The swollen river roared under a gray dawn, its waters churning wild and muddy, swollen from rains that battered the eastern plains through the night.
Boats rocked on its surface, crude rafts of lashed timber and hide, their edges dipping low, creaking as Kuru warriors gripped oars, faces taut with focus.
Mist clung thick to the banks, a shroud of white curling over the current, pierced by the hiss of arrows arcing through the haze, their tips glinting wet.
The air buzzed with the creak of wood and the shouts of men, heavy with the scent of sodden earth and the sharp sting of river spray under a paling sky.
Pandu stood at the helm of the lead boat, his crimson tunic soaked, his pale hands steady on a notched oar, steering against the river's fierce pull.
Twenty-two summers fierce, his dark hair clung to his brow, dripping, his eyes sharp with a relentless gleam, scanning the mist for Anga's defiance.
His sword hung sheathed at his hip, water beading on its scarred hilt, and his bow rested near, arrows bundled tight, ready for the strike ahead.
Behind him, thirty warriors rowed—archers braced at the edges, horsemen turned boatmen, their oars slicing the swell, their breaths puffing in the chill.
Anga's banks loomed through the mist, a blur of green and brown—reeds bending, mud slick, and beyond, a wooden palisade, its stakes sharp, bristling with defiance.
Arrows flew from the shore, a sudden storm of shafts cutting the fog, thudding into boats, one grazing Pandu's arm—a hot sting, blood welling fast.
He grinned, sharp and fierce, and shouted, his voice slicing the din, "Row hard—flank their line! Archers, loose when you see white!"
The warriors roared, a ragged cheer, and the boats surged, oars churning, water splashing high as arrows answered—Kuru shafts soaring back, deadly whispers.
An Anga archer fell, pierced through the chest, tumbling into the reeds, and Pandu steered sharp, his boat cutting the current, the mist parting before him.
The riverbank erupted—Anga warriors swarmed, their tunics drab, spears and bows raised, their shouts a wall of sound over the water's roar.
At their head stood their prince, a lean figure in gray leather, his long hair braided, a curved bow in hand, his voice barking orders, defiant and loud.
Pandu's eyes locked on him, his grin widening, and he thrust the oar, his boat rocking as it veered toward the bank, arrows arcing past like angry hornets.
An Anga spearman hurled his weapon, its tip flashing, and it struck the boat's edge, splintering wood—Pandu ducked, the shaft skimming his shoulder.
"Hold steady!" he bellowed, his voice a whipcrack, and the archers loosed—a volley of arrows streaked, felling three Anga men, their cries lost to the swell.
The boats closed, their hulls scraping mud, and Pandu leapt, his boots splashing into shallow water, the river cold and tugging at his knees.
He drew his sword, its blade gleaming wet, and charged, warriors splashing behind him, their shouts a tide crashing against Anga's faltering line.
The prince nocked an arrow, his bow creaking, and loosed—it flew true, but Pandu twisted, the shaft grazing his tunic, tearing fabric, not flesh.
"You'll drown!" the prince shouted, his voice defiant, nocking again, his stance bold atop a muddy rise, the river a moat at his back.
Pandu laughed, a sharp, wild sound, and splashed forward, his sword raised, his voice sharp, "Swim or sink—choose!"—his blade slashing the air.
The prince fired, the arrow whistling, but Pandu rolled low, mud coating him, and sprang up, his sword clashing against a spearman's haft, snapping it clean.
The man fell, blood blooming, and Pandu pressed on, warriors at his heels—archers loosing, horsemen wading, their blades flashing in the dawn mist.
Anga's line buckled, men slipping in the mud, spears breaking under Kuru steel, and Pandu reached the prince, his sword meeting a drawn dagger with a clang.
The prince lunged, his blade quick, slicing Pandu's forearm—a shallow cut, red and stinging—but Pandu parried, his strength a tide against the prince's fury.
He hooked the prince's leg, mud slick underfoot, and drove his shoulder forward, toppling him into the shallows, water splashing high, cold and fierce.
The prince thrashed, his dagger lost, and Pandu pinned him, his sword at the man's throat, its wet edge glinting, his voice calm, "Enough—yield."
The prince gasped, water lapping at his face, his defiance fading, and rasped, "Enough… I yield," his hands sinking into the mud, surrender heavy.
Pandu rose, his chest heaving, and hauled the prince up, binding his wrists with a rope from his belt, the river swirling red around their boots.
The mist thinned, dawn's gray light breaking through, and Kuru warriors cheered, their voices raw—"Pandu! Kuru!"—spears raised, boats rocking victorious.
Anga's survivors dropped weapons, their heads bowing, mud-streaked and weary, the palisade a broken shadow behind them, its stakes splintered.
Pandu turned, his boat cutting the current still, its oar steady in the swell, and dragged the prince to the bank, his will unbroken, his grin fierce.
A horseman waded over, his tunic soaked, and saluted, his voice rough, "Bank's ours, lord—ten dead, rest kneel. Orders?"
"Bind them," Pandu said, his tone sharp, wiping water from his face, "tribute's due—grain, horses, gold. No blood beyond need."
The horseman nodded, splashing off, and warriors moved—ropes lashing wrists, spears herding captives, the river's roar a backdrop to their triumph.
Pandu sheathed his sword, its blade dripping, and gazed across the water, the mist lifting, Anga's defiance bowing under the weight of his will.
An archer approached, his bow slung, and grinned, "River's yours, prince—thought we'd sink, but you carved us through."
Pandu's laugh was low, tired but bright, and he clapped the man's shoulder, "Kuru doesn't sink—send word back: Anga's ours."
The archer saluted, darting off, and Pandu turned to the prince, his voice calm, "Your name—speak it, and live to keep it."
"Vrishaketu," the prince muttered, his head low, water dripping from his braid, "son of Anga's line—tribute's yours, Kuru."
Pandu nodded, his gaze steady, and murmured, "Spread the word—Kuru's reach flows deep. Mercy's your chain now."
The dawn brightened, the river gleaming gold, and the boats stilled, their warriors victorious, Anga's submission a ripple stretching Kuru's power east.