The rugged valley lay shrouded in pre-dawn gloom, its jagged slopes swallowed by a thick, curling mist that slithered over the earth like a living thing.
Sheer ridges loomed, their stone faces gashed and shadowed, while twisted scrub trees clawed at the sky, their branches snapping in a biting wind.
The air thrummed with a primal chill, heavy with the musk of wet stone and the faint, metallic tang of blood yet to spill, dawn's gray light barely a whisper.
Pandu, sixteen summers fierce, perched atop a windswept ridge, his pale hands locked around a spear, its iron tip gleaming cold in the murk.
His tunic, patched and sodden with dew, clung to his lean frame, his dark hair lashed back, his breath a white plume as his eyes burned into the valley below.
Twenty Kuru warriors flanked him, their silhouettes ghostly in the mist—archers with bows taut, horsemen gripping reins, their leather creaking, their faces grim.
The scout crouched at Pandu's side, his torn tunic streaked with mud, his voice a ragged hiss, "They're waking—fifty, maybe more, camps by the river."
Pandu's gaze sharpened, his jaw clenching, and he traced the valley's throat with a predator's eye, his heart hammering a war drum in his chest.
"Archers split—half left ridge, half right," he snarled, his voice low, a blade's edge, "horsemen with me—we carve them open from the gut."
The scout's breath hitched, awe flickering, and he nodded, scrambling off, his boots skidding on loose shale as he barked the orders sharp and quick.
The warriors shifted, shadows melting into the mist, their bowstrings humming, spears flashing faintly as they fanned out across the heights.
Below, the tribesmen's camp stirred—a scatter of crude tents glowing with embers, voices growling low, the clink of steel as they roused, oblivious.
Pandu rose, his spear a live thing in his grip, Bhishma's voice a fire in his skull—"speed over force"—and he bared his teeth, a wolf primed to strike.
The sky bled gray, dawn's first gasp breaking the dark, and a tribesman's horn blared, a jagged wail splitting the silence—too late.
"Now!" Pandu roared, his voice a thunderbolt, and hurled himself from the ridge, his spear flashing like a fang as he plunged into the fray.
The wind screamed past, icy and wild, and his war cry erupted, a raw, shattering bellow—"For Kuru—strike!"—echoing off the valley's bones.
Arrows loosed from the ridges, a storm of death slicing the mist, their tips singing as they tore into tents, flesh, and earth, shrieks exploding below.
Pandu hit the ground, boots slamming rock, and drove his spear forward, its iron biting deep into a tribesman's chest as the man lurched from sleep.
Blood gushed, a hot crimson flood, splashing Pandu's hands, his face, and the tribesman gargled, collapsing, his blade skittering useless across the dirt.
The valley ignited—tribesmen surged, their roars feral, snatching spears, axes, bows, their camp a hornet's nest kicked wide as Kuru struck.
Pandu spun, his spear a blur, and slashed a second foe across the throat, the man's scream choking to a wet rasp as he fell, blood pooling black.
"Horsemen—flank!" he bellowed, his voice a whipcrack over the chaos, and the thunder of hooves answered, Kuru riders crashing down the slope.
Dust and mist churned, a blinding shroud, and a horseman's spear lanced through a tribesman's side, pinning him to the earth with a sickening crunch.
Pandu leapt onto a crate, his spear raised, and thrust downward, skewering a tribesman clawing up at him, the iron ripping through leather and bone.
The man's eyes bulged, a guttural cry fading as he slumped, and Pandu yanked the spear free, blood dripping thick, staining his boots red.
Arrows whistled, a relentless rain—some struck true, felling tribesmen mid-charge, others pinged off rocks, their shafts splintering in the haze.
A tribesman lunged, his axe swinging wild, and Pandu ducked, the blade shearing a lock of his hair, its edge biting the crate with a dull thunk.
He roared, pivoting low, and rammed his spear upward, the tip punching through the man's gut, blood spraying as he toppled, his axe clattering free.
"Hold them!" Pandu shouted, his voice raw, ringing through the valley as he leapt down, landing amidst the fray, his spear a dancer's arc of death.
A Kuru archer staggered beside him, an arrow sprouting from his thigh, and crumpled, his bow snapping as he hit the dirt, his breath a ragged gasp.
Pandu seized his arm, dragging him behind a rock, and snarled, "Stay alive—cover me!" as he thrust the man's bow back into his trembling hands.
The archer nodded, pain twisting his face, and loosed a shaky shot, the arrow grazing a tribesman's arm, buying Pandu a heartbeat to strike.
A giant of a tribesman charged, his spear long and barbed, his roar shaking the mist, and Pandu met him, his own spear clashing with a bone-jarring clang.
The iron tips sparked, scraping, and Pandu twisted, his boots skidding, then lunged low, driving his spear into the man's knee, shattering bone.
The giant howled, toppling, and Pandu leapt onto his chest, wrenching the spear free to plunge it again, blood fountaining as the man stilled.
The valley pulsed—horsemen wheeled, their mounts snorting blood-flecked foam, spears flashing as they cut through tribesmen fleeing for the river.
Pandu whirled, his spear dripping red, and spotted a tribesman nocking a bow, the arrow aimed at a Kuru rider's back—too close, too fast.
He hurled his spear, a lightning throw, and it flew true, piercing the archer's shoulder, the man's shot going wide as he screamed, tumbling into the dirt.
"Push them back!" Pandu roared, snatching a fallen blade, its edge notched but sharp, and charged, his war cry a storm breaking over the fray.
A tribesman met him, blade slashing, and Pandu parried, steel shrieking, then kicked the man's knee, dropping him to stab deep, blood soaking his hands.
The mist thickened, swirling with dust and death, the air a cacophony—screams, hoofbeats, the snap of bowstrings, the wet crunch of flesh.
A Kuru horseman fell, a tribesman's spear in his chest, and Pandu surged forward, his blade hacking the killer's arm, a howl lost in the din.
He fought on, relentless—spearless now, blade flashing, blood streaking his face, his tunic torn, his breath a ragged fire in his lungs.
The tribesmen rallied, their numbers swelling near the river, a chieftain's bellow cutting through, "Stand, dogs—drive them!"—and the tide shifted.
Arrows flew thicker from their side, one grazing Pandu's arm, a hot sting, and he ducked behind a tent, his chest heaving, his eyes blazing.
The dawn's gray light hardened, the sun a pale disc burning through, and the valley trembled—Kuru warriors pressed, tribesmen fought, blood painted all.
Pandu gripped the blade tighter, his hands slick with red, and rose, his voice a feral growl, "For Kuru—we end this!"
The battle raged, unresolved, its fury a living beast, and Pandu dove back in, his every strike a testament, his war cry the valley's heartbeat.