"I am the blade you forgot to count. I am the mountain you cannot burn."— Rani Durgavati
Bargi Forests – Dusk Before the Storm
The forest had gone still. Not a bird. Not a howl. Just silence—heavy and waiting.
Rani Durgavati stood on a cliff's edge, overlooking the river Narbada winding like a serpent through the valley below. Her eyes scanned the jungle shadows. Behind her, only sixty of the original three hundred warriors remained. Wounded, exhausted, but burning with the same defiance their queen wore like armor.
Bhavasingh approached quietly.
"They'll come by sunrise."
She didn't flinch.
"Then let them. We are no longer defending a fort. We are defending fire."
The Trap is Set
Under cover of moonlight, Gondwana's remaining forces transformed the forest into a web of traps:
Narbada's banks were layered with oil sacks and buried flint.
Ravines were lined with sharpened bamboo stakes.
Old trees were rigged with counterweight boulders.
Leaves whispered commands as the Bhils moved soundlessly between branches, their bows dipped in snake venom.
Durgavati walked through the preparations, her war-spear clutched tight.
"Make the trees bleed before we do," she ordered. "Let the earth scream before our voices fall silent."
At Dawn: The Mughals Arrive
General Moinuddin's army descended like a tidal wave—nearly ten thousand strong. Armor shimmered like oil on water. Cannons were dragged on elephants. Archers moved in formation. Confidence reeked from their polished boots.
The first wave entered the valley.
Stillness.
Then—
BOOM.
Flames erupted from the riverbanks as oil pits ignited. Trees exploded, raining fire and ash. Screams echoed as horses bucked and soldiers scattered.
From the trees, arrows flew like lightning—unseen, precise, merciless.
The jungle had become a graveyard.
A War on Three Fronts
Durgavati divided her remaining troops into three deadly flanks:
Bhavasingh's squad struck from the northern cliffs with spears and rolling boulders.
Gondi rebels burst from hidden ravines, stabbing from below.
She herself, armored in jet-black scale mail, led the final charge from the east with her horse Chitrangada tearing through the fog like a beast unchained.
Each strike was brutal. Swift. Disorienting.
Moinuddin's soldiers found themselves surrounded—by shadows, by trees, by ghosts of warriors who refused to fall.
Durgavati vs. Moinuddin
In the heart of the burning forest, Durgavati spotted him.
General Moinuddin—tall, wrapped in crimson silk, swinging his curved sword like a vulture circling prey. He cut through three of her warriors before she intercepted him.
Their blades met with a shriek of steel.
For a moment, the jungle faded. It was just two wills, two worlds, two histories clashing.
Moinuddin's strength was brute. Wild. Merciless.
But Durgavati? She was wind sharpened by war. Each strike was calculated, fueled by vengeance and vision.
She drove him back, cut his cheek, and left a scar that would never heal.
The Wound
But valor has its price.
A Mughal archer, hidden in the trees, loosed an arrow that struck her below the ribs.
Blood gushed.
She staggered, fell to one knee.
Bhavasingh rushed toward her, but she raised a hand.
"Don't. Keep fighting."
He looked at her, horrified. "You're bleeding—"
"Let the blood flow into legend."
The Decision
Carried to the riverbank, surrounded by fire and death, Durgavati saw the inevitable. Her forces were dwindling. Reinforcements wouldn't come. Veer Narayan was still hidden—but for how long?
She turned to her most trusted commander.
"When the horn sounds thrice, retreat. Disappear into the jungle. Live to fight. Save my son."
Bhavasingh's eyes burned. "And you?"
She unsheathed her dagger. The same blade her father gave her.
"I'll become the memory they fear."
The Final Act
With trembling hands, and the pride of centuries roaring in her veins, Rani Durgavati turned the dagger toward her heart.
Not because she feared death.
But because she refused to surrender.
As Mughal soldiers burst through the clearing, she stood—bleeding, broken, unbowed—and drove the blade into her chest.
A gasp escaped her lips.
Not of pain. But of victory.
She fell like a star crashing into earth.
And the forest wept fire.
Aftermath
The Mughals found her body wrapped in ash and sunlight. Even Moinuddin paused. He had won the battle—but lost the war of spirits.
Gondwana became a whisper, then a roar. Across the Deccan, across the hills, her death became a symbol—not of defeat—but of unyielding courage.
Veer Narayan would survive. Rebuild. Reclaim.
And the story of The Hawk of Gondwana would never die.
End of Chapter Five