on what might have been, the priestess interrupted his thoughts, her voice surprisingly gentle now. Focus on what must be done. Even now, shadows gather across the land. You must gather light to pierce them.

Her words struck a chord within him. This was not a battle to be left solely to the gods. It was his people, his kingdom that would pay the price for divine negligence. A familiar determination ignited in his core, a defiance fueled as much by doubt as it was faith.

The priestess placed a gnarled hand on his arm, her skin surprisingly warm. There are weapons scattered across the worlds, remnants of ages past, when gods and demons clashed openly. A mischievous glint entered her eyes. They won't be easily found, nor easily won. But in the right hands, they could tip the scales of fate.

Arjuna frowned. And these weapons...?

Seek them, and you shall find them, Arjuna. The gods send signs to those with eyes to see and the courage to follow. The priestess shuffled towards the remains of an altar, retrieving a small, intricately carved box from the rubble.

She thrust it towards him. A token... a first step on a long road, should you choose to walk it.

Confused but strangely certain, Arjuna took the box. It was surprisingly cool, a faint thrumming sensation emanating from within. As he opened it, a gasp tore from his throat.

There, nestled in faded velvet, was an arrowhead forged not from earthly materials, but seemingly from starlight itself. It pulsed with warmth, a defiant beacon against the lingering shadows.

I cannot tell you where the path may lead, the priestess said, her voice echoing in the vastness of the wrecked temple. But heed this, Arjuna. You wield a warrior's strength, but true power lies in gathering strength from others. Seek allies, both expected and unlikely. This battle is not yours to fight alone.

With those cryptic words echoing in his mind, Arjuna turned away. The sun was higher now, its light weak but resolute. He looked back at the ruined temple, now just a building of stone and shattered idols. The uneasy feeling in his gut hadn't vanished, but mingled with it was a fierce new purpose.

He was Arjuna, son of Indra, wielder of the Gandiva. He wouldn't wait for the heavens to save them. It was time to hunt the shadows.

Chapter 2: Call of the Gods

The sacred grove wasn't a place of serene beauty, but a tangle of ancient trees and half-hidden trails. Its reputation as a place where the veil between worlds thinned preceded it. For Arjuna, burdened by his newfound purpose, it wasn't fear that made his steps heavy, but a strange mix of desperation and skepticism.

The oppressive air thrummed with unseen energy, making his skin prickle. The rustling leaves didn't sound like the wind, but like whispers just beyond his hearing. Every gnarled root and shadowed hollow seemed to hold watching eyes. It was the opposite of the battlefield, a place where the enemy wasn't visible steel, but the unknown.

Hours into his search, a clearing materialized from the verdant maze. It held a single, colossal tree, older than Hastinapur itself. Its roots formed a natural archway, pulsing with a faint blue light, as if the tree had swallowed the very sky.

Arjuna hesitated, then stepped through. The world warped.

One moment, it was twilight under a canopy of leaves. The next, he stood in an endless expanse of swirling clouds. Below, tiny figures moved like ants – these must be the kingdoms of men, laid out like a vast, vulnerable map.

So, you have come.

The voice boomed not from in front of him, but from everywhere at once. Arjuna whirled, the Gandiva materializing in his grip. Before him, storm clouds gathered into the semblance of a figure – humanoid, yet wreathed in crackling lightning, eyes like twin suns. There was raw, terrifying power here, almost painful to behold.

Indra, Arjuna managed, sinking to one knee. The legends were true – the god of storms was a force of nature given form.

Rise, Arjuna, descendant of mine. Indra's voice held a hint of amusement, like thunder rolling across distant mountains. The formalities matter little now. Time is short, and a great storm brews.

Arjuna did as commanded, the strange cloudscape rippling with his movements. The priestess... she spoke of Varuna.

That old crone sees more than most. Indra scoffed, but there was a hint of grudging respect in his tone. Yes, the Asura stirs. His whispers infect the forgotten corners of the world, drawing forth shadows, twisting spirits... and worse.

The cloud-figure that was Indra leaned closer, the air sparking with the intensity of his gaze. Ages ago, we gods bound him. Arrogant, we believed him destroyed. But such beings do not die easily. His essence seeped into the foundations of the world, waiting. Now, it festers.

A vision bloomed unbidden in Arjuna's mind – not of Hastinapur, but of a realm choked by obsidian growths, where the very air writhed with crimson energy. An eye, vast and malevolent, flickered open within the darkness. He recoiled, the phantom image leaving a taste like ash in his mouth.

You have a talent for unpleasant visions, Indra said dryly. But that is a glimpse of Varuna's true goal. To unmake our world, reshape it in his own, twisted image.

Then we must stop him! Call the armies of heaven, let us strike him – Arjuna's outburst was truncated by Indra's dismissive snort.

Even in your ignorance, you sense it, don't you? The storm god's voice held an edge of frustration now. A direct assault is folly. Varuna has grown in cunning over his long imprisonment. The bindings of the old wars will not hold this time.

Despair threatened to swallow Arjuna's determination. Then what hope is there?

You, Arjuna. Indra's cloud form loomed closer. There are weapons, relics of a more brutal age, scattered and dormant. Each contains a sliver of power from before Creation itself. Find them, master them, and you might yet pierce the heart of the rising darkness.

Why me? Arjuna questioned. The words tumbled out, born from a strange mix of fear and defiance. I am a warrior, not a sage or a mystic.

Indra's booming laughter echoed across the clouds. Ah, but you carry a spark that most lack – doubt. It makes you question, seek proof, rather than blindly obey. The gods themselves have grown complacent, Arjuna. It takes a touch of mortal defiance to see the true path.

Before Arjuna could process that unsettling statement, the cloudscape swirled again. He was back in the twilight grove, the air heavy and humid once more. In his hand was a scroll, intricately marked, shimmering with a faint echo of the power he felt in Indra's presence.

As he unfurled it, a map of bewildering complexity materialized, constellations and swirling glyphs overlaid upon vaguely familiar landmasses. Marked in crimson were cryptic symbols, each pulse of their otherworldly light sending a throb of foreboding through him.

Arjuna, wielder of the Gandiva, was used to facing foes he could see. This was a different kind of war, with rules yet unknown. But one thing was painfully clear – the fate of the world, and everyone he held dear, might rest in his hands. It was time to leave doubt behind. The hunt had begun.

He squinted at the map. The first symbol pulsed insistently far to the north, within a mountainous region. A forbidding place, if the jagged peaks etched on the scroll were any indication.

A daunting path, Indra's voice echoed, as if he were reading Arjuna's thoughts. And this is but the first step. Take heart, though the road is long.

Arjuna frowned. Take heart? I face an ancient evil with a map and a pretty arrowhead. He gestured at the strange weapon the priestess had gifted him. It was exquisite, yet unnerving.

That 'pretty arrowhead' is a sliver of celestial fire, Indra corrected, amusement in his booming voice. And do not underestimate the map. It will guide you, yes, but it reveals paths as you are ready to walk them. Strength of arms matters little if you do not know where to strike.

A familiar sensation tickled Arjuna's senses, the disquiet that presaged trouble. He turned sharply, peering into the dense foliage surrounding the clearing.

Something troubles you. Indra wasn't asking, but stating a fact. The world strains against the imbalance Varuna brings. Creatures of twilight, things best left forgotten, will sniff out a threat to their master...

His words were cut short by a hiss, not of a serpent, but of something... else. From the shadows wove a vaguely humanoid shape, woven from mist and starlight. It lunged towards Arjuna, its featureless face rippling with a chilling hunger.

Arjuna reacted instinctively, the Gandiva singing as an arrow materialized. But his normal arrow passed harmlessly through the mist-creature. It cackled, a horrifying imitation of mirth, its touch seeping into his arm like frostbite.

They feast on doubt, light-bringer, Indra said, not with urgency, but an odd academic interest. Turn your fear into fury, and they are as substantial as smoke.

Gritting his teeth against the bone-deep cold, Arjuna forced back the rising surge of panic. Instead, he stoked the simmering anger, the protective fury that bloomed in his chest whenever someone he cared for was threatened. It wasn't fear, it was defiance.

He snatched the celestial arrowhead from his quiver, channeling this new heat into it. The starlight pulsed, not gently now, but like a captured sun struggling to break free. He loosed it. The arrowhead streaked forward, not piercing the creature, but enveloping it in a blaze of white-hot light.

The mist-thing shrieked, its form dissolving into nothingness. The chill in Arjuna's arm faded, leaving a lingering ache.

Well done. Indra's voice held a hint of approval. Remember that lesson. Fear is the Asura's weapon. Wield your own well, and it is a shield as strong as any armor.

As suddenly as it materialized, the cloudscape dissipated. Arjuna was back in the twilight grove, the scent of damp leaves and ancient bark replacing the electric tang of the storm god's realm. His legs felt unsteady, exhaustion crashing over him in the wake of the encounter.

I must return... was all he could manage before he stumbled towards the archway of roots. He needed the familiar, the tangible, to ground him before facing the impossible task ahead.

And return you will, Arjuna. More than a warrior, perhaps even more than a hero, Indra called after him, but Arjuna was already stepping back into the mortal world.

The grove was as he'd left it, the sun painting the leaves in warm hues as if the world itself was oblivious to the cosmic battle brewing. Arjuna took a deep, steadying breath and turned his back on the sacred sanctuary. As he walked, his fingers traced the intricate carvings on the scroll, the symbols blurring slightly before his tired eyes. It was real. This was real.

And so, Arjuna, prince of Hastinapur, son of Indra, began his journey. It was a path not only across kingdoms and battlefields, but into the depths of himself. For to face the gathering darkness, he would have to discover what kind of light he could truly wield.

Chapter 3: Agni's Trial

The northern mountains weren't just tall, they were wrong. Twisted, impossibly sharp peaks clawed at the sky, defying what Arjuna knew of geology. The air throbbed with a dry heat, even at this altitude, as if the land itself were rebelling against the snows. Volcanic vents hissed noxious smoke that stung his eyes and made even the hardy mountain goats skittish.

Nights were worse. The darkness pulsed with an internal glow. The scroll had led him here, to a caldera wreathed in flame. He could feel the destination in his bones, a dissonant thrumming that echoed the weapon tucked into his belt.

A week he'd pushed on, alone. The kingdoms faded into rumors and half-remembered maps. He wasn't a prince here, just another lone traveler tempting death in a cursed landscape. Yet, as doubt gnawed at his resolve, he'd remember the priestess's words, and Indra's haunting vision of the Asura's realm. The world was vast, but nowhere felt safe.

The day he finally stood on the rim of the caldera, the ground trembled beneath him. Not an earthquake, but something rising from below. Molten rock bubbled from the depths, an angry, glowing tide. And within that fiery sea, a figure coalesced – humanoid, yet wreathed in tongues