Kumar Aditya’s

BRAHMASTRA
Chronicles

BOOK ONE: THE ARTIFACT

The Publishing Arm of Kalaage

First published by Revolt House in 2019,

Revolt House Publishing

A division of Kalaage Creations Pvt. Ltd.
F-5, Gautam Marg, Vaishali Nagar, Jaipur, 302021 (RAJ - IND)
www.kalaage.net

Copyright © Kumar Aditya 2019

Brahmāstra Chronicles, Book One: The Artifact

First e-book edition
ISBN 978-81-941812-0-0
Fiction/Mythology

Edited by Chitra Pachouri

Cover Design by Sahil Trilok
Typeset by Siddharth Chaudhary

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 To my parents,
Who never stopped believing in my dreams
To my alma mater, MICA,
And the beautiful people I met there
To Maa Saraswati,
the Goddess of Wisdom and Knowledge
 Glossary of Some Words & Terminologies Common to Prithvi
& Swargam:

Adiyogi: (lit.) the First among the Yogis; a term associated with Shiva
and his incarnations
Agyaat Vaas: (lit.) living in secret; an exile in hiding
Akash Ganga: the galaxies and star systems
Angiri: a celestial being of Swargam; an Angel of Heaven, as described in
the Holy Bible
Astra: a supernatural weapon, driven by a mantra or an invocation
Beej-Akshar: (lit.) seed letter; the primordial sounds that can harness
Oorja when combined to form a coherent word
Brahmand: the universe
Deeksha: formal education and training
Devas: the Children of the Tridevas, many of whom have been recognized
and worshipped across many cultures, both lost and existing.
Dhyana: contemplation and meditation performed by the Angiris to
replenish their strength
Divya Dwar: a magical door; a Portal
Halāhal: the lethal poison concocted by the Asuras
Hanuman Chalisa: a hymn of forty verses addressed to Lord Hanuman
Itihasas: the epics Ramayana and Mahabharata and the Puranas when seen
as a historical record of events.
Karagrih: the prison dungeons of the Devas
Kshann: a fraction of a second in Angiri perception
Kundalini: a form of divine energy residing at the base of one’s spine,
capable of being awakened through yogic meditation; once awakened, the
kundalini energy can enhance the possibilities of the body and mind.
Loka: planes of existence
Maryada Purushottam: (lit.) the man who is supreme in honor
Oorja: the Primordial Light that shapes and powers the universe
Prakashkoopam: (lit.) a well of light; where the Supreme Entities--the
Tridevas--reside in a unified, incorporeal form.
Puranas: a vast genre of literature dating back to the ancient ages,
consisting of myths, legends and traditional lore
Rasayana: a medical tincture or essence
Rudraksha: (lit.) Teardrops (aksa) of Rudra (Shiva); prayer beads made
from the seeds of an eponymous tree
Samadhi: an act of detachment where a mystic can willingly guide one’s
spirit to leave the body or attain a prolonged meditative state of dormancy
Saptarishis: (lit.) the Seven Sages; higher mystics from the first two ages
of Manushya who were granted a place among the Devas; preceptors to the
ten Angiris that were born from within the Prakashkoopam.
Senapati: (lit.) a military commander
Shastra: a physical weapon
Sheshnag: also known as Shesha or Adishesha, the first king of the mighty
serpents, blessed by Vishnu to be incarnated as Laxman
Swayamvar: an arcane practice of choosing a husband from among a
number suitors, by a girl of marriageable age; competitions between the
suitors were common, to display their strength and prowess in order to
impress the girl.
Tapas: (lit.) generation of heat and energy; a spiritual discipline involving
deep meditation and austerity, performed to awaken one’s kundalini
energy
Tilak: a mark worn by the sages on the forehead to indicate their station
Tridevas: the Trinity of Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver &
Shiva the Destroyer
Vat Vriksha: a banyan tree
Yojan: a measure of distance (1 Yojan is equivalent to 12-15 km)
PART ONE
 FROM THE BOOK OF DWIJ
[An excerpt from the memoirs of Dwij Dakshdeva,
the 501st Commander of the Legion of Vishwamitra]
Unlearn. Cast aside the knowledge, the perspectives and the opinions you
have gathered in your life so far. Begin with a clean slate, as a child that
has just opened eyes to this world. Do not let your past viewpoints affect
or diminish this new reality you have been exposed to. That is the first step
to becoming a true leader, a Dwij.
The world you are looking at is a lot more than it appears to be. To
protect it, you need to understand its intricacies, go beyond mortal
wisdom.
Our planet, Prithvi, an insignificant blue orb in the colossal expanse of
space, the third planet from the sun. It is the dearest of the creations shaped
by the Trinity of sentient cosmic forces called the Tridevas: Brahma the
Creator, Vishnu the Preserver and Shiva the Destroyer; each as old as our
Brahmand itself--the universe still largely unfamiliar and unknown to
humankind, our Manushya race.
Our earth was once one of the many worlds in the Brahmand, where life
was possible. Now, it is the only one. And the Tridevas and their Deva
children have been gone for over five thousand years. We are living in the
third and final age of man, the Age of Kali.
The moment the first seeds of life were sown by these god-like beings--
the Celestials--Prithvi became an epicenter whose activity can tip the
balance between darkness and light, existence and non-existence--between
Mother Oorja the Undying Light and Andhakar-the Dark Void. As
opposed to Oorja--the Primordial Light that formed our world--Andhakar
stands for the Dark Void that exists beyond the creation: the two forces
ever driving the cycle of what was, what is and what will be.
For countless eons the cosmic opposites have been playing their endless
game; changing the universe with their volatile conflicts--brought upon by
the creatures that serve each force--and altering the course of life on
Prithvi and elsewhere. The struggle will go on till the cycle of life comes
to a grinding halt, when Oorja will be too weak to prevent the Dark Void
from swallowing our galaxy. All light would collapse unto itself and
become a dormant slave to the Andhakar’s dark vacuum, waiting for the
cycle of creation to begin anew.
...
 [An excerpt from the writings of Dwij Asmita,
the 1001st Commander of Legion]
…
Sixty-four dimensions or Lokas came into being within the realm of
Oorja: planes of existence, like different layers in the time-space
continuum that were born when Genesis--the Srijan--birthed the
macrocosm; the same event the popular but inferior Manushya sciences
refer to as the Big Bang.
Then appeared the Tridevas, the three broken chunks of the original
sentience from Oorja, and subsequently, the Devas were born from the
Tridevas’ synergy. The former were corporeal beings unlike the
incorporeal Trinity, tasked to seek out possible worlds across the Lokas
where the cycle of life could be staged.
While the celestials were still discovering their strength and learning to
harness their powers to bring change, to create, destroy, and preserve life-
forms through evolution, Andhakar stepped forth to challenge their power.
It is an incorporeal sentience much like the Tridevas, residing in the Dark
Void; enraged by the expanse of Light encroaching upon his domain since
aeons. Just as the Tridevas created the Devas and their home-world of
Swargam, Andhakar realized its own potential with time and shaped the
Asuras and the seven hells of Narka.
When the clash between the two mystical forces began, no one knows.
No way to tell when or where the two sides faced each other for a battle of
supremacy--its knowledge lost in the sands of Time. But while the
Tridevas were guiding the Devas--to lay the foundations of living systems
across the Lokas, to nurture and to protect these worlds--the servants of
Andhakar did everything possible to disrupt the order and destroy the
creations of Oorja.
At first, the forces of Light prevailed: ‘for how long?’ the question is
again moot on the cosmic scale of time, the answer as much a profound
mystery. Then a point came much later--aeons and aeons after the Srijan--
when Andhakar’s influence crossed the threshold. The Celestials fought to
save the wonders they had created in many eternities but with the decay of
Time, even their powers waned--it wanes still, even as I write these words.
The inhabited worlds of the Oorja-born sentient beings of all manners
and kinds thus began to fall, one after another. The hold of Swargam over
the respective dimensions was enfeebled until the Dark Void swallowed
entire galaxies whole with its relentless advance.
For every Loka, the destruction of specific planets and their suns is linked
to the fate of other planets in near or distant star-systems; each
interconnected by some transcendental force, stranger than gravity. It does
not matter if these specific planets support life, are ginormous hunks of
solid, barren rocks or merely gigantic clouds of swirling gas. Destroy one
and the other connected worlds cease to be.
In the common tongue, these worlds are called Key-worlds.
Our Prithvi is one such key-world--the one speck that pulls the strings of
creation in the Kaliyuga; the last bastion of Oorja besides Swargam, where
life still remains. As long as Mother Oorja lives through our planet, and
through its World Engines that drive the conditions to create and sustain
life, the Key-world will last.
This was a knowledge imparted to seven mystic-sages of yore, the first of
the Saptarishis who achieved transcendence and were granted a place of
honor in the halls of the Devas. Our founder, Sage Vishwamitra, was one
of the first humans to become aware of the world as it truly is.
It is to ensure the Andhakar does not swallow the last remaining ray of
hope for the Brahmand, that we the Legion of Vishwamitra, exist.
And you, the Dwij reading this, are the prime bearer of our flag and
flame; the one to lead the Legion to victory--till the last breath of the
universe, or your own.
…

[Excerpts from the last entries of Dwij Bheeshm,

the 2001st Commander of Legion]
Satyuga, the golden age of Prithvi had the Asura-Lord Raavan to spread
chaos and terror and wage his wars against the Manushyas and Celestials.
Dwapar-yuga, the second age needed no Asura intervention, for human
greed by itself had enough influence to besmirch our planet’s history. The
great war of Mahabharata was the culmination of all these petty emotions,
where billions died and civilization came to a staggering halt.
And finally, after an age of ignorance and oblivion where humanity
recollected its pieces and learned to build anew, came the final age: the
one we live in. In Kaliyuga, all the Asuras have to do is sit on the sidelines
and enjoy the show. We Manushyas have been doing a fabulous work at
destroying and ravaging our planet and one another; squabbling over
trifling differences and limited natural resources, and committing nameless
atrocities; ultra-violence, heinous genocides and the commonplace
incidents of abuse and perversion. We have tarnished the very air we
breathe, polluted the rivers that have been our lifelines since the beginning
of civilization. We are masters at marketing fear and spreading
misinformation, at pitting one against another on grounds of petty
discrimination; misguided, ever blinded by our never ending desire for
material gains. We have built uncountable temples, mosques, churches and
synagogues to worship the God, yet we have forgotten to seek the One
within our own hearts.
All you have to do is look around at these plentiful signs to know: the
end times are upon us.
The Devas were fortunate to have stepped off the stage of creation before
Kaliyuga could begin. And the Tridevas, even if they can still hear and see
us, refuse to come out of their dormancy.
The Angiris--a race of lesser celestials that inherited Swargam and the
onus of Prithvi after the Devas--have become entrapped within their own
crises, on the brink of extinction, after having lost the ability to procreate
and multiply. Till twenty-seven years ago, a number of them used to live
in our midst. But every single one of them has since chosen to stay within
the safety of Swargam after misfortune befell their kind.
We, the Legion, are the only ones standing between the Asuras and their
goal of world-domination.
…
The gravest, most unavoidable threat against our existence was released
into Prithvi’s atmosphere towards the end of Satyuga.
A brainchild of Asura-king Raavan and the Asura Preceptor, Sage
Shukracharya, these microorganisms called Spores of Dushan were
released into the air and water, capable of multiplying themselves even in
the harshest conditions. The living beings breathed in and consumed the
perpetually multiplying Spores and with time, corruption began to take its
root, gradually darkening the nature and intent of the creatures of Prithvi--
us Manushyas being the most susceptible to their corruption.
Lord Ram, Vishnu’s seventh incarnation vanquished Raavan but even he
was powerless to prevent the Spores from disseminating in the atmosphere
and within the Manushya-kind. The curse was passed on across the tiers of
civilization, from one generation to the next, altering our very genetic
code.
Kaliyuga has turned out to be the most favorable season for the Spores,
now that our incessant, reckless meddling with nature has created the
perfect conditions for Andhakar’s infestation.
…
The Legion is facing threats from multiple fronts. Not only are we
outnumbered but also lacking on the fronts of power and influence as
amassed by the enemy.
In the last four decades the Asuras have allied themselves with the worst
scum of Manushya society: terrorist groups, drug cartels and the Mafia,
despots and political leaders and industry moguls. These groups and
individuals are regular accomplices or sleeping agents like ticking time-
bombs, strategically placed in almost every strata of our society to
detonate at a specific time: a testament to the power and influence the
Asuras have amassed since the medieval ages.
For centuries they have been trying to infiltrate our society and secure
positions in the upper echelons by means unfair and manipulative. And
just as the world of the twenty-first century has become smaller, the circle
of Asura agents has grown manifold since what it was in the last millennia,
their hold over the economies and military nations getting stronger by the
day. By creating a perpetual state of fear and panic through saboteur,
genocides and misinformation, they are threatening the struggle between
Oorja and Andhakar to spill out of the shadows of millennia into the broad
daylight.
But when you look at the Indian subcontinent, the situation seems
entirely different, at relative peace.
Economic and technological progress in leaps and bounds; bountiful
record-harvests in the last two decades when calamity or chaos has
affected almost every country across the globe; a whopping eighty-nine
percent employment-rate and a double digit GDP; incomparable marvels
in science, medicine and innovation, a full-scale manned expedition to
Mars due next summer: if Fate ever favored these lands so graciously, it is
at the present.
You as a Legionnaire should know better than to believe in too much of a
good thing. Darkness always lurks beneath the glow of the lamp. We have
good reason to believe India holds special significance in the enemy’s
devious scheme; that behind this appealing picture, a shadow of threat lies
in waiting.
A document retrieved from an Asura installation masquerading as a
military outpost in Cuba, sheds some light on what the Enemy might be
planning. It is a roster of some three hundred names, individuals from all
spheres of life: politicians, presidents, business magnates, head-honchos
from the spheres of advertising, media and industry, even a few well-
known film stars; the tyrants and rulers holding the reins of many small
and large regimes across the globe where the governments were
overthrown in the last seven years.
The document is aptly titled as Kingmakers. And as far as the Asuras go
there can be only one individual fit to be a king: Bhairav Dutta--the Red
King, as he is known by those that serve him--the great descendent of
Raavan. The document is proof enough of the enemy’s reach, each
mentioned individual a pawn in this great game.
The Red King remains elusive to this day, the reason being that his true
name and identity is unknown to anyone but his coterie of true followers,
all of which share the Asura blood in one way or another: half-bloods and
purebloods, all great and lesser descendents from ancient Asura
bloodlines. No record of Bhairav Dutta’s existence or origins exists, no
photograph or paper trail; which is a big reason why he continues to
escape the Legion’s eyes and ears even after two decades since his sudden
rise.
I must be one of the few people to have encountered Bhairav Dutta and
lived to tell the tale.
It was in the winter of ’92 near the old capital of Delhi, before it became
a radioactive wasteland. He was barely twenty when I confronted him in
an underground facility beneath a nuclear power station counting down
towards meltdown--the bane that caused the downfall of the old capital of
Delhi. We left him for dead, with a bullet in his chest, but he survived as I
later discovered.
He must now be in his forties, as old as I was, then.
If there is one thing I am convinced of it is that the years have only
turned him shrewder and much more dangerous. He has had twenty seven
years to prepare. If the ongoing trend of political instability and near-
anarchy is any indication, his design is taking the desired shape.
And India will undoubtedly be the cradle where the first foundations of
the Asura Empire will be laid.
…

[The final entry of Dwij Bheeshm, dated 17.06.2019]

A month ago in Kremlin, Soviet Russia, a popular leader was butchered
in the middle of the day, inside his fortified office; cleanly decapitated
with some red-hot blade--as the unofficial statement claims it to be. His
severed head was never found.
He was not the first powerful individual to have died in such unexpected
circumstances: inside a full-secured building full of people, beheaded by
someone not even the cameras could see. There have been similar
assassinations in this decade, with no trace of either the perpetrator or the
victim’s head.
 A Legionnaire stationed at Kremlin saw someone leaving the scene,
fortunately.
He described him as a tall male who could float or fly: a detail consistent
with four assassinations in the last two years. But no tangible proof has
ever been found.
Our man somehow picked up the flying man’s trail but was discovered
the next day in an alley in St. Petersburg; his head was missing. But before
he died, the Legionnaire succeeded in sending us a grainy picture of his
attacker.
The powers that be, turned a blind eye to the flying-man story circulating
around St. Petersburg and Moscow. But what we learned at the cost of our
Legionnaire’s life, made it evident the Asuras have had regular
associations with a third-party: someone neither Asura nor Manushya, but
most likely a Celestial from Swargam.
I want to believe the Asuras have hired a master assassin with some
sophisticated jet-pack, to do their dirty work--as many in the Legion
believe.
The truth, alas, remains undeniable that someone has been providing the
Asuras with advanced technology and complex spells, making their
artifices deadlier, more efficient.
As difficult as it is to admit, the Red King has somehow managed to turn
a Celestial--his natural enemy--to do his bidding. And it is only a matter of
time before the puppet-master Dutta pulls the strings.
The Celestial will be coming for me sooner or later. But will I be
prepared enough to evade or defeat him?
 Chapter 1
His Final Hours

It was not even two in the noon but the day had assumed a dark mantle,
overcast with angry dark clouds spewing forth their rage. Intermittent
thunder rumbled and groaned but no other sound could break the violent
lull of the roaring, pattering raindrops.
Three men, grim and tall, dressed in grey raincoats, were restlessly
pacing beneath the wide portico of the large two-storied house. The edifice
was in the middle of a densely wooded estate, two miles south of the
twenty-five-year-old capital of Indraprastha. They kept checking the time
on their wrist watches. One man was communicating by means of a
walkie-talkie. They kept glancing anxiously towards the main gate; the
view was mostly obstructed by a marble fountain at the centre of a circular
front-lawn, and the thick curtain of rain.
The place was old and decadent. What was once an opulent residence
was now a neglected, soulless structure with sloping, red-tiled roofs dark
with a uniform proliferation of moss and humus. The place might have
given the impression of a regal beast resting in the clearing at one time,
surrounded by looming overgrown woods more than five-decade old. Now
it was more like an aged, drenched cur, trembling in the rain.
The three men stiffened in attention when they saw the glaring beams of
headlights right outside the main-gate. The car paused till the gate was
remotely opened from inside the house, its clanging rattle drowned by the
hoarse babble of rain. Only when the vehicle reached the portico did the
driver become visible. The windshield-wipers stopped moving as the
engine died down.
Bheeshm Rajvardhan unstrapped his seat-belt and stepped out. He
acknowledged the three men with a wan smile. His tired, bespectacled face
was roughened by a week old stubble. The eyes behind the glasses were
gentle, with crinkles of crow’s feet deepening at either corner. Unlike his
hair, his eyebrows were dark, broad and curved like swords.
Bheeshm was an average-heighted but well-built man who looked twice
younger and striking for someone approaching seventy. He wore his long,
white hair in a long ponytail. His attire was simple: a plain shirt with
sleeves folded up to his elbow, revealing veined, muscular arms covered in
tattoos, right up to the wrist; grey trousers on black suspenders over a pair
of shoes made of supple, brown leather. The aesthetically-inked
impressions on his forearm bore devices and symbols an ordinary man
could never have made sense of--glyphs and runes, grids of tiny symbols
and geometric shapes. He carried on him nothing but a worn and stiff
satchel made from black leather.
The trio promptly saluted by beating their right fists once against their
broad chests and touching the ground near Bheeshm’s feet.
‘Dwij,’ the man with the walkie-talkie said, ‘Mother Nature seems to be
in a bad mood today, isn’t she? We’ve been told to mobilize towards the
west coast, no objective was given. Is it true what they are saying at the
HQ--that someone killed six of our warriors a few hours ago?’
Bheeshm’s smile faded and his face became hard as stone. He nodded,
placing an arm on his subordinate’s shoulder. ‘More than six, apparently.
Nothing is confirmed regarding who did it but since this morning, six of
my personal guards and four undercover agents have been assassinated in
cold blood,’ he paused to gather the right words before he added, ‘they
were decapitated, no sign of their severed heads.’
The three men were incapable of speech for more than a minute,
watching Bheeshm checking his phone-screen and sighing in
disappointment.
‘It’s the Celestial-gone-rogue. He is hunting us. And yet you risked
traveling all by yourself under such circumstances, Dwij?’ The
Legionnaire said.
‘I can handle myself, Veer. And others will shortly be here.’
‘What is our plan now, if I may be so bold to ask?’
‘We are spread too thin at the moment. Even with the combined strength
of our allies we are greatly outnumbered. Seven terrorist attacks across the
globe within twenty-four hours--and then this ruthless attempt on our
warriors…we cannot risk any more casualties.
‘The Legionnaires in the field need to be sent home, back to the
Stronghold.’ Before Veer could protest, Bheeshm added: ‘I understand
what you are thinking but this does not mean we are turning our backs or
fleeing from the Asuras. It is only a temporary measure, to ensure no one
else gets hurt. I and some other warriors are staying back to investigate the
matter further. We retaliate swiftly once we have trustworthy leads as to
the Enemy’s plan.’
‘And what about the object we are meant to protect--will it be moved to
the Stronghold?’ Veer jerked his thumb at the house behind him.
Bheeshm climbed up the stairs to the airy, pillared balcony, checking his
phone again. ‘We cannot risk moving it in this weather, that too when a
threat looms over us. The Artifact should be safe here. No enemy has ever
found this place and let us hope no one ever does,’ he sat down on a
wicker chair and stretched his limbs. ‘You and your squadron have to join
General Satya at the Porbandar docks by tomorrow evening. A ship
carrying our people from the European nations is due to arrive by
midnight. You will be escorting back everyone to the Stronghold, unless a
different directive is communicated.’
Veer nodded but the expression of doubt on his face only deepened.
Oblivious, Bheeshm examined the walls and the columns supporting the
roof. There were more of the strange symbols and even stranger runes
painted upon the walls--some identical to the ones in Bheeshm’s tattoos.
‘The hex cloaks and wards have been laid all over the place, I assume?’
‘The mages are working on the wards outside your study, Dwij. Besides
that, the spells have been laid everywhere else, mines and booby-traps
activated all over the woods and around the perimeter. But I am not sure
how effective would they be against an Angiri hell-bent upon gaining
access.’
Bheeshm unzipped his satchel in silence and took out a thick stack of
manila envelopes bound with a rubber band. He handed over the stack into
Veer’s custody and said. ‘I have written my condolences to the bereaved,
for the ten families that lost their sons and daughters, today. Make sure
they receive it as soon as you reach the Stronghold. It’s not enough but it’s
the least I can do for them. There is another letter in there, leave it with the
Lady in White. I suggest you leave now, it will be a long journey.’
Veer motioned to the two men and they went inside the house. Bheeshm
sat deep in his thoughts, till his attention turned back to the soldier
standing immobile before him.
‘You look worried, son. Feel free to speak your mind.’ Bheeshm urged
Veer.
‘It’s the Angiri behind the six deaths, Dwij,’ Veer replied with some
hesitation, ‘his presence should bother us and yet you act as if it’s nothing.
You have been traveling alone and now you expect us to leave you here
with an ancient artifact of Oorja. What if the Angiri comes looking for it?
You will be defenseless.’
Bheeshm’s eyes softened at Veer’s display of concern. ‘I will not be
alone for long. My personal guard will be here in the next hour or so.
General Mandvi will be joining us with two additional units, including
Vanraj.’ The mention of the last name caused Veer’s eyes to widen in
momentary amazement. ‘And then there are the spells the mages have laid
all over. This place will be nothing short of a fortress in an hour’s time.’
‘At least let us stay till others arrive, Dwij. The Artifact is…’ Veer
vehemently protested but Bheeshm cut him off.
‘The Artifact would not be of any significance if we fail to protect our
own, soldier. These are brave souls fighting the troublemakers all over the
globe, putting their lives on the line with this assurance that the Legion
will not forsake them in the hour of crisis. I am not losing another
Legionnaire today.’ Bheeshm reigned in his emotions, continuing in a
softer, gentler tone.
‘Counting out Vanraj only four people in this entire world are aware of
the Artifact, Veer. That includes you, me, Mage Rubina and General
Natrajan. There is no way our enemies can learn where we are hiding the
hallowed object, with no energy signature to trace its presence. And
whatever the Celestial’s agenda may be, he has shown little interest in
anything else but attacking our warriors. There is no way he could have
learned of the whereabouts of this place or the Artifact when no one else
knows where we are keeping it.’
Veer shuffled on his feet, unable to comment for a long time before he
nodded, and raised the walkie-talkie to his lips. ‘We have ten minutes to
leave, brothers. Prepare for departure.’
There were voices and sounds of activity behind the main-doors as the
Legionnaire elites hustled. Bheeshm and Veer stood gazing at the
torrential rain as the others readied themselves.
‘I have decided to bring my family back together,’ Bheeshm’s words
almost made Veer start, suggesting he was not much accustomed to such
intimate exchanges with his commander. ‘If things go as planned you will
soon be meeting my son, my Abhay.’
‘I thought you never wanted him to join our vigil against the Asuras,
Dwij.’
‘That is definitely not the plan, Veer. That decision would lie upon him
ultimately, when he learns the truth. I robbed him of his earliest memories,
of the fact that his mother is still alive. I might not be able to undo all the
memories that were wiped or altered. Even his mother might not be able to
recognize him or respond much anymore. But he deserves a shot at life.
‘I won’t die in peace if I do not make this happen. Too much has been
lost and sacrificed in the past. It has been hard for all of us, especially for
Abhay. The poor boy has been living all these years believing that his
mother died in a car crash, in ’97. I, for one have hardly been a father to
him. It is time I made amends.’
Vehicle engines coughed into existence somewhere in the backyard, the
noise tinny in comparison to the tireless rain.
‘Abhay will not take it well, you know that. Don’t you, Dwij?’ Veer said.
 Bheeshm exhaled in resignation, smiling ruefully. ‘He will hate me for
the rest of his life, I know. He has all the reasons to do so.’
Veer bid his commander a farewell as a fleet of six jeeps rolled on to the
driveway, coming up from the stone-path leading into the backyard. He
watched Bheeshm in the side-view mirror till the rainy curtains hid him
from view.
Even as he exited the main-gate, something seemed to hold Veer’s heart
in a cold vice: a nagging fear, a stubborn doubt.
Maybe it is this gloomy weather, Veer tried to pacify himself. Perhaps he
was right to feel restless and scared for his Dwij--the boundary between
worry and fear is a thin one.

The rain took seconds to disperse the whiff of diesel fumes lingering in
the wake of the departing vehicles. The sprawling acres around Bheeshm
became dead as a graveyard.
Bheeshm stared into the rain, hands tied at the back, legs slightly apart.
He tried to feel at home, for he was in his own ancestral house. The white
walls peeling in places, the thick columns that had developed cracks, all
screamed for maintenance. For the first twenty summers of his life, the
house had been his home; the woods beyond were the fantasyland of his
childhood, where he used to play, making up stories about a prince on an
epic adventure: hunting demons in a forest filled with magical creatures
and trees that spoke to him. The very soil breathed memories for Bheeshm.
The house now served as an established base of operations--just as it had
been during his early decades as a Legionnaire, when he had only been a
spymaster fighting his way through a hidden world full of ancient intrigue
and horrific creatures waging a secret war against humanity and Oorja.
Back when he had strongly believed he could not afford the luxury of
falling in love, or raising a child.
It was the first time in over four decades that Bheeshm was alone at the
house; close to fifteen years, since Abhay left for boarding school and
Bheeshm left the house to devote himself to his duties as a Dwij, only to
return as a passing visitor every now and then.
Bheeshm was frozen in the moment, letting the past emerge on to the
screen of his mind. And it was too beautiful and heart-wrenching to break
his heart--in spite of all the hardships, sacrifices and the loss of every
single person he had ever loved. He was forced to turn away when it
became too unbearable to remember.
The phone in his pocket rang just as he reached out to open the heavy
oaken doors leading into the house. Bheeshm entered, pressing the phone
to his ear.
‘Go on, Mandvi,’ he said.
‘I’m twenty-five minutes away, Dwij.’ A female voice replied over the
background rush and honk of car-horns. ‘I have already informed the
matron to ready Kaya for the journey home. She is sound asleep, the
matron told me.’
‘And what about Abhay, did Vanraj call?’
‘He did, Dwij, less than an hour back. He was having trouble handling
the smartphone we gave him and that delayed him from calling us when
they left from Bangalore. They were near Mumbai when Vanraj finally
managed to call. Abhay looks hungover and your friend, Dr. Kant, keeps
going to the smoking-room. They should be here in the next three hours if
the weather doesn’t get any worse…’
The lights were on in the living-room and Bheeshm had advanced till the
adjoining hallway when Mandvi’s voice began to break. ‘Hold on, I can’t
hear you.’ He retraced his steps back through the living room and into the
balcony and the signal got better.
‘I was telling you about what the police had to say,’ Mandvi resumed,
‘about the six warriors from your personal guard. They think it’s an
aftermath of a foul deal gone fouler. The discovery of the heroin and wads
of cash has changed things, making them look like drug-dealers. But…but
there was something else they found. The heads were smoothly removed
from their torsos and there are identical burn marks all over the stump of
their necks, it’s like, like…’
‘Like a red-hot blade chopped off their heads in one slice,’ Bheeshm
completed what Mandvi was unable to say. ‘It is him, the celestial. I doubt
he knows the six Legionnaires were there to bring Kaya home. Still, I
would ask you to stay on the lookout. The lodge where the warriors died is
not far from the retirement-home.’
Mandvi spoke after a beat. ‘The Akshauhini are en-route, along with
supplies worth two weeks. They should be there at your location in the
next two hours. Do not let Veer and his elites leave before reinforcement
arrives.’
‘They already left, I told them to.’ Bheeshm sensed what Mandvi would
say even before he had finished the sentence.
She sighed. ‘How could you do that, Dwij? You are currently
unguarded,’ Her voice then turned louder, closer--she had cupped a palm
over her mouth. ‘If nothing then you should have at least considered the
safety of the Artifact. Forgive me for saying this but it was an unwise
decision.’
‘I can fend for myself, Mandvi. I pack no ordinary lead in my revolver.
The bullets can do great damage, even to a fully-shielded Angiri. And
besides, the house has been well-warded for protection.’
Only when he had finished speaking did Bheeshm realize the call had
already disconnected.
The screen had gone dark. He pressed the power-button but nothing
happened.
Bheeshm went back into the house at a hurried pace, took the stairs to the
second floor two at a time. He entered the first room just beyond the
landing: a tidy master-bedroom Bheeshm had not slept in for months.
Just as he had expected, a designated drawer inside a walled cupboard
contained a spare burner-phone.
He had barely switched it on when a tremendous roar and crash shook the
house, as if it was caught in the eye of a storm. To add to the confusion,
the electricity went out. There was another sound, like someone screaming
but it died down as soon as the building settled into its rainy silence.
His right hand instinctively reached out for his gun but Bheeshm found
empty air where his holster should have been. He had left the satchel with
the weapon out on the porch. A frenzied search in the cupboard yielded a
kukri, its deadly blade fashioned out of a dully gleaming metal.
When Bheeshm snuck downstairs, he found the main-doors into the
living room thrown wide open. The two windows had been shattered, as if
by an explosion and a grey light was creeping in from the outside,
accompanied by gusts of wind that made the curtains blow inward. He
crept toward the door, the kukri held outward for a quick slash, his gaze
traveling to observe every movement of the windswept curtains and every
shadow in the grey-black gloom of the large living-room area.
He made it to the balcony without incident. He took out the heavy
revolver from the satchel: an elegant, heavy but deadly thing made of iron
and steel, greased to a shine. Eight chambers, a long muzzle and a butt
made of polished rosewood built for perfect balance: engraved with minute
glyphs. A suitable weapon for someone in Bheeshm’s business. The
satchel also held a small flashlight.
The rain still drowned all other sounds but Bheeshm thought he heard
something. The sound came once more, from inside the house. Bheeshm
recognized it to be a low moan from somewhere in the main-hall. He heard
it again as he neared the door but it stopped the moment Bheeshm’s
shadow appeared in the doorway.
He dialed Mandvi’s number on the burner-phone with fingers trembling
over the keypad. She picked up on the first ring.
‘Dwij, what happened?’ Mandvi’s voice was dripping with fear--a rare
emotion in her case. ‘We have a problem here. Kaya…she, she isn’t in her
room!’
Bheeshm seemed to forget all about his own surroundings, such shiver of
panic traveled all over his body and brain. He was still wondering how to
react when something rolled out from the relative darkness beyond the
door.
It struck the tip of his left shoe then lay still: a metal bracelet attached
with tiny bells, Kaya’s name engraved in the Oorja-speak of the Angiris
on the inside.
The phone was still pressed to his one ear and Mandvi was speaking but
Bheeshm was locked out of her reach.
‘Stay on the call,’ Bheeshm pocketed the phone before switching on the
flashlight. A part of him was screaming to rush headlong into the hall.
Gun-hand extended upon the left one holding the flashlight, he stepped
through the door.
He had gone a few paces when the flashlight beam fell upon a figure
lying on the sofa. A glance was all Bheeshm needed. ‘Kaya,’ he rushed
forward.
She looked diminutive, wrapped in a plain blue sari and blouse; bare
soles dangling off the edge of the sofa, hands splayed lifelessly on her
side. Her hair was lank and all-white, the skin sallow and wrinkled.
Bheeshm shook her, calling out her name. There was no sign of her pulse.
The torchlight fluctuated and went out.
‘No, no, no! Kaya, love, open your eyes!’ his words were forced and
desperate, his touch tender yet urgent as he shook the woman he had sworn
to protect and care for.
Then he heard a giggle full of sadistic mirth. Something moved in the
gathering gloom.
The spells didn’t work! The thought struck Bheeshm like a punch to the
gut.
He whipped around, gun raised, eyes straining. There was barely enough
light to make out the outline of the furniture around the hall. And the
shuffling movement seemed to be coming from all around him, its source
unseen.
‘Kaya…she’s dead, Mandvi,’ he spoke into the phone, voice trembling.
Her reply went unheard as a shadow in the corner of the room moved in
the gloom. ‘He is here!’
The shape flew at him just as Bheeshm squeezed the trigger. In the flash
of the reports a pale, gaunt face became visible for a few seconds, thin lips
stretched in a cross between a grin and a scowl. The creature managed to
dodge every shot fired.
His gun and the burner-phone went flying out of his grasp as the enemy
rammed into Bheeshm. He became aware of a rancid odor for a fraction of
a second before he hit the ground, near Kaya’s feet. The enemy laughed as
it retreated into the shadows within the hall.
‘I thought Angiris fought with honor, not like sneaky bastards.’ When
Bheeshm got up, his fear was gone, replaced by an abject loathing.
An orb of white light, no larger than a watermelon appeared less than
seven feet from him, on the inner side of the hall leading up to the stairs.
‘It is good to finally meet you, Dwij.’ The celestial was standing right
beneath the hovering light-orb, most of his face hidden beneath a hood.
His skin was taut and peeling, a far-cry from the healthy glow unlike an
Angiri’s; a sharp jawline dominated by a menacing sneer.
‘It was not our intention to harm Kaya but she turned out to be too weak
to endure the strain of flight. Obviously, she’s not who she used to be
once, before you polluted her.’
‘She was your kinswoman, bastard,’ Bheeshm glared back at him.
‘Not since the last twenty-six years she was not, Dwij,’ the Angiri
replied, still smiling, ‘ever since you impregnated her and turned her into a
sickly mortal. We have been watching over your son lately, by the way. A
nice young man, an exceptional swimmer, except for the drinking habit
he’s developed since college--has quite the temper too.’
The burner-phone lying on the floor some paces from Bheeshm started to
vibrate. The hooded Angiri had only to close a fist and the device
exploded.
‘What are you waiting for then? Kill me and let’s get it over with. Isn’t it
why you’re here?’
‘Not so fast, Bheeshm,’ the enemy took a few steps forward, the orb
moving with him. ‘First, you’ll tell me where you’ve hidden the
Brahmāstra. Only then we’ll talk about a quick end. AINDRAYASTRAM
AWAHANAM!’
A blinding light flashed in his right palm, forcing Bheeshm to turn away
his gaze. He saw his revolver on the floor, less than five steps away. When
he looked back, the Angiri was holding a sizzling bolt of lightning. The air
smelled of burning ozone, making the hairs on his arms stand.
It was a divine weapon, one that existed only between the pages of
ancient history: Vajra, the favored weapon of Deva Lord Indra. Bheeshm
had no trouble figuring out how the six warriors and all the other
Manushyas before them had been decapitated. He could feel its baking
heat radiating in waves.
‘So, shall we play, Dwij?’ the Angiri spoke in a voice that sounded less
like that of a man and more like a serpent’s hiss, sharp and slithery soft.
Even though Bheeshm knew he stood no chance, he lunged towards his
gun.
There was a fleeting, rushing noise, like wind in a tunnel. The Angiri
stood where he was, guiding some force with a flick of a hand.
Pain punched through Bheeshm’s body as uncountable frigid shafts of ice
impaled him with the force of a nail gun.
Just before his vision darkened, Bheeshm found himself lying on a bed of
thick bolts made of ice. His killer loomed over him, wielding the flaring,
spark-spitting lightning bolt.
Only then Bheeshm saw the ragged tear along the Angiri’s chest, spurting
dark blood. Drops of red were dripping onto the floor, soaking the front of
his Manushya clothes: the price he had paid for breaking through the
protective wards with a grievous injury.
‘The Brahmāstra, Bheeshm. Where is it?’ The snake’s voice hissed as
the assailant leaned over. He grimaced in pain beneath the hood covering
the upper half of his unwholesome face.
‘How about…you go fuck yourself, Angiri?’ Bheeshm chuckled through
the pain. He was prepared to die.
 Chapter 2
Homecoming

Fifteen years and three months have passed since he last saw home. His
father had never let him return--not even for a few hours. At the age of
twenty-five, Abhay had long since come to terms with the fact that it was
not worth going back anymore--there was nothing to go back to, no
attachments.
And out of the blue, his father asked him to come back home.
He remembers bits and pieces of his early ten years at the six-
generation-old Rajvardhan House. Most memories are faint images of the
life he had led there: the time spent as a kid wandering around the estate
or building a tree-house, all on his own; hiding from the caretakers or his
father; the day he broke an arm climbing up a mango tree and so on.
Not many include his parents, for he never got to spend a lot of time with
either of them: one long deceased, the other still alive yet mostly absent
from his son’s life.
His Ma was a kind, gentle soul with a husky yet sweet voice, always sick
and pale; bedridden almost all the time. Her lips were made to smile, high
cheekbones that even in her illness exuded indescribable vibes of strength
and endurance. The day she died in the car crash Abhay had been only a
week shy of turning four. Even though the memories of her have grown
fuzzier with the years he remembers she had loved him, doted on him like
no one ever would. He has had Ma’s photograph in his battered wallet
since his twelfth birthday--perhaps the best gift from his father. He vaguely
remembers her telling stories or singing him to sleep every night--if she
wasn’t lying in her own bed, battling some enervating flu or malady. Her
lullabies were in a tongue he never understood, full of melancholy and loss
yet soothing, a shield against her son’s rampant nightmares.
Beyond these tidbits, the memories tend to slip away into the dark--until
the day of her funeral.
As a son, it was his rightful place to set fire to Ma’s pyre. But the child he
was, saw things differently. Abhay had fought and cried against the adults,
especially against Dad, because they wanted to burn Ma while she was
sleeping. Dad performed Ma’s last rites eventually and had become no
less than a killer in Abhay’s eyes.
He can recollect almost everything from the last fifteen years away from
home: never getting a chance to embrace one place, hopping from one
boarding school to another--the latter years in college, the short-lived
associations and friends he had made, the girls he had fancied and dated,
the bullies he had beaten and those that had responded in kind and worse.
But before that, of his days as a kid, the memories are riddled with holes,
muddled by time.
He sees his mind as a house--looks a lot like the home he once had--and
there are rooms inside the house, each with a wall lined with framed
photographs--the rows meticulously arranged in a descending chronology,
from his most recent memories to the oldest. In the room with the oldest
photographs--his earliest memories--there are many pictures missing from
their accustomed place or smudged and moldered beyond recognition.
At times, Abhay feels like he knows exactly what is missing and what the
smudged ones showed. They are his memories after all, he has lived them.
The only problem is: no matter how hard he tries to focus, he comes up
blank. It is as if he can sense something within his reach but every time he
strains to look, he encounters a thick curtain separating him from what
lies beyond, the elusive thoughts and memories on the other side. All he
has to do is lift the curtain aside.
But when he tries too hard to remember, his old nightmare returns on
those nights: of a man wearing a scary, red-and-black mask of a demon.
No matter what Abhay does, not once has he been able to see his forgotten,
hidden past because of the man in the demon-mask who barges into his
mind like an intimidating, uninvited guest and pulls him into the limbo
between wakefulness and sleep.
He had learned to overlook his past entirely, the way a child playing with
fire learns the risk involved after scalding her hand. It helped to keep the
man in the demon mask away for years--that and alcohol and drugs.
Since a fortnight ago, when his Dad called to tell Abhay it was time to
come home, he has not been sleeping well. The nightmare seems to have
returned with a vengeance.
He does not have Ma to sing the nightmare away with her strange,
soothing lullaby.

Abhay forced his eyes open when it became too much for him. He jerked
upright into his seat and realized the passengers all over the coach were
staring at him, craning their necks over their seats.
His face and armpits were damp with sweat.
An elderly man peering about in the seat to his front, said, ‘I know it can
be tough, son. My niece also suffers from epilepsy and the fits…’
 ‘It was a fucking nightmare…sir.’ Abhay replied, adding the sir as an
afterthought.
The gentleman became red-faced before he settled down grumbling about
how young fellows these days knew no respect. Only then Abhay felt his
co-passenger’s tight grip on his wrist.
‘You screamed in your sleep and started shaking all over, boy.’ The
balding, bespectacled man with smoke-blackened lips told him,
relinquishing his grip. ‘I am noticing your temper has only turned worse
with age.’
‘It’s because I didn’t sleep last night, now I’m having a bad hangover,
Uncle Kant.’ Abhay said, squinting at the overcast world outside his wide-
window with his puffed, sleep-deprived eyes. He said nothing about the
particular substances he had sniffed with the alcohol.
‘That’s no excuse, Abhay. We both know you have gotten into enough
fistfights to fill a pocket-diary, one each for school and college days. They
had nothing to do with your lack of sleep or hangovers. Perhaps you
should go easy on the whiskey--drinking scrambles your brain as much as
it affects one’s liver.’
He wanted to point out that his drinking had become regular only in the
last four years or so. But an entirely unintended response came to him. ‘I’ll
do that,’ Abhay replied with a sudden smirk as he leaned back into his
seat, ‘if you can give up smoking. How does that sound?’
Kant resorted to silence, leaving Abhay to his thoughtful gazing.
At an average velocity of nine-hundred and seventy kilometers per hour,
the Loop takes just over two and a half hours to travel from Bangalore to
Indraprastha. They had nearly one-fourth of the journey left and Kant was
in no mind to let Abhay sleep and sink into another bout of nightmare. It
was one of the few things about Abhay that he had failed to understand.
A man in a demon-mask, dancing some violent dance: what was so
traumatic about it to have stuck to Abhay’s subconscious all these years?
Kant had asked Bheeshm about it on a number of occasions. His standard
reply would always be, ‘He was only a kid, saw someone wearing a scary
mask and got frightened. It’ll go away with time.’
But it had never gone away.
‘It was the same old nightmare, wasn’t it?’ Kant asked.
Abhay nodded without turning away from the swiftly-passing, blurred
vista of preserved forests, villages and towns. ‘It’s been getting more
frequent the last couple of weeks, don’t know why.’
‘Probably it’s the stress you know, starting a new life and all; new city, a
job and new people. Only if college-life never got over…’
 Abhay’s reply came after a pause, entirely out-of-context. ‘I had almost
forgotten that there were still some forests left.’
Kant did not pursue. He glanced around and saw the passengers either
dozing off or hooked into the phone-screens and the interactive- displays
at the back of every seat. He peered along the aisle seats, hoping to find
someone reading a good old paperback, any book. He saw none.
‘Did he tell you why he wants me back at the house, all of a sudden?’
Abhay was looking at him, his bloodshot eyes demanding an explanation.
‘I mean it’s been fifteen years and I have pestered and probed and argued
with him a thousand times why I cannot visit home during vacations. But
he never let me come back. Truth is I could have gone back any time I
wanted after I got old enough. Only I saw no reason to it.’
Kant was too happy to talk. ‘You know better than I do how Bheeshm
gets, all riddling and mysterious. He just invited me for dinner and
broached the subject, about calling you over for a few weeks before you
started with the firm in Bangalore. I gladly agreed when he told me to
attend your convocation on his behalf then travel back to Indraprastha with
you.’ Kant chuckled to himself. ‘The bugger knew I would not refuse, he
had already booked the tickets for us.’
‘Yet he was too busy to come himself,’ Abhay commented. ‘Sometimes I
wish you were my father.’
‘I am your father, a self-proclaimed godfather.’ Kant tried to lighten up
the mood. ‘Relax son, you’re going home.’
‘Home,’ Abhay scoffed at the word, ‘I think I have moved on in life to
think of a big, empty house in the middle of the woods and well cut-off
from civilization to call a home. People make home, uncle. And sadly in
my case, the people are either dead or too busy to remember they have a
son.’
‘You are being irrational, Abhay. Bheeshm visits you all the time, he
remembers your birthdays. It was only last year you two went to Bhutan
and Indonesia during your summer and winter breaks, wasn’t it?’
‘The last time Mr. Rajvardhan came to see me was during Christmas, that
too for barely forty-five minutes. Twice, during the last year; the year
before, he visited thrice; his visits have only diminished in the years since
school got over. And the holiday you’re referring to, that was in 2016,
three years back.’
Kant shook his head in disapproval. ‘You’re not getting it, son. Kaya’s
demise took its toll on Bheeshm and he didn’t want you to live in his
shadow of despair…all he wanted for you was to find your place in the
world, be strong and independent.’
 Abhay scoffed, rubbing his eyelids gently. ‘Leave a motherless child to
the mercy of the world, to do what--earn money? That’s some way to
inculcate independence.
‘Can you tell me what business did he get into after resigning from the
university? I know nothing about it to this day, except he’s into some
export-import business.’ Abhay immediately sensed he had been speaking
too loud.
Thankfully, most of the passengers did not hear him on account of the
headphones cupped over their ears. He lowered his voice and added:
‘Look, I understand he loved Ma, and her death changed things for him,
much as it did for me. The business kept him occupied and paid for my
education till school. But I fail to see his rationale behind sending me to
boarding school when I needed him and a home, more than ever. I was a
naïve ten-year-old kid, happy living in a house full of caretakers, even if
his father wasn’t there to raise him most of the time.’
Kant gazed at the overcast sky, letting Abhay guzzle up some water from
a plastic-bottle. ‘I wish there was a way to take away all that venom you
carry inside you. Pray you get to see it someday, how much Bheeshm
cares for you, even if he hasn’t been an ideal father. Perhaps this time you
two can sit in peace and you can vent out all the anger you have harbored
all these years.’
‘That’s what I’m afraid of the most, uncle. I might say things that no
father would want to hear from his son. You’ve been his friend all these
years. Did you never feel he had gone overboard?’
Kant only shrugged. Abhay sighed and turned to the window, squinting
in the far distance at a jutting skyline of towers and skyscrapers beneath
the cover of thunderheads. The high wall and towers of Indraprastha
glowed resplendent on the western horizon.
‘I knew the Bheeshm before your mother passed.’ Kant replied after a
long pause. ‘The man we now have is different: unusually grim, burdened
by worry and loneliness. We rarely meet and when we do, he doesn’t talk
much. But he does remember to send me a gift every Diwali: boxes of
Cuban cigars or a bottle of vintage port-wine, sometimes both.’
He tried to laugh it off but Abhay found nothing funny about it. What he
did notice was that Kant was stealing his gaze for some reason.
The intercom pinged and a female voice announced that they were
nearing Indraprastha; the same flashed at the bottom of each display as a
moving ticker. Kant’s phone started buzzing.
‘I’ll go attend this call, smoke one last cigarette before we reach.’ He got
up, one hand already patting his trousers’ pocket for his pack of cancer-
sticks. Frowning at the phone-screen hidden from Abhay’s view, his uncle
sauntered toward the smoking-room at the end of the coach.
Abhay waited for Kant for over ten minutes before a mild headache and
the train’s smooth thrum lulled him to sleep.

Forty minutes later, Abhay got down at the bustling, spotlessly-clean

platform of Indraprastha’s Loop-station. He loaded his luggage onto a
trolley and followed Kant.
The rain was a constant drumming upon the vast glass dome high above
him. Digital posters and branded projections looked down upon the
itinerant masses of passengers and relatives and porters. Large LCD
displays were showing news-bulletins and local weather conditions--the
rain had an acidity of 5.6 on the pH-scale, Abhay noticed.
‘It rains like a bitch, as if there’s some cosmic pissing contest going on
between the gods. You get drenched then you itch and dance, dance and
itch all over as the skin turns betel-red. It won’t even let you sleep for a
couple of hours. The effect lasts for nearly a week.’ A college friend had
crudely described the first monsoon showers of Indraprastha. Necessity
had engendered innovative acid-resistant rain-gear but there was no
stopping the acid from fusing with the precipitation.
Kant was unusually silent, checking his phone distractedly every ten
steps or so. They made their way towards the elevators and Kant punched
the button for the parking-level, barely making eye-contact with Abhay.
Kant’s old Maruti was parked in a corner forty feet from the elevator.
The fluorescent tubes overhead were acting funny all over the parking lot,
fluttering in and out randomly. While Abhay dumped his belongings into
the car’s trunk, Kant dialed someone and got into the front seat.
His headache had only gotten bad after the short nap and Abhay moved
like a sloth, listening to Kant’s muffled voice. The fluctuating lights
overhead hummed like nagging, buzzing bees.
At least Uncle Kant wouldn’t keep things from me, he thought, setting the
last bag into the car’s trunk.
For some reason, he did not find the assurance very convincing. Kant had
become strung up in the last half hour. He had twice received the calls that
he had dismissed to be ‘nothing important’ yet his face had said otherwise.
Abhay pushed the trunk’s lid down and perceived a sudden motion at the
periphery of his vision.
Was someone there behind one of the thick concrete pillars to the left,
watching him? He held still for a beat, looking at shadows in the
arrhythmic fluorescent flutter of the overhead lights.
Inside the car, the odor of stale smoke was overpowering. Kant was done
with the call, staring into the vacuum.
‘Is everything okay, uncle?’ Abhay asked, locking the seat-belt and
switching on the air-conditioner.
‘All’s hunky-dory, it’s just that there’s a jam on the freeway on account
of the bad weather. I was thinking we can go to my place for a bit then
head out of the city when the weather’s improved and the traffic gets
smooth. Some coffee in you will definitely help with the hangover.’ Kant
fumbled, avoiding his eyes and it did not escape Abhay’s notice.
Abhay had no reason to object. He only felt relief for having delayed the
inevitable conversation with his father. He prayed the weather would turn
even worse.
The car passed the automatic barricade after Kant had fed a crisp fifty-
rupee note into the vending machine’s slot, and headed up the ramp.
Abhay’s attention was drawn into the side-view mirror. The lights in the
parking-lot behind had suddenly settled down to a uniform glow and there
was a figure watching them depart. He turned in time to see the silhouette
of a tall, broad man--almost a giant--stepping between the concrete pillars.
The parking-lot was hidden from view as they rounded a bend and
emerged onto a busy thoroughfare, into the sky-fallen deluge: the result of
some pissing-contest between the gods.

The city of Indraprastha was a study in haze. Billboards, giant banners

and millions of blinking neon and bright lights made the hour of near-dusk
sparkle with gaudy blossoms through the sheets of rain. There were too
many cars on the roads in comparison to the pedestrians on the sidewalks--
the latter decked in raincoats, hunched beneath their umbrellas for
additional protection from the acid-rain. The towering tops of the buildings
were lost from view. The city-wide Loop-ways snaked, overlapped and
crisscrossed almost everywhere overhead, running through Indraprastha
like an intricate spider-web.
The capital had transformed into a gigantic metal-and-concrete jungle in
the years Abhay was gone. He could not help but feel like a stranger in a
new city.
‘It’s true what they say,’ Abhay said, ‘looks like everyone in Indraprastha
has a job, a roof and at least two meals a day--and probably even a car.’
Taking a turn, Kant replied something unexpected. ‘That’s because you
haven’t seen the real thing--you must’ve read about it on some viral post
or heard on the news. We are in a well-to-do district of the capital. The
reporters and news-vans don’t venture far into the fringe settlements near
the city-wall, that’s why you read such bullshit of made-up progress.
‘Even the officials steer clear of it. These days more poison is discharged
into our minds because of what the governments want the public to hear
and see; bad press hurts the image of a nation--especially that of a
superpower.’
Abhay waited a few seconds before popping the question he had been
meaning to ask for some time. ‘Do you know who those people are, the
men and women that accompany Dad at all times?’
‘Oh, I might have met a few. They are his business-associates or
subordinates as far as I can remember.’ Kant’s gaze did not stray from the
road ahead.
‘That’s bullshit, just like the fake news. He wants you to believe they are
his associates. I have never seen him without these people. They even
accompanied Dad and I on every trip, always alert and unsmiling. I think
they are his bodyguards.’
Relief broke on to Kant’s face when the buzzing of his phone interrupted
the exchange. And in a second, it turned into something else, causing him
to frown. Abhay read the words on the screen: a private number.
Kant careened to a halt by the roadside, barely missing the rear bumper
of a brand-new Mercedes. He accepted the call. His lips did not move after
‘hello’ but Abhay could hear a tinny voice from the phone.
Kant’s color drained, the hand holding the steering wheel began to shake.
Even before he hung up with a hoarse acknowledgement, Abhay knew
something had gone very, very wrong.
‘We have to…have to go to Bheeshm. Now.’ Kant could only rasp.
‘What’s wrong, Uncle Kant? Is Dad fine?’
The single tear that spilled from the eye behind the thick lenses, said all
that Abhay needed to hear.
‘Someone…someone attacked him, not long ago.’
The Destroyer’s third-eye seemed to zero-in its fiery, destructive gaze
upon Abhay in an eyeblink.
 Chapter 3
My Father’s Secrets

Contrary to what Kant had said, there was no traffic jam on the freeway.
But Abhay hardly registered the lie. His mind had become clogged with
fear and endless questions about his father and the life Abhay had so far
been leading. Who could attack his father--and why? Speech or expression
eluded him.
It took them close to forty minutes to reach the Rajvardhan residence
from the walled metropolis of Indraprastha. The path leading through the
woods, to the main-gate was littered with a windfall of broken branches
and leaves along a stretch of overflowing potholes. The rain was letting up
by the time they reached the open gate.
A strange shiver ran down Abhay’s body as the car crossed into the
property. Kant noticed it when he trembled uncontrollably. He had no
reason to doubt it could be anything but a natural shock response. After all,
the prodigal son was returning under circumstances far from ordinary.
And just like that, a fifteen-year-old barrier over Abhay’s mind lifted and
all he felt was a sudden chill, like encountering a pocket of cold, dense air.
Its effect would manifest in the days to come.
The gravel turnaround driveway was lined with police cars, an
ambulance and a few other civilian vehicles. Cops in identical yellow
slickers and black galoshes were moving all about the front. Solemn faces
crowded beneath the portico beyond which the house had been cordoned
off by police-tapes matching the garish yellow of the cops’ slickers.
Kant did the talking and the cops led them past the cordon blocking the
entry to the open front-doors.
And then Abhay and Kant found themselves in the middle of a living
nightmare that would haunt them for the rest of their lives.
Blood painted the white marble floor: a large pool of coagulated crimson,
emptied from the body of the man lying in the middle of it. What remained
of his white shirt was now red and gore-splattered, the grey of the trousers
a darker shade; the suspenders lay in tattered strips. His body was riddled
with holes, as if thick, long stakes had been driven into his body with a
clinical precision; the murderer could even have derived pleasure by
skewering the dead-man at his leisure, for it looked more like a slow
torture than quick death. As if the mutilation was not enough, the
deceased’s head had also been chopped off to reveal a stump of gristle.
 Cordoned off and illuminated by two high-powered lamps, the crime-
scene had been turned into an garish exhibition no dead man should
deserve. The brightness only made the death grislier and indecent, making
the trail of crisscrossing footprints around the headless body stand out.
Kant saw no sign of the head. The perforated torso looked nothing
similar to that of the man he knew. Abhay stood shell-shocked beside him
but unlike Kant, he had already confirmed it to be his father’s corpse:
Bheeshm’s round-rimmed spectacles were lying in a pool of blood; the old
Sonata watch with brown leather belt stained dark, fastened around the
right wrist; and the flowing inked patterns on the hands--Abhay could have
recognized the tattoos anywhere.
Forensics and cops swarmed around him but it was as if nothing else
existed for Abhay in those moments, except for the headless, perforated
corpse of Bheeshm Rajvardhan.
He had tried to avoid seeing his father, unprepared to engage in a
conversation with him. And Fate had decided to play a cruel joke on
Abhay by resolving the matter, once and for all.
He would never be able to say another word to his father.
Guilt, shame and regret washed over Abhay during those minutes that
felt like days, before he could no longer bear to stand before his father’s
remains. He walked out in a hurry, feeling the acidic bile rising in his
throat. He puked in the marigold bushes by the verandah.
Only if I could’ve seen Dad, talked to him one last time, he thought,
spitting and retching. He wanted to cry but it was as if his tears had
decided to betray him just when he needed them the most.
Tragedies are the worst hangovers of life. It takes time before they wear
off. And Abhay’s hangover was far from getting over.
It had taken Bheeshm’s death to make him realize he loved his father in a
corner of his heart.

For someone who had more or less a private person, Bheeshm’s funeral
was attended by a lot more people than one could expect--ten times more
than the attendance at his mother’s cremation. Out of the attendees come
to pay Bheeshm their respect, Abhay recognized only a few: a few
colleagues from the university days or some ex-students of his father.
But from the vast majority of strangers there were also some Abhay
thought to have seen a long time ago, arriving to meet Bheeshm in the
dead of night, holding long meetings in his study--a place no one from the
household was allowed to enter, especially Abhay--for reasons unknown.
 Unlike the last rites offered to his mother, Bheeshm was cremated on an
electric pyre with blast doors that hid the blazing transformation of flesh
and bone to ashes. It spared Abhay the pain he had felt as a three-year-old
to see his mother’s open pyre of wooden logs, stoked by an undertaker’s
bamboo-pole in a detached, almost-cruel manner. But it did little to ease
his grief.
Kant was least surprised when Abhay decided to leave midway, taking
the keys to his apartment along. He stayed back to finish the formalities
and accept condolences from the fellow teachers and old students of
Bheeshm, on Abhay’s behalf.
Kant’s daughter had come to attend the funeral all the way from Tokyo
where she worked with an IT-firm, knowing her father would be shattered
at the loss of a friend as dear as Bheeshm. He was not keen to let Tanu
leave but he grudgingly dropped her at the airport, after dinner at a
restaurant specializing in North Indian delicacies.
By the time Kant got back to his apartment--carrying an earthen pot with
Bheeshm’s ashes in one hand and some food he had gotten for Abhay in
the other--it was well past dinnertime. It felt uncanny to think that two
days had passed since Bheeshm’s death.
Abhay took a long time to answer the doorbell. Kant immediately saw
why he had run away when the door was unlocked and the sharp smell of
whiskey hit his nostrils.
Abhay was barely able to walk straight, reeking of alcohol from every
pore. His eyes seemed to have sunken inside the sockets and he looked
unusually gaunt and disheveled. Kant lent him support and led Abhay into
the spare bedroom.
It was only after Abhay fell asleep that the dam of emotions broke inside
Kant. He cried that night like never before, for the friend he had lost--even
if they had drifted apart in the last many years--and most of all, for Abhay,
who had no idea about his father’s real life.

It was the most natural thing for Abhay: drowning all his woes and life’s
complications into the bottle of alcohol and powder. Sleep came easy
every time. And from what he had learned, the nightmare of the demon-
mask did not disturb him if he was too intoxicated to think coherently.
Such cheat-days, as he liked to refer to the drinking days, had become
pretty frequent in the last four years. He had gained a seemingly
inexhaustible capacity to drink enough to intoxicate three men, without
getting sick. His once rigorous regime of swimming twenty laps in the
pool five times a week and eating healthy, had long taken a backseat. The
surprising fact was that he had hardly gained weight or lost shape.
An explanation Abhay considered applicable in his case was his
exceptional rate of metabolism. But there was more to it than he could
imagine. Had he tried to keep track of it, Abhay would have found out
something even more baffling than rapid metabolism.
He would have remembered never falling sick, or even developing a case
of a flu or mild fever--not even the common cold had ever touched him.
The only times he had visited a hospital was to see a friend in sick-bed;
or on three occasions, when he had suffered fractures while climbing a
tree, once during a game of football and the last time in a road accident,
respectively; and all these times, he had healed at a pace swift enough to
surprise the doctors.
And then there was the case of hangovers which he never seemed to get,
provided he had slept a little.
The night prior to his arrival at Indraprastha, Abhay had spent a sleepless
night dreading his return home, in the company of his friends and booze
and drugs. But apart from some similar experiences in the past, no matter
how much he drank, the alcohol’s effect did not continue till after sleep.
There was a lot more he had not discovered about himself. But it was all
about to change.

Drink, sleep, repeat: that was all he did for close to three days. Abhay ate
sparsely and talked even less. He stepped out of the apartment only to buy
more booze for his binge-drinking spree. Kant chose to give him his space,
turning a blind-eye to the empty bottles and cigarette-butts he found in the
garbage, every morning.
It was on the fifth night after Bheeshm’s death that he decided to speak to
Abhay. The unshaven, unkempt young-man had just woken up from a
five-hour-long afternoon siesta when Kant called for him.
Abhay found him waiting at the dining table, with a bottle of wine and
two glasses.
‘Come sit down, there are certain things we need to talk about.’ Kant told
him. Abhay looked unsure, in no mood to engage in any conversation. But
his mind changed when he saw Kant pouring red wine into the glasses.
‘Talk about what?’ He asked, lifting the glass and sipping
from it.
Kant took his time to reply. He drank some wine, gulping it instead of
sipping. Then he lit the first cigarette from a brand-new pack of Mallgolds.
Abhay took out one after brief consideration.
‘It’s the first time we’re drinking together.’ Kant said with a faint smile,
downing the entire contents in one go then pouring another measure. ‘How
have you been? We never got to sit and talk given how things have been
the last few days.’
Abhay quietly finished the drink and poured another one before replying.
‘I am okay, uncle. Had the nightmare a few times, but apart from that I’m
fine.’
‘I heard you shouting in your sleep. I guessed that already. I meant to ask
about where you are, regarding Bheeshm. You can talk to me, you know
that.’
‘Talking won’t change anything. I don’t want that. I want to deal with
this on my own,’ he sat still for a while.
‘To Bheeshm,’ Kant lifted his glass in a toast. Abhay wordlessly
responded, their glasses clinking together.
‘Have you ever felt like there are gaps in your memory?’ Abhay asked.
Kant shrugged. ‘I have always felt that: stuff I know I remember but can
never recall; missing details and events that I should’ve clearly
remembered but fail to do so. A sight or a smell triggers the memory but
then it never gets projected onto the screen of my mind, if you catch my
drift.’
Kant only stared blankly through a cloud of smoke.
‘The last few days, things are coming back to me, the gaps are getting
filled. Does that make any sense to you?’ Abhay could see he needed
something concrete to explain what was happening to him. ‘There was this
tune Ma used to sing to me. I have always remembered the tune mind you,
but never the words.’
He hummed a tune Kant had never heard. ‘Last night I heard Ma
humming it in my dreams. This morning, I found myself singing in the
shower, words along with the tune--just what Ma used to sing, although I
can make no head or tail of its meaning.’
He strung the words in to the tune and sang a couple of verses in a hoarse
voice.
The language was rich and evocative, but Kant could not recognize the
language--whether it was some dialect spoken in these lands or a foreign
tongue.
‘That surely doesn’t sound like any language I know of.’ Kant said,
shrugging. ‘What else have you remembered?’
‘The school Dad sent me for a while, before he packed me off to the
boarding; the faces and names of these three kids I used to play with and
the tutors who came to teach me during my homeschooling days before
that.’ He chuckled dryly, finding the very notion of being homeschooled in
the past to be strange and ludicrous.
‘I wish I could jot down every new detail I have remembered in the last
five days. But the thing is, most of it has become so uniformly merged
with the rest…If not for some striking bits, I might never even have
consciously realized I had forgotten so much about my ten years at home.’
Silence came to hang like the smoke issuing from the lips of the two
men; the pack of Mallgolds was nearly half-empty and the wine-bottle less
than that.
‘I plan to go back tomorrow, stick around the house for a bit. I have a
feeling there is a lot Dad had been hiding from me. There might be
something, more clues about his life and business.’ Abhay said it in the
most normal way but Kant seemed to jump in his seat.
‘You can’t go back, at least not now. You’re not safe there.’
Abhay frowned. ‘Is there something you’re not telling me, Uncle Kant?
You sound pretty sure about me not being safe there.’
‘You’re overthinking, Abhay.’
‘You said you had certain things to talk about. I assume it has no
correlation to what we’ve said so far. So spit it out, old-man. I’m done
with secrets and those who keep them from me, for god’s sake!’
Kant drank and smoked in silence, letting Abhay’s anger boil down. He
sighed and braced himself before speaking. ‘What I’m going to tell you,
it’s about Bheeshm, and also about your mother in a way.’
‘You know why he got killed.’
‘Nothing about that, son,’ Kant tried to light up another cigarette but his
hand holding the lighter shook. ‘I understand, I should’ve told you what I
know, even though it’s not much. But you have to see I never expected a
day would come when your father won’t be in our midst. He was the one
supposed to tell you everything.
‘The night I visited Bheeshm at his place for dinner, he told me a few
things about this business he’s been involved with.’
The next words fell like a hammer on an anvil, snatching breath from
Abhay’s lungs.
‘What if I told you that your mother is alive? I know it sounds crazy, but
first let me finish, lest I forget something.
‘From what Bheeshm told me, your mother didn’t die, or even get into an
accident. The funeral was a sham, to make you and the rest of the world
believe in a false story. Bheeshm’s objective in bringing you back home
after fifteen years was because he wanted to unite you with your mother.
He told me Kaya lost her voice about seventeen years ago. The left portion
of her body has been downright paralyzed ever since. Her illness only got
worse with time.’
‘Where is she then?’ Abhay’s eyes were wide with shock. Kant shrugged
in ignorance. ‘You know what I think: either you’re too drunk or you fell
for one for his cock-and-bull tale.’
But Kant continued, not caring what Abhay had said. ‘It was Kaya’s
decision to play dead, for your sake. Bheeshm mentioned there are parties
that might want to harm you and it is why he relented to her wish. Your
parents did everything to keep you away from harm’s way. Bheeshm was
well aware of the consequences--that it will adversely affect you and your
relationship with him.’
Abhay was on his feet, pacing thoughtfully with the empty glass in his
hand.
‘What kind of games have my parents been playing with me? Fuck this
shit!’ He banged the glass upon the table with enough force to crack the
base.
‘I wish I knew where your mother is. According to Bheeshm, she was
supposed to be here by the time we arrived from Bangalore. He didn’t
even mention where she was being kept if I remember correctly--just that
it was some retirement home about an hour west of Indraprastha. But there
is something else you should know--about this so-called business venture
of his.’
‘Oh please, spare me the crap, whatever he told you. He fooled you, just
as he has played me all my life!’
‘I acted the same way, when Bheeshm told me these things, especially
about your mother. To be honest, until I saw his bloody remains I still had
doubts about him and his intentions.’
‘Now you’ll be telling me Dad was involved in some cloak-and-dagger
business.’ Abhay said, pouring some wine.
‘Bheeshm holds…held an important position, in some kind of covert
organization that fights global terrorism--something much worse than your
suicide bombers and false religious prophets: those were his exact words. I
heard his men referring to him as Dwij, on more than a few occasions--
rings any bell?’
Abhay was blank for a moment. The word Dwij was kickstarting a storm
of memories: the caretakers, cooks and maids of the household, the people
who came to visit Bheeshm. Had they not addressed him as Dwij? He
realized it was another repressed memory, another hole that had been filled
overnight.
 ‘I don’t know what’s real and what’s not anymore,’ Abhay held his head
between his arms, making his hair stand on end in frustration. ‘My brain
seems fucked up beyond hope. I was better off ignorant.’
‘This organization Bheeshm was part of, it is well-funded and influential,
from what I have inferred so far. Works with complete autonomy,’ Kant
said. ‘And yes, the associates who shadowed him, they were Bheeshm’s
personal guard. You were right about that.’
Abhay remembered something. ‘I think I saw some of them, at Dad’s
funeral.’
Kant nodded, upending the last of the wine into both glasses equally.
Abhay’s drink was leaking through the crack.
‘Why didn’t you tell the police about what you know, Uncle Kant? I
mean it might help them catch his killer.’
Kant tried to sound rational. ‘This is beyond the police’s skill set, son.
And Bheeshm had specifically told me not to speak of it to anyone.
Besides, I saw no reason not to trust your father after he showed me a
proof of what he was into.’
‘What proof?’
‘There was something in his study that night. Looks like ordinary metal
but…’ Kant trailed off, looking for the right words. ‘Would you believe if
I said I’ve seen magic?’
Abhay scoffed and turned on his heels, stepping towards the guest-
bedroom.
‘You should hear me out, son. I’m only trying to help.’ Kant called after
him.
‘Oh, I have heard enough. I think I would like to see whatever it is and
then form any opinions. I’m going back, uncle. Right now. Whether or not
you want to come along, it’s up to you.’
He closed the door after him, leaving Kant with the last glass of wine and
an ash-tipped cigarette still smoldering between his fingers.
Kant knew there was no way he could stop Abhay from going back
home.
 Chapter 4
The Study

His mind is a madhouse, full of bedlam and chaos. Thoughts and

memories merge and jumble with one another and new details are
emerging. Like the first rays of the sun illuminating a darkened landscape.
To think that his mother has been alive all this time, that she was living
and breathing in some old-age home, while Abhay had spent over twenty-
two years hanging on to faint recollections of her from the photograph in
his wallet.
A part of him wants to discredit Kant’s story, prove that his firm belief in
Bheeshm was ill-placed and everything he has learned is trash; a childish
story his uncle had ended up believing only because he blindly trusted his
old friend.
But another part of Abhay wants to believe.
It seems to gel perfectly with the life of lies and mystery his father had
lived, the decisions he had made and finally, the seclusion he had always
maintained. He had always kept secrets from Abhay, even if it meant lying
to his own son or jeopardizing the strained ghost-of-a-bond they shared as
father and son.
He remembers the bespectacled, handsome face, the long prematurely-
grey hair tied in a ponytail, Bheeshm’s smile and his look of
disappointment and sadness every time Abhay chose not respond to his
affection or denied him every chance at knowing his son better.
He thinks of the times Bheeshm made him switch to a new boarding
school every other year, citing better academic prospects and what-not.
But deep down, Abhay had known the reason went farther beyond that.
Kant’s tale of a man in some business nasty enough to get him mutilated
and killed: it somehow seems to fit. History professors don’t die as
Bheeshm did.
This latter part of Abhay, the believer, speaks even louder as he heads
towards the house that was the centerpiece of his childhood. He can barely
hide his impatience, screaming on the inside to know more about the so-
called magic Kant saw inside Bheeshm’s study.

‘You got many calls, the day we were traveling here,’ Abhay spoke for
the first time after leaving Kant’s apartment, ‘you acted strange every time
the unknown caller called. And if I’m not wrong, the same person broke
the news about Dad.’
He was driving the car with the window turned all the way down; one
hand on the wheel, the other laid elbow-end upon the sill with a flaring
cigarette dangling just inside the car. They were almost at their destination
and Kant’s packet was over, the incessant craving of a chainsmoker getting
sharper every passing second as he saw and smelled the last flaring
cigarette in Abhay’s hand, wasting away at the mercy of winds.
‘Yes, I almost forgot about her, didn’t I?’ he said, ‘she was an associate
of Bheeshm’s, some tough woman from the sound of it. Never gave me so
much as a name. It was her task to ensure I got you home safely. She
might’ve been the one to alert the cops, I’m not sure. I haven’t heard from
her ever since. And obviously, we can’t call her unlisted number.’
‘You think she was there at the funeral?’
‘Could be, I don’t know. Most of the people at the crematorium were
strangers to me, she could be any of the women. I’m sure the ones I didn’t
know--including Bheeshm’s bodyguards--were all from his clandestine
vigilante organisation. Hell, we could’ve tried talking them, see if they
knew anything...’
Abhay felt no less than a fish out of water. The circumstances had thrown
him out of the pond--where even if things had not been in perfect
harmony, it was still a familiar, normal existence--and now he had to deal
with conditions that were in every way alien compared to the relative
stability of the pond. He so wanted Kant to be mistaken, prayed Bheeshm
had only been playing tricks with his friend, like he had played with his
son and probably every other person in his life.
Everyone except Ma, Abhay corrected himself, If there’s one person who
knew him for who he really was, it was her. He knew it with absolute
certainty.
They pulled up outside the tall main gate and found the compound aglow
with arc-sodium lamps all along the driveway. It looked less like a place
where its owner was butchered not six days ago, and more like a merry
occasion where a large family might have gathered to celebrate or play a
game of night-time cricket in the lawns.
‘Looks like someone’s home. Who could it be?’ Abhay mused, turning
off the ignition.
Kant looked as clueless, and wary as a ferret. ‘I wish I knew. Last I
checked, the policemen and forensics were done with all the evidence-
gathering. The lane was choked with branches and trees that fell in the
storm. Looks like somebody cleared the path.’
 Abhay had been too detached to pay attention the last time he was there,
but the main-gate was different from the simple, grilled one that had hung
in its place during in his childhood: two solid iron doors on rollers, seven-
feet high with no opening mechanism on the outside, not even a knob or a
bolt. A switch appended to the left gate post seemed the only way to gain
access into the compound--most likely, for a doorbell.
‘This used to be a plain, simple gate with iron grills showing on to the
garden--not this jazz.’ Abhay said, stepping out of the car. A gentle wind
made the leaves whispered in tandem with the creaking of branches.
Cicadas chirruped all around him.
‘Fits right in with what Bheeshm was up to, I say--all cloak-and-dagger
business.’
Abhay walked around the car’s hood, glancing into the gloom of the tree-
trunks and the dense foliage between the Rajvardhan residence and the
adjoining freeway. The high boundary disappeared into the trees on either
side. Abhay remembered where the walls ended and a barbed-wire mesh
for a fence covered the other remaining section of the perimeter--had that
changed, too?
He had not even laid his finger upon the switch when the gates began to
open inward, clanging on rusted wheels. Abhay stood frozen, one hand
still raised to press the doorbell switch, neck craned towards the house.
His eyes registered the unchanged exterior: the two-storied house with its
sloping roofs and a grand portico, the gravel driveway enclosing a large
circular lawn with a marble fountain at its centre, and the looming old trees
that seemed to have frozen the compound into a time-bubble of its own.
A dam of memories was opening: the deluge of half-remembered and
forgotten events of his past flooding out in a rush from the deepest
confines of his mind, threatening to overwhelm him.
‘It’s late, Abhay. We should go inside,’ Kant shouted from the car,
switching his position to the driver’s side. He drove the vehicle up to the
gate and only then Abhay budged from his stance.
‘I don’t see anyone. Someone must’ve opened the gate,’ he said, ducking
into the passenger-seat.
‘We can still go back, if you want. Come back in the morning.’
‘The entire compound is lit like a country fair, old man. Stop assuming
the worst.’
Abhay felt the faint chill as they crossed the threshold, and ignored it
again. The car moved clockwise along the driveway, at a steady pace. Up
close, Abhay began to see the marks time and negligence had left upon the
old edifice and its grounds.
 The walls looked shabby, the plaster peeling off almost everywhere. The
section of the roof along the ground floor was darkened with moss many
seasons old and fresh. Abhay guessed the larger roofs on the top floor
looked no different in daylight. The marble fountain was yellowed and
pitted with pockmarks and cracks: reminders of acid rains of previous
seasons.
A movement beneath the porch caught his attention as the car swung
towards the portico.
The last thing he expected to see was a flurry of white, upraised tails and
faces red and dark, scurrying towards the trees to the front: monkeys. The
car had not even stopped when a boy no more than seventeen came
running down the front-steps.
‘So it’s this bloke! I should’ve guessed.’ Kant said, opening the door.
The boy offered Abhay a humble namaste as he stepped out of the car.
‘Bhaiya, I’m Murtaza.’ The boy offered his hand.
Abhay looked at Kant for an explanation.
‘He takes care of this place, in Bheeshm’s absence. Bheeshm taught him
his letters and numbers, even the history of the six continents. He’s been
living here for how long, boy?’ Kant turned to Murtaza.
‘Twelve years, give or take a few weeks.’ The boy promptly replied.
Twelve years meant three years after Abhay left for boarding school.
‘Don’t tell me Dad adopted a kid from the streets!’ It came out mean and
blunt but Abhay did not seem to care how it made Murtaza feel.
Kant shuffled on his feet, embarrassed by Abhay’s brusque tone.
But Murtaza took it in a respectable, mature way, unlike the much older
Abhay.
‘Baba found me wounded and unconscious, during the Vadodara Riots of
December 2006. My birth-parents…they didn’t make it. He saved me,
gave an orphan a new life and a father figure to look up to.’
‘Good for you then,’ Abhay patted his shoulder, ‘I am still getting to
know my father, if it’s the same man you speak of.’ He climbed up the
steps into the balcony, without looking at the boy again.
The wicker furniture was as it was along the balcony, as if not one of
them had been moved even an inch ever since he had left. But the symbols
painted on the walls and columns in red were a new addition. Made to look
like some decorative strip with tantric devices, geometric grids, chakras
and mandalas and characters that looked like Egyptian hieroglyphs.
The banana peels lying on a newspaper spread on the floor stood out like
an eyesore--leftovers from the monkeys’ meal. Kant and Murtaza were by
the car, talking about the cleanup and police proceedings.
 ‘Who treats someone like that, Abhay? I forgot for a moment you are a
grown man and not some insolent child.’ Kant caught up to Abhay as he
was about to enter.
‘That’s why Dad didn’t need me, he found a worthy son after all.’ Abhay
replied, running a hand over a symbol carved upon the wooden doors at
eye-level. He closed the doors to join the two halves to form one strange
symbol: the Rajvardhan family crest, an arrow nocked over a bow.

‘You remember this?’ Kant asked as they entered the hall.

‘Never forgot it,’ Abhay looked around the room, at the antique weapons
arrayed along the walls, ‘Dad was obsessed with leaving the family-crest
beneath his signature, on every greeting-card or letter and the gifts he used
to send me during school. I think we should talk to Murtaza. If he’s been
here for so long then I bet he knows about Dad’s business, the people he
worked with.’
‘He’s just a kid, Abhay. Bheeshm would never involve someone so
young in some secret anti-terrorist organization.’
‘Don’t be so sure of his intentions and words, Uncle. You know how it
is: even a sadistic jihadi justifies his act to be the will of god. What if Dad
was working on the wrong side of law?’
‘You’ll see,’ Kant sighed, shaking his head in disapproval.
They sidestepped around the large piece of tarp laid upon the mosaic
floor of the main-hall: the spot where Bheeshm was murdered. It reminded
Abhay of the mess and for a moment he felt warm bile rising up his throat.
The last time they were there the whole place was in disarray: all the
blood, shredded cushions and toppled armchairs. But Murtaza had
painstakingly cleaned the blood on the floor and tidied the living room to
the best of his capability.
There were spots of damp over the peeling walls and upon the ceiling.
The walls in the hall area were adorned with antique weapons but there
was not a single photograph. ‘There used to be a number of framed
photographs and paintings of my grandsires. Looks like Dad took them all
down.’
‘I noticed it the last time I was here.’ Kant said. ‘I forgot to ask Bheeshm
about it.’
Up the stairs to the first floor landing, past the bedrooms on either side,
Abhay’s feet moved on their own till he was outside the study.
The room was built in the north-eastern corner of the top floor, separate
from the bedrooms. The door was not made of wood, as it had been during
Abhay’s heydays.
It was some reinforced metal, the length and breadth of its surface etched
with more runes that eerily reminded him of Bheeshm’s tattoos.
He laid his fingers on the shiny metal doorknob--there were two small
concentric circles of engravings in some flowing outlandish script on the
knob’s face--expecting the door to be locked. But it swung open with a
single turn.
‘Back when I was here Dad kept it locked at all times, the key hung on a
chain around his neck.’ Abhay felt a suffocating sense of finality as he
stepped beyond.
‘I remember a stone amulet strung on a black thread around his neck.’
Kant said, observing Abhay’s eyes widen.
Inside the study he could not help but feel as if intruding his father’s
most-personal space, his sanctum sanctorum. The room was a part of the
house yet it had never been a part of Abhay’s life--the door that he was not
supposed to open without Bheeshm’s say-so. And that must have been
rarer than rare; Abhay could have counted the times he had entered the
study, on his eleven fingers.
The room was dim and dark till Kant switched on the light. It was a
small, quaint space roughly square in shape, with tall wooden shelves
sagging under the weight of neatly arranged books and an entire row
dedicated to manuscripts preserved in sealed glass-cases. Books and tomes
on history, anthropology, mythology and occult; old journals, diaries,
atlases and reports; thick leatherback tomes and hardcovers and notebooks:
enough knowledge and information to make an ordinary person feel
dwarfed with ignorance; a bookworm’s paradise.
‘What the hell! There should be a mahogany desk here,’ Kant wondered,
stepping towards the shelves opposite to the door. He glanced around as if
he might have missed seeing something as big as a desk.
There was a plush revolving-chair on the other side of the spot where the
desk should have been. A recliner and a low table in one corner by the
shelves were its only other occupants. A red statuette of the Laughing
Buddha stood at the center of the table: shiny bald pate, nuggets in
upraised chubby arms, dressed in robes that showed a protruding belly.
Something slender and shiny hung on a black thread around Buddha’s
thick neck.
Kant was beyond surprised. He felt incredulous and outraged at the
absence of the very thing he had wanted to show Abhay.
‘So, no magic except for the smell of old books,’ Abhay said, browsing
through the titles of the books. Frustrated, Kant sat upon the edge of the
recliner and without realizing it, started tapping a foot upon the floor, his
craving for smoke climbing a notch higher.
As Abhay looked around, one of Bheeshm’s atypical life mantras floated
into his mind. When you feel lost, go read a book or two. He could not
help but smile to himself as he completed a circuit of the room. He was
about to turn to Kant when he jerked to a standstill, realizing something.
Abhay retraced his steps, two fingers held out to trace the titles on the
spines. Kant absently followed his examination.
The book that had caught his attention was in the middle section of the
shelves to the right. It was a hardbound copy of Bhagvad Gita, stacked
between the Rig Veda and Vishnu Purana. Abhay pulled the book’s spine
without a thought but instead of shifting outward, it stuck halfway. A
passing vibration traveled up his arm through the fingertips.
Before he could understand, a door-sized section of the wall behind the
revolving-chair shifted inward with a low rumble. Abhay did not even
notice the Bhagvad Gita was jutting out of the row, its base held firmly to
the shelf: a hidden lever.
‘How did you do that?’ Kant exclaimed, his eyes behind the glasses
staring wide in stupefaction as he sprang to his feet.
The first thing Abhay did was lock the door to the study. As he went
back to the hidden door, he showed Kant a polaroid tucked inside a
transparent flap of his wallet.
It was of a beautiful, dusky woman with short hair and large eyes full of
intelligence. Her smile was contagious even through the photograph. She
had been clicked by the marble fountain in the front lawn.
‘That’s your mother.’
‘Turn it over,’ Abhay told him, tugging at the depressed section of the
shelf. It swung outward smoothly, revealing another metal-door etched
with strange runes but no doorknob. ‘Not again.’
Kant read and re-read the lines written on the polaroid’s backside, in
Bheeshm’s looping, flowing hand. It said:

Observe more, not merely analyze

Open your eyes, open your mind;
When I’m gone, look within my sanctum,
In the Song of the Lord, lies a grand design…
 ‘By Song of the Lord he meant the Bhagvad Gita--typical Bheeshm,
riddling us even after he’s gone.’ Kant finally struck gold after reading the
lines a fifth time.
‘Good thing I’d learned the words by rote, even though I thought them to
be meaningless when I read it as a twelve-year-old--Dad trying to be
poetic. And he always referred to the study as his sanctum.’ He had also
spent many a night in hostel beds staring at his mother’s photo, trying to
remember what she was like--sometimes crying, as lonely children do. But
he did not share any of that.
‘So, how do we open this?’
The hidden door was strong and sophisticated, a smaller replica of the
door into the study. Abhay did not see anything else till he stooped to
waist-level. There was a little triangular slot, too small to be noticed amid
the clutter.
‘Now we’ll have to find a key that fits into this?’ Abhay’s tone was that
of utter exasperation.
Kant extended a thin, silver stub before him, strung on a black thread.
‘That should fit. Good thing I noticed it around the Laughing Buddha.’
It was unlike any key Abhay had seen: about four inches long, smooth
and triangular with tiny grooves and holes at its tip, instead of the usual
teeth.
‘Looks sophisticated, like some key that would open a laser-powered
vault or a safe in some ultramodern bank.’ Abhay remarked, inserting the
key into the slot.
‘Do you believe now?’
There was a low electronic beep and the door parted inward with a
mechanical click. Abhay paused.
Parents leave legacies--of wealth, name, values and character--in their
wake. Abhay had inherited his father’s secrets more than anything else. He
knew it in his bones that he was standing at the point-of-no-return; about
to unearth the rationale behind his father’s aloofness and lies. And in a
weird way, he did not expect it to fall within his boundary of logic.
He took a deep breath and nudged the door open.
 Chapter 5
Pieces Of A Puzzle

Even if Abhay did not believe the recently discovered facets of his
father’s life before, there was presently more than enough proof to change
his perception in one glance.
The antechamber behind the metal door was smaller than Bheeshm’s
study, with a ceiling low enough for Abhay to reach out and touch. There
were more symbols and runes crammed overhead yet none overlapped;
concentric patterns--squares, circles, lotuses and triangles, intricately
overlaid with writings that seemed a combination of letters in Sanskrit and
some other language.
The only light inside the room came from a bank of small screens
arranged in three rows of seven, covering the width of the wall; long-range
radio equipment and two satellite phones in charging cradles on a metal
shelf beneath.
Except for one static-filled screen, the rest displayed live-feeds from
around the estate: parts of the woods, the main gate and perimeter walls,
going as far as to cover the balcony and the backyard--each location neatly
labeled underneath; the cameras showing the darkened parts of the woods
were equipped with night vision. It was the one marked as FRONT HALL--
the crime scene--that showed static.
The desk Kant was referring to was in the middle of the room, currently
lying ignored, even though it most likely contained the so-called magic
Kant had mentioned.
Their attention was entirely set upon a heavy stone statue in the corner to
the left of the door. It was the creation of a master sculptor: of a perfectly-
built warrior garbed in armor and clothing worn more than six-seven
centuries ago, probably even earlier than that: a thick carven belt over a
dhoti and greaves with flat sandals that in reality would have likely been
iron-shod.
The two most striking features of the statue--apart from the beautiful,
thought-provoking details--were the sigils on the belt and the armor,
respectively. The former bore a coat of arms with two maces crossed over
a waving pennant. The other one on the chest armor was a large crest of
the sun, with lines signifying its rays extending outward.
‘Some god or a legendary king from the stories?’ Abhay said, fidgeting
with an out-of-place metal-gauntlet slipped around the statue’s right arm.
He could think of nobody else who could deserve such glory as an artist’s
elaborate, life-like masterpiece.
‘I think he’s a bit of both.’ Kant indicated at the two sigils. ‘Two maces
and the pennant, I don’t know what the first one stands for but this here,’
his fingers lingered upon the sun-crest, ‘I can bet it stands for the Clan of
the Sun: the Suryavanshis. Lord Ram was from the Suryavanshi clan,
wasn’t he? This could be him.’
It made sense, even though the depiction in the statue was at the farthest
extremity from the benign deity popularly idolized in the human
conscious: no kingly raiment, no gold or silk or pearls, no crown on the
head; his arms ended in bunched fists instead of the right palm facing the
devotee in benediction.
The master-sculptor had never intended to sculpt a god, given the vivid,
evocative expression of grim sorrow and pain outlining the statue’s face
beneath long, matted locks of hair hanging past his broad shoulders. It was
the image of a mere mortal searching for his abducted spouse, torn by war,
duty and bereavement--not a shred close to the aggrandized version of the
Maryada Purushottam the epics sing Ram to be, the deity fervently
worshipped by billions and fought over by generations of religious
fanatics.
It was a chunk shaped from stone yet it looked as if Lord Ram was
awaiting revival. All someone had to do was blow life into the statue.
Abhay would have overlooked a significant detail but Kant directed his
attention. ‘Look at the stone pedestal, between his feet.’
He was referring to a large depression made by a palm with thick, long
fingers splayed--too big to accommodate Kant’s hand when he tried to fit
his palm inside the hand-print.
‘Who has such ham-sized hands--a wrestler?’ Abhay said.
Kant shook his head, getting up on his feet. His knees cracked like pistol
shots. ‘The only person who might want to leave an impression or a
signature on one’s creation would be the creator. That’s probably the
sculptor’s signature.’
Abhay could not even imagine how someone with hands thrice larger
than his own could have handled the tools that gave the statue a life of its
own. But they definitely belonged to someone big and strong enough to
punch holes through a brick wall--or crush skulls, he thought.
‘The magic, you were going to show me what’s in the desk,’ Abhay told
Kant, distancing himself from the statue.
He took a careful survey around the heavy, ornate desk, opening its
drawers around the kneehole, one by one. The thing came till just below
his waist, cumbersome enough to crush a man--easily over two hundred
kilos. The front and sides were embossed with carved panels showing tiny
stick figures of humans, animals and distinct humanoid shapes with
crowns and halos--the gods, without a doubt.
‘Look on the underside, around the knee-hole. There might be some kind
of a switch or a lever.’ Kant told Abhay.
It took him a minute of meticulous searching to find a protrusion in the
smoothness of the wood, way back inside the kneehole. ‘I found
something,’ Abhay toggled till the stub shifted to one side.
There was a loud click before the desk started to clatter and thrum,
splitting the silence within the room with its internal din.
Abhay’s impulse was to jerk away, as if he had awakened a python from
its slumber. His left hip struck the narrow metal shelf below the bank of
screens. Equipment clattered upon the floor and broke but neither of them
paid attention.
From the sound of it, there were wheels and cogs turning inside the desk.
Even as Abhay and Kant stood gaping, a crack of light seeped from a
widening seam along the desk’s left side. Motes of glowing moon-dust
rose from within as a chest slid out of the woodwork to disgorge the desk’s
secret.
‘Tell me you don’t believe this to be magic.’ Kant grinned as the glow
spread across the room.

In Hindi language, the word to describe it would be alaukik. Its closest

equivalent in the English dictionary is numinous--which means, indicating
or suggesting the strong presence of divinity.
The tiny pinpricks of light-dust floating above and around the open
cabinet made Abhay feel that way: like he was in the presence of some
otherworldly, divine power. It was as if all his accrued grief and despair
since Bheeshm’s death had taken a backseat and some inexplicable hope
was blooming within his heart, replacing the negative emotions the way
the sunrise devours darkness.
The inner space of the desk was lined with sheets of dull, silvery metal
and the light-motes were radiating from the surface of a phosphorescent
disc: a Chakra made of some exotic metal that gave off a golden-white
luminosity. For some strange reason the disc was clamped in place within
sturdy metal strips for restraints. Next to it was an oblong bundle, as long
as Abhay’s arm, wrapped in green velvet.
The Chakra’s radiance rippled across its metal surface: golden, where the
numinous energy emanated from, brazen and dull as the inside of the
cabinet elsewhere; the golden glow shifted and pulsed in radial waves, like
a placid surface of a fluid was being disturbed by a falling drop.
‘It’s so soothing,’ Kant seemed to be in a trance, ‘feels as if nothing is
wrong with the world and no fear or insecurity has ever existed. It might
sound crazy, but I feel I have so much to look forward to in life. Perhaps, I
can even quit smoking. Here, let me show you something.’ He bent and
hummed to the Chakra, repeated the sound twice more but the disc
responded with nothing beyond a faint flicker. ‘When Bheeshm had
hummed to it, it glowed even brighter. I don’t know why it’s not working.
But then, it wasn’t glowing beforehand when he revealed it to me.’
‘This might be what got Dad killed, why he didn’t let anyone enter the
study.’ Abhay felt a shudder travel down his spine.
‘As a matter of fact the desk was brought to the house not long ago.
Bheeshm mentioned something about how they’d been changing its
location every few days, to keep it safe. There were men and women with
guns and swords, roaming all over the place when I was here some eight
days before I set out for Bangalore to attend your convocation.’
‘The question is what is it still doing here, unguarded by even a
weaponless soul?’ Abhay looked at Kant, more confounded than
impressed by the glowing Chakra and its hypnotic luminescence.
‘Think about it, Abhay,’ Kant ran his finger along the Chakra’s glow,
feeling its serrated edge, ‘you really think this place is so vulnerable?’
Abhay had only to look around at the tantric devices and symbols on the
ceiling and walls to get it.
‘You think all this is some kind of mumbo-jumbo--some witchcraft to
secure against any attacker,’ Kant was nodding. ‘Then why does it not
affect us? I mean we practically strolled in without facing any hiccup or
hurdle.’
‘I wish I could prove it but after this,’ Kant tapped a knuckle against the
Chakra, ‘if your father had told me an old hag with a spinning wheel lives
on the moon, I would’ve believed that too. This thing is a piece of metal,
yet it acts as if it is alive.’
‘That means there must be people who can do magic, or however this can
be explained,’ Abhay waved an arm at the overhead runes and symbols.
He thought for a while before he asked: ‘Do you know what the police
think about who might have killed Dad?’
‘They have a theory--mostly because of the symbols painted around the
front--that Bheeshm was a member of some religious cult and due to a
related cause he died, too. His killer was desperate for whatever he or she
sought. Given how the whole place was turned upside down, the killer
went through great pains to search the house for the coveted object.’ Kant
leaned over the desk such that he was peering down upon the Chakra.
‘The spells--if that’s what they are--inscribed around the balcony walls
and elsewhere, got the cops to infer the cult-angle but mostly they’re
baffled about the rest of their findings. They found a number of bloody
footprints and other traces of blood all over the place, from when the killer
was searching the house.
‘And a lot of blood samples show not Bheeshm’s blood but someone
else’s--which convinced them of a struggle between Bheeshm and the
culprit. Your father must’ve wounded him before getting overpowered. So
far, they have found no weapons used in the crime: no stakes, nothing.
And there are no fingerprints anywhere, except for Bheeshm’s. That’s all I
know. Any special reason you asked me what the police know?’
Abhay exhaled, nodding to himself. He leaned over the desk, switching
his gaze between the Chakra and the long velvet bundle. ‘I was wondering
who the killer might be and why did he not find the study when he seems
to have gone about the entire house. For one thing, he might also be
capable of magic, too.’ Struck by decision he delicately hefted the velvet-
wrapped bundle and set it upon the table-top.
He missed what lay beneath the bundle in his curiosity but Kant did not.
Abhay expressed his surprise when Kant came up grunting in effort,
cradling in his arms the thickest, heaviest hardbound volume Abhay had
ever seen, slightly larger than a world-atlas.
The book’s jacket and spine were made of marble; the fore-edge was
clamped shut with metal hasps. When Kant dropped it on the table it made
a solid thump. It bore no title, no marking on the cover, except for a round
blue spiel the size of Abhay’s thumb, embedded onto the front. There was
no mechanism to open the book, not even a tiny keyhole.
‘We’ll worry about this later,’ Kant sighed in resignation, gesturing at the
velvet bundle that only had to be unwrapped. ‘At least that one needs no
key.’
Abhay’s heart galloped inside his chest at the metallic gleam within the
velvet folds. It was a peculiar sword: crooked and curved like a scimitar
along the upper half, its sickle-shaped outer edge sharp as a scythe. A
string of engraved gibberish ran along the length of the straight lower half,
right till the steel crossguard. The hilt was a long, exquisite piece of
polished wood-and-metal, built for balance, terminating into a bulging
pommel studded with a blood-red gemstone the size of a golf-ball.
‘An antique blade, a unique piece of metalwork--must have its value in
millions, or billions.’ Abhay said, turning to glance at the book. He rubbed
a finger over the glazed spiel.
The locked hasps snapped open at the contact between his finger pads
and the gemstone.
‘What did you do this time?’ Kant was frowning, glancing between
Abhay’s surprised face and the unlocked book.
‘I only touched the gem,’ Abhay turned to the opening page.
In golden cursive letters the title inside read ‘Dwij’, with the bow-and-
arrow crest of the Rajvardhans’ underneath.
‘Dwij: its translation in the common tongue means a wise man, or
someone born twice. Seems this symbol is more than a family crest.
Explains why Bheeshm never talked about his father and grandfathers
except for insignificant tidbits. Maybe being a member of this
organization, it runs in your blood, boy.’
Kant flipped through the soft, thin pages that whispered softly. Each had
handwritten entries, some even with crude diagrams of objects and grids
neither could understand. Some entries had an aesthetic, diligent flow
while some looked more like hasty scrawls. Where the entries in one hand
ended, a new entry started in another hand.
‘A diary or a journal, authored by the line of the Dwij,’ Abhay whistled
through his teeth, following the dates mentioned. The first entry was made
in the 1200s, proceeding onward in time; the longest entries ranged
between ten to eighteen pages, the shortest ones were between half to two
pages. The Book was more than eighty percent filled.
‘Memoirs and historical accounts, myths, even some songs...’ Kant
thumbed to the last entries, reading snatches of manuscript in-between
before he turned a page and stopped.
They were looking at a calligraphic handwriting: lucid, amply spaced
words and letters with distinct serifs, close to fifteen pages. Both
recognized the writing at first glance.
‘Dad’s handwriting,’ Abhay muttered.
‘What does the symbol of Aum mean instead of a page-number?’ Kant’s
observation brought Abhay back to attention.
For some reason his father had made a symbol of Aum at the centre
bottom of every page he had written in, where the page-number is
supposed to be.
They did not notice the Chakra’s glow flicker.
It seemed like a juvenile thing to repeatedly use the symbol of Aum.
Abhay clearly remembered a boy in his eighth-grade. He belonged to a
steadfast Brahmin family, a topper of the class. But when it came to
writing exams he would always scribble an Aum at the right upper corner
in every page of his answer-sheet: either a superstition or some good-luck
charm.
‘I highly doubt it signifies anything specific.’ Abhay said, even though he
seemed far from convinced by his own explanation.
‘A mystical symbol that denotes the primordial sound, the most
auspicious Hindu religious word, associated with the vibrations of the
universe.’ Kant said. ‘Aum.’
The Chakra’s glow flickered and this time they both noticed it.
‘That’s it...vibrations!’ Abhay turned lively, like he had found his eureka
moment. ‘Dad wasn’t humming to the Chakra, uncle. He might’ve been
chanting the sacred word. He left the symbol in place of a page number for
a reason.’
‘Aum,’ they spoke in unison.
The glow seeping out from the Chakra flickered right before their eyes.
‘Om,’ Abhay repeated, bewildered and curious. It happened again: a
response to a specific stimulus.
‘A-u-m…’ Kant followed with the correct enunciation, drawing air into
chest then slowly exhaling, prolonging the sound till his lungs began to
burn.
The Chakra flashed brighter, the pulse lasting for much longer. It was as
if the right pronunciation had infused the piece of exotic metal with life.
Abhay saw it in more logical terms: sound energy transforming into
light...and something else: like a voice growing louder inside his head,
beckoning him closer.
Drawn towards the light he reached out unconsciously. Locked in a
trance, a fresh chant formed on his lips. His finger touched the metal and
the glow pulsed, suddenly dazzling with the combination of direct contact
and the cantillation of Aum.
A pressure seemed to develop inside the room as Abhay directed air
through his lungs, drawing the sacred vibration from the pit of his stomach
and upward. The hair on his arms rose in gooseflesh. ‘A-u-m…’
Symbols within the glowing surface were emerging and fading on the
Chakra, the metal responding with a perceivable thrum as his chant
approached a crescendo. The glow and vibration intensified, till the disc
began to shake against the metal restraints. The screens on the wall began
to flicker with a maddening flux of energy.
He stopped chanting, tried to pull his fingers away but could not break
the contact with the Chakra and its intensifying glow. His fingertips were
hot against its effulgence, glued to the metal.
 ‘What’s happening?’ Kant’s voice was fear mixed with profound
wonder.
‘It’s stuck to my fingers,’ Abhay shouted, becoming aware of a sound
within his ears, like a sudden onrush of howling winds. He pulled his hand
away with unexpected difficulty, like his fingers had stuck to a hot pan.
And just like that, the Chakra’s glow dwindled to its previous consistent
sheen, only a shifting ripple of gold-and-white along the metal surface.
Kant gingerly traced his index along the Chakra before he recoiled.
‘It’s hot. You realize it reacted to your touch and not mine?’ he said.
Abhay looked at him in disbelief then slowly extended his hand once
again, tapping the metal briefly.
And the Chakra flared in response, the ripple spreading along its entire
surface area then subsiding. The glow entirely disappeared in a few
seconds, leaving an ordinary ornate disc etched with mandalas and runes.
‘It’s almost as if the metal can somehow differentiate between our
touch.’ Abhay examined the hair on his arms, still prickling with
gooseflesh.
‘This wasn’t made by humans, that’s for sure.’ Kant said, stepping back a
few steps. ‘I’m more interested in finding out why it responds to you.’
He laid his palm over the Chakra yet nothing happened, not even a spark
or a ripple.
‘There must be a coherent explanation…’ Abhay had barely said it when
the Chakra seemed to explode with light, like a fiery eye opening.
They were least prepared for the brilliance that flashed out of the disc.
They shielded their eyes against the glare, just as a grating sound started
building up. The restraints shuddered with a renewed fury.
The two men backed towards the door: mute spectators to an ineffable,
uncontrollable phenomenon.
The Chakra was rotating, trying to cut through the clamps, like a
desperate prisoner filing feverishly at the bars of prison-cell. Sparks flew
as the disc struggled to move.
It did not have to struggle for long.
Like a beast uncaged after years of confinement the Chakra emancipated
itself, still spinning as it broke out of the restraints. And it rose three feet
above the desk, lifted by an unseen hand. The glow lengthening outward in
periodic waves, each stronger than the last. Symbols in a blue circle
formed beneath the lower surface, outlined upon the desk.
It was as if light was permeating through their skin and bone, pumping
them with blood and euphoria of a rapturous kind.
Waves of pure white light flooded the room, the motes spreading like
millions of pollens. They were breathing it all in. Abhay had no idea he
was grinning with an inexplicable joy. Kant had tears in his eyes and a
deep smile stamped on his lips.
The surge of energy lasted for over half-a-minute, even though it felt
much longer. The Chakra then lost its sheen, remained suspended in the
air for a fraction of a second before it clanged upon the dismembered bed
of restraints below, flat and lifeless.
The bank of screens had gone dark in the interim but they came back up,
one by one.
‘What did we just see, Abhay?’ Kant asked breathlessly.
Abhay could not speak for many seconds before he answered: ‘Magic,
some sort of a miracle: that’s how you described it.’
Kant and Abhay stepped towards the desk with cautious, baby steps.

Far from the Rajvardhan residence, two identical devices had picked up
an energy signature. They began to sound an alarm. The energy signatures
of the Chakra were like homing beacons for these devices.
One of them was based off the Indian coastline, in the middle of the
Andaman Sea.
The other alarm sounded light-years away.
Little did Abhay know, but his interaction with the Chakra had lit up a
flame of limitless power. Just as a burning candle attracts moths, the
Chakra had announced its presence to certain beings--only these moths
had stings.
PART TWO
 Regarding the Angiris
[From the writings of Dwij Aparshakti,
the 1307th Commander of Legion]
Dwapar-yuga was coming to an end. The Battle of Mahabharata was
over, yet like an unquenchable fire the physical and metaphysical changes
it had triggered, spread and bloomed across the realm of Oorja. It was a
clear sign of the days to come: when Kaliyuga would begin and petty
emotions of greed, envy and lust would only add fuel to the fire, turning it
into a conflagration that had the potential to decimate civilizations.
The spores of Dushan began to multiply at an unprecedented rate,
tainting Manushya thought and intent like a silent plague. The blight of
Andhakar was spreading through the Tree of Life, snuffing out Oorja,
little by little. And pillars of order started to crumble not only on Prithvi,
but also in Swargam.
The Devas were quarrelling among one another, launching rogue
expeditions against the Asuras and dying in droves. Many came under the
thrall of despair, unable to prevent Andhakar from spreading its rankling
influence; they had miserably failed to do the very task they were created
to perform.
They had already stopped multiplying, their powers had grown weaker
and Kaliyuga had not yet arrived in full force. More Devas were turning to
end their lives by merging their physical form with the Eternal Flame. The
capital of Devasthali was turning into a desolation right before the eyes of
Deva Lord Indra, the last of a long line.
Less than four centuries before Dwapar-yuga ended, all that remained
were Indra and a few more of his loyal Devas. They knew Swargam would
become empty when they were gone, with only the Seven Sages--the
Saptarishi--left to shoulder the onus of an entire universe. And that the end
would come before Kaliyuga arrived was an unavoidable fact--none of the
Devas had the strength left to go through the gradual decay of their bodies
and godly powers, or to witness Mother Oorja’s decline and the corruption
of Prithvi.
Indra and the remaining Devas performed a ritual of abstinence and long
tapas--as a last ditch effort to awaken the dormant Tridevas. It lasted for
more than a century before there was a stirring in the Prakashkoopam:
where the Trinity has been residing since before the Satyuga.
The Tridevas did not speak to Devas much through mystical visions, nor
did they do anything to restore Swargam’s lost glory and prowess. They
instead responded by birthing an entirely new breed of Celestials to take
the place of Devas in the days to come.
The first of the Angiris were created bodily from the churning, burning
depths of the Prakashkoopam, in the very image of the Devas--just like the
Manushyas. Stronger than any human but vulnerable in comparison to the
Devas, the ten Angiris were most definitely not the solution Indra had
sought.
But little hope was better than none.
The last of the Devas devoted their final days to the upbringing of the
Angiris, even though they did not directly involve themselves with the
training of the ten. The Saptarishis were the true mentors to the novel
breed, following the guidelines laid by Indra, regulating the information
and revelations as per the will of the Devas--and sometimes, their own.
Even though an Angiri’s abilities are hard to list, each of these celestials
is capable of great feats, gifted with basic powers of flight, superior
strength and agility; mind-control, telekinesis and telepathy; a fast healing
and regenerative ability and finally, their power to manipulate Oorja to a
considerable extent.
The last ability stems from two factors: the knowledge of spells and the
capacity of the Angiri-form to channel Oorja. It was in the former case that
the Saptarishis applied their discretion, with a mind to limit the strength of
the Angiris by controlling the flow of knowledge.
The Saptarishis were only Manushyas at the end of the day, even though
they had achieved transcendence and a place among the Devas. They
understood and empathized when Indra instructed that the Angiris be made
powerful enough to take on the Asuras, but not so powerful that they could
control the fate of Prithvi at a snap of their fingers--Indra had foreseen
how Andhakar’s influence would come to affect both Swargam and Prithvi
after Dwapar-yuga ended; he had a firsthand experience of the process of
decay. How it muddled the perceptions among his people and stoked ego
and vanity. Too much power in the hands of an individual or a select group
had good chances of leading up to dire consequences, as the days
darkened.
The Saptarishis taught the ten Angiris accordingly. They were taught to
use and understand the vocabulary of the Devas--the High Oorja-speak--
but what they were told was much less than the limits of comprehension.
The flow of selective information ensured no Angiri would be able to
harness excessive devastating energy or fully unravel the mysteries of
Deva-technology.
 Being representatives of the human race, the Seven Sages saw the
universe from their own unique perspective. They loved their Angiri
disciples, but they loved Prithvi and its creatures even more. They hid
away the Deva-texts, most of the artifacts and weapons of mass-
destruction all over Prithvi; every single hallowed object or book, out of
mind, out of sight--or destroyed.
The Angiris have found a way through this paucity of knowledge over
the last millennia, by developing a language of their own. A new approach
to summon and channel cosmic energies by filling the gaps in the Deva
vocabulary: by substituting words of their own design.
What the spells in the Angiri-tongue can achieve, is still like a lake in
comparison to the ocean that those in chaste Devnagri--or High Oorja-
speak--can muster. But compared to what the spell-casters of Legion are
capable of, the Angiri spells carry far more lethal power and superior
efficacy to give the Angiris an edge over all of us, making them indeed the
most powerful beings of the Brahmand.
Know your enemy but do not forget your friends. In the Age of Kali, it
takes little motivation for a friend to turn into a formidable foe.
A Dwij should know when it has happened and always be prepared for
the eventuality. Remember, just as their limited wisdom binds the Angiris,
their physical existence makes them susceptible to the process of life,
death and decay.
This is another chink in an Angiri’s armor. The growing strength of
Andhakar will affect a Celestial with greater ease than it affects us
Manushyas. Prithvi will turn hostile towards an Angiri as time passes and
the Spores of Dushan multiply exponentially. Their abilities will become
more confined as Andhakar’s taint spreads. No Deva could find a way out
of this irreversible plight--the debilitating effect of Kaliyuga--nor can the
Angiris. Or even the Manushya-kind, for that matter.
The weapons made of Ashtadhatu can make the Angiris bleed, as it
happened in the case of the Devas. The Asura-poison might be able to
afflict their body and mind to such an extent that the Angiri will not die an
easy death.
…

[An excerpt from the memoirs of Dwij Jambvan,

the 1597th Commander of Legion]
A cordial alliance, more than two millennia old, has fallen apart.
The fate of our alliance was decided the moment the Angiris rained fire
from the sky and vaporized an entire battalion of Legionnaires. Their
intentions might have been true and noble, their action driven out of gross
error, but it can in no way mitigate the loss of lives suffered in the
incident.
Our warriors were returning after a battle with the Asuras, in the jungles
of Khmer. They took shelter for the night in the ruins of a Vishnu temple
inhabited by monks.
The Angiris, led by their hot-headed leader named Tamas, were on a
false trail. The Asuras they were hunting had already been eliminated by
the Legion less than fifty miles from the temple. None of the Celestials
even paused to ascertain whether it was a horde of Asura Darkborns and
half-bloods they were attacking, or some six hundred innocent humans
sheltering within the temple.
Their information, as one of their representatives later admitted, had been
incorrect. But the damage was already done.
All it took were a few seconds, a fatal spell and a witless move from a
creature with power.
Tamas has sent only a written apology and brief condolences. But I could
see it in the eyes of his messenger--a Prahari living on Prithvi for
centuries--that the Angiri-kind deeply regretted the reckless attack, even if
Tamas did not.
The prevalent mood among our warriors is of anger and indignation. A
great many have expressed their distaste and dissatisfaction at the Elder
Angiri’s conduct. Had our places been exchanged and five hundred
Angiris would have died in place of our warriors, would the Celestials
condone the act on grounds of human error--or would they seek justice and
vengeance against the Legion?
I am faced with two choices: either take the path of hatred or let time heal
our wounds.
A direct confrontation with the Celestials means more bloodshed. Even
though we may defeat the Angiris there is no way we would be able to
escape without loss on our side. The path of vengeance would only be
leading us deeper into the pits of carnage.
But does it make us any better to sit with our hands in our laps and let the
matter rest--do nothing against the gross injustice committed in the name
of tactical error? The soldier in me wants to pick up arms but the Dwij says
otherwise. That I cannot let emotions prevail and turn this friction into a
full-blown strife. To add another name to our long list of adversaries
would be folly.
And if the rumors are true then Swargam is already buckling under the
weight of its own troubles.
From what we have managed to gather through our prolonged association
with the Praharis around the globe, the taint of Andhakar has begun to
manifest itself more prominently than ever in their home-world. They are
facing similar circumstances as the Devas once did.
Their unions are no more as fruitful as they were at the beginning of the
millennium. There are less and less Angiris being born out of the
Prakashkoopam, at longer intervals. If the trend continues, their numbers
would become stagnant in the near-future.
As if the looming threat of extinction was not enough, an equally grim
situation is under way in the skies of Swargam. According to the Praharis,
the atmosphere around their homeworld was spell-worked by the Devas, to
act something like an alarm system. Every time Andhakar rears its head
and a major event of chaos and destruction disrupts the flow of Oorja on
Prithvi, the sky in Swargam reflects the disruption: it becomes stormy and
dark clouds cover the two suns.
Before Kaliyuga, it all was working just as it was supposed to, rousing
the Devas every time the Asuras on Prithvi tried to disrupt the peace. The
weather would always turn back to normal as soon as the Devas or the
Legion restored the balance.
But Kaliyuga’s advent changed everything, brought out the flaw in the
grand designs of the Devas.
For the last many centuries, the sky in Swargam has been showing the
true colors of the age we are in; it remains stormy and the rains last for
months in a row, refusing to allow much sunlight to enter. The
enchantments continue to act according to the intensities of the dark
energies, engendered by the ever-rising concentrations of the Spores on
Prithvi.
It’s as if the alarm keeps ringing in their watchtower, and all they can do
is live in despair, fighting their own crises. Imagine how living in
Swargam would feel to an Angiri. Even if they hunted and killed every
single one of the Asuras, they are helpless against the Spores of Dushan
that would still continue corrupting our planet. Manushya-kind and Prithvi
have long crossed the threshold of stability and now there is no turning
back or reversing the damage.
The Legion, the Angiris and every single creature imbued with Oorja: we
are all in the same crucible now, right until the very end. Our task is to
hold the door open, for the Light to enter our world--together, even if that
means burning old bridges between our races and building them anew.
I pray what has happened to our alliance does not happen again. The days
have only begun to darken and we cannot afford to fight one another--
protectors against protectors.
That would mean the enemy has already won, by default.
 Chapter 6
The Stirring

Voices woke up Bheeshm’s Killer: Angiri voices, filled with high-

pitched outcries of joy and enthusiasm.
He was lying on a pallet made of woven dried grass and leaves, inside a
subterranean grotto. Electricity crackled and hissed outside the dank, dark
room, a flashing sizzle of sparks peeping in through the doorway to his
right.
His first thought was his hideout had been discovered. He woke up with a
start, ready to use a killing-spell and strike down any Angiri that entered
the grotto. He focused some more before realizing the voices were
nowhere close: they were coming from afar, thoughts and emotions
relayed via the psychic channels.
‘Behold the glory of Tridevas!’
‘The Trinity has answered our prayers!’
‘Long live Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva!’
The words full of optimism propelled him to get up on his feet in one
smooth motion.
Only it did not go as smooth as he had expected.
The Killer staggered and bent over the moment he was up, grunting and
moaning in sudden, incapacitating pain. ‘The accursed spell of the damned
Manushyas, not even letting us sleep or move freely.’ His deep voice
boomed over the chatter of electricity.
‘We have to have it, the Halāhal,’ he hissed then, in a different voice, sly
and dangerous, ‘to assuage this pain making our waking and slumbering
hours miserable.’
‘There’s no time. We need to first find out what is happening at the
surface.’ The voice changed to its previous tone and timbre.
It took him some effort to don his hooded cloak over the bodysuit he
wore: the latter being the standard habit of an Angiri, hugging on to him
like a second skin; made of millions of nano-particles of Ashtadhatu, fused
together with spells to act as an armor. In extreme situations, the Oorja
stored within the gemstones in his divine-metal gauntlets could provide
him with additional power to cast complex spells and perform attacks that
required greater strength.
‘This cannot be..we know what would happen if the Tridevas returned.’
The Killer hissed like an angry serpent.
 The voice switched back to the booming normal one with a click of his
throat. ‘We should be more concerned with the whys than the what-ifs.
Why have the Tridevas stirred after all these ages?’
To someone listening to him it would have seemed like there were two
people talking, instead of one.
‘Think of what they would do to us if they have returned to power.’ He
hissed and shuddered: the only Angiri in the entire Swargam who seemed
far from overjoyed to hear the exhilarated conversation over the psychic
chatter. It was fear he exuded, the kind of fear that grips a culprit or a
sinner when the hour of reckoning arrives.
When he emerged from his subterranean hideout his boggled, frightened
mind registered the first sign of change: it was still raining, but the sky was
rapidly lightening up overhead; sunrays pierced through the cloud cover as
thick, slanting shafts of yellow-white, instilling his surroundings with a
natural color he had not witnessed in a long long time.
‘We know what their return would mean for our plan, do we not?’ Snake
Voice hissed at the dark, drooping clouds as they dissipated into wisps.
The Killer shook his head under the hood of his flowing cloak. With a
throaty click, the nagging, slithery voice turned normal.
‘It would mean a dismal end to all that we’ve planned: no Brahmāstra,
no Halāhal and no Asura to provide us with more of it.’
With a graceful jerk, a pair of fiery wings sprouted from his back and
flapped repeatedly, lifting him off the ground. He flew towards the
brightening horizon to his left, where the cloud-cover had almost entirely
lifted.
Thirty miles further, across the lively green of the forest of Aranya, the
reason for celebration of his Angiri kindred loomed mighty and glowing: a
broad, colossal pillar of stone, towering well above the clouds. It was
bathed in light from the tip to the base, the plants growing over its sides
shining in their natural greens even from afar. The cloud cover that
enveloped it perpetually was parting, the light repelling the dark armies of
rain into retreat.
At the very lofty top of this tower, glowed and gushed a presence no less
brighter than the two suns in the sky of Swargam. It flared with intensity,
sending out a concentrated beam of Oorja into the sky.
The voices of the Angiris rose by many notches, the mighty eagles and
Garudas screeched in victory at the sight. A crescent of blue and white
waters began to open up beyond the forest as the Killer broke into a fresh
spurt of speed.
Aranya ended and the Killer landed upon an overhanging promontory of
a cliff more than a hundred metres above the churning, foamy Ksheer Sea.
The restless waters separated him from the opposite shore, where the
erstwhile capital of the Devas stood.
The broad tower with its crown of light rose at the center of the three
concentric mandalas that formed the city of Devasthali. In the days
preceding the Angiris, the Solarium tower was where Indra and his Deva
courtiers held their counsels.
Its present significance was only on account of the Prakashkoopam,
within which resided the Trinity: the source of brilliant spectacle in the
sky.
The Solarium tower dwarfed even the most magnificent citadel and
pantheon within the second circle of Devasthali, ten times taller than the
higher skyscraper created by the Manushyas. Far in the background, at a
day’s journey as the Angiri flies, the snow-covered peaks of Mount Meru
and its offshoots rose to challenge the Tower and even they could not
match the monolith’s stature.
The Oorja beam broadened at its tip, like a glowing finger reaching
beyond the sky. Zillions of light-motes originated from the length of the
brilliant pillar, scattered and buffeted all over in the rising winds.
The Killer held still, admiring his homeworld in all its old glory. For any
Angiri born in the last millennia, the sharp colors and abundant light had
only been a figment of imagination, heard of only in tales told by their
elders--until now. The perennial dripping, grey mantle of rain and storm
had finally lifted.
Shadows were driven away as Oorja thundered at the pinnacle of
Solarium. The rain had stopped and several rainbows were emerging over
the land and sea.
Even the marine creatures had surfaced to witness the splendor of the
Tridevas, crying out at the straight, solid beam of Oorja shooting upwards
and dispelling the thunderheads in a wide radius. Angiris in Devasthali
were rising on their wings to reach closer to the Prakashkoopam’s restored
brilliance. Hundreds of harps strummed together in a hymn. The goliath
birds pitched in with their victory cries, reliving their freedom and flight
beneath the sunshine after ages.
Bheeshm’s Killer could hear every telepathic exchange, each musical
note floating upon the air. For the Angiris in Devasthali the sight was no
less than what a thirsty-soul feels on seeing the oasis in the middle of a
desert. It was as if their lost eyesight had been restored by the stirring of
the Prakashkoopam.
In spite of the apprehension he felt within, the sight was beautiful enough
to make him forget his worries. The light grew brighter, the jet of Oorja at
the tower-top became an onrush of sound and giddying glow.
And only then Bheeshm’s Killer felt the lancing stab of pain in his
eyeballs.
He turned away, shielding his eyes against the cornucopia of colors
hurting his eyes, blinding him. He was a creature of Oorja, yet unable to
face the very brilliance that had shaped him, the very power from which he
derived his strength.
For the first time since waking up he examined the source of his pain.
Starting in the middle of his chest and extending diagonally till the left
side of his torso, the fabric of his Angiri-suit was singed and melded to his
skin--a long, ugly scar, like a lopsided hateful smile.
‘It hurts! We should go back. We need the Halāhal.’ True Voice meekly
pleaded.
A fleeting spasm shook his frame before the Snake Voice said, ‘We have
come this far, we cannot lose--not now when we are this close to the last
mile.’
He got up, clutching a pale hand over his chest, where the scar looked the
worst. Before he could summon his wings and fly away, he sensed a
transition in the light behind him. The Angiris uttered a frantic sound, like
a unified gasp.
He turned towards Devasthali and peered from beneath his hood.
The Oorja-beam heralding the awakening of Tridevas was sputtering and
fizzling out, getting thinner with every consecutive flash. The Killer stood
watching, unable to understand the sudden weakening sputter of the
Prakashkoopam, for many seconds. Then a grin stretched beneath the
hood.
‘It’s fading, the Oorja is fading!’ the True Voice proclaimed, replaced by
the hissing, cackling Snake Voice.
The Oorja-beam thinned even further, becoming discontinuous as it
waned. It flared one last time and fluttered into non-existence, leaving
nothing but an empty blue sky above the Solarium Tower.
‘The Trinity is too weak to endure the Kaliyuga. Fortune smiles upon us.’
The Snake Voice trembled with delight, as if he was on the verge of
breaking into a merry dance.
He still could not believe what had just happened--nor could the Angiris
in-flight above Devasthali, or the giant birds circling the Tower and the
marine creatures poking out their heads above the surface of the foamy
Ksheer Sea.
The world held its breath, even the wind died down and all eyes
remained fixed upon the sunlit tower-top, waiting for the Oorja-beam to
reignite.
The dark clouds that had been pushed back or disintegrated by the
Prakashkoopam’s brilliance remained suspended at a safe distance from
the Solarium; then they began to close in around the Tower, the sky like a
landmass about to submerge beneath the surging sea. The clouds shifted,
merged and multiplied. The shadows crept forward underneath the cloud-
cover.
The air was abuzz with distress and confusion. Despair intensified once
again as the Tower’s lofty pinnacle was hidden from view. Within a few
blinks, even the last dappling shafts of sunlight disappeared.
Then DRIP--a drop of rain fell upon the Killer’s hood; DRIP, another
struck his shoulder. It began to rain all at once in a few breaths, as if the
thunderheads had never gone anywhere and the stirring of Prakashkoopam
was a false illusion.
A chorus of hopeless cries went up all over Devasthali.
The inhabitants of Swargam could not contain their outrage anymore.
The oasis in the desert had turned out to be a mirage. The air was
splintered with the keening cries of the Garudas and mighty eagles as they
flew back towards their eyries on Mount Meru; the creatures of the Ksheer
disappeared beneath the leaping waves, honking their disappointment.
‘Felt like a dying whimper of a flame instead of an awakening,’ the True
Voice wondered, feeling the pain of his scar subside a little.
‘It was a stirring, one Swargam hasn’t witnessed in more than a thousand
years. We will rejoice, but only after we have seen what the others make of
it. Snake Voice clicked in response.
He took flight through the flurry of raindrops, leaving a streak of water
droplets in his wake. The scar smarted, radiating freshets of pain that
compelled him to keep his speed contained. His throat was parched, every
cell of his body resisting his effort, the muscles cramped and aching.
The scar is getting troublesome, he reminded himself.
The Snake Voice hissed in response, privy to his inner thoughts:
troublesome enough to keep us hanging between sleep and
unconsciousness, yes. It has been over five days on Prithvi, twice that in
Swargam, and we are still unable to figure out the spell that hurt us--
forget healing ourselves.
There is another problem.
What?
We are running low on Halāhal. Without it, the pain is only going to
worsen.
 If the Killer had known: he and Abhay were so far riding the same wave.
Back on Prithvi, while Abhay had been sleeping and drinking to avoid
his grief, the Killer had been pumping himself with doses of his hard-
earned Halāhal to deal with the pain--only his objective had nothing to do
with grief but a consequence of agony and addiction. Halāhal numbed the
sensation, even though one dose of it was wearing off twice as fast as it
normally did because of the accursed scar.
‘More Halāhal would require a fresh exchange with our allies. We’ll
need to make another trip to Prithvi, soon.’ Snake Voice said, just as the
Killer changed his flight path and hovered closer to the ground, proceeding
parallel to a long flight of sandstone stairs sloping into the ground.
The scar began to burn halfway through, as if his torso had been doused
in oil and set afire. He squirmed mid-air, realizing it too late that his wings
were no more responding to his will.
In spite of his attempts to control the motion, he barely remained afloat
for a second. The forward momentum carried him down the stairs and
there was no purchase to be found.
He bounced and rolled down the last steps, coming to a bone-crushing
halt against a thick column four feet from the bottommost stair. Shadows
swam into his vision, darker than those at the base of the step well. Never
before had he felt so drained in his life.
Too stubborn to give up, he raised himself on his elbow and the pain in
his chest became a searing red-hot dagger cutting him from the inside.
‘Save us, save us from this hell, O Tridevas!’ His True Voice, the one
that belonged to the Angiri, shrieked as he flailed upon the wet stone.
‘We need…Halāhal, not Tridevas!’ Snake Voice took over, driving him
onward in a frenzied, reptilian crawl.
The Killer kept muttering under his breath, alternating between the
voices that used him as their mouthpiece: one screaming and crying, the
other exhorting his body and mind with the allure of the Halāhal stored at
his hideout.
He raised himself on his knees, grinding his teeth against the crippling
pain. He limped into the darkness, the world swimming, all thoughts
getting warbled with each pang of the scar.
He neither felt his vision turn pitch-black, nor did he experience the
impact when he flopped upon the ground.
We underestimated the spell of a Manushya. The True Voice echoed its
sentiment right before he passed out.
‘Halāhal,’ hissed Snake Voice, from far away.
 The two voices scream in the dark, the whirling, spinning eddies of his
thoughts. The pain has passed well beyond a clawing agony, only the
Killer cannot pinpoint it to one spot. It is as if a cold fire engulfs him--one
that does not burn but tortures his very soul.
‘What did I do to deserve this?’ The True Voice wails.
It says not ‘we’ but I, speaking solely on behalf of the Angiri he used to
be.
‘We did everything possible, to survive another day. It is no sin!’ Snake
Voice shrieks.
‘No, that’s not true! I made a deal with the enemy, killed my own people
and countless Manushyas!’
‘Because we have to fulfill our purpose, we have to see this through until
the very end, that’s why. Remember our vengeance, remember our vow.
We are only a few steps away from ushering in a better tomorrow. Soon,
we shall take our revenge, destroy the Asuras to the very last and then…’
The True Voice falls silent when the meaning becomes clear. ‘Then we
will have all the Halāhal we want…and the power of Brahmāstra in our
grasp.’ It finishes the sentence in a voice that sounds eerily like the Other.
The Killer does not even sense the transition, when ‘I’ becomes ‘We’.
Snake Voice hisses in gleeful agreement.
The agony cannot not touch him now, the realization is so liberating. He
fights back against his darkness, energized by the appeal of great reserves
of Halāhal and the Ultimate Weapon of the Devas--he wants nothing else.

The Killer woke up in his bloodied puke, groggy with weariness. The
light was blinding against his eyes; the crackling of electricity like staccato
explosions inside his skull.
And pain superimposed over it all like an opaque film, reducing all his
thoughts to a single, tormenting perception.
He was inside his hideout: a vast subterranean cavern with a vaulting
ceiling and vertical stone walls. At the centre of the chamber was an
upraised stone platform, a ring of twelve metal poles curving inward along
its circumference. Their ends sizzled with electricity every few seconds. A
large, roundish generator gently hummed nearby.
The Killer tried to remember how he had dragged himself to his hideout.
For how long had he been unconscious?
But his head only spun in a whirlwind of disjointed memories: the
brilliant Oorja-beam above Indra’s Solarium; the bespectacled, ageing
Manushya lying upon a bed of ice shafts riddling his body; the sensation of
losing his abilities midair…it all came back slowly. His scar burned across
its length like a red hot brand.
‘Halāhal--we need it--now more than ever,’ the two voices alternated
after every pause, but he barely noticed it as he staggered to his feet. He
was also unaware of his one hand clawing at the throat. The loudest sound
in his ears was his own pounding heartbeat.
He staggered around the platform with the sizzling metal poles, heading
towards an extreme corner of the cavern. His facial muscles and lips ticked
spasmodically.
At his unspoken command a tiny light-orb appeared within the palm of
his right hand, swelling in size as it floated above him, illuminating his
objective.
There was a rough stone-slab at the farthest end of the cavern: two metres
in length and a metre wide, propped upon crude blocks of limestone. The
makeshift table was cluttered with tools, instruments and machine parts;
yellowed scrolls and parchments and an array of tiny vials in metal-
holders, each containing some mean-looking greenish-black ooze that
twitched like it was alive.
He pounced upon a vial, inserted it into a mechanical plunger and lifted
his left arm. The sleeve of his bodysuit smoothly peeled back along his
forearm. The spot in the crook between his elbow and forearm looked
puckered and decayed. Like a charred mouth of a crater with webs of
black, swollen veins radiating outward. The skin was wrinkled and
blackened around the pouting orifice, like a malignant sore.
An ordinary needle could not have breached through the Angiri skin but
the tip of the plunger was Ashtadhatu. It slipped into the puckered fold
without facing any resistance. The Killer pressed the plunger all the way in
and exhaled as if his mind had shot towards bliss.
The Halāhal, as it coursed through his body, began to numb the flaring
pain across his chest with every heartbeat. Colors seeped back into his
world, his hearing became sharp and clear and his strength slowly
returned.
To test his restored vitality, the Killer muttered an incantation.
It was a heat-spell, to which his body reacted by releasing moisture and
sweat in a cloud of steam. He unclasped his dry, bloodstained cloak and let
it fall.
‘Now comes the hard part,’ the True Voice announced to an empty
cavern.
The Snake was not there to add anything, like it always happened after he
partook Halāhal.
The last few days, he had been too weak from the spell-stricken injury
and the strain it had taken to teleport back to Swargam, to perform an
effective healing spell.
With quick, purposeful strides he rushed into the grotto where he had
woken up. The light-orb followed him like a servile attendant. He
examined where the Angiri-suit had melted along the length of the scar
before he framed a spell, summoning Oorja into his being.
The suit came away at his will, its metal-fabric appearing to flow neck-
down towards the scar. The molten Ashtadhatu fused with the scar-tissue
resisted, like firm roots clinging to his skin. He applied some more
pressure, gritting his teeth and inhaling deeply, before he pulled rather
forcibly.
The chamber rang with the Killer’s gurgling shriek for a long time.
When he woke up the heightening effect of the Halāhal was already
fading; the tormenting pain intensifying, tinting his vision red. There was a
bell tolling inside his ears.
Only after he had regained a semblance of focus did it occur to him: the
bell was not inside his head.
‘It’s coming from the Solarium,’ the True Voice whispered.
“We need to go before anyone gets suspicious.” Snake Voice spoke from
deep within, now that the Halāhal’s effect had somewhat faded. “The
Elders have summoned a Council.”
In his entire lifetime, the Killer had only heard the bell thrice, each in an
hour of great crisis. The last time an Angiri Council was convened was
twenty-seven years ago, when the Angiris suffered great losses on Prithvi-
-when the Killer’s story truly began.
He had no way to deal with the suit fused to his scar, or the pain that he
had been experiencing relentlessly since the day he killed Bheeshm. He
hobbled back to the stone-table in the main chamber, inserted a fresh vial
into the plunger and pumped himself with the Halāhal, feeling the
alleviating sensation of hot-and-cold as it entered his bloodstream.
Snake Voice once again receded, coiling in the background as his senses
reasserted themselves.
When he joined the Angiris in Devasthali sometime later, no one could
have told there was a dangerous, ruthless mole walking in their midst;
hiding his true colors beneath an invisible coat of archaic spells and
makeup. He was exceptional at hiding his true appearance--he had been
doing it for well over two decades now.
 Chapter 7
Cause and Effect

The exultation at the Prakashkoopam’s stirring and the shock following

its fading away had left a dull fatalism in the hearts of the Angiris.
Disappointments were nothing new for them. They knew Oorja was
becoming weaker by-the-day. What they had witnessed was another blow
to Her dominion, another nail in the coffin--probably the very last.
Theirs was an existence without purpose: the Tridevas did not respond or
show them their path anymore; their teachers, the Saptarishis immolated
themselves two millennia after Kaliyuga began and now it was their turn to
fade into oblivion. The Angiris were supposed to be the messengers of
Tridevas but they had no message to deliver, no hope to impart to the
creatures of Prithvi.
The events twenty-seven years ago had resulted in Prithvi being declared
a hostile zone. All the death, so many of their loved ones missing to this
day: an event referred to as the Second Fall of Oorja. In their long
memory, the Second Fall still remained a fresh wound--a topic seldom
discussed among the Celestials, for it brought nothing but grief and pain.
And then the fleeting glimpse of a stirring: they had no reason not to
believe that it forebode another crisis on the horizon. Perhaps it had been
creeping upon them for a long time with Andhakar’s swift rise across
Prithvi. Only the Angiris had been too occupied with their own problems
and fears to cull its advance.
They started gathering in the Solarium soon after the telepathic
announcement. The Oorja-portals--doorways that facilitated quick travel
across Swargam--at the base of the Tower became busy teleporting them
to the great hall at the top. These were the Angiris eager to discover what
the Elders had to say. Many others took the long aerial detour to reach the
Tower-top. These needed moment to prepare themselves for whatever ill
tidings they were about to hear.
Regardless, all eyes were dazzled when they arrived at the spacious
Solarium--where the two suns of Swargam, Tejas and Agneya, never set.
Clouds stretched like a white, wispy sea of fluff wherever their eyes went,
amplifying the illumination--an astounding lie hiding the dark, dripping
world underneath.
The Prakashkoopam was the pulsating heart of Indra’s courtroom. Seven
feet below the ornately carved rim of the glowing orifice, hot magma
fumed and shifted with a dull light, releasing a steady cloud of fumes that
spilled over the floor, hiding the Angiris’ feet. The Deva Lord’s gilded,
gem-studded throne was on its other side, a lone seat set upon a high dais
facing the hall.
It was hard to believe the three all-powerful beings of the Brahmand
resided within the inconsequential depths of the Prakashkoopam: dormant
yet continuing to feed their essence to the planet of Swargam and its
atmosphere. Given its dull incandescence it felt nigh unimaginable that not
long ago, the Well-of-Light had been shooting its brilliance up into the
firmament, allowing the sunrays to kiss the land and sea for the first time
in centuries.
The spirits of the arriving Angiris slightly lifted, in spite of the
unfavorable signs and burdensome thoughts. Being in the Solarium was a
rare luxury after living in the dim, ever-raging world of storms and
pouring rain down below.
The council was due any moment and there was not a single Angiri who
was not praying. They prayed there would be no more ill-tidings when the
Elders arrived. Had not they already dealt with enough despair to last them
a while?

Back in Devasthali, two robed figures were moving on the wet,

cobblestone streets in the outermost circle: male Angiris, one taller than
the other by more than two feet. They could have flown on wings-of-Oorja
or taken one of the many Portals to their intended destination. But they had
chosen to walk at a hurried pace, their faces hidden beneath overhanging
hoods drenched in the rain.
Oorja-orbs in sconces illuminated the streets at every interval. The
towering walls of the citadels and temples, topped by huge domes and
jutting spires, came aglow in their vicinity every time lightning flashed in
the sky. Then all would turn into unbroken, dark and dreary silhouettes as
if Devasthali was a necropolis and not a glorious world of sentient
inhabitants.
The two Angiris went past gardens and inactive, sculpted fountains,
crossed the bridges spanning between the circles of Devasthali. There was
no one to notice them. The forums where minstrels sung ballads and
hymns, of Swargam’s past glory, and the avatars of the Tridevas, where
harps and cymbals enlivened the melancholic evenings, were devoid of
both performers and audience. The tall and commodious edifices with
foundations dating back to Satyuga looked like soulless, dim husks,
making the skyline ominous and drab.
‘Perhaps this is how Swargam would look eventually, when we are
gone.’ The shorter of the two Angiris said. ‘They say we are drawing
closer to the End prophesied by the Devas and Saptarishis.’ His voice
sounded young, no more than that of a teenager.
‘They always say that when trouble rears its head,’ the taller Angiri
replied, peering around from under his hood. ‘Yet we manage to fight our
way through. And no one knows how it is supposed to end, except for
what the prophecy says about the Last Stand of the Tridevas and of
Vishnu’s incarnation as Kalki. What if the Prakashkoopam births new
messengers to take our place in Swargam? Swargam would not be empty
then.’
The younger Angiri pondered before he replied: ‘Even if that came to
pass, the newborn celestials would not be like the Devas, or like us. Oorja,
the Tridevas, the Devas and finally we Angiris: each subsequent
manifestation of Mother Oorja has been less powerful than the last. Will
the new Celestials be enough then?’
‘You are too deep and astute a thinker for one who is the youngest of our
race, Jayant. Let us discuss our future when we have sorted the present.
Hush now, we are almost there.’ He pointed up ahead into the gloom of the
innermost circle, across a covered marble bridge that spanned over a
seventy-feet-wide chasm.
The Solarium Tower stabbed through the clouds in the distance. The
gushing waters of Mahaganga roared in the darkness far below the bridge.
They needed no light to sense the Angiri waiting at the other end.
‘Dhwani appears to be restless. We made her wait longer than was
necessary.’ The elder told the younger one as they jogged the rest of the
way.
The hooded figure awaiting them greeted with the question, ‘Everyone
has arrived, except for the Elders. What took you two so long, Mentor?
Jayant,’ She bowed before the taller Angiri and nodded to the younger one,
pushing back her hood. Jayant bowed in return.
Dhwani could have easily passed for a young Manushya female in her
prime--except for her sharp facial features, her pointed ears and an ethereal
glow on her face. Her thin, dark eyebrows and almond-shaped eyes with
long lashes were complemented by curly black locks hanging loose around
her temples; a Greek nose and a triangular chin, outlined by full, red lips.
She was beautiful without being delicate, her lithe figure reflecting the
core of her persona: of a gifted swordfighter and spell-master and a
humble Angiri devoted to her people.
 ‘Elder Neel told me not to speak to you over the airwaves, Mentor.’
Jayant told her on behalf of the tallest Angiri. Beneath the hood, he
resembled a sprightly Manushya teen.
Neel nodded. ‘I wanted to apprise you of the crisis in person. Someone
might be listening to what is being said over the airwaves,’ he sounded
older man than his appearance. His hair straight and white; a thin, smooth-
skinned brown face lined by age yet full of vitality; well-built with a broad
chest and wide shoulders.
‘What crisis, Mentor--and why would someone be listening to others’
conversations?’ Dhwani asked as Neel motioned them towards the broad
belt of trees beyond which loomed the Solarium Tower. ‘Does it have to
do with the stirring in Prakashkoopam?’
‘In part it has to do with the stirring, child. But mostly, it is about a
suspicious activity going on in Swargam. It could not escape your
acolyte’s notice and he came to me.’ Neel gave Jayant his cue.
‘The stirring of the Trinity, it was no isolated event, you see,’ Jayant
began after a moment of hesitation, ‘Something triggered it.
Prakashkoopam’s activity was a response to a stimulus. An Oorja surge
was detected on Prithvi and ten kshann later, the Tridevas responded here
in our homeworld. It is a simple cause-effect event, almost like two
sentient, identical beings calling out to each other from across the
Brahmand; the surge on Prithvi released pure Oorja: living emotions of
the kind the Tridevas emit in their active state.’
Dhwani took a few seconds to digest the information. ‘How do we find
out what triggered the Oorja-surge then? I doubt we can do that without
going to Prithvi, can we?’ she looked at her acolyte.
Jayant nodded in agreement.
‘Whatever it may be, it was powerful enough to cause ripples till here.’
Neel said.
They stopped beneath the eaves of the trees that gave way to gardens
dotted by more fountains and thousands of statues of the Devas and Devis,
interspersed with those of creatures existing and extinct--from Prithvi and
the other defunct worlds devoured by the Andhakar; each one eternally
locked in animated poses, embraces and battle stances. A paved path
through the gardens led to a long, wide staircase with sculpted balustrades
formed by statues of long-dead, magnificent beasts. The Oorja Portal was
an electric-blue orifice at the top of the stairs--a Cyclopean eye emitting
sparks.
‘Oorja in her most chaste form: what else can generate such energy, such
emotions apart from the Tridevas? Not even the Devas could achieve such
a feat easily.’ Jayant wondered, gazing up at the point where the clouds
engulfed the Tower of Devas.
‘I have been thinking.’ Neel mused, ‘It might be a relic or some Oorja-
artifact, something containing the essence of the Tridevas, touched by their
Grace. The Saptarishis hid all kinds of hallowed objects on Prithvi. It
could be one of them. In any case, we need to proceed with caution, keep it
quiet.’
The last statement puzzled Dhwani. ‘You do not wish for others to know
about it, Mentor?’
Neel was about to say something when they sensed an approaching
presence.
They looked to the east and saw nine winged shapes darting towards the
Solarium in an arrow-formation, leaving a unified trail of water droplets in
their wake.
‘The Elders have arrived,’ Jayant said, following their skyward advance.
‘They are coming from the direction of the Observatory--which means
they most likely know about the Oorja surge on Prithvi--so much for
keeping things quiet.’
The trio glided towards the Oorja Portal, just as the Elders disappeared
into the clouds. They were about to step through the doorway when Neel
relayed the words to Dhwani.
There is a Mole among us. Someone who has been filching Deva
technology and weapons and Brahma-knows what else. That was my
rationale behind keeping things hushed. I shall tell you more, once the
Council has dispersed.
Jayant entered, followed by Neel. The shimmering, blue curtain of light
swallowed them entirely.
Dhwani tarried behind a little longer, coming out of the consecutive
shocks Neel had made her privy to: first about the trigger event on Prithvi
and now, the disturbing news of a Mole in their midst.
From her vantage point the whole of Devasthali looked lifeless, its
towers and spires brooding and menacing beneath the flashing
thunderheads. Never in her six hundred years of life in Swargam had she
felt it, but it was as if Neel’s relay had awakened her fear: that she was
being watched.
Dhwani reached out with her mind for confirmation. She sensed the life
within the trees and plants, that of the birds and animals sheltering beneath
the eaves and the insects below the topsoil--but nothing remotely similar to
an Angiri.
Yet she was not convinced. Dhwani followed the others into the Portal.
Her body glowed and dissolved in the blue-white sparks as the doorway
teleported her into the Hall of Devas.
 Chapter 8
Tamas

The Solarium was vibrating with the soft buzz of conversation. Thirteen
hundred and forty Angiris had gathered around the Prakashkoopam. All
eyes were turned towards Indra’s throne, where the nine Elders of the
Council stood: nine out of the ten Ancients, each dressed in a plain but
distinguishing attire of a flowing white robe over the Angiri-suit. None
paid any attention when Neel, Dhwani and Jayant joined them.
The tenth Elder, Neel, had stepped down the revered position following
certain allegations and a self-imposed exile soon after the Second Fall. His
garb was worn and bland in comparison, symbolic of his current status and
lack of influence.
The Ancient who stepped forth to address the gathering shared
remarkable resemblance with Neel in most aspects: same height, the same
lean, broad-chested built; similar facial features with blue eyes and high
cheekbones.
But unlike Neel--or the rest of the Elders--his brother Tamas seemed
untouched by age. His skin, darker than Neel, was unmarked by even a
ghost of worry or age. The long hair still retained its jet-black color except
for two distinct streaks of grey on both sides, giving him a leonine
appearance. To Neel’s serene, composed mannerism, Tamas’s body-
language was an extreme contrast. There was this confidence and authority
the latter exuded that set him apart from the rest of his kind--and it had
nothing to do with his astounding agelessness.
Born from the Prakashkoopam together, like twins from a womb, yet
shaped by Fate to be vastly different: Neel and Tamas, the firstborn among
the Angiris.
Tamas’s gaze swept over the assemblage, looking into each pair of eyes
facing him. A knot seemed to form inside Dhwani’s chest when their eyes
met and she remembered all the tales about Manushyas falling for Tamas,
fawning over his looks and charisma.
‘I know what grows on your mind,’ he said, and for a moment Dhwani
thought he was speaking to her before Tamas’s gaze moved on. ‘I know
what troubles you, my dear folks. After the prolonged darkness we have
endured, a spark of hope was what we deserved. But once again, the
Tridevas have failed to aid us in our cause, or to show us at least a guiding
vision.’
 He raised his arms wide, as if he meant to embrace them all and take all
their despair away. ‘We have reached a decisive point in our history today
and a matter of great import is staring at us. It is time we made a stand, my
kinsfolk, or resigned to our fate, to all our fears.
‘We were born in an Andhakar-stricken world, with the purpose to
defend Oorja and the glory of the Tridevas. But have we been doing that
lately? The answer lies within your heart. One’s ability or skill to avoid
one’s fear does not mean strength; for it is only by facing our fear head on
when courage can shine through. We cannot surrender ourselves to Fate.’
His voice was calm yet commanding, the baritone loud and deep such
that it could never go unheeded.
‘What if I told you: there is light, at the end of this long tunnel we have
been stuck inside for over a millennium? That there exists a way to end the
Long Night and restore the reign of the Two Suns in Swargam. We may
have found a weapon to destroy the entire race of Asuras hiding on Prithvi.
A worthy instrument that might also reopen the doors of procreation that
remain closed to us for over a century.’
The last statement followed a sudden outbreak of startled gasps and
nervous mutterings, both oral and telepathic. Tamas let them simmer with
anticipation.
He climbed down the stairs and walked through the Angiris towards the
Prakashkoopam. The warm fumes rising from the rolling, bright depths of
the Well danced around him as he stared at it for a while.
‘The stirring we witnessed today,’ he turned away and continued, ‘was
not because the Tridevas briefly awakened of their own whim. It was a
result of another stirring on Prithvi. Something caused a massive Oorja
surge in the key-world. And it is only natural to assume it must not have
gone unnoticed by the enemy.’
His blue eyes pierced through his people, wordlessly demanding them to
make a choice. ‘Prithvi was declared to be a hostile territory since the
Second Fall, yet the situation is such that it cannot be resolved without
visiting the key-world, once more. Now either we do nothing and let this
Oorja-source slip into the filthy hands of the Asuras. Or we descend, find
this unknown artifact and bring it to Swargam. The hallowed object will
not only be safe here till the end of Time, but we can perhaps also stop our
hapless march towards extinction, use its Oorja to restore our fertility.’
Eyes glittered on hearing the assurance in his words: that there might be a
way to continue their line. But the thought of going to Prithvi weighed
upon their mind like a mountain. The scars from the Second Fall had still
not healed, nor had they forgotten the ones that went to Prithvi never to
return again.
Tamas could very well sense the tension and indecision spreading like
wildfire at the mention of a descent. He knew how to tackle the soft-spot,
address the elephant in the room.
‘What have we done since our last setback but cower in the murkiness
down below: waiting for a sign, for the End of Days or the Tridevas’
return? We have mourned long enough for the ones we lost the last time,
have not we?’
A faint murmur of assent followed.
‘We might go on living for another thousand, two thousand years, or
even longer, even if we choose not to stop Andhakar’s wave from
engulfing the key-world further. But when the Tridevas arise one day and
demand an explanation from us--given it all goes according to the
prophecy--what are we going to say? That we were cowering in Swargam,
too frightened to perform our duty, our Dharma?
‘Either we die fighting, or we die in vain while waiting in the murk
beneath the clouds, knowing till the last breath that our intervention might
have postponed the extinguishing of the Eternal Flame. The choice is
entirely ours.’
All Dhwani had to do was look around and she knew Tamas’s words had
hit right where the Angiris were the weakest--their sense of rightful duty as
Celestials, as defenders of Oorja.
It was evident from their faces that each one was prepared to follow
Tamas, even if it meant descending into the pits of Narka.

Neel waited, expecting someone among the Elders or one of the younger
Angiris, to say something--anything. But they were clinging to every word
Tamas said, like infants being spoon-fed.
The Elders stood like dumb puppets. Despite their individual wisdom,
most had learned to see things through Tamas’s web of reasoning since the
Second Fall. The majority of the rest were firm believers in his leadership.
And the same applied to the younger Angiris. None seemed to bother with
the finer aspects of what Tamas was suggesting.
The problem was: the Angiris had remained cut-off from Prithvi for
almost three decades now and a lot must have changed in the key-world
during this period. They were least aware of how favorable or unfavorable
the conditions were on Prithvi, unprepared to launch an all-out expedition.
Neel stepped forth and walked up to where his brother stood. The Angiris
in his path stepped aside to let him through. Tamas stopped speaking, a
hint of anger flashing within his eyes before he smiled mockingly.
‘Here comes my dear brother, recently returned from his solitary exile.’
He extended an arm in greeting. ‘Let us know of your opinion on the
matter, for irrespective of your poor judgment in the past the ilk still holds
a deep respect for your wisdom and tact. You are an Ancient, after all.’
Only Dhwani and Jayant knew the hurt Neel was hiding beneath his
veneer of stoicism.
‘I will not be speaking as an Ancient or an Elder then, but as an Angiri
who despite his poor judgment does not lack in compassion for his people
or for the creatures of Prithvi.’ Neel moved among the Angiris. ‘Your
beloved Elder Tamas speaks verily, we do need to go to Prithvi to secure
our claim over this potent artifact.
‘But if there is anything I have learned from my own flawed decisions, it
is that we cannot rush into this headlong, like we did the last time. Prithvi
is not as she once was. The Spores of Dushan must have spiked to far
greater levels than what they were during the Second Fall. And we cannot
undermine the Asuras again.’
‘What would you have us do then?’ Tamas asked.
‘I propose we send forth a small vanguard to Prithvi. A few of us covered
in shields of invisibility, would be more effective in going unnoticed than
an entire contingent. We assess the situation, find what caused the surge or
if it is some trap laid by the Asuras, like before. The rest of us wait for
word in Swargam and descend accordingly when we have some concrete
information about the artifact and its whereabouts.’
‘A commendable plan, brother,’ Tamas nodded in affected appreciation.
‘I am glad twenty-five years in agyaat vaas and tapas have helped you
gather your bearings. I see no one else better than you to lead the vanguard
then. And with your acolyte, grand-acolyte and some of my own disciples,
you should be able to find and procure the artifact in no time.’
Dhwani and Jayant fidgeted at the unwanted attention, watching Neel
give his whole-hearted nod.
‘Mentor was counting on Elder Tamas to send us to Prithvi, was he not?’
Jayant relayed.
The Council dispersed some time later but Tamas continued to observe
Neel interacting with others. A frown of doubt and distrust clouded his
forehead. It was the first time since the Saptarishis’ departure that he and
Neel had agreed upon something.

Things were not always so strained between Neel and Tamas.

 There was a time, before the passing of the Saptarishis, when the two
brothers held each other in utmost regard; the enemy had all the reason to
fear the two and the Angiris born after looked up to them for strength and
counsel.
For two thousand years after their birth the peaceful camaraderie lasted,
in spite of Neel and Tamas being two sides of the same coin. The word of
the Saptarishis was law and neither of them disputed their decision. But
the seeds of discord had been sown a long time back and they bore fruit
only after the Seven Sages detached their ties with the mortal plane and
became one with the Prakashkoopam.
Being the eldest of their race, the onus of leadership fell upon Neel and
Tamas and it was here that their differences stood out the most.
In the eyes of the last Devas and the Saptarishis it was always Neel who
seemed to be the able leader out of the two. To Tamas’s quick extremes of
mood, Neel was an epitome of stability; while Tamas was prone to
questioning authority, Neel was not only a natural leader but also an ardent
follower, even when he did not fully agree with the Saptarishis.
Things took on a whole new meaning after the Angiris were left to fend
for themselves, guided only by visions that were for most part, ambiguous
as scattered pieces of a puzzle.
Clear lines of division appeared between the two brothers.
But it was not as stark in Neel’s case as it was for Tamas: the brother
who had always felt ousted, underestimated and neglected by the
Saptarishis. What the circumstances shaped was more of a one-sided
rivalry, fraught with angst and misunderstanding, fueled by Tamas’s
aggression.
The rivalry reached its zenith in the days following the Second Fall.
From how Tamas saw it, his brother was responsible for taking away and
endangering the lives of the only people Tamas had ever loved and cared
for. It was because of him that they went to Prithvi and never returned.
One was a female Angiri with whom he wished to form a union till death;
the other, his trusted acolyte Vikrant--one of the present warlords among
the Angiris.
The loss was a wound that would never heal for Tamas, and his hatred
grew. Torn by sorrow, he would have stepped into the Prakashkoopam and
ended his life, but Neel appealed to his better judgment, imploring him not
to commit the immolation.
The denizens of Swargam know a different story than what transpired
then between Tamas and Neel then, causing the subsequent shift in power
and opinion.
 It had been Neel’s decision to send the Angiris--including the ones
Tamas loved--to Prithvi. He accepted his lack of judgment before his
people and renounced his place as an Elder of the Council, choosing a long
exile to ruminate over the lapses in judgment that had led to the death and
disappearance of nearly a third of their race.
What most Angiris did not know was that the exile was the cost Neel had
paid in return for his brother’s life. It was a helpless act borne out of love,
in ways similar to the feeling that had fueled Tamas’s hatred for Neel to a
new limit.
Neel had asked what would stop Tamas from taking his own life and he
had granted his brother’s wish and stepped down to let the latter have his
moment.
Tamas searched the possible nooks and crannies of Prithvi for over a
year. The she-Angiri he loved was never found but he did manage to
rescue ten Angiris from an Asura prison--including his acolyte, Vikrant. It
was a hero’s welcome Tamas received on his return.
The incident gave Tamas a chance to claim the respect he thought he had
always deserved. But it could not fill the vacuum in his life the
disappearance of the she-Angiri had created. Nor did it change Tamas’s
attitude for his brother in any way.
And none of it was hidden from Dhwani, who had been Neel’s pupil
since her birth from the Prakashkoopam and knew her mentor better than
any other Angiri.
But even she could not have anticipated what was about to happen.
 Chapter 9
Evidence

The Vault of Scribes was a sandstone behemoth in the second circle of

Devasthali, a solid dome large enough to contain an entire football
stadium. It housed a colossal library with tall shelves in five levels, each
accessible by means of spiral staircases. At the center of the dome stood
enormous statues of Vishwakarma--the sagacious Deva engineer and
Saraswati--the Keeper of Knowledge, standing back-to-back.
The shelves were neatly arranged with thousands upon thousands of
texts, from Prithvi, Swargam and many of the lost worlds and civilizations
from other star-systems, penned down by three generations of Saptarishis,
the Angiris and even that of the Devas. Memoirs, tales and songs, oral
histories of the four ages and struggles between Celestials and Asuras;
volumes on alchemy and sciences and spells--there is more than enough
knowledge beneath the dome to put the richest libraries of the Manushyas
to shame.
Neel, Dhwani and Jayant were in a forlorn corner of the chamber, hidden
by bookshelves twelve feet high. The rest of the library was bleakly lit but
their corner had no dearth of light on account of a large holographic
projection floating above a circular table lined with crystal touch panels. It
showed the blue, brown and green surface of Prithvi, surrounded by clouds
and grids of spells.
They had little over two hours before Neel led them and the rest of the
vanguard to Prithvi. And they had a mole to find.

‘I have been working on some designs by Vishwakarma, for a newly-

improved Ashtadhatu suit,’ Jayant said, measuring his words unlike his
usual verboseness. ‘If I succeed in the endeavor, we will have kavach suits
that can generate much stronger shields around our bodies.
‘I needed an Oorja-generator for some tests two days ago. While
checking the inventory at the Deva workshop for available units, I
stumbled upon an inconsistency: a generator is missing from the storage,
unaccounted for along with many more pieces of Deva technology.’
‘That is when he alerted me,’ Neel picked up the cue, leaning forward
over the table. ‘I asked around, without raising suspicion but it seems no
one is aware of the missing contraption. Whoever took it left no sign of his
presence, stealing things piece-by-piece, perhaps over a period of time.
‘At the time of the stirring, Jayant was in the Watchtower at the
Observatory, doing some digging of his own, while I was at the Arsenal
inventorying the shastras. And once again I stumbled upon traces of
missing objects: ten Oorja-cannons are gone, replaced by elaborate
illusions in their place. To someone not paying attention, it would look like
everything is in place.’
‘The Mole not only has pieces of arcane technology but also weapons--
both dating back to the Devas,’ Dhwani unconsciously opened and closed
her fists as she murmured. ‘What purpose would it serve to steal them
when no Angiri, not even any Saptarishis has managed to fully demystify
the workings of Deva artifacts and machinery? It would require working
knowledge of the Deva-tongue and our Oorja-speak remains insufficient
to unravel its intricacies.’
She thought about it: the Oorja-generators and the cannons were perhaps
one of the most sophisticated pieces of Deva technology. While the
cannons had been gathering dust in the Arsenal, the generators were still
actively running in strategic locations of Swargam, driving the machinery
of their world and major systems, like the Loka Portal--the inter-
dimensional doorway. And like every other piece of Daivik-creation these
contraptions were a complex amalgamation of both physical parts and
arcane driving spells of High Oorja-speak.
‘Whoever took them did not go to such lengths to merely keep the
technology and the weapons in possession,’ Neel said. ‘The generator can
convert the cosmic energies into any desired form of Oorja; the cannons, if
activated, can likewise blast off beams of destructive power. Somehow,
the Mole has figured out a way to decipher Devnagri.’
‘A single cannon I can make sense of, but ten of them--for what
purpose?’ Jayant asked. Even Neel had no answer to that. Jayant
continued, pointing at the shining, virtually solid projection of Prithvi.
‘The surge appeared here,’ a huge, glowing spot appeared upon the
projection of Prithvi at Jayant’s unspoken command. ‘It was strong
enough to spread in a radius of over a yojan, invisible but perceptible to
the Manushya senses of those in close proximity.’
A parallel projection of Swargam popped up beside Prithvi, showing
grids of protective shields and spells overlaying the planet.
‘A few moments later, the Prakashkoopam responded. I was checking
the Oorja-detectors over Devasthali for any prior, unusual activity of the
Tridevas in recent times--to see if their stirring had been building up--
when I noticed this…a random energy surge, not far from Devasthali--less
than twenty days old.’
Swargam’s projection rotated slightly and a small rainbow-like
luminescence appeared over the landmass across Ksheer, where the
primeval forests of Aranya lay.
‘They are not as strong as the surges from Prithvi and Prakashkoopam
but they were high enough to be picked up by the Oorja-detectors.’ Neel
said.
‘And this is not the first time the energy signatures have been recorded at
this spot.’ At Jayant’s bidding a chronological counter came up and began
to slip backward in time, showing more occurrences of the surge. ‘The
evidence of this inexplicable signature stretches back to the years after the
Second Fall--more frequent in the last fourteen years by Swargam
reckoning.’
Neel looked at Dhwani from the other side of the projection. ‘Do you see
it now?’
She nodded. ‘The ruins and catacombs beneath the forest: they are a
perfect spot for someone hiding a number of stolen weapons and
machinery. We need to do something before we set out for Prithvi,
Mentor.’
‘We will, child. I want to check on this one last thing before we make our
move. Come.’ Neel turned and walked away.

Neel continued across the rows of shelves, past a gallery full of rolls of
papyrus and finally, into a blind alley of sorts, ringed by more shelves on
all sides--an entire section dedicated to the travelogues of Narada the
Pilgrim.
‘We have no time left to go through each section to see if there are any
texts missing from the collection,’ Neel told Dhwani and Jayant. He
stopped before a shelf with books in diverse languages of the Manushyas.
Before the younger ones could understand, he whispered choice words in
Devnagri.
To their surprise, an entire shelf shifted without much noise, to reveal an
opening in the wall.
‘You are stepping into the restricted section,’ Neel said, pushing the door
further. He saw the looks on their faces and gave an amused smile: ‘Yes,
this place has existed right beneath our noses, for more than twenty
thousand years. Only the Devas knew of its existence and they passed it
onto the Saptarishis, who in turn gave us--the first ten--the custody of the
knowledge here.’
 They entered in a single file. The room was the size of a small hall, with
neat rows of books in hardbound marble and obsidian, each secured by
chains and tantric locks.
‘This is what remains of the Devas’ own knowledge, all written by them
in High Oorja-speak--hence, most of it undeciphered.’ Neel led them to
the center of the room. ‘Texts and volumes pertaining to sciences, alchemy
and Oorja-manipulation. We need to check each one of these. Something
is amiss and I can feel it.’
Dhwani and Jayant did as they were told--unclasping each book and
examining it properly. Neel checked those in the other row.
In all, there were close to two hundred volumes. Every book had a
gemstone studded on the cover. To open a book, Dhwani had to first touch
the gem and disable the binding spell--which followed a necessary
condition that she be an untainted creature of Oorja.
The pages of the books bore complex runes and symbols in Devnagri;
pages and pages of cryptic characters and calculations that she could make
little sense of. A phrase here, a word there and that was all she could
decipher.
A unique property of Devnagri was its exhaustive vocabulary, thousands
of beej-akshar: the basic units of Oorja-speak, comprising of letters,
symbols and their many variations--each capable of unlocking and
harnessing the cosmic energy in a peculiar way. The spoken language of
the Devas was only a subset of their written language and out of the latter,
the Saptarishis had exposed the Angiris to a fraction of the vocabulary.
The Angiri Oorja-speak in comparison, is a lesser version of the High
Oorja-speak: made up of new letters and words that could yield the desired
result by replacing the beej-akshar with lesser substitutes, but could never
achieve the potential of an equivalent spell in pure Devnagri.
‘Elder, Mentor,’ Jayant called them to attention, ‘there are pages missing
here.’ He was rifling through the thin leaves of a large book jacketed in
obsidian. He held the book open for others to show the hastily torn edges.
Neel found two more volumes with pages missing while Dhwani got
down to the last four books on her side. She picked one and froze: the
gemstone on its front was cracked through the middle.
With a thudding heart, she flipped open to the first page without facing
any resistance. The thick bulk of rough parchment paper fell out as the
binding had crumbled, the pages falling around her feet.
It was then she saw with a sense of growing panic: the pages were all
blank--no letter, no word, not even a blot of ink upon them.
‘Someone replaced an entire book of spells with empty pages.’ Jayant
inhaled sharply, staring at the scattered pages.

In the silence of the chamber, their hearts had frozen into lumps of ice.
‘These were the Forbidden Spells, far more complex and deadlier than
what we practice,’ Neel said. ‘And most of them require Oorja that can
only be derived from living beings. Even the Devas seldom resorted to
these spells.’
‘This can only mean one thing: the Mole has found a way to read
Devnagri with high fluency. But how is that possible?’ Jayant wondered.
‘It might also mean that whoever it may be, does not have inhibitions
regarding the Oorja of a living being. Even if it hurts or kills the creature.’
Dhwani set down the Book of Forbidden Spells. ‘The gemstone is cracked,
which implies the Angiri had to force the book to open.’
The wards protecting the books would have opened to an Angiri, but the
ones laid in the spellbook had refused to do so.
‘No, it cannot be!’ Jayant exclaimed.
‘We are looking at irrefutable evidence, Jayant.’ Neel tried to sound
calm, even though his aura was pulsating with distress. ‘One or more of us
might have gone to the dark side.’
All this time, there had been a Mole among them and no one had even
suspected anything. They stirred their minds with the ladle of reason, each
holding on to the other via psychic touch--like troubled souls huddling
around the fire in the middle of a blizzard.
The faces of their kindred slid through their unified mind-screen like
grains of fine sand slipping through a sieve. Even with ample evidence
before their eyes, it was unimaginable to think any of them could be a
traitor up to some mischief.
‘There is not much time before we make the descent, Elder.’ Jayant said.
‘What do we do now?’
Neel thought before responding, ‘We find the Mole, or at least what dark
deed he or she has been carrying out in the catacombs across the Ksheer
Samudra. Then we inform the others of the situation. For the time being,
assume that any Angiri could be the traitor--or even an accomplice. And
arm yourselves, for we might be heading into peril.’
 Chapter 10
Before the Hammer Falls

The hooded shape materialized with a flash before the ruins outside
Devasthali and became one with shadows.
It was all dark and quiet, the way it should be quiet in a downpour, with
nothing but the constant patter of raindrops. Ranks of pines and cedars the
three sides of the dilapidated structure stood like watchful sentinels. To its
east a large lake lay hidden in the gloom, with only the rain pattering upon
its surface to tell of its presence.
He stepped into the ruins: a silhouette beneath its humongous, vaulted
ceiling full of faded murals that dated back to the second Indra and his ilk,
depicting the Devis, Kali and Durga, vanquishing a horde of Asuras. The
place used to be a great hall for celebration and since the Fall of the Devas
had become the private sanctum for an Elder.
The water droplets soaking the silhouette turned into vapors at a
whispered word. The hooded figure with his nocturnal eyes peered from
beneath the hood, absorbing every detail, every crack in the stone pillars
and broken remnants of the walls. His nose could pick up the familiar
scent of the occupant, getting stronger with every pace. The most recent
scent of its present dweller was only a few hours old.
Unlike a structures created by Manushyas, the buildings in
Swargam do not easily fall into shambles--the wood and stone,
spell-worked to withstand several earthquakes and the rigors of
age and seasons. The hall and its annexes had withstood the test
of time not only because of the enchanted make and endurance
but also because its occupant had kept the place so: no speck of
grime anywhere except for some dry leaves the wind had blown
in through the many openings.
Quick but careful, the hooded figure checked each room. It felt as if the
Higher Celestials would arrive any moment to fill the halls with their
laughter and music. But what the Angiri sought was in none of these
rooms. There was a private chamber to the far eastern corner of the
sprawling structure.
In here, the hooded figure could retrace the occupant’s last movement
easily by following the heavy scent.
The Elder had been there three hours earlier, moving between the
upraised dais where he had meditated or lingered close to either the large
window facing the dark lake and the utilitarian closet lined with robes and
capes. A partially full barrel of Somaras--the ambrosia--and a vat full of
Ksheer clay were the only other items there.
The intruder paused to examine the vat of clay.
Attached to this room was another smaller chamber with a door
fashioned from stone, overlaid with wards that were far more advanced
than what the intruder had encountered while entering.
But it took him mere seventeen seconds to temporarily disable them with
a counter-spell. The occupant would not even know of the intruder,
because no breach would be detected.
He entered with extreme caution, one step at a time. The curving walls of
the room were lined alternately by wall-sized mirrors and three objects on
granite pedestals: a clay statue of a unicorn reared on its hind legs, a
marble sculpture of a female garbed in flowing garments and a painted
image of the same individual in gears-of-war. A sandalwood armchair with
armrests shaped in the likeness of lion heads stood empty in the middle of
the stone-floor, facing the pieces of art, the products of the occupant’s
unrequited emotions--the chair indicated he spent a good deal of time in
there with the memorabilia.
The hooded figure did not stay there long. Giving a final cursory look
around the chambers as he restored the previous integrity of the wards, he
walked out the way he had come. A scent he had overlooked before caught
his attention.
The intruder sniffed at the air then retraced his way back to the closed
doors he had just passed. He opened them and peered through the gap and
went rigid. The hand holding the door trembled, just enough to make his
grip slip. He stepped out into an untended garden facing the woods to the
west.
He did not need his Angiri vision to see the signs of corruption.
The trees, plants and shrubs were all dead--nothing but lifeless, drooping
husks of wooden trunks and extending branches and leafless stalks
clinging to the soil, blackened and decayed. The woods beyond were laden
with leaves, radiating life, but the garden stood out like a clear anomaly in
their midst.
The vegetation had not died a natural death--their life-force had been
sucked out of them the way a leech sucks on blood.
Neel removed his hood, heedless of the rain. He had found what he was
looking for.
 ‘Elder Neel’s worry is natural. Unless the Mole is found, bringing the
Artifact to Swargam would be a grave folly,’ Dhwani was telling Jayant as
they wound their way through the ring of gigantic elms that surrounded the
Solarium Tower. ‘At this point of time we have to proceed with the wary
assumption that anyone could be a traitor. Which is why even seeking the
counsel of the Elders is out of the question. We might know more if we
manage to learn what has been happening beneath the Aranya.’
‘No one would be expecting that all this time, there was someone among
us stealing items for his own selfish use. Anyone could be the traitor…’
Jayant repeated Neel’s warning, trying to make out even one face among
the many he had known all his life and failing to find even one possible
suspect. He failed to see how anyone could have fallen under the spell of
Andhakar.
But despite what he or Dhwani felt it was impossible to look away from
the undeniable proof of the Mole’s activity.
They were geared for the journey and eventual altercations, each wearing
a light armor over the kavach suit, with thick greaves and shoulder-plates
and broad belts equipped with pouches for spare gemstones to store Oorja
in--all made from Ashtadhatu. While Jayant had a small blaster gun that
fired beams of plasma strapped to his thigh, Dhwani carried a single
longsword. Copper flasks of Somaras dangling from their belts sloshed
with each step.
They halted beneath the far-flung eaves of a Kalpa-vriksha. It looked
huge as a banyan-tree many centuries old. The bark and branches, leaves
and flowers emitting a faint greenish phospho-rescence. The smell of sap
was refreshing to the mind and soul in a world where the rain dulled all
odors.
‘What brings us here to the oldest trees of Swargam?’ Jayant wondered,
gazing up at the overhanging branches crisscrossing through foliage.
Thick, snaking roots ran rampant on the floor carpeted with wet,
decomposing leaves.
All that he knew about the Kalpa-vriksha was that the magical, wish-
granting tree was planted there by the first Indra, graced by blessings of
Vayu the Windlord and Mother Ganga. It was older than most Devas, the
only one of its kind across Swargam and Prithvi; the sacred ground where
the Angiris carried out their seasonal rituals and prayers--and till before the
Long Night, their festivities.
‘Mentor told me to bring along an item hidden within the trunk of the
Kalpa-vriksha.’ Dhwani replied.
 She inhaled deeply and let out a song Neel had taught her a long time
ago. She kneeled beside one of the roots and began to caress it.
In his three hundred years of existence, Jayant had heard much about the
sentience of the Kalpa-vriksha but never had he been privy to an actual
display of its activity. He stood mesmerized as the roots began to shift and
shuffle like slithering pythons, until a root caked with mud uncoiled itself
to reveal an object.
Dhwani picked it up before she ended her song with a parting bow. The
Kalpa-vriksha went still.
‘Long ago, before the days had turned dark, the trees were alive and
articulate and you could hear them talk and move. When Kaliyuga began,
they fell silent, along with the Tridevas.’ Dhwani brushed off the dirt from
the broad, wooden scabbard and the wood-and-metal hilt of the blade
sheathed within. A blood-red ruby glittered on its pommel.
Jayant noticed the scabbard had another empty slot, for a similar blade.
‘Does the sword belong to Elder Neel?’ He asked as they broke into a run.
‘He does not own it but it is his sworn duty to protect it, on behalf of the
Saptarishis and the Devas,’ replied Dhwani.
They came across a wide opening in the foliage above and leapt through
the gap, unfurling their wings. Jayant heard the rest through the psychic
link.
‘Two swords were forged out of a broken artifact from the Satyuga, one
touched by Shiva: twin blades, Uttara and Dakshina. The latter was either
lost or hidden by our preceptors while Uttara passed on into Mentor’s
custody. I saw it for the first time when I was a little younger than you are
now.’
They were approaching the gloomy shoreline on Devasthali’s
southernmost sea-facing periphery. Six miles away, invisible in the rain
but perceivable to the two Angiris, another landmass loomed. A psychic
ping from Neel pinpointed his location. He was the only one present along
the stretch of sandy beach, staring intently at the violent waves.
‘What is happening in Devasthali? Were the Elders all accounted for?’
Neel asked, turning to face them.
‘The Loka Portal is up and running, ready for the descent. The warriors
are arming themselves or meditating to gather their thoughts, mostly
restless and anxious. The Elders are all accounted for,’ Jayant paused
before asking. ‘What is this about, Elder?’
Dhwani could not see his face, but she could see his aura--astir with
colors; darker emotions of fear, dread and anger pulsating and merging
into one another.
 ‘An Elder has come under your suspicion?’ She asked.
Neel nodded. ‘It is far more grave than what I anticipated. I shall tell you
more after I have confirmed a few things. Let us make haste.’
‘Your blade, Mentor,’ Dhwani offered the scabbard.
‘Not this one, child. You should keep Uttara. A blade such as this one
deserves a worthy warrior--and I see no other Angiri worthy enough to
wield it. It will be useful while we are on Prithvi. Let me carry your
blade,’ Neel’s proposition puzzled her but she complied without question,
handing him her longsword.
They took flight at once, acquiring a steady altitude of ninety feet above
the choppy waters of Ksheer. Dhwani relayed her doubt, unable to satiate
her curiosity.
You used to tell me something, Mentor: that the Saptarishis passed Uttara
in your possession with a caveat: never to let it leave Swargam. What
made you break that rule?
Neel replied after a long beat. The answer lies in my visions, the last ones
I received from the Tridevas, long before you were born.
The only vision she knew of from the years before the Supreme Fathers
in the Prakashkoopam fell silent, had to do with why Neel--who had never
taken up an acolyte for himself--had broken his habit and taken Dhwani
under his wings the moment she had emerged from the Well of Oorja.
In his vision, Neel had seen Dhwani more than three centuries before her
birth, wielding a sword.
The sword I held was none other than Uttara. Dhwani realized.
You had Uttara and you were on Prithvi, not Swargam. The moment you
were born, I knew the vision had come to me for a reason. I cannot say if
the foreseen moment would come to pass in the exact manner. I could have
given it to you long before, on any of your visits to Prithvi. But until now, I
never deemed the circumstances as perilous, ergo...
They fell silent as the cliffs and the greenery of Aranya loomed closer
through the dark sheet of rain. Their minds turned back to the threat
sneaking somewhere in Devasthali, wearing a mask of false intentions and
friendship. Jayant was leading them, following the holographic projection
cast by his gauntlet. The point-of-origin of the suspicious Oorja-emissions
was somewhere in the heart of the Aranya.
Far behind them, an Angiri landed at the spot where Neel, Dhwani and
Jayant had stood, mere minutes ago.
Their three sets of footprints were still there in the sand, away from the
surf, overflowing with rainwater. The Angiri could very well sense their
life forces halfway across the Ksheer.
 Chapter 11
Schism

Aranya was once the abode of the Devis--a sanctuary cut-off from the
rest of the Swargam by the Ksheer Sea on all sides. Unlike the towering
structures of Devasthali that bespoke the prowess of the Devas, the female
celestials had chosen a simple life beneath the forest island, in the vast
catacombs built by Kali and her clan of ascetic Devis; many of which were
considered more powerful and wiser than the Devas.
After the passing of the Devis, the catacombs had also fallen in utter ruin.
The goddesses had not intended their creations to last, unlike their male
counterparts. The openings to the subterranean city had collapsed or had
been encroached upon by the forest in the millennia since their doom.
The Angiris learned to stay away from the island, out of fear and respect,
and the tales of Kali the Terrible still roaming the chambers below-ground,
grieving for her sisters in solitary.
Even though the present-day celestials knew nothing could have survived
from the time of the Devas, the thought of facing the Goddess of Night--
with her dark skin and long, wild hair; her rage-filled eyes and a long,
hanging tongue; garlands of skulls of her vanquished foes, Asuras and evil
Manushyas, hanging around her neck--was as terrifying as her legends.
But the three Angiris were on a much different tangent to care if Kali still
haunted the place.
They found the way to the catacombs without any trouble. It was a long,
wide rectangular opening descending into a stepwell, right in the middle of
a dead, diseased section of the forest. For some reason the trees, plants and
creepers had all died in the vicinity, leaving the ground open, dotted with
slush and piles of rotten deadwood and hollow, leafless trunks. The lush
trees continued beyond a point, unaffected by whatever blight or curse had
destroyed the area around the stepwell.
‘This cannot be natural,’ Jayant commented, surveying the blackened,
molded trunks fifty feet high. ‘Something caused this corruption.’
‘Like the wrong kind of spells,’ Dhwani said, looking at Neel. He
showed neither surprise not alarm.
The steps leading into the darkness were worn and slippery, layered in
moss and wild mushrooms. The rock-cut sculptures and carved niches on
the walls on their either side had nearly been obliterated by age: a bleak
end chosen by the Devis, Dhwani thought, judging how Devasthali was
still replete with Deva memorials that would last as long as the
Prakashkoopam was burning--perhaps an end the clan had willingly
chosen, knowing it better than the Devas that nothing lasts forever.
They were at the bottommost stairs when a stench hit them: it was of
abject decay, mixed with the whiff of a metallic, organic substance that felt
too familiar. It was Jayant who noticed it near one of the pillars, about six
paces from the bottommost stair: fresh, dark stains and fat droplets of
blood upon the slimy stone-floor.
‘Angiri blood, mixed with Brahma-knows what malignance,’ he stepped
away quickly.
Dhwani had a feeling she had encountered the stench before, definitely
not in Swargam but on Prithvi, during here visit there with Neel, a long
time ago. It was dark around the step-well and they were faced by three
shadowy archways to choose from. But again, all they had to do was
follow the trail of blood to find the right tunnel. There were more bloody
handprints on the wall around each bend.
‘The Angiri was wounded, or still is,’ Dhwani said, trying to recognize
the stench masking that of the blood.
‘You smell Halāhal.’ Neel’s explanation was succinct, yet a punch to the
gut.
‘The Asura-poison found its way to Swargam, but how?’ Jayant said,
conjuring a light-orb to guide their way.
‘It was the Mole who smuggled it here, beyond doubt.’ Dhwani stated.
‘I realized something, when we left the Vault of Devas.’ Neel spoke,
taking the lead. ‘The Arsenal and the Hidden Library: only the Elders have
open access to the Daivik weapons and the texts of our predecessors. I
decided to check up on each one of them, to see if their dwellings had
anything to prove their complicity.
‘I might have found our Mole. I found scores of dead plants and trees,
like outside, which implies that the Dark One feeds on their living Oorja:
he has been using the forbidden spells to make himself stronger--perhaps
even to slow down his ageing.’
Dhwani’s heart was beginning to hammer and trip. She could clearly
picture the dead vegetation outside the stepwell: the barren patch within
the verdant expanse of Aranya. Neel did not speak further, gave no name
for the traitor. But he had made it clear it was a male Angiri.
‘The Mole knew no one would pass this way, just as he knew no one
would bother to keep a tab on any suspicious activity within Swargam.’
Jayant remarked.
The tunnel they were in alternately narrowed and widened as they
proceeded, winding this way and that. The stains and traces of the Angiri-
blood mixed with the Halāhal, was a trail of corruption guiding them
through the darkness.
They came across small rooms that once served as meditation chambers,
glimpsed remains of the granite-and-limestone settlements from before
Dwapar-yuga through niches and windows along the passage: a lost world
submerged in darkness and oblivion. In places, the structures had entirely
caved-in. If the Angiris lived in the catacombs instead of Devasthali, they
would have lost their minds or drowned in their own hopelessness, such
was the silence and loneliness; no significant presence for miles, except
that of the small animals and insects. The times were never worse for
Swargam but at least, the glow and glimmer of Devasthali retained a
semblance of hope. In the catacombs, despair stared back at the three
Angiris at every corner.
They sensed the low thrum of energy before their eyes began to pick up
the sounds of chattering machinery. Their pace quickened.
‘Hail the Tridevas,’ Jayant exclaimed as they appeared at the end of the
tunnel.
They were stopped short of word or movement when they entered the
high-ceilinged cavern. At its centre stood a circular platform of stone upon
which rested a minimalistic setup of Ashtadhatu poles sizzling with
electricity. Nearby, a waist-high control panel, alongside a big, round
contraption that looked like a large spiral shell of a snail: the Oorja-
generator.
‘A Loka Portal,’ Dhwani’s voice was caught inside her throat.
The single operational Loka Portal in Swargam dated back to the first of
the Devas, when descents to Prithvi and other worlds was a frequent affair.
It was much more elaborate and far better designed for safety than the one
before them. The Mole had constructed it with the barest essentials. It was
on standby, only needing a flick of a switch to commence the teleportation.
‘Careful, I sense protective spells warding this entire place,’ Neel
cautioned Jayant and Dhwani.
And he was right to do so: the floor was rigged with mechanical and
tantric traps, mostly hidden from view. They chose not to let their feet
touch the ground.
Gliding forward, Jayant examined the control panel while Dhwani and
Neel floated towards the stone table in one corner: its surface littered with
empty glass vials and machine parts, pitted by semi-wet drops of Halāhal;
used plungers with needles of Ashtadhatu were piled together on one side.
The cloying reek of Halāhal hung heavily around the work-station.
 ‘The Mole has been actively working with the Asuras on Prithvi, it
seems. How can a Oorja-born choose such twisted path, Mentor?’ Dhwani
asked Neel.
‘Whether by compulsion or volition, it is a clear sign that Andhakar has
managed to send its feelers to Swargam. And the Mole has greatly
contributed to the cause. What confounds me however, is that he is alive
after having consumed Halāhal.’
‘What if he is using the poison to torment or control others?’
‘You are not going to believe this.’ Jayant hovered in their direction,
borne on a pair of rapidly-vibrating wings, like a hummingbird. ‘The
coordinates of the last journey made by the Portal: they are the same as
that of the location on Prithvi where the Oorja-surge occurred.’
‘There might be a connection,’ Neel said and moved towards the rear of
the cavern, leaving Jayant and Dhwani confused.
Why is he acting so distant--like he was expecting to find all this? Jayant
relayed the thoughts.
He knows more than he has let us in on, give him time. Dhwani replied
We do not have time, Mentor. The hour of the descent is nearly upon us
and we need to catch the person responsible.
‘Come look at this, you two.’ Neel called. They found him in one of the
two antechambers opening at the back of the cavern.
There was a spell-morphed mirror on the wall on one side, a sparse but
rich wardrobe with capes and Manushya garments on the other side. A
bloodstained pallet made from dried vegetation was lying in the middle of
the floor. Neel was hunched over the ground, next to the mirror, peeking
into a vat full of Ksheer clay.
‘Remind me uses of the clay of Ksheer, for an Angiri.’ He asked.
‘As a salve to malicious wounds suffered from spells and hexes,’ Dhwani
said, glancing at the bloodstained cape on the floor.
‘Or as a--as a…’ Jayant waved a hand over his face, unable to find the
right word.
‘As a cosmetic,’ Dhwani was wide-eyed on realizing the implications.
Neel got up, nodding.
‘For vanity, to hide imperfections,’ he said, gesturing them onward.
A narrow passage was visible on the wall adjacent to the mirror,
connecting to the next room. ‘The Mole uses it to hide his true appearance.
My heart says his stay on Prithvi changed him in ways more than one. The
Halāhal has transformed his appearance, just as it has tainted his body and
mind.’
The shadows in the next antechamber retreated as the light-orb zoomed
ahead. It was more spacious than the one with the mirror, the ceiling
supported by hourglass pillars made of naturally merged stalactites and
stalagmites, layers of deposited minerals upon their surface sparkling in
the light of the hovering orb.
A terror-inducing spectacle awaited on the other side of the pillars.
It was too horrific to behold the ranks and ranks of skulls that covered the
ground--with the exception of one, a tiger, they all belonged to
Manushyas. Jayant counted: four hundred seventy and three skulls, in all.
The most recent additions to the collection still had flecks of dry gristle
and skin adhering to them.
The orb moved at Jayant’s command, to reveal what was on the wall:
except for a few charts and diagrams drawn on animal skin, showing
equations and instructions for building a Loka Portal, the rest of it was
covered in runes and symbols in Devnagri, scrawled with pieces of
charcoal.
‘The Dark One appears to excel all of us combined when it comes to
deciphering the High Oorja-speak. He seems to be no less than a savant!’
Jayant threw up his hands in exasperation, the levitating orb overhead
dithering, in tandem.
‘The writing begins to change, there are things written in both Angiri and
Manushya tongues.’ Dhwani pointed from the far end of the wall.
It was eerie to see the writing turn irregular halfway across, from ordered
sentences becoming random rambling of scribbled fury, cursing the
Tridevas, the Asuras, the Devas and above all, the Saptarishis, in a number
of colorful words and phrases in the scripts of Swargam and Prithvi.
Decades of poison scrawled on stone: bleeding emotions of a fallen Angiri.
It was a study in degeneration of a healthy mind, addicted to a reality-
altering poison.
‘I cannot imagine anyone but an Asura spewing forth so much venom
against Swargam,’ Dhwani commented.
‘Love chastises us, child. And a lack of it breaks us apart. It was love that
tainted him.’ Neel’s reply was a riddle. Before she could ask what he
meant, Jayant called them to attention.
‘Elder, Mentor…’ his face was awash with confusion. At first Dhwani
saw only a large, shiny boulder at his feet. The light-orb floated to a halt
over it and she gasped.
The thing was a coffin, made by transmogrifying stone to create a
bejeweled grave of honor, a sarcophagus of pure diamond. There was a
figure lying within.
It must have taken the Mole a lot of time and energy to mold the grave,
Dhwani reckoned. She and Jayant had their faces inches away from the flat
but roughly polished top-surface, showing the face of its occupant:
an old, feeble Manushya female in a plain sari and a blouse. Her face was
more wrinkles and lines than healthy skin. Her long, silver locks spread
beneath her like a gauzy mat. She wore a stone amulet strung on a worn
black thread around her thin neck.
‘Why would the Mole grant a mortal her final resting place here?’
Dhwani wondered.
‘Look carefully, she is not a Manushya.’ Neel said. Dhwani’s initial
reaction was clear befuddlement before she studied the face again.
At first she could not see how the deceased could not be human. Then a
face rose from her memories, of an Angiri gentle and true, someone who
had taught her much about swordplay and spells. The last time Dhwani
had seen her, it was before the Second Fall when she was leaving for
Prithvi.
Jayant burst aloud, recognizing her. ‘How can it be, Elder? We never
found her…’
Dhwani was a lot more shaken than what she showed. Her mind was
working towards another conclusion as her gaze shifted between the Angiri
inside the sarcophagus and Neel.
‘I have enough proof, now.’ He spoke with a long sigh. Dhwani knew his
next words would hit her with enough force to rock her world--probably
that of every single Angiri.
‘Tamas is the Mole. I do not know how he fell from grace but it must
have happened after the Second Fall, while he was searching for survivors.
The Asuras got to him, one way or another.’

‘Only an Elder could have known about the Deva texts and spell-books
hidden in the Vault of Scribes,’ Neel was telling. ‘The ten of us had agreed
upon it that no matter what, we will keep its knowledge to ourselves,
owing to the nature of the spells contained in its repository. Again, about
the Oorja-cannons: no one but the Elders had open access to the Arsenal.
‘I decided to find out if my postulation could have a trace of verity. And I
decided to check up on each Elder, their private chambers and discreet
haunts. None of them except for Tamas had wards laid over his place and
no one else had a reason to hide anything...except my brother.’
He told Dhwani and Jayant about the room with mirrors and the
memorabilia: the statues and the painting of the beautiful she-Angiri. How
he had discovered the ruined garden in Tamas’s backyard, along with the
vat of Ksheer clay: proof consistent with both Tamas’s dwelling and the
present hideout.
‘What of his motivation, Mentor,’ Dhwani’s voice echoed in the
oppressing silence that followed. ‘Why would he turn against his own
kindred?’
Neel briefly glanced at the sarcophagus. The Angiri inside looked
nothing like her healthy, young image recreated through the statues and the
painting.
‘It could be grief, loss, anger or all of them combined. He blames me for
her disappearance, for the nameless end so many of our warriors met with.
He blames the Tridevas for their inactivity, the Saptarishis for hiding the
hallowed objects. His patience snapped under the duress of hatred, after
the Second Fall. It was hatred that caused me to choose exile.’
‘But has he not already done enough to exact his revenge?’ Dhwani was
aghast. ‘You did what was necessary to help those trapped on Prithvi. I
doubt he would have done it any differently, if it were him leading the
charge. It was not your mistake that caused the Second Fall, yet you
willingly chose exile. For what purpose, I ask?’
Neel was pensive for a beat, looking at Jayant while the youngling peered
at the Devnagri scrawls, perusing the sentences for anything familiar.
‘I cannot blame him, Dhwani. Only the Tridevas are worthy enough to
judge him. Love changes us like a river current that alters the shape of
stone. For over six centuries Tamas waited for his love to bear fruit and it
all was wiped off by one fell stroke of misfortune. Whatever the reason
may be, we need to stop him.’
She gestured at the Angiri preserved within the sealed sarcophagus.
‘What do you think happened to her?’
Neel shrugged. ‘From what I can guess she lost her Grace, died a mortal.
Tamas could not have killed her--and if he did, then I am afraid things are
worse than they look. He found her, eventually.’
They walked out of the antechamber into the main cavern, with the Loka
Portal thrumming and emitting sparks at its heart.
Tamas had turned out to be a traitor, planning to raid one’s own family--
one who could not be allowed to wander freely. His motivation for turning
to the dark side still escaped their comprehension, especially the fact that
he had been consuming Halāhal, even though he knew better than most
that the Asura-poison could never agree with a creature of Oorja.
‘Elder, we should head towards Devasthali.’ Jayant prompted. ‘It is time
for the descent. We ought to share this discovery with the other Elders…
barring your brother.’
 ‘It is not as simple as it appears to be, dear acolyte.’ Dhwani said. ‘Elder
Tamas has the support of nearly the whole kindred.’
‘She is right,’ Neel moved towards the control panel for the Portal, ‘To
confront him openly would be a fatal mistake, especially when we do not
know whether he is working alone or has others under his spell. And we
cannot make the descent, not by the central Loka Portal.’
Dhwani only understood it when he flicked on the specific switch upon
the control panel and the Oorja-generator burst into intensified activity.
The sparks turned into a constant flow of energy that converged from the
tip of the Ashtadhatu poles and coalesced to form a dazzling sphere of
blue-white brilliance.
‘An unsanctioned descent,’ Dhwani reasoned, uncertain of the sudden
change-of-plans, ‘it will only make the Elders suspicious of our intentions
instead of implicating Tamas.’
‘We are beyond the point where others’ opinion matters--if it ever did.
We might be called traitors but it is the only way to do what is right: keep
the Artifact away from Tamas and never let him bring it to Swargam.’
Dhwani stood confused, staring at the sphere of luminescence that would
send her many light years away within moments. Neel was asking her to
do what was right but it meant breaking the code of conduct, defying her
own people.
‘We do not have much time to think, child. His plan to win back the
Artifact and use its powers to cure our virility: do you really think Tamas
is going to stop at that? He thrives on devotion and glory. He will want to
use it further, go back to key-world and destroy the Asuras to the last
Darkborn, carry out a purge of his own. You saw the skulls with your own
eyes. Do you think he cares for the lives of innocent Manushyas or any
other creature?’
‘Even if we manage to acquire it: what then, Mentor? We cannot return
to Swargam while Tamas is on the loose, his façade of a brave, concerned
Elder still intact. What if he turns others on us? We cannot fight our own.’
The expression Dhwani saw on Neel’s face was in itself a response. It
openly stated he was prepared to fight the other Angiris, if the situation
arose.
‘The Artifact is not to come to Swargam at any cost.’ His face softened a
little. ‘We will hide it, stow it away where no Asura, Manushya or Angiri
can reach. Prithvi is full of hidden sites and deep places where the
hallowed object can remain safe and secure for a long, long time.’ Neel
paused, nodding to himself. ‘And if our stars favor, we might even come
across unlikely allies who will aid our cause.’
 ‘Going somewhere, Elder Neel?’ A male voice rang across the cavern
before he could finish.
The trio whipped around in surprise. Dhwani knew at the first glance
they were in trouble.
Fifteen Angiris stood blocking their only exit, their hands gripping the
sword-hilts, ready to unsheathe their blades at the slightest provocation.
Leading them were Vikrant and Ashwamedh, two of the fiercest warriors
among the Angiris--the former, a devoted acolyte of Tamas and Dhwani’s
lifelong competitor in the arena.
‘We were seeking some answers, Senapati Vikrant.’ Neel was calm as
ice, even though Dhwani and Jayant felt like cornered animals. ‘There
have been some strange thefts in recent times. It appears one of us has
fallen from Grace. You are standing in the traitor’s lair.’
Dhwani noticed Vikrant’s distracted look, like he was listening to some
distant voice.
He is talking to the Elders, Neel relayed the thought for her and Jayant.
Step into the Portal, make haste before Tamas arrives.
‘We prefer to believe what is evident, Neel. By the authority vested in
me,’ Vikrant declared, ‘I apprehend you three on grounds of treason and
oath-breaking.’
‘Lay down your weapons, Elder Neel, Dhwani and Jayant.’ Ashwamedh
signaled the other Angiris and they advanced like a moving wall, oblivious
of what lay beneath their feet.
Fly, you two! Neel moved towards the control-panel a kshann before
bedlam broke out.
Not without you, Mentor.
By the time the advancing Angiris sensed the expertly-hidden wards and
grounded traps--the same traps Neel, Dhwani and Jayant had skipped over-
-their weights had already activated them.
Bring up the shields! Dhwani’s telepathic warning to everyone present
came too late, as four metal balls with spikes along their surface sprang out
of the stone and exploded. Shrapnel flew in all directions.
Dhwani leapt before Neel and Jayant, bringing up her left arm in defense.
Her Oorja-shield materialized as a shimmering sphere around her body,
lighting up with several impact points as tiny darts struck its surface.
Shrieks of agony filled the chamber, rising over the intense hum of the
machinery. Blades were being unsheathed. The stench of Halāhal hit her
nostrils before the moment of confusion passed.
The ten Angiris still on their feet surged forward, driven by rage. For
Vikrant, Ashwamedh and the rest, it was a deliberate attempt from the
three traitors.
Neel blocked the incapacitating spells that flew at him but Vikrant got
close enough to swing his sword. The blow was aimed to hurt him but
Dhwani’s peculiar blade halted it halfway with a clang and an unexpected
shower of sparks.
‘You are making a mistake, Senapati, we are not the traitors. It’s Tamas,
your revered preceptor.’ Dhwani said, pushing back Vikrant.
Neel and Jayant were keeping Ashwamedh and the others away from the
ready-for-transit Portal, a vertically spinning whirlpool of blinding light
was opening a door in the air.
‘Mentor said you would say that--blame him for your actions,’ the Angiri
growled, gliding forward with a spurt of his wings. ‘You have been caught
red-handed, attempting to run away to Prithvi. What did the Asuras
promise you in return for spreading their corruption in Swargam, I
wonder.’
Their blades met with enough force to send a shock-wave running
through the air.
Dhwani had barely swung Uttara for a second blow when she felt an
invisible vise enclosing her frame and flinging her towards the Portal. The
seconds seemed to slow down even though she was flying straight into the
whirlpool of Oorja, the blade Uttara clutched tightly within her grip.
No, Mentor! I am not leaving you. She protested, realizing what Neel had
in mind.
Her mentor was standing by the control panel, firing one spell after
another. Vikrant and the others were forced to duck for cover but they
outnumbered him and a number of their spells struck Neel.
The last thing she saw before the Portal engulfed her was Neel buckling
and Tamas arriving in a flash of light.
Then her cells seemed to liquefy, and her consciousness exploded into a
thousand distinct parts. She could sense Jayant somewhere close.
In a bizarre turn of events, Dhwani had left Swargam, never to again
return.
 Chapter 12
Karagrih

Neel sat cross-legged on the cold granite floor of his cold, gloomy cell,
eyes closed in meditation. His legs and arms were bound by spell-worked
shackles of iron, built to cause him discomfort if he tried to free himself
using any means--by force or spell. The room was devoid of any sound
and he could hear his heartbeat with remarkable clarity.
His mind was roaming around the homeworld, sensing the emotions of
the Angiris. He was able to hear continuous chatter on the psychic
channels. Most of the conversations were about him, the first ever among
the celestials to be imprisoned in the dungeons beneath Mount Meru.
The howl of icy winds came to his ears from afar, carrying the voices of
those guarding the dungeons. During the Age of Devas, especially in the
final years of Dwapar-yuga, the chambers had seen thousands of Asuras
and even several Manushya prisoners; the stone walls of the Karagrih still
retained enough blood-stains and stale air of despair, to remind one of its
darker history--the countless screams of its prisoners that were never
allowed to leave the premises while they had lived.
Neel sensed the Angiris long before he heard their footsteps ringing in
the hall outside. The door opened with a deafening metallic clatter and
clang, muted light seeped into the cell, followed by the nine silhouettes.
‘Meditating over your many grave sins, brother?’ Tamas stepped inside
at the very last.
Neel slowly opened his eyes and said: ‘I was wondering about you, in
fact, and where your pride and sense of infallibility would take you and
our homeworld in the near future. We both know what sins burden our
heart, do we not, Tamas?’
Through his Angiri-vision Neel was able to see with remarkable clarity
each face outlined by their auras--their lack of warmth or pity or any kind
of softness. They saw him just as they would see any other foe, threatening
the reign of Oorja.
‘You and your dearest supporters were caught red-handed, right in the
middle of the act, Neel.’ An Elder named Arundhati, once Neel’s strong
supporter, spoke with a wooden expression that belied her rage-colored
aura. ‘There is no escaping from what you and your acolytes have done,
whether willingly or under the influence of the Asura-poison. Every Angiri
knows your true face.’
 Had Tamas or any of his staunch supporters said those words, it would
not have affected Neel. But hearing it from a long-time ally was hurtful.
The pain showed in Neel’s face.
‘Only if you had seen what I saw, Arundhati, you would have realized, I
am not the one with a mask on my face. The real perpetrator still roams
free, he is the real threat--not I or Dhwani or Jayant.’
Tamas scoffed and went down on his haunches less than five feet from
Neel. ‘Look at yourself, brother. You are incapacitated by spells, bound in
chains. Yet you do not have the guts to accept your treachery. You sent
five hundred Angiris to their doom during the Second Fall: it was your
conscious decision, your responsibility and yet you managed to escape
with nothing but an exile. The Council regrets being too lenient--you
deserved more than an exile, even then.’
‘I have nothing to hide.’ Neel’s voice and gaze remained steady.
‘If that was the case then why were you trying to escape--instead of
coming to us? None of us knows what you were up to during your agyaat
vaas. No one was keeping tabs on you.’
‘Just as no one knows what you did in the year following the Second
Fall. No one knows to this day the details of your search and toil on
Prithvi, before you rescued the Angiris.’
Tamas chuckled, looking at the other Elders before turning back to his
brother. ‘Like Shukra Deva, you befriended the Asuras to slight your own
people, built the Loka Portal from pilfered components and brought the
Halāhal to Swargam. The missing Oorja-weapons must have been
generous offerings to the demons. You traded your soul in exchange of
what, Neel--a place alongside the Asura King?’
Neel broke into a laugh, making the chain-links clink. ‘I said it before, I
say it again. I or my acolytes are not the one you should be looking for.
We found about the generator, about the missing weapons and texts only
today.’ He held his gaze on Tamas. ‘The real traitor is still hiding in our
midst, shielded by arcane spells and a false appearance. And what is more
baffling,’ Neel leaned forward, ‘is that the Mole consumes Halāhal--
injects it into his bloodstream.
‘I invite you, test my blood for even the faintest traces of the poison.
Have you all wondered what happened to the vegetation around the
stepwell of the Devis--what killed the plants and trees? Those were the
forbidden spells, the dark arts that we have sworn not to practice…If you
search for it, you just might find out a similar pattern--dead vegetation--not
far to the east of Devasthali.’
‘You possess a striking imagination, brother,’ Tamas got up on his feet.
He was frowning, taken aback but keeping his surprise contained. ‘You
had all of us in a trance there, but how do you explain an Angiri
consuming the Halāhal and still living? From what we have seen, the
poison will never agree with our body and mind. For proof we have five
dead Angiris lying in the temple of Yama, awaiting cremation--the ones
that died courtesy of your Halāhal traps.’
‘It is possible to create a semblance of endurance against the poison, if
taken in limited doses. The plungers found in the cavern could not have
held more than a few thimbles.’ Neel once again looked at Tamas. ‘And
who says the Mole’s mind and body have agreed well with the Halāhal’s
malignance? The writings on the antechamber wall, the vat of Ksheer clay:
they are a testament to the fact that he is neither sane nor physically
intact.’
The brothers stared at one another, one seething with pure hatred, the
other flashing a look of defiance.
‘You seem to know the nature of the Halāhal so well, Neel, one can only
wonder if…’ Tamas smiled then changed tactics. ‘Perhaps there is a way
you can prove your innocence. If you have nothing to hide then you would
agree to let us examine your memories. We will know it in a few blinks if
you are not the traitor.’
It took Neel a moment to infer what the smile was all about. ‘I agree, if
you are willing to let the Elders conduct a similar probing of your mind.’
He met Tamas’s gaze unflinchingly.
‘I was not the one to get caught trying to flee to Prithvi in an
unsanctioned Portal. Why should I?’
The air between them seemed to shimmer and shift and a staring match
began unannounced, a battle of wills between the two brothers.
Their fists tightened, their knuckles turned white; their faces trembled in
concentration. The psychic palpitations spread all over the cell, like two
stones grinding to produce a flicker of sparks.
Tamas had to retract his reach of the mind after a long minute, reddened
from exertion and embarrassment.
Then he attacked once again, his psychic strength complemented by that
of the other Elders. For an instant they felt Neel yield. Then with renewed
vigor, he smashed against their mind barriers, like a giant wave striking
down a stone wall.
The Elders staggered backward on their feet, grabbing at their heads.
Only Tamas looked the least affected.
‘She was alive, Tamas.’ Neel said, unaffected except for beads of sweat
on his forehead. ‘All this time you were looking for her and she was living
a life of her own on Prithvi. How did it feel, seeing her mortal form after
all these years? What could have killed her, I wonder.’
‘Leave us be, Elders,’ Tamas commanded and the others filed out of the
cell, some rather reluctant to leave.
‘You do not want them to get suspicious, do you, brother?’ Neel teased
when they were alone.
‘I knew it was you, the moment you stepped within the inner chamber of
my private quarters. You failed to disable one of the wards.’
‘I had to, and you know why. I could have gone ahead and revealed to
the other Elders that it is your dwelling where they would find the traces of
the forbidden incantations. But I want to help you. Let me, brother. I have
faith, I and others can help you extricate yourself from this mess.’ Neel’s
tone became much gentler than what it had been. ‘My heart refuses to
believe you have gone too far to be saved.’
‘How did she die?’
‘I was hoping you would know. From what I can see, it was her age and
the sufferings of a mortal form that killed her. I am beginning to
understand why the dark arts intrigued you so much. I envy your looks,
Tamas. The dark spells have kept you young. Only if someone had paid
close attention…’
Tamas leaned closer, close enough so that Neel could smell a whiff of a
peculiar odor: like decay. He touched the right side of his face absently, ‘I
definitely am not going to explain my reasons to a Mole. How did you find
her, tell me!’
‘We are both traitors in each other’s eyes. Remember, whatever you do,
it is not going to bring back the love you lost. There is still time, let me
deal with the Artifact on Prithvi while you can stay here under the care of
the Elders.’
‘You might have hoodwinked the rest of us with your flawless act of a
righteous Angiri, Neel, but I have always seen through your ploys. I can
see why the Artifact is so important to you.
‘Alas! you will be going nowhere, not even when we bring it to
Swargam. I wish you good fortune acclimating to your new home; you
will be staying here for a long while.’ Tamas stomped away, chuckling to
himself. ‘I shall try my best to cure your loneliness by bringing back at
least one of your accomplices, alive.’ He turned around in the doorway and
gave Neel a last glance.
‘None of them are at fault, you will not hurt them!’
The door clanged upon Neel’s words. Ancient mechanisms inside the
wall twisted and groaned, locking the prison door in place before all
became dark--too dark even for his Angiri-vision.
PART THREE
 Chapter 13
Before the Storm

‘First, you’ll tell me where you’ve hidden the Brahmāstra. Only then
we’ll talk about a quick end.’ The hooded-figure said, towering over
Bheeshm in the grainy recording.
His father’s mumbled reply could not be heard. He was lying on a bed of
what appeared to be long icy shafts--they had melted sometime after
Bheeshm’s death and it was why the police had found no murder weapon
at the scene.
Abhay’s mind replayed what might have been the last moments of his
father. He was living an unnerving spectacle neither him nor Kant could
logically explain: the Killer holding a lightning bolt conjured out of thin
air that seemed to have short-circuited the camera feed. Added with his
weird interaction with the Chakra, the camera-feed boldly underlined the
horrific truth of Bheeshm’s life of lies and deceit.
There was no doubt that unknowingly, he had entered the realm of the
unbelievable and unexplained--a Shadow World of sorts. Or perhaps he
had been a part of it all his life and it was only now that he was beginning
to find out about it. He had gone through the clips recorded by the hidden
cameras all over the estate. The recordings were being automatically
redirected to cloud-storage every five hours, as he had found out from the
laptop beneath the screens.
Only the one in the main hall had captured the most significant minutes,
apart from continuous comings and goings of other folks going back to
two weeks prior to Bheeshm’s death. Most of these were strangers and yet
there were those--like his father’s bodyguards--who kept popping up at the
Rajvardhan residence always before Bheeshm’s arrival. Abhay saw
enough guns and swords being carried by the men and women in the
videos to last a lifetime.
But no matter how much he tried to avoid looking at the moments before
the main hall camera went out, he found himself being dragged back to
those seven minutes: seven minutes that screamed of his father’s secret life
and the lie Abhay had been living all these years.
The hooded Killer, capable of magically drawing a sizzling lightning bolt
out of nothing; his father, a peace-loving man as Abhay had always known
him to be, holding a gun, being skewered by several shafts and falling on a
strange deathbed--just like his namesake from the Mahabharata; and the
last one was the most rattling: the old woman in the background, lying
upon the sofa without movement.
The Killer had appeared carrying her in his arms, undoubtedly as a bait to
surprise his father. And that had indeed caught Bheeshm off-guard.
Kaya, love, open your eyes! Bheeshm had said.
It was his mother in the video and Kant was right, which in turn proved
Bheeshm had called Abhay home with the right intent. Only things had
gone awry and what could have been an emotional reunion for the three,
had ended instead in a bloodbath.
‘The Brahmāstra, Bheeshm. Where is it?’ the words came back to haunt
him, an equally disturbing substitute for the demon-mask.
A loud drumming noise thundered, like the sky had fallen on top of him
and Abhay screamed in his sleep, helplessly looking at the hooded figure
conjuring the lightning bolt; at his father lying on the bed of those strange
shafts of ice; and most of all, at his mother, who had been dead to him for
the last twenty-two years, and was now missing.

There was someone knocking at the door to the study. Abhay woke up in
a hurry.
The screens with the live feed were running normally behind him, except
for the one in the living room--the one to capture his parents and the Killer
before it died. The Book of Dwij was lying upon the fake desk, opened to a
page with his father’s lucid, calligraphic hand: Bheeshm’s final entry,
about the events concerning the Legion, the Asuras and a mysterious
celestial assassin who could fly.
His back was stiff from having fallen asleep in the swivel chair. He
closed the hidden door behind him before answering the urgent knocking.
Murtaza was rapping at the door, calling for him. Abhay partially opened
the door and saw anxiety in the eyes of the young man.
‘I have been knocking for almost ten minutes, bhaiya. I got worried.’
Murtaza explained.
‘I dozed off, sorry. What time is it?’
‘One in the afternoon, you have been inside for over twelve hours now. I
cooked breakfast if you still want to have it or else...’
‘Set it on the dining table in ten minutes, I need to shower. Where is
Uncle Kant?’ Abhay relaxed and leaned against the doorway, seeing that
Murtaza seemed least interested in anything else but Abhay’s welfare.
Abhay doubted he knew anything about the study’s secrets. He had seen
Murtaza in the camera-feed dating back to the earliest files, from over two
months ago. Each time, the boy had come to look after the house when the
Legion’s activity halted and everyone left. Thrice Bheeshm had stayed
during that lull and the way Abhay had seen Murtaza treat Bheeshm, it was
no less than how a dutiful son treats his father--something Abhay could
never relate to, given his own equation.
‘Professor Sahib went home in the morning, said he’ll be back in some
time. I think he went to the police station. He got a call from them minutes
before he left,’ Murtaza diligently replied.
Abhay’s immediate impulse was that Kant had for some reason decided
to share everything about Bheeshm and the Legion with the cops--
probably out of some guilt or because he knew they were dealing with
forces that were too big for an ordinary man. Abhay hoped Kant would not
reveal anything about the Chakra.
He closed the door without a word, overwhelmed by a sudden onrush of
emotions. His throat felt parched but it was not the thirst for water, but a
large measure of strong whiskey. Perhaps it was the glut of information he
had been exposed to overnight, or the growing realization that he had been
pushed down some rabbit-hole and into a world he hardly knew of and
understood even less.
The stories of gods and demons and wars between good and evil had all
turned out to be real: it was as if a whole fantasy had sprang out alive from
the pages of the Mahabharata and Ramayana, and interlaced with Abhay’s
reality--the reality of an ordinary Manushya otherwise destined for an
ordinary life.
Or perhaps he was going mad--or both.
Abhay walked away from the door when Murtaza’s footsteps had
receded. He once again went inside the inner room with the screens and
the desk full of secrets. He bent over the open Book, skimmed through the
passages in his father’s hand; each word, each thought written with great
care and sincerity.
The last entry was like a foreshadowing to how Bheeshm had died--and
what killed him. But it did not have anything to say about the real reason
why the winged assassin, the fallen Celestial, had come after him and the
Brahmāstra.
Abhay closed the Book of the Dwij, but his mind was whizzing in all
directions. The angst and outrage against his father was still not gone--he
doubted it ever will--but there was something else overshadowing it: a
keen urge to figure out the missing chunk of his parents’ story and that of
his own. Only he had no clue where to look. In his father’s world, things
were not as easy as looking for an address on the internet or hitting up a
contact.
And what about Ma--how do I find her?
He opened the secret space in the desk and replaced the Book in its
accustomed place beneath the sword. The Chakra was still an ordinary
disc of dull gold, with elaborate mandalas and runes on its surface. Its
serrated edge was still lethal but if Abhay had not seen it cut through the
restraints, glow and hover five feet above ground, he would have thought it
to be nothing but a piece of some dull but precious metal.
A voice told him to touch the Chakra and see if it would respond again.
But he instead shut the cabinet.
Abhay gave one last glance at the bank of screens and the blurred
screenshot of the lightning-wielding killer on the laptop, zoomed to twice
its original resolution. It showed the hooded figure in full profile. Apart
from a sharp chin and a rictus of a smile, Abhay could make out nothing of
the Killer’s face beneath the hood.
On the live feed of the screen looking out on the backyard, Murtaza was
playing--no, practising--with what looked like a baton; twirling and
spinning it like a trained martial arts professional; athletic and agile with
his moves.
Abhay turned away, rejecting the thought that Murtaza had anything to
do with the Legion. His father would not risk the life of someone so
young.
But the times were not exactly peaceful, if the Book of Dwij was to be
believed.
The metal door locked with a beep. Abhay closed the gap in the shelves
by straightening the half-leaning Bhagvad Gita. The doorway became a
bookshelf with a low rumble. He looked for some key to the study’s door
but found none. He left the study slightly discomfited, like he was making
a mistake leaving the door accessible to anyone that wanted to get to the
artifacts and the Book within the desk.
Only the key to the inner room, tightly bunched between his fist, was
some assurance that whoever came, would have to go through him--even if
he did not have any odds against godlike beings that could wield lightning
bolts or create orbs of light from thin air.

‘I came to the police station for your father’s stuff,’ Kant said. Abhay
could hear the background noise of traffic. He was talking on the speaker
mode, most likely driving with the phone kept upon the car’s dashboard.
‘There’s not much in here: just his phone and his wallet. The cops have so
far made not much of a progress, citing the bad weather to be the cause.
But after last night, we both know better. Things are beyond their
understanding--hell, they’re beyond anyone’s understanding.’
He continued after a pause. ‘Although there is one thing they did find in
the autopsy. It was something about signs of cold and trauma, I don’t
remember the specifics. But apparently, the Killer used thick daggers made
of ice on Bheeshm. Ice, can you believe it!’
‘As you said, I’m ready to believe even in the Lady in the Moon at this
point.’ Abhay said. He might have added the bit about the video recordings
he had seen the previous night but he decided not to. Reason or paranoia
suggested someone might overhear the phone conversation.
‘Stay safe and look out for visitors, even if it’s the police. I will be home
in a bit. Something you want?’
‘Chinese food, you know what to order, and a bottle of Jimson Strong.
Don’t forget the last one.’ They hung up. Abhay left the phone in charging.
He was feeling fresh after the shower, dressed in a relatively new set of t-
shirt and denims. He put on his shoes before he headed downstairs after a
quick peek at the study door.
He did not have much of an appetite but he picked up a few buttered
toasts nonetheless and washed them down with some coffee from a
thermos flask.
Memories hailed out to him the second Abhay emerged into the
backyard. He had spent the better part of his childhood playing there--
sometimes with the household staff, but mostly by himself. Strong winds
tousled the freshly washed leaves and blades of grass along the periphery.
An old set of wind chimes tinkled in one corner of the back porch. Abhay
could hear the radio in Murtaza’s quarter, playing an old melody but the
boy was nowhere to be seen.
There was an overgrown path leading into the woods some twenty feet
away. Abhay walked towards it on an impulse and with every step,
memories from his bygone summers running and wandering the entire
estate, stirred within him.
The trees along the path seemed to greet him like old friends. The woods
were as much a part of his childhood as the forest is to its resident birds.
Vines and creepers smothered the ageing tree trunks; the wet smell of sap
and overripe mangoes and a lot many he could not place--all oddly
familiar--hung in the air, stirred by the gusts of wind. The twenty-five year
old man was turning into a ten year old with each step that led him further
into the woods.
He did not even notice the passage of time, or the sky above becoming
darker by the minute, till Abhay had reached a wide opening into a
clearing with a tall, old mango tree at its centre.
Ensconced between its thick branches was a tree house sitting on a wide,
rectangular platform that a lonely child had built with some help from the
adults, a long time back. Above the tiny door a weather-stained brass plate
bearing the words ‘Abhay’s Fortress’ hung lopsidedly. It had been a gift
from Bheeshm.
The slats running up the trunk to function as a ladder, looked worn and
moldering; many encroached upon by fungi and toadstools, rotten from
age and moisture. Abhay ensured the footholds would support his weight
before he began to slowly climb. They creaked and shifted but held his
weight and as he got closer to the tree house, his fear of slipping off and
hurting his back subsided.
He perched upon the platform some thirty feet aboveground and peered
around at the view after fifteen years.
The vegetation was running wild and amok in the absence of any
intervention. A premature overcast darkness was spreading its tendrils in
the sky. Except for a tiny tool-shed and a long disused electric pole Abhay
saw nothing that was man-made. The shrubs and bushes had covered a
mound to his left, at the edge of the clearing. Abhay did not have to look
underneath the swathe of green to recollect there was a boarded well there,
waiting like a hidden trap for someone to fall in.
It was the kind of quietude Abhay had not experienced in a long, long
time; a longing he did not understand until now, a sense of belonging he
had forgotten, reasserted itself. The birds were singing and somewhere to
his far right, he could hear a crashing noise and loud whoops of the
monkeys--most likely the same ones Murtaza had been feeding bananas,
last night.
As on the front door to the Rajvardhan residence, Abhay had etched the
bow and arrow family crest here on the small door set into the tree house.
He wiped off the grime on the brass plaque. The tree house looked frail
and small; Abhay had grown up and changed, while the tree house had
remained where it was, untouched by anyone in the last fifteen years.
A squirrel scurried out of a gap between the wooden boards on its side
when Abhay unbolted the door. The interior looked dim and cramped,
reeking of damp and bird droppings. Watchful for anything with a
venomous bite, Abhay plunged an arm inside and retrieved an aluminum
box from inside, brushing off the cobwebs and dirt.
Even before he opened it, he knew what he would find inside the box.
There was an old action figure of Superman, some colorful stones and
marbles he used to collect as a child; a yellowed and shrunken comic book
and a rust-speckled magnifying glass cracked in the middle.
But he was least expecting to find a folded piece of paper laminated in
plastic, to slide out from between the shriveled pages of the comic book.
He caught it before it could slip beyond his reach.
It was an old puzzle his father had given him to solve. Abhay must not
have been more than eight then. On one side was a map of the world from
some newspaper: pieces of paper stuck together with glue; the other side
had an advertisement: a beautiful homely woman selling a detergent
powder--all still well preserved within the plastic-laminated cover. Abhay
remembered solving the puzzle, bringing the pieces of the world map
together by completing the woman’s image at the back.
There is always another way to figure something out; you just have to
find the right approach. That’s how we figure out our life. Bheeshm’s
words surfaced. The puzzle he had solved all those years ago, was trying
to tell him something.
‘Your tree house stands sturdy even after all these years.’ The voice
started Abhay enough to momentarily lose his balance.
Murtaza stood near the tool shed, looking up at him with a smile.
‘Try not to startle anyone next time you see a person hanging from a
precarious edge.’ Abhay told him irritably, stepping down the trunk after
the map-woman puzzle was secured in the back pocket of his jeans. ‘Why
do you keep following me around? I’m not a kid you need to look after.’
The boy pointed up at the sky. The thunderheads rumbled ominously at
the attention. ‘Looks like a storm’s coming--a bad one. You shouldn’t be
this far from the house, bhaiya. There are a lot of snakes and scorpions
around here.’
The moment of reverie had passed. Abhay shrugged and started walking
back, the young guy coming behind swinging his baton.
‘What’s the baton for?’
‘Baba gave it to me.’ Abhay felt a pang of jealousy, but somehow he
understood the reverence in Murtaza’s tone. Unlike his usual angry
response, Abhay only nodded. Last night’s events had humbled him, even
though he did not realize it.
‘What do you think about his death, who might have killed him like
that?’ Abhay asked, hoping to hear something that might directly or
indirectly shed some light on Bheeshm’s other life.
Even if the boy was not directly involved with the dealings of the
shadow-world, he might have at some point or another, seen or heard
something during his years under Bheeshm’s wings.
 ‘He worked very hard, stayed away for months. I wish the killer dies a
horrible death, whoever it may be.’
‘You don’t remember anything odd, any suspicious visitor--what about
the friends that always accompanied him?’
Murtaza looked clueless. They walked a while in silence before he said:
‘You shouldn’t doubt Baba, bhaiya. He was a good man, and he loved
you. He remembered your childhood so well, always kept telling me
stories of how you would hide away from the househelps for hours, just to
annoy them.’
‘I wish I could’ve remembered my childhood so well too.’ Abhay could
not help but make the snide remark. ‘As for him being a good man, I never
had doubts.’ The backyard was up ahead at the end of the path when he
asked Murtaza, ‘Doesn’t it scare you--how he was mutilated? Do good
men deserve such death?’
‘It scares me, yes it does. But I know Baba was doing what was right.
The one who killed him had no honor. A lot of us don’t deserve what we
are given, both the good and the bad things, even a long life or untimely
death. But it’s not the manner of death but what one achieves before dying
that defines the person as good or bad.’
It was blind faith driving the boy, Abhay told himself. He really wanted
to know the man--this stranger who was also his father--who had infused
an orphan with such devotion and such maturity beyond years. He would
have kept walking, lost in his own thoughts. But then Murtaza grabbed
him by the back of his t-shirt and pulled back Abhay at the edge of the
backyard.
‘Why in the hell did you do that?’ he felt like hitting the boy as he
pushed Abhay against a tree. Murtaza looked least bothered, eyeing up
ahead through the foliage.
‘We are being watched,’ he said. ‘Look up, above the roof.’
Abhay peered through the low-hanging branches. It took him less than
two seconds to make out the small black shape hovering over the moss
covered roof. It was a drone with rotors, the size of a child’s toy. He did
not have to focus much to hear the combined hum of its rotors as it dipped
to the level of an open, first floor window: Abhay’s bedroom.
It remained in suspended animation for ten seconds then continued its
circuit around the house, pausing at every window. Abhay noticed only
then that there were additional frames of iron grilles installed on every
window from the outside. Murtaza did not let him step outside the cover of
trees as they followed the drone till the front yard.
‘I left my phone inside. Perhaps we should call the police.’ Abhay said.
 ‘We are safe, bhaiya. The drone won’t find anything. It has been sent
here only to spy on us.’
‘Or it could belong to someone trying to help us.’ Abhay refuted,
wondering if someone from the Legion of Vishwamitra was controlling the
drone.
‘If that was the case someone would’ve come knocking at the main gate,
not send a drone.’
It struck Abhay then that Murtaza was definitely not the ignoramus he
had been acting to be minutes ago.
An automobile coughed to life somewhere, a heavy engine from the
sound of it. Murtaza’s eyes widened with a dreadful realization and he
bolted through the trees, Abhay on heels.
At first, there were explosions from the direction of the main gate. They
saw the top of a truck blundering forward, ramming against the gate with a
loud boom and crunch of metal and shattering glass. Considerably
weakened by the explosives, the hinges stood no chance as the vehicle
backed up and hit the gates a second time, unhinging them from their
posts.
‘The Asuras are here, send help, please!’ Abhay turned to look at
Murtaza. He was speaking to someone on an old cellphone.
 Chapter 14
Heaven and Earth, the Twain Shall Meet

What Murtaza referred to as the Asuras looked like humans, nothing like
the horned big demons from the mythological TV shows and films. They
were dressed in identical black uniforms and tactical gear: boots, Kevlar
vests and gloves. Each wore a mask to cover his face and a pair of goggles.
Four of them had submachine-guns, the rest were carrying slim Japanese
katana swords. The man directing them was taller and bulkier than the
others and he had another long-barreled gun slung on his back, besides a
SMG. It was thick and tubular, some kind of cannon or a bazooka.
‘How bad does it look?’ Abhay whispered as Murtaza was peeking over
the bushes on the left side of the lawn.
‘It’s just us, for now, against twelve. It is a shit-storm, to be honest.
Don’t mind my French. You stay here. I’ll deal with them, by hook and
crook.’ Murtaza replied without looking at him.
‘Is help coming?’
Murtaza only shrugged in response.
In the name of daylight only a dim, gray glow remained. The wind was
picking up in fast.
‘I want to help. I can’t hide here while you risk your life.’
The boy turned, shaking his head. ‘I promised Baba that I will--’
‘Well he’s dead, my friend. And I am old enough to make a choice for
myself.’ His anger boiled to the surface, all of a sudden. ‘I am done being
constantly protected and lied to.’
Murtaza held a brief, contemplative silence before he signaled Abhay to
follow him in a half-crouch. The wind and whispers of leaves rubbing
against each other overshadowed all sounds of their movement. They
angled themselves along the gravel turnaround such that the main door
was visible.
Three Asuras were standing guard beneath the porch while four others
ran to cover the back door. The remaining five, guided by the leader,
crowded around the front door.
‘In any case we cannot openly confront them. They have guns and they
outnumber us six-to-one.’ Murtaza murmured. ‘And remember, these are
the Darkborns, the human-Asura hybrids. They don’t die easily, because
they feel no pain. You can empty an entire clip of a machine-gun into
them, cut their limbs or decapitate their heads but they still won’t die. The
only way to bring them down is by attacking here,’ he tapped his temple,
‘you destroy the brain, the creature dies immediately.’
Abhay had seen his share of blood and broken noses in his many
fisticuffs during school and college. But Murtaza was talking about a
whole new parallel for which he was least prepared: killing a person.
Explosives went off in continuous, overlapping bursts and the front door
blew away. Storm roared, the wind howling in fury through the trees all
over the estate as the five Asuras disappeared into the house.
‘The back door wasn’t locked.’ Abhay said, raising his voice just a little
to make himself audible. He checked for the key in his pocket that opened
the metal door behind the bookshelves, seeking a semblance of comfort.
‘The wards will work, don’t you worry.’ As if Murtaza’s words had been
a trigger, they heard loud bangs and guttural cries from inside the house.
The three Asuras at the front whirled around in surprise but held their
position. ‘Told you so, now stay where you are. Don’t move till I say so.’
He padded away through the underbush before Abhay could protest,
running as silent as a fox through the bushes along the driveway, towards
the house; armed with nothing but a wooden baton shorter than Abhay’s
arm, tipped with thin double-edged blades. Murtaza was lost among the
trees and bushes for more than a minute before Abhay heard a whistle.
The three Asuras immediately homed in on the sound and advanced
towards the trees: a gun and two swords, leading before them. As per
Abhay’s assessment, Murtaza had not made a smart move.
Then he saw activity on the roof of the house.
The long tails appeared at first, before the dark-faced langurs climbed
into view. The Asuras were still in the shadow of the house, oblivious of
the six monkeys soundlessly descending down the front, hanging onto
precarious ledges and slippery roofs as they sneaked up to the Darkborns.
They leaped upon the Darkborns in one coordinated move, pushing them
to the ground with their combined weight and momentum. Murtaza dashed
forward like a charging cheetah and Abhay clearly saw the long, thin
blades spring out of either end of his baton.
The SMG thundered a few rounds, hitting one of the langurs clawing at
the Asura-gunner, smack in the chest. He would have shot at the others
too, but Murtaza’s blade plunged into his skull. The boy lunged for the
gun, barking a throaty command that made the remaining langurs jump
away from the opponents. Each of the Darkborns with the swords received
a bullet to the head before Murtaza retreated into the trees and the
monkeys took off, leaving the three dead Asuras and their fallen comrade.
The boy came sprinting and vaulting forward to join Abhay twenty
seconds hence, glancing towards the entrance with apprehension. Only
then Abhay realized he had been gripping the grass hard enough to uproot
the blades. He relaxed a little, seeing Murtaza safe.
‘That was incredible,’ he told the boy as he gained his breath.
‘We lost one. Here, you take this,’ Murtaza thrust the SMG at Abhay,
keeping the barrel away. ‘I am not so good with guns. Baba preferred them
over blades, you know. Support the stock against your shoulder, aim and
gently squeeze the trigger. That’s all I can tell you for now. The rest of
them would be coming any moment, they definitely heard the gunfire.’
Abhay’s arm trembled with the unexpected weight. The barrel was still
warm. He slung the strap around his torso and Murtaza guided him with
the correct posture.
It was as if he was being pushed into a series of extreme situations--a
long, hard test under the invigilation of Fate. Till the previous evening he
would have scoffed at the very notion of a Shadow World where creatures
of light and dark resided: an ancient army, glowing chakras and strange
swords and even stranger tales penned by a long line of commanders--
none of it would have interested him.
And now, he was facing another extreme scenario where he was expected
to fire a gun with the intention to kill people, even if they were not people
in the conventional sense.
‘Don’t hesitate, bhaiya.’ Murtaza surprised him. He had read Abhay’s
face. He continued, urging Abhay to change their position. ‘Never think of
the Darkborn to be like us. They have lost their souls, guided only by
instincts of bloodlust and violence. The three I just killed, they are
decomposing even as we speak, for the Asura blood in their veins does not
agree to the human body. In a few hours there will be nothing left of them
except soiled clothes in a pool of a pungent, organic sludge.’
The other Darkborns rushed out of the door, ready to attack. Not finding
the enemy confused them till they saw the three slain by Murtaza. Nine
Darkborns had gone inside and eight had come out; three of them were
limping, two had their clothes burnt, showing red, raw flesh. Only the
leader looked unharmed.
‘They are here for what’s inside the study, are they not? Dad died
protecting it.’ Abhay asked, watching the Asuras discussing in their gruff
voices. The first fat drops of rain were falling from the sky.
‘Whatever happened last night, got their attention. Yes, I felt something,
I know you were in Baba’s study. That object has to be protected at all
costs. I am surprised and relieved you figured it all out. Baba never wanted
you to be a part of this side of the world. A psychic dabbled with your
mind, he said, to make you forget things. You have been feeling odd
lately, right? Like you are remembering more about your years here; it’s
because you came home and the spells suppressing your memories are
wearing off. Baba prearranged it that way, just in case…’
Abhay was too occupied listening to him to see two of the Asuras
glancing around in their direction. The boy almost shoved him to the
ground. Abhay outweighed him easily but Murtaza possessed surprising
strength. Thankfully, the enemy’s gaze moved on.
‘You are from the Legion. What did they say when you called them?’
‘I am Legion, yes. My contact didn’t pick up. I had to leave a voicemail.’
He thumbed the speed-dial and pressed the phone to his ear, eyes never
leaving the Asuras. They were spreading out. Murtaza pocketed the phone
after getting no reply, once again. ‘Problem is, not all of us know about the
artifacts--the Chakra and the sword. The Dwij before Baba kept their
knowledge to themselves, for obvious reasons. There are less than ten
people who know what they together form, at present.’
He led Abhay deeper into the trees and stopped behind a screen of
foliage. ‘Listen closely, bhaiya. I think I might be able to take them down.
I am going to lead them into the woods. There are enough landmines and
boobytraps laid all over to blow them to pieces thrice over. You stay here-
-’
CRRACK-KABOOM! The sound following a blinding blue-white flash rent
apart the world. The lightning bolt fell out of the sky beyond the trees,
startling them to duck for cover.
BOOM! Another flashing stab fell two seconds later. Then a third, lasting
long enough for Abhay and Murtaza to see it had fallen in front of the
house--all three in the same radius.
‘That wasn’t natural!’ Murtaza crept forward to their former position
behind the row of trees and bushes around the driveway.
As if a switch had been flicked on by those lightning strikes, the clouds
relinquished their pregnant hold and a flood rained down, immediately
drenching the two men, even with the dense shade of the overhead foliage.
And in the middle of the lawn a solid, vertical beam of white light
descended, widening where the thunderbolts had struck. The Darkborns
were screaming, shielding their eyes against the blinding light--their cries
grating and harsh in spite of the upheaval from the sky.
‘Murtaza, tell me…what-the-fuck…is happening here!’ Abhay could
barely speak as he squinted at the flowing girth of the pillar of light. His
eyes were profusely watering with so much brightness. The glow felt like
that of the Chakra multiplied tenfold, only it did not evoke the warmth he
had felt flowing through him in the former case.
The beam seemed to fizzle out and disappear with a final flash, leaving a
strong afterglow in Abhay’s vision. The Asuras were still screaming, as if
their eyes had melted.
When Abhay and Murtaza were able to see things clearly, they found
themselves looking at two figures standing upon the scorched ground
where the beam was incident upon.
They were dressed in identical form-fitting suits and armor that shone
with a familiar dull gleam: a male and a tall female, strong and lithe as
ninjas, wielding an outlandish gun and a sword, respectively. They could
have passed for a human, except for their flawless skins, high cheekbones
and unusually sharp features.
They charged even before the Darkborns could gather their bearings or
ready their weapons.
‘Angiris, bhaiya, these are the Celestials from Swargam!’ Murtaza’s face
exhibited awe and delight.
But Abhay’s eyes were affixed elsewhere, on the sword in the she-
Angiri’s hand: the peculiar scimitar-like blade, the same kind of
crossguard and a ruddy gemstone in the pommel. It was the same blade as
the one hidden in the desk.

The rain was turning into a cascade beneath a darkened sky. It was as if
they had jumped out from a boiling cauldron into a blazing fire.
Dhwani was relieved to see Jayant by her side but equally worried as a
guardian worries for her ward--it was her acolyte’s maiden visit to Prithvi
and its long-turned hostile environs, after all.
The Asuras were still reeling from the surprising, blinding blaze of the
Portal beam when Kaya signaled Jayant. Covered entirely in their black
uniforms, masks and battle gear, they looked like Manushyas except for
their auras: each life-force swirling with grays and darker shades around
their forms, interspersed by hues of the darkest emotions that bespoke their
bloodlust and violent intentions against everything beautiful.
This is your ultimate test, acolyte. Everything that I and Elder Neel have
taught you was to build you for this moment. Attack without remorse, aim
for the head. These are the Darkborns, raised from hellish tortures and
long afflictions to the soul, body and mind.
The Angiris shot forward like arrows, charging at the nearest opponents.
Under Dhwani’s guidance, Uttara sliced through the air, hacking and
stabbing as she took down the two Darkborns with the guns.
 Jayant had disarmed another swordsman with a concussive blast from his
plasma-gun when the remaining gunner opened fire at him. Dhwani heard
his grunt of pain as he leapt aside and took flight with a spurt of fiery
wings.
The bullet breached through my shields, Mentor! He relayed, landing
near the Manushya dwelling dominating the view. The sookshm fabric on
his right thigh illuminated the damage: a fortunate graze where Ashtadhatu
had rubbed against its like, barely missing the skin.
They have Ashtadhatu bullets, Jayant! Beware and do not rely too much
on your shields. Their blades might be dipped in Halāhal. Dhwani replied,
circling the Asuras now fully recovered from their temporary blindness.
As the Darkborns gathered in a formation, the last remaining gunner--the
leader--threw his gun aside and unslung a bulky, familiar object from
around his torso: it was one of the stolen Oorja-cannons, its gaping,
glowing muzzle swinging towards her.
At the same instant, she felt the points of burning pain, erupting all over
her back, as if her skin beneath the suit’s fabric had been doused with oil
and set afire.
She ignored the pain, seeing the more immediate threat in the form of the
Deva weapon swing into action. The remaining Asuras with the swords
formed a loose circle around the gunner, and each uncoiled a metal whip in
addition to the swords, cracking their barbed snake-tongues in challenge.
They burbled and cursed in hoarse voices and hisses, beckoning the
Angiris.
But Dhwani and Jayant had disappeared from view, hidden behind the
sheets of rain. The Darkborns waited, drenched to the bone, weapons at the
ready in their constrained field of vision. The leader scanned the sky with
the Oorja-cannon, urging the other four to stay vigilant.
Something rushed at them from the gloomy curtain of rain and the Daivik
weapon boomed, its beam scaring away the attacker. Another attempt
followed a few seconds later, this time from the sky and again a few blasts
sent the swooping, winged shape into retreat. The Darkborns jeered in
victory, jeering at the scampering enemy.
But then the attack came both from the ground and above.
Jayant went gliding past, raining a barrage of water droplets from above,
like tiny bullets. All he had to do was guide the drops of precipitation with
a spell and hurl them at the enemies by providing them enough kinetic
energy. Water can cut through any barrier if provided enough motion, and
so the jets and droplets riddled the Darkborns, even though they felt no
pain.
 It distracted them enough for Dhwani to close in. Before the Asuras with
the swords and whips could see her, she had already hacked through an
arm and delivered four mighty blows that would have crippled an ordinary
Manushya, immediately. Jayant made another pass overhead, raining down
more spells and Dhwani’s battle dance intensified on the ground. She spun
through the air, almost every move an offensive, moving from one
opponent to another before their strike could be initiated.
But the Darkborns were no less of a match for the both of them. They
were fast as lizards, thrice their whips found her but Dhwani cut them with
Uttara. She could not feel the blade’s weight, like it had become a part of
her arm. She drove the tip into another skull as she sensed Jayant’s
imminent attack and jumped eighteen feet in a single leap.
The marble basin of the broken fountain in the lawn went spinning
beneath her like a discus, hitting the enemies and breaking the formation.
The gunner was her intended target but a whip-cracking, sword-wielding
Darkborn came in between. He fought like a maniac, using the whip’s
flexibility to envelope himself, and the length of the katana to keep
Dhwani away. The katana broke into two the second it clashed against
Uttara, the whip was reduced to nothing and only then Dhwani could
deliver the killing blow.
Only three remain, Jayant’s words did nothing to make her feel better.
For the daggers of pain digging into her back seemed to have plunged even
deeper; a hazy film of weakness crept into her vision.
Something is wrong with me, she thought, but it would have to wait till
the Darkborns are dead.
Two against three: the odds seemed to be in their favor until the gunner
decided to let go of its inhibitions and fire the Oorja-cannon blindly. The
remaining Darkborns let go of their blades and picked up the fallen
machine guns, relying solely on their steel whips for close combat.
Jayant fired spells and the plasma blaster deftly, sticking to what Dhwani
had taught him, never staying in one place for more than two seconds.
Dhwani’s attacks looked random, yet each one was calculated to make the
Darkborns expose the vulnerability of their formation. She saw an opening
then: the gunner with the Oorja-cannon temporarily unguarded.
She charged, swift as a falcon, using both her limbs and the driving
momentum of her wings. She raised Uttara for what would be a decisive
blow to their biggest problem at present.
But the daggers in her back became tearing fangs of a giant basilisk a
fraction of a second into her speeding advance. Pain became intense agony
and her vision turned red then black for minutes that felt like hours.
 The she-Angiri was a moving blur too fast to be followed in the
downpour, half-running, half-gliding towards the Asura with the cannon.
Ten feet--seven--five feet, then her speed slackened, she stumbled and fell;
the momentum drove her right up to the enemy’s feet, her body skidding
along the overflowing ground.
Abhay had failed to notice what had thwarted her attack but she was
writhing and shrieking.
The second Angiri who seemed no older than Murtaza, rushed into the
midst of the Darkborns, giving no thought to his own safety. He tried to
drag her away but the whip came down with a crack, looping itself around
his calf like a chameleon’s tongue. He tried to fly away but one
momentous tug from the uncannily strong Asura brought him down.
‘We should help them,’ Abhay said, wiping his face on his already
soaked sleeve. He took a step before Murtaza held him by an elbow.
‘We don’t know if the Angiris are on our side, bhaiya.’
‘Because an Angiri killed Dad, that’s why?’
Murtaza nodded and even though Abhay had guessed it already, he felt
the world crashing down upon him as lightning rumbled in the fathomless
grey sky.
Abhay looked stunned for a second, staring into his grave countenance
that resembled a man older than his years--one that had come to terms with
the shadow world of Oorja and Andhakar since an early age. It felt farcical
but true: Abhay’s life depended upon a boy of sixteen, carrying a strange
double-bladed weapon.
The Asuras were kicking and prodding at the young Angiri with the tip of
the blades. The she-Angiri lay spread-eagled a few paces further, not
moving much.
Abhay stood transfixed, peeping from the safety of their hiding place.
Despite what they had agreed upon, a hurricane of emotions rose inside
him. Seeing the three Asuras mercilessly beat the struggling, bleeding
Angiri brought back something he had been a part of once. A ten year old
hosteller, forced to live away from home for the first time; naive and
oblivious to the world beyond the safety of his home. He had his first ugly
brush with the world’s brutality when three senior boys in his hostel had
beaten him up, for intervening their playtime with another badly-bruised
victim. Abhay had rushed to the boy’s help with the false assurance that
the other kids would do the same. None of them did anything; they were
spectators, too powerless to even raise their voice against the bullying.
Life had come to a full circle for Abhay. He was one of the spectators
now.
The Asuras guffawed. One of them had picked up the heavy marble base
of the fountain. The Darkborn walked up to the boy-Angiri as the latter
slowly regained his senses, not more than twenty paces from Abhay and
Murtaza.
‘He’s going to crush his head with that, Murtaza.’ Abhay gave him a
sideways glance. The deep frown on his smooth forehead said enough to
tell Abhay that even Murtaza did not feel right about standing and
watching the Angiri die.
‘It’s not easy to kill an Angiri, bhaiya.’ He said it more to convince
himself than Abhay.
The seconds moved slowly and the Darkborn hefted the chunk of stone,
about to smash the Angiri’s skull to a pulp.
Abhay broke into a run. Murtaza did not stop him but instead sprinted
forward after a moment of fleeting hesitation.
‘Hey, assholes,’ Abhay raised the machine gun in a two handed grip,
stock pressed against his shoulder. He squeezed the trigger just as the
Darkborns were turning, spraying bullets in a loose arc, surprised by the
jarring recoil that almost slackened his hold at first.
The shot that hit the Darkborn with the stone base raised over his head
was a fluke. It hit him in the left elbow, weakening his hold. The weight
became too much and gravity did the rest, the basin landing on the top of
the Asura’s head with a thud and driving him into the ground with a
sickening crunch as his skull took the brunt of the weight. He was dead in
a second but the other Asuras were ready to face them.
‘I’ll handle the one with that huge gun,’ Murtaza said, ‘you keep firing at
the other.’

Dhwani was aware on some level of the gunfire and the loud voices, the
cracks of the whips and the humming of the Oorja-cannon. Yet she found
it impossible to open her eyes. It was as if she was trapped in a deep, dark
well and hundreds of needles were being driven into her back.
Pain is transient for an Angiri, never meant to last for long on account of
their fast healing. And not once in her long-life had Dhwani experienced
such agony up till now, capable of sucking all her thoughts and hope. The
physical pain was inconsequential in comparison to that afflicting her
mind.
Her connection with Oorja seemed to be attached by a thread,
threatening to break under the constant tug pulling her away from the
ubiquitous cosmic energy. ‘Grant me your strength, O Tridevas; embrace
me, Maa Oorja,’ the prayer came automatically.
Dhwani repeated it over and over again, focusing on her own voice in the
darkness--she had no idea if it was in her mind, or if her lips were moving.
She concentrated upon the thought, forced her will to dash through the
needles of pain.
Warmth engulfed her body, dispelling the darkness pressing upon her.
The needles shattered like glass as Dhwani emerged from her enforced
cocoon of pain and opened her eyes.

The gun clicked emptily in Abhay’s hand. He was sure he had shot the
Darkborn a number of times, the ragged, oozing bullet holes on its chest
and one in his mask--in the right cheek--were testament to it. But the
Darkborn had no more than stumbled, his grip over the whip and the
katana still unyielding.
The cannon boomed repeatedly in the background, where Murtaza was
facing off against the Darkborn leader.
Abhay threw the gun at him and ran for the nearest gun a few feet away.
He would have reached it if not for the twitching severed hand he tripped
over in his hurry. He splashed forward into the overflowing lawn, his face
inches from the face of the fallen Darkborn the hand belonged to. The
sickly reek made him gag.
The whip lashed out as Abhay reached out for the nearest weapon--an
Asura sword--and forced him to pull back his arm in the nick of time. The
Darkborn was upon him in a blink, digging his heavy, ironshod boots
against Abhay’s chest, raising his katana to thrust its tip into his throat.
Abhay felt unnaturally calm as he anticipated the end. He watched with
his breath stuck in his chest as the tip came near--but it never touched him.
A chunk of marble came hurtling out of nowhere and hit the Darkborn
square in the chest, sweeping him off his feet.
The Darkborn fell down sloshing four feet from Abhay. Only then he saw
the boy-Angiri on the other side, propped upon his left elbow in the water,
one arm raised at the Asura trying to get back on his feet. The marble base
seemed to rise on its own, dripping red down its bloody end that had
crushed one skull already. The Darkborn saw it too late before it
sandwiched his face against the ground.
Abhay recoiled in disgust and got up as fresh blood darkened the
rainwater. He nodded at the Angiri in acknowledgement, the only gesture
of gratitude Abhay could think of then. But he did not get to see the
Angiri’s response.
The loud explosion shook the air to Abhay’s left, where the last Darkborn
and Murtaza had been fighting at the edge of the lawn. The two stood
frozen in close combat, Murtaza’s blade poking out of the much taller
Darkborn’s throat. The cannon in the latter’s hand was smoking, its
muzzle pointed at the young man’s torso. For a few seconds Abhay could
not understand.
Then Murtaza wheezed and let go of his weapon, his other hand holding
on to the throat ripping along the Darkborn’s mask as the boy staggered
away. He turned towards Abhay, clutching the ripped length of the
Darkborn’s mask in his fist and unconscious of it. There was a large
gaping hole in the lower half of his torso, where the intestines are
supposed to be. The leering, rotten face of the Asura was visible through it.
Murtaza staggered forward, mouthing incoherently and Abhay tried to
warn him.
The Asura raised the cannon one last time, least affected by the blade
stuck through his neck. Abhay caught Murtaza before he could fall.
Something lit up at the corner of Abhay’s vision and zoomed into view
with an unimaginable speed, going past the Darkborn before it slowed
down enough for Abhay to make the she-Angiri. Her body was garbed in a
suit of light, the sword in her hand like a white-hot claw: the brightest
objects in the rainy murkiness.
Abhay gazed between her and the still-leering Darkborn, waiting for
something. Then he saw thick, black blood well along a neat, diagonal
slash upon the rotting face. A diagonal cross-section of the upper skull slid
off the rest of his face. The enemy crumpled on the ground with half-a-
face, still leering.
The she-Angiri picked up the cannon and started walking towards her
younger companion. Her suit’s radiance faded with every step until it died
down into a metallic-grey fabric. She crumpled in the mud.
Abhay held the dying boy’s hand clenched around his own, cradling him
in his lap. His tears mixed with the rain, just as Murtaza’s blood mixed
with the water. Abhay seemed not to notice the spreading pool of crimson
he was in.
‘My phone--take my phone--please.’ The boy struggled, clinging to
Abhay and drawing him closer. ‘Take what needs to be protected,
bhaiya…g-go north…Legion…V-V-Vanraj.’
Abhay could make little sense of the words before Murtaza’s grip
slackened and he went limp. He had barely learned anything about the boy
and once again, Fate had snatched away someone before Abhay could
know him better.
Death roamed the Rajvardhan residence. Perhaps it had decided to stick
around after the eve of Bheeshm’s murder, knowing full well there would
be enough souls to collect a week hence.
 Chapter 15
Icebreaker

‘Mentor,’ he called, ‘Dhwani, wake up, please!’

Jayant cradled her in his arms, crooning and praying for her to open her
eyes. They were in the dry shade of the portico, seated on the cold floor by
the steps. Uttara lay nearby alongside the wooden scabbard, its curvilinear
blade stained foul in Asura blood.
Dhwani’s vitals felt normal but her aura pulsed darkly with pain, replete
with shifting ripples of dark red. Her complexion had turned pale and she
had suffered a number of cuts and bruises, the suit still showing each
wound. Four tiny darts with empty vials were lying discarded a few paces
to their left. Jayant had found them embedded deep into her skin, her
Angiri-suit penetrated by the Ashtadhatu needles connected to the tiny
vials of poison.
The trap laid by the Mole, by Elder Tamas, back in his hideout: it seemed
the only plausible scenario to explain the vial-darts.
Jayant reached out to her with his mind and only then he realized the
extent of the damage caused by the Halāhal in the darts. Her conscious
seemed distant, closed within a cocoon of pain; her mental activity faded
and weak. She was caught in a bevy of nightmares. She might be able to
hear him but if she was trying to connect to Jayant telepathically, it was
out of her bounds.
The problem was: Jayant knew neither spell nor remedy for Halāhal
poisoning. It was one of the few things that gave the Asuras great
advantage over the Celestials. Even the Devas did not fully understand the
nature of the substance: what made it so lethal and corrupting for not only
the body but also the mind of an Oorjaborn--be it Angiri or Manushya.
He turned and looked beyond the porch as a new presence showed up on
his radar. He heard the automobile’s engine, its hurried, bumpy advance
over the broken main gate and finally the screech of its brakes and the
crunch of tires over gravel.
The rain showed no sign of slackening but he could very well make out
the other Manushya kneeling in the overflowing lawn, holding his dead
young friend. More than grief, his aura exhibited shock--Jayant thought it
felt brighter than what a Manushya’s life force would feel. The newly
arrived was an old man with an umbrella, scared and perplexed to discover
the carnage around the lawn.
 Jayant exhaled in relief, seeing no cause of threat, for the old man began
to talk to the kneeling Manushya, pleading him for an explanation.
Jayant began to chant spells one after another, concentrating on the
bleeding wounds but they refused to heal or stanch the blood loss.
It was my place to operate the Loka Portal, Jayant thought, caressing
Dhwani’s blanched face. It should have been I and not Elder Neel, he was
needed here! He is the one who would know what to do.
‘Is, is your friend okay? Can you--can you understand me, hello?’
His survival instinct kicked in as the voice spoke behind Jayant. His left
arm shot outward at the interruption, the power of a stunning spell
blooming in the cusp of his palm. Then he saw it was the elderly
Manushya. The man retreated by many paces, struck speechless by the
flash of radiance within Jayant’s palm, in addition to his outlandish
ensemble of suit and armor, and his elfish appearance.
Jayant lowered his arm, retracted the spell that would have struck out as a
blast of heat and concussive force--powerful enough to make the old
Manushya’s heart stop beating at the impact, judging by the graying
shadow of sickness in his aura. Jayant wondered if the old man knew about
a malignant growth spreading through his lungs.
The old man repeated his question after some hesitation, switching to
English.
‘I understand you well, Manushya.’ Jayant replied in both the languages,
turning back to Dhwani.
‘You’re not from around here, are you? Is your friend alright? There
must be a first aid box somewhere in the house, let me find it for you so
that you can clean her wounds...’ He trailed off when he saw the sword on
the floor.
The blade flew into Jayant’s grip before the Manushya could even bend
to pick it up.
‘I mean no harm, I promise.’ He started, raising his hands in surrender.
‘Where is the other thing? Don’t tell me the bastards got to it, the
Chakra?’
Jayant’s attention hooked on to the word. ‘What Chakra are you referring
to?’
He laid Dhwani’s head on the scabbard and got up, sparked by curiosity
that the old man took for harmful intent with the sword in his possession.
‘Aren’t you from the Legion?’ the Manushya took a step backward,
oblivious of where he was stepping. The ground disappeared beneath his
feet as he lost his balance over the edge of the landing.
With a rush of wind he found Jayant gripping him by the collar, holding
him from falling down the steps.
‘Tell me what you meant by the Chakra.’ Jayant demanded, pulling him
forward on to the firm ground.
‘The one that was with this sword, hidden inside the study,’ the
Manushya whispered. His breath stank of something burnt and charred
Jayant could not recognize. ‘It glows like molten gold, gives off so much
light--soothing light. The thing is a piece of metal but acts like...like it’s
alive, somehow.’
Jayant was not sure what he was talking about, or what he meant by
another sword like Uttara. But it was his description of the Chakra’s
glow--the soothing light and the fact that a piece of metal was acting alive-
-that struck a chord.
‘Show me where I can tend to her wounds.’ Jayant asked, inserting
Uttara into its scabbard. He scooped Dhwani into his arms, motioning the
old man to lead.
‘You haven’t told me anything about yourself. How can I trust you?’
Jayant adjusted Dhwani’s weight evenly before replying. ‘We are Angiris
from Swargam, come to find an artifact of utmost importance. It might be
the Chakra you speak of.’
The Manushya gathered his courage before he asked a final question.
‘What will you do, with this artifact?’
‘Hide it somewhere safe, so that it never gets into the wrong hands. Or
die fighting for it.’
The Manushya did not look fully satisfied but he ushered Jayant to
follow him into the house, over the splintered remains of the front doors.
Outside in the lawn, the younger Manushya was nowhere to be seen, nor
was the dead one he was grieving over.
‘Where is your son?’ Jayant asked.
‘Abhay, yes, he wants to bury the kid, first. Life has been playing a nasty
game with him, lately. He’ll come around.’

Abhay was soiled in mud, working furiously with the shovel he had
found in the garage. The blade fell with a soft thump, scooped the wet soil
aside then kept rising and falling. His mud streaked hands moving like the
arms of an automaton, his feet squelching in the swiftly widening grave
every now and then. His movement was entirely on auto drive but his mind
was abuzz with a hundred thoughts; trying to arrange all that he had seen
and learned since his father’s death, into a sensible pattern built upon
logic.
 He knew he did not have the luxury to sit and wait; someone had come
looking for the Chakra again--all because of his seemingly innocuous
interaction with the artifact. His father had died protecting it and Abhay
had spilled water over his sacrifice by signaling its location to the wrong
parties.
He had started it, and now it was up to him to do something about the
artifacts, the Book of Dwij and his own problems. It was that or do nothing
and let things happen to him--a much worse alternative.
Murtaza could have led him to his father’s people, the mysterious army
of Vishwamitra.
The Legion seemed least affected for the safety of the objects inside the
desk, as if the very thing they had been protecting with their lives had
ceased to matter after the death of their Dwij, his father. If the Chakra was
so important then there should have been a whole lot of people protecting
it--instead of a young warrior, protective spells painted on walls and a
bunch of monkeys guarding everything inside the desk.
‘You’ll strain yourself to death, Abhay. Slow down!’ Kant’s voice
interrupted. He was coming towards him, walking beneath an umbrella.
The rain was letting up and the air looked clear and much brighter than
what it had been some time back.
‘Murtaza told me to run with the artifacts, head north, where the Legion
is, by my guess. Out here we are sitting ducks. Others will soon come
looking for the Chakra.’ Abhay started digging after a pause.
‘I thought those two were from the Legion. Then I found out what they
are.’ Kant said, lighting up a cigarette. ‘I hope you know what you’re
talking about. You plan to move around, with that exotic piece of metal
and magic we know nothing about. You’ll be courting disaster, given what
we have seen: the Angiris, those…those masked men.’
‘Darkborns, they were Darkborns, human-Asura hybrids that feel no
pain. They are mentioned all over in the Book. As for courting disaster,’
Abhay thrust the shovel’s blade into the soil and observed the result of his
effort. He was half done with the digging and felt far from exhausted,
except for some soreness in his fingers. ‘Take a look around the front,
uncle, in case you didn’t notice. Disaster has already found me. It found
me the day Dad was killed.’
Kant said nothing. He sat down on his haunches, holding the umbrella in
one hand, the smoldering cigarette in the other, puffing on it with
trembling fingers as if it would infuse him with life. ‘Suppose we get all
those things to the Legion somehow, ensure their safety--what after that?’
Abhay shoveled aside more soil then paused to give Kant a look that said
the reason was obvious. ‘Ma is out there, in what circumstances I dare not
imagine. I have to find her and I’m counting on the Legion to help me
when they learn I’m the son of Bheeshm Rajvardhan. I have to know my
parents better, their entire story.’
‘Those two…the Angiris, they have come to find the thing that caused
the surge last night. The younger of them--his name’s Jayant--he says they
want to hide the artifact. I think Jayant and his mentor have good
intentions--that’s what he called her, the tall, pale one. She is not doing so
great, it appears. They must know something, you know…about
Bheeshm’s killer.’
Abhay stopped, straightening to push back the mat of wet, black hair
drooping down his forehead. ‘It is too soon to trust them! Don’t tell me
you told him about the Chakra.’
‘I might’ve mentioned the Chakra and the sword, in passing. Her sword
looks exactly like the one hidden inside the desk.’
‘You are talking about Uttara and her twin, Dakshina,’ the young Angiri
strode out of nowhere, making Kant almost jump upright. His fresh
cigarette fell on the wet ground and went out.
Like Abhay, Jayant seemed at home in the rain, his long, brown-black
hair plastered to his head in a small bun. ‘I wish to see what you have got--
the Chakra and the twin-blade that you speak of,’ he paused to look at
Abhay who was assiduously bent over his chore. ‘Is this for the brave one-
-where is his vessel, his remains?’
Kant nodded and pointed at the wood-and-stone cabin where Murtaza
was lying on his cot, wrapped in a clean bed sheet for a shroud. ‘His name
was Murtaza and he was as old as you are now.’
Jayant suddenly laughed without care, not out of any spite but like a child
that finds some random statement funny for his own reasons. ‘Angiris age
slow. I am older than the two of you, together.’
Kant stared at him wide-eyed. Even Abhay paused to glance at Jayant.
What they saw did not make sense. Perhaps in Bheeshm Rajvardhan’s
world, an Angiri’s longevity was common knowledge.
Jayant then addressed Abhay with some hesitation. ‘I did not know
Murtaza but…allow me to dig his grave, if that does not affect your
ritual?’ Abhay had seen him flying, on wings made of fire. He was
certainly capable of moving mounds of earth with one of his superhuman
abilities.
Jayant added, ‘This is the least I can do to honor him.’
He extended Abhay an arm to help him step out of the shallow but
serviceable grave beneath the dripping gulmohar tree. They were
expecting him to cast a spell or lift the earth by some extraordinary means.
Instead, Jayant jumped into the muddy pit, picked up the shovel and
resumed digging.
Only then Abhay and Kant understood what he had meant, about
honoring Murtaza. Jayant’s one simple, profound gesture had won over
their heart.

Dhwani woke up, woozy with pain.

She was in a bedroom--one that did not look much used, for most of the
furniture was covered beneath sheets to protect it from dust; the covering
over the mattress had been hastily thrown aside to make room for her. The
walls were bare, with a large grill-and-glass window facing the bed.
Outside, the daylight was still strong on the other side of the rain and the
mantle of dark clouds.
The low table at her bedside was lined with a number of bottles of
antiseptics, rolls of cotton and bandages. There was a cloying, medicinal
smell in the room despite the window being open.
She raised herself and the quilt covering her slipped, revealing her own
unnerving state.
She was not wearing her kavach-suit but a loose Manushya garment
instead; worn from use but clean and fragrant. Dhwani threw the quilt
aside, ignoring the hot blaze of pain as her cuts and wounds, bruises and
concussions screamed in chorus; her back stung as if it was a burning
crop-field. She looked around in panic till her eyes settled upon the pair of
metal gauntlets and the small pile of her gear on the window sill. She
relaxed.
‘Jayant,’ her hoarseness surprised her. She called his name twice then
tried to locate him with her mind. It did not work, despite her teeth-
grinding effort to expand her faculties.
The soles of her feet touched the cold, smooth floor. Pain erupted all over
her body, surprising her once again.
What curse in Shiva’s name has gripped me? She wondered.
It gave her some comfort that at least she was capable of coherent
thought--unlike the nightmarish spell of sleep and unconsciousness she
had awakened from. Strength slowly returned into her limbs and she
walked over to the window, took a look at the dense wall of trees outside.
She was on the top floor of the dwelling, at a height of over forty feet.
The additional frame of black iron bars outside the window puzzled her,
made the room feel like some prison.
 Dhwani opened the nearby door, smaller than the other one at her
opposite diagonal, thinking it would lead her outside. She saw a silhouette
and would have gone into an attacking stance when she realized: it was her
own reflection in the mirror--she was in the bathroom.
She summoned a light-orb but nothing happened. When Dhwani saw the
panel of switches by the door, she knew what it would do. The first switch
activated the bulb over the mirror.
A stranger stared back at her in the mirror. Her face had lost its color, her
hair disheveled and singed from dodging the cannon blasts. Taking off the
Manushya garment felt more awkward than wearing it.
Her wounds were bandaged--five in all--but there were several cuts on
the back of her arms. Her torso had turned two shades paler than her face,
a playground for reddened bruises. She untied the bandage on her
shoulder: there was a deep cut beneath. The injuries unsettled her.
They should have healed by now, she thought.
Her equal concern was how she had sustained those injuries. Uttara had
cut through the Asura whips, shattered most blades but the last of them had
blades of Ashtadhatu--like the bullets.
The Asuras have evolved in their art of war.
She re-tied the bandage with some difficulty then slipped her hands into
the gauntlets. The mechanism clamped upon her forearm and the sookshm
fabric weaved itself over her body. Her back smarted as the suit clung to
her skin, sealing into a snug, aerodynamic fit.
If only she had checked her back in the mirror, she would have realized
her situation was far worse than what she assumed it to be.
Dhwani cautiously searched the house, calling out for Jayant but got no
response. One of the rooms was layered in ash, heavy with the odor of
burnt flesh. A katana lying in a pool of blood told her an Asura had fallen
into a spell-trap. But then, why could not she sense the spells?
No sign of Jayant, or of Uttara--and the Oorja-cannon!
Dhwani hurried down the stairs into the hall, ran through the hallway to
the kitchen on rubbery limbs, fear creeping into her heart. She was about
to head out when she saw them through the window overlooking the
backyard.
Jayant was with two Manushyas, the older one she did not remember
seeing before. Her acolyte was stained in mud, helping the younger
Manushya lower a shrouded form into a grave. She needed no telling who
was wrapped in the shroud.
Jayant looked comfortable in their company, his body language
displaying an open trust Dhwani found both relieving and worrisome.
They might have fought side-by-side with Jayant but were they
trustworthy, or was there another ulterior motive driving them? She had
heard enough anecdotes not to trust a Manushya, who were known to have
tricked even the Devas for boons and weapons that they went on to use in
their selfish wars-- sometimes even against other Devas.
And yet Jayant seemed above any worry. He and the young Manushya
took turns filling the grave, something her acolyte could have
accomplished easily with a spell or two. When the grave was filled and the
older Manushya had delivered a short eulogy Dhwani could not hear,
Jayant did something unexpected even for her.
Her acolyte kneeled beside the grave, dug his ten fingers into the soft
earth and raised his face to the sky. She could not help but gush with pride
when she understood his motive--it was a gesture of utmost respect among
the Angiris, gracing a departed brave’s resting place.
The diamond sarcophagus in the Mole’s cavern might have been Jayant’s
most recent inspiration, Dhwani realized.
Blades of grass began to sprout from the soil upon the grave, where
moments ago there had been nothing but freshly-turned earth. Saplings
grew in size; buds appeared, blossomed along the stalks and fully-opened
their white petals to greet the world--all in a matter of minutes.
There were monkeys, too, observing the last rites from the overhead tree.
When the backs of the three man-creatures had turned away, each dropped
a flower on the grave.
When the three of them came back, Dhwani was waiting in the hall,
studying the crude but effective spell work etched along the wooden door
frame and walls: meant to activate a combination of debilitating charms
and illusions over a creature of darkness.
‘Mentor, you awakened!’ Jayant almost jumped with elation.
‘Were you able to find what is happening to me?’ She ignored the
Manushyas. They were clueless to the conversation in the Angiri-tongue.
His face hardened. Jayant’s hesitation showed before he nodded. ‘You
have been poisoned: four measures of Halāhal, in darts with needles of
Ashtadhatu. I found them buried in your back, soon after you passed out.
The poison is preventing your wounds from healing readily, at the natural
pace.’
‘It is inflicting a lot more harm than what you see, acolyte.’ Dhwani
looked at the two humans for the first time.
She and the younger Manushya sized each other before he broke the ice.
‘I am Abhay Rajvardhan. This is my uncle, Dr. Kant. Jayant tells me you
are his guru. You taught him well.’
 Jayant remained passive, raising his eyebrows only when he learned the
connection between Kant and Abhay.
Dhwani heard no trace of lie in his even voice, no irregular movement of
his distinct Adam’s apple--nothing to tell her if he was lying or hiding his
true motive. Her Angiri vision refused to light up the world in auras, as it
ordinarily did.
‘Abhay claims something strange, Mentor,’ Jayant told her, switching to
Manushya tongue, ‘he seems to be in possession of a Chakra that radiates
light with the slightest provocation and a blade that can only be the lost
twin of Uttara. It appears to be a likely trigger to what caused the Oorja-
surge, and the stirring of the Tridevas.’
‘My father died protecting it.’ Abhay said. ‘You might be able to confirm
his killer’s identity--for he is an Angiri. But we need to hurry. This
morning was the second instance when the wrong kind of people found
this place. We have to be moving.’
Dhwani considered before giving her assent. ‘Show me where the
Chakra and the sword are.’
 Chapter 16
An Unlikely Alliance

They were in the hidden chamber beyond the study, gathered around the
desk. The secret cabinet was wide open to show its contents,
complemented by the blade Uttara in its wooden scabbard and the Oorja-
cannon Jayant had arranged upon the flat surface. The Chakra had given
the Angiris quite a shock. Abhay could only wonder how they would have
reacted had they seen it glow.
Jayant and Dhwani kept glancing between the artifacts and the laptop
screen. The younger Angiri clicked the mouse to play the last seconds
where the lightning-bolt appeared and the Mole mentioned the
Brahmāstra.
Abhay had wanted to see their reaction when they saw the video clip.
The distress on their faces had further convinced Abhay the two Angiris
had nothing to do with Bheeshm’s gruesome murder. But they recognized
the Killer.
Abhay checked the time in his wrist-watch: in twenty-minutes, four hours
would have elapsed since the attack. Time seemed to be leaping forward at
an unusual pace. Kant was content with watching the Angiris and their
beautiful faces, hearing their whispered exchange. They had together
briefed Dhwani and Jayant on the important bits about Bheeshm, the
Legion and Abhay’s interaction with the Chakra--the last one being the
common connection between the recent affairs of both worlds.
‘They are the same,’ Jayant told Abhay, ‘our traitor and your father’s
killer. The weapon you see is the Vajra, the weapon of Indra, the Lord of
Devas. Only two Angiris know the invocation to summon it. If nothing
else, then this is the undeniable proof of the Mole’s crimes, murdering
Manushyas for his own selfish motive.’
Dhwani sat in silence by the screens, wracked by outrage against Neel for
staying back, facing Tamas all on his own. It was only a matter of time
before the latter arrived, looking for the Chakra.
Only things seemed a lot more complicated, as they were beginning to
discover.
The twin blades coming together: it troubled Jayant as much as it did
Dhwani.
‘What about the Brahmāstra--he was talking about the Chakra, wasn’t
he?’ She stirred at Abhay’s question.
 Jayant shrugged. ‘The Brahmāstra we know of, is not a physical weapon.
It is a spell that can unlock great reserves of Oorja to cause great havoc,
enough to kill even an entire race of Devas if harnessed to its full
potential.’ He looked at Dhwani for support, pointing at the inert disc in its
cradle. ‘This Chakra, what do you reckon it to be, Mentor?’
Dhwani got up, grimacing. She picked up Uttara and Dakshina, placed
them together, trying to at least make sense of the twin blades: the only
objects whose legend was known to her to some extent.
‘If it could cause the Tridevas to stir,’ she said, unsheathing Uttara from
the scabbard, ‘then I say it is indeed powerful--probably one of the most
powerful artifacts of Oorja ever created by the Devas or even the Trinity.
It was definitely blessed by the essence of the Supreme Fathers. Although
it escapes my comprehension how it can be related to the Brahmāstra.’
‘We are talking about the Brahmāstra?’ Kant broke his silence. ‘The one
mentioned in religious texts--the most devastating Astra of all that
could’ve been the precursor to the modern-day atomic bomb?’
Dhwani nodded, holding each sword by the hilt and minutely assessing
their make. Something about the two swords and the Chakra bothered her.
‘The Ultimate Weapon, Brahma’s Astra, Pralaya Doot or the
Doombringer as the Asuras called it among themselves,’ Jayant explained,
or rather mused to himself, stepping closer to the Chakra and his mentor.
His eyes had a sudden twinkle, Abhay noticed.
‘It requires such skill and concentration to summon the Astra that even
among the Devas, only a few could wield. They granted its knowledge
only to the worthy sage or warrior king, every time the need came to
uphold Dharma against some threat from Andhakar.
‘Lord Ram was one of the earliest known figures to have armed and used
the Brahmāstra: once to threaten the Guardian of Seas, the second time in
his battle against Raavan. The Asura Lord had partaken of the Amrit, the
Elixir of Immortality, and still the Brahmāstra managed to counter its
effect and kill Raavan.’
‘It was then used during the Mahabharata, by a number of warriors from
both the Kaurava and Pandava camps. Was it not?’ Abhay added, hoping
he still remembered his scriptures. Even though he had never been much
of a devout--nor had he touched a sacred book in more than a decade--he
remembered the tales he had read and absorbed on screen.
‘I have read that the Brahmāstra could turn the area of impact barren for
ages, make people sterile; hair would fall off, nails would shed and the
skin turned cancerous. The newborns turned out mutated and deformed.
All of it is true, it means?’ A peculiar click broke Abhay’s rhythm.
 Dhwani had aligned the hilts of the twin blades together, to form a single
weapon--a much grander version of what Murtaza had wielded. It
resembled a peculiarly designed bow, without a bowstring. She
disassembled them, joined them with another click and detached the hilts
one last time.
Jayant thought she looked burdened by whatever pain she was going
through, yet holding the swords had animated her, the way a seed deep in
the earth comes alive with a few drops of water and begins to seek
sunlight.
‘Whatever the Chakra means in connection to the Brahmāstra,’ Dhwani
said, directly making eye contact with the other three, ‘our task is to keep
it safe. Question is: where do we hide it?’
‘The Legion would know, they can help us,’ Abhay said, ‘unless you
have some secure spot in mind…’
Dhwani and Jayant exchanged a look, decided they had no other option
in Neel’s absence. Given how things had gone between the Angiris and
Legion in the past--the accidental loss of Manushya lives at Tamas’s
hands--Dhwani felt unsure about the idea. Abhay and Kant were a
fortunate coincidence, but trusting other humans they met was not going to
be easy.
Things might have gone in an entirely different, unwanted direction,
Dhwani thought, had we met them under different circumstances. Not
every Manushya will be as amicable as these two are.
A muffled but shrill electronic tone went off within the room. Jayant
sensed the vibrating device inside Abhay’s back pocket even before he
took it out and looked at its milky-white screen.

Unknown Number: the words flashed upon Murtaza’s cell-phone display.

Abhay took a deep breath then connected the call.
‘Hello?’
‘Where is Murtaza? Who are you?’ a woman answered after a pause, her
voice cold and cautious.
‘He died, fighting the Asuras. I am Bheeshm Rajvardhan’s son.’
‘Abhay,’ the tone changed as the caller spoke his name. He wondered if
he had heard the voice before. Did he know her from somewhere? ‘Are
you alone there?’
Abhay thought before he said, ‘There are two Angiris with me.’ He left
Kant’s presence unaccounted for deliberately.
He heard a sharp intake of breath. ‘If you haven’t found out what
happened to Dwij then know this: the Angiris cannot be trusted.’
‘I know that, I saw what happened on the camera feed. The artifact is
safe, in case you’re interested. Murtaza told me to head north with
everything--the Chakra, the sword and the Book. And there’s another
sword that the Angiris carry, a replica of the former.’
‘Another sword, you say? It’s on Prithvi...’
When the woman spoke after a beat, her voice had acquired its initial
steel.
‘You have till dawn. Take everything and leave, right now. Come to
Mandi, it’s a hill-town in Himanchal. If you are who you claim to be,
someone will find you there. Use the number saved in the phone in case of
emergency. Don’t carry your cell-phone, or any other device that can be
used to track you. Use cash only, no cards. And beware of anyone who
tries to reach out to you--even if the person claims to be Legion. And don’t
forget: the Angiris are not to be readily trusted.’
The call disconnected before Abhay could say another word. Kant and
Dhwani looked expectant but Jayant was frowning at him.
‘Why do you trust us?’ he was forthright with the question, having heard
the caller even from six feet away.
‘If you meant harm, you could’ve easily dealt with us and flown away
with the Chakra and everything else,’ Abhay felt as if someone else was
speaking the words coming out of his lips. ‘I trust you as long as you want
to protect the Artifact, and not take it for yourself--which I’m sure won’t
be the case.’
It seemed to satisfy the Angiris, for they started talking in their own
tongue, gesturing at the objects on the desk.
Leaving Kant with them, Abhay left the room and rushed to make quick
preparations for the journey. It took him a little over five minutes to wash
the mud, change into fresh clothes and pack his toothbrush, a t-shirt and a
change of underwear and socks in his backpack.
When he re-entered the room beyond the study, the Angiris and Kant
were still bent over the swords and the scabbard.
‘We found something interesting, come here.’ Kant waved him over,
telling Jayant. ‘Show him.’
There was only one sword inside the wooden scabbard etched with
inscriptions in High Oorja-speak. Jayant took the other one and placed it
inside its designated slot to complete the set.
The Chakra vibrated, even though its metal surface remained unchanged.
‘Not there, look at the scabbard.’ Kant prompted.
A new circular slot had opened where it had been nothing but uniform
carvings and symbols seconds ago--similar size as that of the Chakra.
‘The twin blades have some connection with the Chakra?’ Abhay
guessed.
‘There seems to be no other explanation.’ Dhwani said, hiding a grimace.
Kant did the honor of handling the Chakra. Dhwani was in no mind to
risk Abhay touching it again, or letting herself or Jayant handle it.
The disc fit snugly into the slot before the woodwork rearranged and
closed itself in a hypnotic pattern.
‘How do we open it?’ Kant enquired as Jayant strapped the scabbard
around his torso.
‘Let us worry about it later, Manushya.’ Dhwani said, nodding at Abhay
to acknowledge their readiness. She chose to carry the Oorja-cannon,
wrapping it in a brown sac.
Abhay’s backpack had barely enough space to fit the ten-kilo Book of
Dwij. For a moment he thought of leaving it behind, stash it somewhere
safe around the house. But the thought of all that intimate history falling
into the wrong hands made him decide against it. The last item he
remembered to pack along was the Ashtadhatu gauntlet around the arm of
Lord Ram’s statue.
‘Have you seen the gods?’ Kant asked Jayant on their way out. Unlike
Abhay, he had not read the Book for more than a few random snippets.
Jayant shook his head and replied with an amused smile. ‘Have you?’

When the four of them stepped out of the house, Abhay was least
expecting to see the monkeys waiting by the porch steps. They seemed to
have dragged away their fallen comrade. Murtaza’s weapon was lying on
the second step. Only then Abhay realized he should have remembered to
bury it alongside the owner. Even the dead monkey had deserved an
honorable burial.
The monkeys scampered away at Jayant’s advance. He picked up
Murtaza’s weapon, holding on to the long wooden hilt as he offered it to
Abhay. ‘It will serve you well, like it did for your friend, right till his last
moment.’
‘I’ll bring it back soon, when everything’s taken care of. It doesn’t
belong to me.’ Abhay accepted it, feeling awkward to hold the baton. ‘I
don’t even know, how to use it.’ He found the lever that retracted the
blades before he placed the seemingly harmless baton inside his backpack.
The Oorja-cannon had transformed the front yard. The house had charred
craters on the walls and pillars; the thick trunked trees around the driveway
had gaping holes in their trunks, the thinner ones had been evenly cut in
half. But the worst mess was created in the middle of the lawn and the strip
of the gravel near the gate. The rainwater had found means of escape but
where the Asuras had been, now existed pools of smoking semi-liquid
slush, a section of human skull and remains of a rib cages and hip bones;
goo-smeared piles of dark clothes and boots, swords and pieces of the
whips were scattered all over. A gagging smell of hellish proportions
followed them right until the main gate.
‘What happened to them?’ Kant’s voice came muffled through the
handkerchief pressed against the stench. ‘They…they looked fine till a
while ago.’
Abhay, Kant and Dhwani had to squiggle into the narrow gap between
the truck the Darkborns had rammed through the gate, and the high gate
post. Jayant was already on the other side, waiting by Kant’s car.
‘Asura blood and Manushya body do not agree to each other for long.’
Dhwani said, addressing Kant’s query. ‘The Darkborns begin to decay no
sooner are they are fully formed from the infernal experiments of the
Asuras. The correct procedure that could stabilize the change and slow
down the decay was the brainchild of Raavan. With his death, a key detail
of the method was forever lost. The Asuras ever since have been able to
create Darkborns, but they cannot make their bodies last for long.’
‘Pray they get to never perfect this terrible, satanic procedure then.’ Kant
said, fishing out his pack of cigarettes.
Abhay had stopped by the gate, looking through the gap at the sprawling
site of devastation his childhood home had become. The Angiris proceeded
further but Kant waited beside Abhay, taking deep drags from his
cigarette.
‘I barely got time to reconnect with everything,’ Abhay said, ‘yet it feels
bad, leaving this place. It shouldn’t bother me, uncle,’ he uttered a dry
chuckle, ‘but I feel even worse because the place is open for access to
anyone. I couldn’t even lock the front doors.’
Abhay took Kant’s car-key and slipped into the driver’s seat. Kant seated
himself next to him. They heard Dhwani sigh and murmur something to
Jayant before she convinced herself to get inside the Manushya vehicle.
‘What about him?’ Kant asked as he threw the butt into a puddle of
muddy water formed along the enemy truck’s tire-tracks.
‘He has his wings intact, unlike me. And the Artifact is safer in the air
than on the ground.’ She replied as Abhay reversed the car and set out for
the end of the lane.
Kant gaped into the side-view mirror as Jayant shot up into the air, his
wings trailing fire. He craned his neck outside the window, trying to
follow Jayant’s progress but all he saw were the trees along the path and a
strip of the overcast evening sky. Jayant had covered himself within a
shield-of-invisibility, hiding in plain sight.
 Chapter 17
A Fork In the Road

They were in the heart of Indraprastha, surrounded by the crawling

traffic, a mass of pedestrians up and about on the wide sidewalks, and
skyscrapers that dwarfed it all to give an impression of a gargantuan
colony of ants. Garish holograms and giant projections were garnering
more and more attention with the fading of the daylight.
‘She looks extremely sick,’ Kant said, glancing at the Angiris sitting in
the car parked along the road. ‘It’s like there’s something eating her from
the inside, all that grunting and grimacing she does. She is in a world of
pain.’
Abhay pocketed the wad of cash he had withdrawn from the ATM before
he looked. Dhwani’s lips were moving and she kept looking out the
window on her side, talking into thin air. Some passerby might have
questioned her sanity, made worse by how pale she looked. But Abhay
knew the other Angiri, Jayant, was standing by her window.
‘I doubt it’s common for an Angiri to fall sick from what the Book of
Dwij says. But it’s worse than what it appears, else why would she be
sitting in the car when she can soar, like Jayant? She’s losing her abilities,
or has already lost it. Give me your phone.’
Kant looked at Abhay, blankly. ‘You said the woman from Legion told
you to not to carry the phones. I switched mine off and left it back at the
house, along with your phone. We can’t be tracked.’
Abhay frowned, moving towards the entrance to the nearest Loop-station.
‘What makes you think I will let you come along on this crazy, suicidal
path? This is not your mess, uncle.’
‘It’s for me to decide, son. Bheeshm was my closest friend and you’re
like my own son. I’ll do whatever I can to help you get to these people and
find your mother.’
Abhay stopped midstride, facing the old man with a look of disapproval.
‘You have a daughter to live for, uncle. If anything happens to you it’ll
devastate her, I will never be able to forgive myself.’
‘Why are you talking as if you have no one in this world, Abhay? We are
family, even if we don’t share the same blood. I will never be able to
forgive myself if anything befell you!’
A passing white-collared man gave Kant a wide berth, startled by the
sudden outburst.
 ‘You have lost your mind, old man.’ Abhay resumed walking towards the
row of counters for bus and cab services and car rentals.
‘As if you haven’t,’ Kant quipped, falling in step. ‘Till yesterday
evening, you were singing a different song, hell-bent on proving me wrong
about your father’s life, his associations.’
‘It’s your choice, your funeral then.’ Abhay joined a short queue before a
car-rental company’s counter, while Kant stepped a little further from the
pedestrians and the queue, putting his uncontrollable chimney to some
self-destructive use.

An ordinary person left to sit in a car might have gotten bored with the
waiting. But Jayant was neither an ordinary Manushya nor someone who
might get bored. He was, after all, seeing a world he had only read about in
books and heard of from second-hand accounts from the Praharis and
other Angiris. Unlike Dhwani, his curiosity was at its zenith to observe the
Manushyas: the manner of their clothing, the vehicles disgorging smoke,
voices of all kinds and the concrete jungle they had created about
themselves. A helicopter was taking off from atop a tall tower with eighty
levels.
With his heightened senses he had been given a front row seat to watch
the dearest creations of the Tridevas. The cries of babies and the talk of the
children fascinated him as dolls fascinate a child. He could hear the noise
and the words floating in the polluted air that was heavy with carbon
emissions and the Spores of Dushan--only his suit was preventing the
particles of evil from getting into his system.
Dhwani on the other hand, found most of it familiar. It was her
nineteenth visit to Prithvi in six hundred years and Manushyas had made
progress worthy of an advanced civilization. Her sense of hearing, smell
and vision had become confined to a limited radius, almost like that of a
human. And yet she could hear the overwhelming hum and blare of the
metropolis, smell the automobile fumes in the air and see significant
patterns that Jayant had no precedent to compare with.
The Manushyas, across all ages, looked sickly and burdened with
invisible boulders they carried on their shoulders. Young or old, they all
were bent upon their glowing screens as they walked, or talking into the
thin air via speaker-phones; all rushing somewhere and restless. It was as
if a giant mechanism was turning and making them move and act as per an
assigned function. The Manushyas had advanced but they had lost their
peace of mind, Dhwani thought, hearing a man in a passing vehicle
screaming into his phone. There was overpopulation and disorder
everywhere and the Manushyas were their active agents.
‘What do you see in their auras, Jayant?’ She asked, as he was peering up
at a giant, colorful but gritty image projected upon the facade of a
skyscraper of a Manushya holding guns, posing over a mound of corpses
of others of his kind.
Dhwani could sense him shifting nearby. A Manushya might have caught
a distinct glimmer of his presence on observing carefully, but no one did.
Jayant picked up the choicest details out of the glut of information
assailing his senses. ‘They look sad, discontented, angry and jealous, laden
with petty emotions. Even without reading their minds I can sense their
despair. They know they are trapped in a design of their own making yet
they have resigned to their fate.’
He pointed at the movie poster with the gunslinger. ‘That one killed his
own kind, and yet he has been given a high place of attention. They are
least repulsed by violence, as it was predicted to be during the Kaliyuga.’
He would have gone for hours describing his ongoing experience but
Dhwani reined in his attention to other important matters: the wooden
scabbard with the jutting hilts of the twin blades--and encased beneath the
woodwork, the Chakra.
‘Have you thought about it? Elder Neel had been hiding a key piece of
the puzzle these three weapons seem to form. Was it a coincidence that
brought these artifacts together?’
‘I believe there was more to his vision besides you and Uttara. Either he
could not see it all or...or he might have withheld those details. Even the
Devas were known to read the signs incomplete or wrong. Perhaps it was
meant to happen, like everything else does, at the whim of the Higher
Power that drives the universe. From what Abhay has told us regarding his
past, even he was not expecting the events to turn out the way they did for
him. The Brahmāstra, or whatever it is the three weapons combine to
create, was meant to unite in a specific manner.’
Dhwani could not shrug off the thought that she had raised the stakes to a
level of extreme peril by bringing Uttara into an already escalating race
for Daivik weapons. She had not sensed the Chakra’s energy as Jayant
had, owing to her failing abilities. But she had no doubt it somehow was
the most significant piece of the trio of Oorja artifacts.
‘The others have still not arrived from Swargam, Mentor.’ Jayant said,
pulling Dhwani out of her mire of thoughts. ‘Do you think Elder Neel
might have caused the delay? Otherwise Elder Tamas and his acolytes
would have long arrived, apprehending us back at Abhay’s dwelling.’
 Dhwani fell short of an explanation. A long time had passed since their
escape. Even if Neel had destroyed the control panel Tamas’s Loka Portal,
the original one on the eastern fringe of Devasthali, was still intact to send
forth reinforcements in their pursuit. And if by some stroke of fortune,
Neel had taken control of the situation and revealed Tamas’s treachery to
the others, he would have come looking for her and Jayant.
‘You will have to carry on what we started,’ she spoke, reclining onto the
seat as a fresh wave of pain washed over her, unannounced. ‘If I fall, you
will have to finish the task, hide the artifacts as Mentor would want to.’
‘Nothing will happen to you, not while I breathe. We will find a cure,
Mentor.’ Jayant’s tone had a tinge of disbelief. ‘You taught me never to
give up on hope, how can you forget what you preach, Dhwani?’
In spite of the pain reminding her of all the unhealed wounds, of even the
smallest scratches she had suffered in battling the Darkborns, Dhwani
could not help but smile. ‘We have no clue where to hide the artifacts from
the enemy.’
Jayant had no response even though he had utmost faith in Providence.
He felt relieved when he saw Abhay and Kant returning, each carrying
some shopping bags.
Abhay had insisted the Angiris wear normal clothes over their kavach
suits, to help them blend with the environment. Jayant was eager to see
what he would get to wear.

Abhay and Dhwani were in the rented grey sedan. Kant was following in
his Fiat while Jayant remained airborne with the precious cargo. It had
been decided--or more like decided by Abhay--that Kant would come till
the state borders some ninety minutes away from Indraprastha and return
back home after seeing them off.
The towns and villages along the freeway twinkled like clusters of stars
from afar. They were making good speed on the eight lane road, garishly
illuminated by billboards and tall halogen lamps, like a queen’s necklace
of diamonds laid end to end along the concrete strip cutting through the
last ridges of the Aravali Ranges.
They must have been about twenty minutes from the state border when
Dhwani broke into paroxysms of shuddering and screaming. Abhay
swerved hard to the roadside and stopped the car. Before he could even
turn around, he heard the loud flap and the rush of air outside the window.
‘Brahma grant her mercy!’ Jayant spoke.
Kant came running to find what the holdup was all about. Seeing Dhwani
writhe and shake made him nervous enough to provide him an excuse for
fresh smoke.
Dhwani seemed to be possessed. Her eyes were squinted shut, her lips
peeled to show her gritted white teeth and red gums; her hands and limbs,
the fingers stiffly clawed, while the rest of her shook uncontrollably,
sprawled in the backseat, kicking at the door with enough force to shake
the glass in its frame. She moaned, and that was the worst part, making her
seem pitifully humane. It took Jayant some effort to hold her down and
lock her in a restrictive embrace.
Nearly five minutes later her spasm subsided and stilled, leaving her with
a pallor even paler than before, a dripping sheen of sweat shining on her
face.
‘That’s not normal, I suppose,’ Kant looked at Jayant for assurance.
‘Far from it,’ he replied, stepping out of the vehicle. He removed a metal
decanter of the Somaras from the inner pocket of his brand new coat,
unscrewed its top and handed it over to Dhwani. She took a couple of
small but greedy gulps from it.
‘The Asura-poison in her body is spreading faster now that night has
fallen. It is in the absence of the sun that creatures of Andhakar and all its
spells and creations are at the peak of activity. Even I have been feeling
the change since the sun set. It is taking me more effort to continue my
flight and maintain the protective shields around me. It is as if the very
fabric of night is tightening itself around me, limiting my psychic reach.’
‘So it means that night weakens an Angiri’s abilities?’ Abhay asked.
It was Dhwani who replied, returning the decanter to Jayant, ‘It was not
always so. Till a few centuries back, it would not have affected us except
for a brief duration past midnight, when the night is at its darkest. But with
Kaliyuga’s progression and all the pollution and corruption caused by your
race and the ever multiplying Spores of Dushan, the nights’ effect seems
to have intensified--enough to cripple us in ways more than one.’
Jayant gripped her shoulder. At first Abhay thought he was only trying to
stop Dhwani from exhausting herself. But the boy-Angiri had his head
cocked to one side, his gaze tracing the starless sky overhead.
‘I hear something, Mentor. Stay with her, will you?’ He told Abhay as he
stepped away from them and launched into the air in a burst of flames,
giving no heed to the fact that there was a continuous stream of Manushya
vehicles passing by and his shield-of-invisibility was down.
Abhay and Kant consciously glanced around, suspecting that he had been
seen. But they saw no car or truck slow down, no one craned his neck out
of the window.
 Jayant appeared a few feet away, thankfully in a blind spot beyond the
metal barrier on their side of the road. Abhay immediately saw a spidery
shape clutched within his grasp, a red light blinking every few seconds on
the anterior section of the unrecognizable object. At first, his reaction was
to assume it as some kind of Angiri-contraption.
‘A toy plane--is that what it is?’ Kant laughed.
‘It’s a drone,’ Abhay’s worried tone throttled Kant’s laughter.
Its four rotors ceased their movement as Jayant held it out for Abhay.
Only the camera attached to its lower front side, by means of a movable
gimbel twisted this way and that.
‘I don’t know if it’s the same one but there was a drone hovering over the
house before the Asuras broke in with their truck. We should --’
BEEP-BEEP-BEEP: the sound emitted by the drone halted Abhay.
Jayant and Abhay exchanged a confused glance as the beeping went on,
building up; the interval between the consecutive beeps getting smaller.
Jayant threw it high into the air before Abhay or Kant could understand,
the drone’s trajectory marked by the rapidly pulsing red LED.
It blew up in the dark open space beyond the road, with a flash and
explosion slightly bigger than that made by a firecracker.
‘Good that you sensed it, boy,’ Kant told Jayant.
‘The Asuras, or whoever was controlling it, have seen us, Uncle Kant.
It’s far from good.’ Abhay said as he motioned the others for departure.
He had been under the impression that no one knew where they were
heading. It had felt too easy, running away with the artifacts. But finding
the drone following them had changed his outlook.
They were being watched and followed. It was a matter of time before
the enemy caught up.

Murtaza’s phone rang no sooner had they reached the multi-lane

tollbooth that marked the end of the state border. Abhay was getting out of
the car to bid Kant goodbye. Dhwani had already disembarked in order to
stretch her legs and converse with Jayant.
He answered at the second ring.
‘You were lucky to have missed the Asuras that arrived at the house right
after you left, and now the Angiris have touched ground about ten minutes
ago. The front yard is littered with bodies.’ The woman told him without
wasting a moment.
‘How did you find out?’ Abhay asked, curious to know how she was
getting the updates. Then he realized it. ‘The cameras are still active!’
 ‘Seems you have quite the flair for this line of work, Bheeshm-son,’ she
seemed amused till Abhay told her about the drone.
‘I knew it was all going too smooth to be believed. You found one drone,
but they have hundreds. Hell, they can access the satellites, too. The spies
of the Asuras are everywhere, you cannot simply expect to keep driving
towards Mandi and hope they won’t intercept you. I wish I could say there
will be someone to help you, but as of now, I am unable to reach anyone.’
‘Any word, on my mother?’ Abhay asked, unknowingly crossing his
fingers.
He heard her sigh on the other end. ‘Things aren’t going so good for us,
Abhay. I’ll be blunt but we haven’t been able to find much, so far. The
Asuras have declared open war against us. I might not be able to contact
you for the rest of your journey. Is there anything else I can help with?’
The last time he had talked to this mysterious woman, her conduct had
somewhat lacked the element of trust. Abhay realized something had
changed for the better.
‘Do we know each other?’
There was a pause, before she replied. ‘We knew each other, a long time
ago. I don’t suppose you will remember it easily. It has barely been a few
days since the barriers on your memory were lifted. Perhaps you might
remember me, when we meet. Take care. And if you deem the Angiris to
be trustworthy, stick to them at all costs but don’t let them take the
artifacts away from your eyesight. Trust no one else, no other Angiri.’
She hung up with that. Abhay realized he had forgotten to tell her about
Dhwani’s condition. Kant and the Angiris were standing nearby, waiting to
hear the news. Abhay recounted his conversation, barring the last part
about him and the woman being acquaintances.
‘I was navigating the thermals high above when I sensed a subtle change
in the air,’ Jayant told Dhwani. ‘Now I realize it might have been our
people, finally making the descent. ’
‘She is right, about not moving straight towards our destination. We need
to strategize, now more than ever.’ Dhwani said, addressing both her
acolyte and Abhay. ‘Jayant and I can fight if Manushyas agents or Asuras
try to block our path; we can destroy their tailing drones. But it is not as
simple to evade with the rest of our folk. The cover of night will affect
them, slow them down to some extent but at the crack of dawn and as the
day progresses, their power and reach will only grow.’
‘How can they track us? I mean the Asuras have their agents among our
race, their drones and satellites to follow our movement. But how does it
work for you and your kind?’ Kant asked.
 Jayant took the question. ‘There are two ways: either they will track our
signatures, our life forces, or the Chakra’s presence, its energy signatures.
I cannot sense the Chakra at the moment, even though I am carrying it on
my person. I could feel its energy till we placed it inside the scabbard. It is
safe to assume the signatures will not be registered as long as the hallowed
disc is within the scabbard--by my humble reckoning, it was specifically
spell worked to keep the Chakra undetectable.
‘But I am no less than a beacon our people can easily track, although the
night might give us some advantage. But during daylight, they will be able
to sense my presence from afar. They will be all over us in no time then.’
Dhwani knew him well enough to see there was a plan forming inside her
acolyte’s astute mind. She could not have read his thoughts but she had a
fair idea of what he planned to do.
He had deliberately left her out of the equation. Dhwani’s abilities were
fading, which meant her life force was in turn losing its brilliance. She
would be virtually undetectable to Angiri senses in her weakened state,
even during the day. The reminder of her powerlessness stabbed through
her like a dagger of misery, fanning the physical pain.
‘It is a foolish plan, Jayant.’ Dhwani surprised him, for he was not
expecting her to guess his thoughts in her current state.
‘It is the only way to buy you time, Mentor.’
Dhwani was at a loss for words. He was right.
‘What am I missing--what’s the plan?’ Abhay interrupted.
‘He means to distract the Angiris.’ Dhwani said.

The argument between Abhay and Kant started soon after a route map
was decided upon for the next part of the journey and a plan was agreed
upon. The old man wanted to help but Abhay did not want him to get
involved any further.
The Manushyas in their vehicles passed the lot without more than a
glance. Dhwani stood watching their shouting match, accompanied by
Jayant in his near-invisible form.
‘You will be alone hereafter Jayant, and the next hours are definitely not
going to be a leisurely run.’ Dhwani said, turning to where her acolyte
stood still. ‘I hope you have thought well over your decision to take the
risks in a relatively-unknown environment of Prithvi.’
‘Considering what you are carrying along, you will be attracting threats
far more abominable. I cannot say how able Abhay will prove to be on the
road ahead, but you know what needs to be done.’ He paused, shuffling
with uncertainty. ‘I doubt he understands what he is trying to protect, or
the stormy waters he has decided to wade in. From what I can see he
barely knows himself.’
Dhwani shot a quizzical look at the shimmer in the air and it was only
then Jayant realized she could not have perceived Abhay’s aura without
her abilities. ‘His life-force, his living Oorja is different, Mentor--different
from the rest of the Manushyas, much brighter and stronger. I sense a
growing power within him, the likes of which I have never encountered
before. I would not be surprised if he shows on our tracking systems. It is
like some dormant part of him is waking up and taking a hold of him. But
he has a lot of rage…’
‘It was his touch that caused the surge. Perhaps the exposure to all that
Oorja morphed him in some way. There is something about him I cannot
place, a small but vital nuance.’
‘Well, Mentor, you will have enough time to delve further on it during
the journey hereon. It looks like their dispute has been resolved.’ Dhwani
looked up at Abhay walking away fuming from a defiant Kant and Jayant
added: ‘And the resolution looks far from peaceful.’
The unavoidable moment of parting was upon the two Angiris. It seemed
unexpected and incomplete without Jayant’s visible presence. They
exchanged words of encouragement and bid each other farewell before
Jayant walked Dhwani to Abhay’s rented sedan. No tears were shed, no
embraces or holding hands as humans might prefer to do, yet it did not
make the parting any less easy.
‘May fortitude and understanding guide you well, Mentor. I shall see you
soon, if all goes well.’
Dhwani knew with an increasing self-awareness that it may be the last
time they see each other--in light of the Halāhal spreading through her
system--but she deliberately left it out, not intending to weigh her dearest
acolyte in any way.
She heard the car door slam close behind her as Jayant dumped the
precious cargo on to the backseat of the rented car. ‘May the Oorja light
your way, Abhay,’ He said.
Abhay turned into his seat and waved to no one. ‘Likewise, my friend,
see that the senile old man doesn’t drive himself off the road. He’s been
struck by some spell of youthfulness and thrill, it seems.’
The two cars moved ahead a minute later, joining the fast-moving queue
at the toll booths. About a kilometer further where the road forked, the cars
went their separate ways.
 Chapter 18
Earthbound

He has enough cause to worry and yet the Mole smiles.

What had been his silent, solitary search had catapulted into a hunt
undertaken by hundreds of Angiris and now his present masquerade and
his future hopes hang by a thread.
The primary debacle is the injury inflicted by the protective wards. The
pain has only aggravated in the hours since the stirring in the
Prakashkoopam. Every time the scar smarts and burns he feels his control
slipping. His reserves of Halāhal have been depleted to the last vial and
there still remains a long chase before his deal with the Red King would
come to fulfillment: the Brahmāstra, in return for a long-lasting supply of
Halāhal.
His smile grows wider at the thought. He believes he has every reason to
rejoice and envision the moment, even though it had not come to pass yet:
when he would have so much of the Halāhal that he would not need to
think about it ending anytime soon. Even if he is unable to heal his scar or
find a way to subdue the destructive, torturing effects caused by the wards
by some means, there will be enough to ease his pain.
If the Red King had promised him seven shipments of Halāhal in return
for two-thirds of the Ultimate Weapon, the entire Brahmāstra, with all the
three key-weapons would ensure him twice that, if he plays it right. And
he knows he will have to be two steps ahead of both the Angiris and the
Asuras from now on, instead of one.
Faith is guiding him, in spite of the setbacks. And he can see the signs
everywhere.
Following the Oorja-surge his two voices had taken to talking
incessantly, throwing blame at one another and cursing. The surge had
originated in the very same spot where he had been looking for it, many
days ago: Bheeshm’s dwelling. He had turned the entire house upside
down before killing Bheeshm, and yet the Chakra escaped his notice,
undoubtedly hidden behind some similar ingenious cloaking spell or
warding that had hurt him.
Then he had seen the sword on Dhwani’s back, a few hours ago.
It could in no way be the one in the Legion’s custody, it had to be the one
the Saptarishis had kept in Swargam--the last of the three key weapons the
Asuras had been looking for all over Prithvi and had never found even a
trace in all these ages. If Dhwani and Jayant had found the Chakra and the
other sword--provided the two weapons could be found in the same place--
all he needed was to let them claim them. He wanted to see the look in her
eyes when he took the Brahmāstra from her.
‘It won’t be easy.’ His True Voice reminds him. ‘Dhwani will fight till
her last breath to protect the Artifact. And she will not be alone--we should
not underestimate her youngling acolyte. The two of them, and Neel: they
could have posed a problem for us, back in Swargam.’
It was probably the only time the Mole had felt his grip over the
situation, slipping. He had almost been unmasked.
Fortunately, Neel and his acolytes had botched their own case back in the
cavern, giving the Angiris no reason to not believe they were the traitors,
acting on behalf of some shared selfish interest. Neel had succeeded in
teleporting his acolytes and once they were gone, had destroyed the
controls of the Loka Portal before being overpowered by the Angiris.
The Mole’s next move had been to sabotage the central Loka Portal and
delay the troops’ departure to Prithvi--to give Dhwani and Jayant a
headstart was an ulterior motive. For someone who could build a Portal
with his own hands, from scratch and self-taught spells, causing a fault in
the central Loka Portal’s conduits had been like child’s play.
And so was repairing the broken controls of the one in the cavern, some
time later. The Mole had made sure no one found that it was him who had
provided the solution to extract the crystal conductors from the wrecked
control-panel and replace them into a new console to restart the cavern
Portal.
The Angiris are rallying to Prithvi even as he reflects over his stratagem,
trying to calculate possible outcomes and anticipate imminent challenges
and threats. Snake Voice has been quiet for the last many minutes, having
received a fresh dosage of the Halāhal. With a clear, open mind he can
think of an alternative approach: one that can not only guarantee he gets to
keep all the Halāhal in the world but also the trio of key weapons that
formed the Brahmāstra--that too, without giving up his identity.
 Chapter 19
The Hunt Begins

The Portal beam rent the night asunder, dispelling the shadows that had
settled in and around the Rajvardhan residence. In the last eight days, it
had become a bed for Celestial activity.
Tamas flew out of the doorway of light, leading a charge of two hundred
Angiris garbed in shining battle-armor and weapons, all forged from
Ashtadhatu and its lesser alloys: swords and spears, tridents, maces and
battle-axes, each spell-worked to withstand many battles and not lose its
edge. Most of them had already tasted Asura blood and victory in the past
strifes.
The sight waiting for their welcome to Prithvi resembled no less than a
battlefield; littered with bloody, decomposing corpses garbed in dark
uniforms, and Manushya weapons. The front of the dwelling were punched
and perforated by blasts from Oorja-cannons, the ground dark with blood
and the trees at the periphery had been cut in half in wide swathes. The
Angiris felt almost suffocated by the stench rising from the foul muck in
the lawn, immediately making them realize none of the corpses were of
Manushyas--not anymore.
The vanguard that had arrived earlier, led by Ashwamedh and Vikrant,
was already busy scouring the grounds and the house. Twenty had arrived
and out of these, five were lying dead on a clear patch of ground farther
away from the blood and decay of over thirty Asuras. Leaving the other
Angiris to hover around, Tamas landed near the fallen warriors of the
vanguard.
Ashwamedh and Vikrant approached him, dragging behind a ragged,
gaunt Darkborn. His eyelids were absent, as was his nose, lips and ears;
where his hair had been was a bald pate marked by patches of dry skin and
pus-filled carbuncles.
‘We spared one so that you may look for yourself the Asuras are once
again at their obnoxious experiments.’ Ashwamedh said, tugging at the
glowing lasso that was burning the Darkborn’s skin; but the creature felt
not even a twinge of pain. ‘Alas, he cannot speak else we might have
learned more about his purpose here. We took turns, accessing his mind, to
see if there might be a clue regarding his masters or the Artifact…but
nothing remains of his past recollections. His mind is a defenseless, empty
shell echoing with primitive instincts of violence and insatiable hunger.’
 Tamas wordlessly observed the struggling Darkborn’s lidless, blank eyes
popping out of the sockets, dark as obsidian, darting everywhere at once;
the hybrid bared its uneven, yellowed teeth, showing blackened gums,
slavering from its mouth; the lasso would have made another creature
scream and squirm, but all that the Darkborn did was growl from deep
down its throat.
Tamas’s grim, thoughtful expression underwent rapid transformation as
his visage contorted in a flash of anger, his right hand rising and falling, all
of a sudden.
The Darkborn’s neck twisted with a crack, turning on his shoulder by a
hundred-and-eighty degree angle within a blink before the Asura went
motionless and the Angiris holding on to him realized he was dead for
good.
The glowing rope came loose in Ashwamedh’s hand, untying itself and
losing its uniform, golden glow instantly. The Angiris hovering overhead
or surveying the battle-ground had come to a standstill.
‘Do we have to content ourselves only with the setbacks then?’ Tamas
asked, ‘or is there some encouraging discovery you might have made?’
It was Vikrant’s turn to face his ire. ‘The Oorja-source, the Artifact we
seek, was certainly here, Mentor. Its residual energy signatures are all over
the dwelling. The Manushyas hid it in an inner chamber warded with
spells. We found a lifelike sculpture of Lord Ram but little else, besides.
And Dhwani and Jayant were undoubtedly here. It appears one or both of
them might be wounded,’ he extended his right hand and opened his fist to
present three vial-darts.
‘They contained, Halāhal, the vials identical to the ones that killed the
five acolytes at Elder Neel’s hideout. There is a good chance at least one
of them might be afflicted by its ill-effects, either already dead or dying. I
have the rest of the vanguard scouting ahead for a trail.’
Tamas’s expression remained unreadable but his shoulders relaxed,
enough to loosen the taut wires of tension holding the others stationery.
Only Vikrant looked emboldened enough, to read the sign of relative calm
in his mentor’s face as Tamas kneeled beside the five fallen Angiris.
‘We have found three blades of Ashtadhatu, firearms with bullets made
from the same--how did the Asuras learn to create the divine metal,
Mentor?’
‘Who else but the elusive Guru Shukracharya,’ Ashwamedh said when
he saw no reply was forthcoming from Tamas. ‘If there is anyone among
the Asuras who has the knowledge of the Devas, it is him. And the Amrit
he has partaken of keeps him alive and well to this day, to guide the Asura
bloodlines and cause nuisance for us.’
Him and Vikrant had an unspoken exchange before Ashwamedh excused
himself, taking his leave of Tamas. He knew well why the Elder had
erected a barrier of unusual silence around himself, so did the rest of the
Angiris. But pulling him out of it was something only his dear acolyte
could do.
Tamas moved on to examine the dwelling, peering at the spells painted
upon the walls and pillars--both visible and invisible to the naked eye of a
Manushya but shimmering like dying embers in the Angiri vision.
Vikrant made another attempt at making conversation. ‘No ordinary
Manushya could have laid down these wards. It is them, is it not, Mentor--
the creed of Vishwamitra? I cannot help but admire their crude but
effective spell-work. They use a combination of Sanskrit mantras and High
Oorja-speak glyphs.’
Tamas finally seemed to open up, nodding at Vikrant’s educated guess.
‘It appears Providence has once again conspired to cross the path of the
Angiris with the Legion.’ He scoffed and shook his head in distaste and
amazement, without looking at Vikrant. ‘Do you see now, what I mean
when I say the Saptarishis were nothing but self-serving Manushyas above
anything else? They were scared of our might, mistrustful of how powerful
we might become if the hallowed weapons and artifacts of Oorja stayed in
Swargam. This Artifact we are after, they must have handed it over to the
Manushya warriors after the Devas fell, even though they knew the enemy
would come for it, sooner or later.’
‘There is one other thing we found, Mentor: many traces of tainted Angiri
blood all over the floors on the two levels of this dwelling--tainted by the
Halāhal. The traces are more than five days’ old.’
Tamas directed his gaze away from the spells and the charred, blasted
holes on the walls and pillars. ‘I should have examined Neel’s blood for
the poison, now that you mention the taint. I am certain if you matched the
traces of blood here with that of Neel or his acolytes, you will find an
indisputable match against the blood of at least one of the three--or all of
them, who knows.’
To test the wards, Tamas stepped through the door-less entrance and
accessed the front hall. Emboldened by Tamas’s reaction, Vikrant finally
mustered enough courage to address the elephant in the room--the reason
behind his mentor’s reticence.
‘I apologize for not being able to say this before, Mentor.’ He spoke
slowly, head bowed in respect and empathy, ‘I might not be able to feel
what you feel but I very well understand the unimaginable grief you must
be going through: to find her in the cavern after all these years, to discover
she died sick and mortal. Nothing can compensate for your loss, but all I
wish to express is that your acolyte and grand-acolytes are standing with
you in this time of sorrow. Our swords are yours to command, Revered
One.’
Tamas’s hardened exterior seemed to melt at those words, revealing the
unvented emotions clawing at him from underneath. The discovery of the
Angiri-turned-mortal lying within the spell-morphed diamond sarcophagus
of diamond had come out as a soul-shuddering shock for all, yet none of
them could have come closer to how it was for his mentor, even though
Tamas hid his pain well.
‘She looked broken, Vikrant, broken and weak, as if the Angiri she was
never even existed--so beautiful, a living embodiment of true valor. It
rattles me to the core even to imagine what circumstances drove her to
give up her Grace, or if she was forced to embrace mortality.’ Tamas
controlled himself, his voice switching from sadness to despair. ‘These
questions will never get answered, till Neel tells us her story, what made
her choose a life of pain and infirmity, among strangers. Only if I had
somehow known she was living in such deplorable state…’
Ashwamedh’s telepathic relay interrupted him. He approached Vikrant
and Tamas with three other Angiris, all acolytes of the former; a female
and two males. The younger three Angiris saluted Tamas by stamping their
gauntleted fist against their armor-covered chest and touched the ground
before him in turn. The helms around their skulls, receded into the collar
of her Kavach suit like flowing mercury.
‘The scouts have returned with hopeful tidings.’ Ashwamedh told Tamas
before he gave the trio their cue.
‘An Angiri headed west not long ago, Elder,’ said the eldest among them.
‘The trail looks fresh, the energy signatures of the passage faint but
distinct. If we set out immediately we might be able to catch the rogue by
dawn, given how the night affects our reach and senses. But Asti here,’ he
indicated at the female Angiri, ‘she claims to have stumbled upon
something that seems of consequence, yet entirely unrelated to our
pursuit.’
‘That is for us to decide. Go on, Asti, tell us what you found.’ Tamas
prompted.
‘I found signs of a new life-force, Elder,’ she began with some hesitation.
‘The Oorja signatures seem unlike any of us have ever seen: identical to
ours, yet different, weaker. We would have pursued this new life form
further but we decided to bring it to your attention. It is northbound.’
 The news only raised Tamas’s eyebrows while Ashwamedh and Vikrant
were completely taken aback. It would have caused any Angiri to react
thus: first, a lost, nameless artifact making its appearance on Prithvi; then
discovering a revered Elder to be an agent of corruption, working for his
own selfish agenda; and now, report of a seemingly new creature
wandering the lands.
‘You say it is an Oorja-born?’ the Ancient asked and Asti nodded. ‘And
where is this life form heading, you said?’
‘North, moving over the land at a pace that suggests it may be traveling
by a Manushya vehicle. I have two of our warriors on its tail. To avoid any
trap, like...like the last time,’ Asti was alluding to the Second Fall, ‘The
warriors will remain airborne at all times, even if the creature escapes
beyond reach somehow. If not for this ungodly hour of darkness and its
inhibiting barriers against our abilities, we would have stayed in contact.
Say the word, Elder, and we will bring this creature to you.’
Tamas gave Vikrant an appreciative look--the very first time he was
expressing open admiration for any of his ten grand-acolytes.
‘You will not go alone, child. Your mentor will accompany you north, as
will Senapati Ashwamedh. Come, we need to be moving.’
Tamas strode into the lawn and called upon the Angiris whizzing about in
the sky overhead. He led a brief prayer for the five martyrs before their
kavach suits burst into spontaneous combustion and reduced their remains
to ashes within moments: the traditional last rites for those who fell in the
battlefield.
‘Let us swear by these ashes before the winds disperse them, Angiris.’
Tamas addressed the two hundred and fifteen Angiris, brimming with a
newly-discovered purpose. ‘We shall avenge the ten we have lost on this
dark day in Swargam’s history. The night of the key-world is filled with
gloom and despair, tries to clip our winds. Andhakar is trying to slow us
down but we must soar through this shadowy blanket if there has to be a
better tomorrow.
‘One of the rogues from Neel’s circle is running away with the Oorja
artifact that brought us here. And make no mistake--the traitor is not our
kin anymore. Even if Neel misguided this one with his slippery reasoning
and machinations to choose such path--Dhwani or Jayant, whoever it may
be--possesses knowledge of dark spells that the Devas dare not use, except
in their most desperate times. The Asuras are this rogue’s allies. Do not
hold back when the time comes and you are required to raise your
weapons against this acolyte of Neel’s. The traitor has proved through his
questionable acts: he deserves no more to be counted among Angiris, he is
a disgrace.’
Tamas dismissed them. The winged celestials, each with a wingspan of
over ten feet when fully opened, began to align in aerial formations for the
imminent journey. He turned to Ashwamedh and Vikrant.
‘I will go after the traitor. While you two will be leading the vanguard
north. These three will accompany you.’ Three Angiris descended in
response Tamas’s telepathic summons.
‘Mentor, they are Dhwani’s acolytes,’ Vikrant said, as if that explained
why he felt reluctant to bring them along.
Tamas smiled for the first time since his arrival to Prithvi. ‘They indeed
are her acolytes. But I have talked with them at length regarding their
complicity. They even allowed me to look into their memories to judge
their innocence. Let us say that I have decided to grant them a chance, to
let them prove that their loyalty lies with their kindred and not with their
wayward elders who felt no remorse hoodwinking us or while bringing the
Halāhal to Swargam.’
He seemed to have returned to his element as Tamas left them, guiding
the hovering troops away. Vikrant, Ashwamedh and the other thirteen of
the vanguard, including the three acolytes of Dhwani, flew north as soon
as they set the decomposing corpses of the Darkborns aflame to rid the soil
of their poison.
Jayant’s plan to attract all the attention had somewhat succeeded. But in
no way it meant Abhay and Dhwani would face trouble any less.
 Chapter 20
Powerless Amid Perils

Dhwani jolted awake as the car bounced upon a rumble strip. She had
dozed off at some point of time, sinking into a troubled sleep full of
disturbing nightmares. She wiped off the sweat on her brow with her shirt-
sleeve, almost surprised to find herself in the Manushya vehicle.
‘I’m so sorry. Didn’t see that coming’ Abhay said. ‘Would you like some
water?’ He indicated at the bottle of mineral water in the cup-holder
between their seats.
She unscrewed the top, took one gulp before its bland taste made her
settle down for her flask of Somaras, now reduced to less than half.
‘How do you feel, if I may ask?’ Abhay asked, bent over the steering
wheel with the concentration of a sailor steering his boat through a storm.
With the exception of other vehicles, the road ahead was more or less
clear.
‘How do you feel?’ She counter-questioned in a tired voice.
Abhay had to gather his thoughts before he could answer. ‘I feel like a
hurricane has swept me away to a whole new world, a whole new reality.
Like I’m on a boat being pushed by the rapids, towards the edge of some
high waterfall; no matter how hard I try to swim, I cannot go back now.’
He uttered a lifeless chuckle. ‘Funny thing is, I volunteered to sit in this
boat.’
Dhwani was surprised to find out she shared a strikingly similar state of
disorientation and helplessness--especially the bit about being in a boat
rushing towards the edge of a roaring waterfall. But in her case, she knew
what awaited at the bottom: an inevitable, painful death or worse, a
horrendous transformation that might her alter her inside-out--turn her into
some malicious entity like the Darkborns.
Fully awake, she could feel her pain coursing through her body like hot
oil in her bloodstreams, screaming its way to her brain. Her connection
with Oorja had been completely severed.
‘The pain is getting worse as the night grows,’ she said, sorely missing
Jayant and Neel. Coming to Prithvi and losing her abilities to the Halāhal
poisoning was the last thing she had ever expected. ‘But there is nothing I
can do about it. How far have we come?’
‘Not far enough, just over one-fourth of the way.’ Noticing Dhwani’s
crestfallen face, Abhay added. ‘But we’ll do better now that the traffic has
thinned. We should be there by midnight, if all goes smooth as planned.
Go on, you should sleep if helps.’
‘Sleeping will make it worse.’
She rolled back her seat into a half-recline and settled back, grimacing
and twitching every ten seconds or so. Twice she felt weariness pulling
down her lids but each time, she forced herself awake, as if sleeping was a
sin. She finally reached into the backseat, straining against her seat belt to
lift the scabbard with the three weapons. She held it close, as if drawing
strength from it. She was an image of vulnerability, far from the fearsome
creature she had been while fighting the Asuras: the sickly, pallid face, her
sweatshirt loosely clinging to her, her hair damp with sweat.
‘You saw some nightmare, when you dozed off, didn’t you? You were
mumbling something.’ Abhay asked. She did not reply but he clearly saw
her jaws tighten in the glare of headlights from an oncoming vehicle.
‘Trust me, I know all about nightmares. I’ve been having them for as long
as I can remember. The same nightmare in a loop, repeated over and over
again: of a man in black wearing a demon mask.’
It was not that Dhwani felt reluctant to talk. She just did not know how to
open up to a person who was not Jayant, or Neel or any other Angiri but a
Manushya she barely knew--a stranger whose path had joined hers by a
quirk of fate. She watched a noisy marriage procession pass on her side of
the road, full of portable, many-hued lamps and merry, dancing
Manushyas dressed in colorful clothes, the womenfolk bedecked in
jewellery.
‘So, from what I see Angiris can fall asleep, and can pass for a human,’
Abhay said, hoping to make some conversation, ‘what else is common
between us?’
Dhwani did not say anything till the procession had become a cluster of
lights in the side-view mirror. ‘Both our races were created in the image of
the Devas, so there are considerable similarities we share. As for the
matter of sleep, we rarely sleep. Rest for us means the daily ritual of tapas,
as sleeping rejuvenates a Manushya. Meditation makes us efficient
conductors of Oorja, keeps the seven chakras of our body active and our
Kundalini awake.’ She closed her eyes, grinding her teeth against a freshet
of sharp pain erupting all over her bruised, battered body. ‘If not for the
Asura poison, I would neither be sleeping at the moment nor be riding a
metal-box on wheels.’
‘I guess, you wouldn’t have even needed me. You and Jayant could’ve
flown anywhere you wanted to, even to the poles.’ Abhay replied.
Dhwani watched him as he silently drove, gripped by his own personal
battle, heart against mind, doubt against determination. The long face, the
high cheekbones and his aquiline features: there was something about him
she felt but could not exactly pinpoint.
She did not realize when her eyelids drooped heavily and she dozed off,
finally giving in to the exhaustion--even though she knew sleeping would
be like stepping into a house of a thousand horrors, where every trick on
display would break her spirit a little more.

The road was slipping fast beneath the car’s wheels, yet the journey’s end
was still over four hours away. Traffic was light, sleepy towns and villages
were flying by his car window. But Abhay’s discomfiture and paranoia
seemed to grow with every passing minute.
Beside him, Dhwani was once again swinging between sound sleep and
turbulent dreams; sometimes muttering to the voices in her head or crying
at someone in her tongue. Her hair was lank and sticky with sweat, beads
of perspiration shone on her forehead every time an oncoming headlight
illuminated the car’s interior. Her pale skin stretched over her face like she
had had no sustenance for days.
Alone with his thoughts, time dragged instead of flying or ticking to the
beat of Abhay’s wristwatch. The car-engine’s monotonous drone and
forward momentum were the only assurance that he was not dreaming.
That he was nothing but a regular guy who had chosen to follow a path
which did not seem to be leading to some happily-ever-after ending, but
instead into a war being waged between heaven and earth for an eternity,
with weapons and spells that could flip perspectives and reality of an
ordinary human.
A voice told him he was making a mistake. That he should turn around
the very same instant, go back to Indraprastha and tell the police all he had
seen and learned. If he continued, he would eventually meet a terrible end,
either at the hands of the bloodthirsty demons, or a crazed, fallen angel.
He only had to give Dhwani one look and the fearful voice telling him to
abandon ship, became quiet.
Her grip over life was beginning to slip. She had lost the very capabilities
that could help her survive. Yet she was pushing on, regardless of her
condition, driven by an iron will and purpose.
He pulled into a lane at the next toll, behind a long queue of cars of all
models and makes. Abhay looked around in the vehicles on his either side.
There were people just like him riding inside--families, friends,
homebound workers from the local sugar factories returning after a hard
day at work. Abhay tried to imagine what would happen if the shadow
world spilled out into broad daylight; the implications it would have on the
so-called world order. After what seemed like a long time, his turn came at
the toll booth.
Besides the attendant inside the booth, there were three rough-looking,
tobacco-chewing men lined right outside the window--part of the toll crew.
They wore orange glow-vests over their clothes. As Abhay handed over a
bill to the attendant, one of the men outside nudged his colleagues,
directing their attention inside the car.
Only then Abhay realized his traveling companion had caught their
attention. Dhwani was shaking in her seat, going through another spell of
the seizure she had suffered earlier. The attendant was calling for Abhay,
handing over the toll ticket and change but Abhay did not seem to hear
him for many seconds, or even notice the barrier had been raised.
When he crossed into the next stretch of the road, guiding the car past the
barrier and on to the shoulder of the road, Dhwani’s fit had turned into a
quake. Only the seatbelt was keeping her in the place as Abhay tried to
hold her down.
The scabbard had slipped off her lap, now lodged between the seat and
the leg-space, below the line-of-sight of any outsider.
The three men came running to see what was happening and were soon
ogling at Dhwani from outside her half-open window. Abhay rubbed her
palms, sprinkled water in her face. None of the men offered to help.
The seizure stopped only after it had run its course after about five
minutes. Dhwani came to, blinking sluggishly in response to Abhay’s
voice, sweaty and too exhausted to move a muscle.
‘You should’ve made her smell dirty socks, would’ve stopped the fit
much sooner,’ one of the men commented.
‘Your breath smells so awful, she would’ve opened her eyes within
seconds had you kissed her.’ His companion chimed in and the three burst
into raucous gales of laughter.
‘Do us a favor and fuck off!’ Abhay’s words ceased their insensitive
banter. He glared at them.
The three men would have had no trouble rounding up on Abhay and
beating him senseless. But his stare radiated something that made them
yield their gaze.
‘A boy and a girl, traveling together on a lonesome road at night,’ the one
who had pitched the idea about his friend’s bad breath, motioned his
friends to move away. They deliberately went around the front of the hood
to add to Abhay’s irritation. ‘We all know how it ends, don’t we,
brothers?’ Leering, he raised his left hand to make a hole with his thumb
and index, and moved the other index in and out, making sure Abhay and
Dhwani could see the rude gesture. Their silent companion hawked the
contents of his mouth and spat close enough to Abhay’s door as he went.
Instinct caused him to react and reach out for the door handle but Dhwani
held him back.
‘Anything you do, will attract attention. Do not forget the Asura have
eyes and ears almost everywhere.’
Abhay became acutely conscious of his fuming breath and flaring
temper--in his heart, he welcomed the prospect of punching the sneering
men in their faces--but Dhwani’s tired, disappointed gaze cooled him
down, replacing destructive anger with embarrassment.
They were back on the road a minute later, the needle of the speedometer
steadily moving clockwise. Abhay had shut the windows and the AC was
running at full-blast, drying off Dhwani’s sweat. She picked up the
scabbard and placed it reverentially on to the backseat. She rolled back her
seat to a ramrod-straight position.
‘Do not let me sleep from now on, Abhay.’ Dhwani said. ‘Every time I
close my eyes an abyss tries to pull me into its maw.’
The Halāhal should have killed her within minutes, from what she knew.
But perhaps four vial-darts of Halāhal was not enough to kill her instantly-
-or breathing in the air of Prithvi had somehow delayed Death. Yet it
would be enough to prolong her suffering before the end finally came. And
Dhwani was determined not to resign to its amplifying effects. She
preferred dying with a sword in her hand than creeping towards a gradual,
agonizing end before the Halāhal’s corruption stopped her heart.
‘If that’s what you want I’ll make sure you don’t sleep.’ Abhay replied
and turned the car-stereo on, hoping the music might lift their mood. ‘We
will have to make a stop soon. Both of us need some rest and nourishment,
to help us last till Mandi. I say we make a short halt at some crowded
place, fill up our bellies with some food and coffee, stretch our limbs a bit-
-fifteen, twenty minutes should be enough.’
He would have gone ahead to ask her what Angiris ate, besides the
Somaras she kept sipping at intervals, like some energy drink but Dhwani
was quick to respond.
‘We need to cover as much ground as possible.’ She cut in. ‘Jayant, your
uncle, they’re risking their necks to allow us a lead. The Chakra might be
untraceable as long as it is housed within the scabbard but there are no
guarantees something so enigmatic and unpredictable will go on
unnoticed. It will still draw the enemy and Angiris alike, as bees are drawn
to the nectar.’
Abhay had willfully chosen to seek the Legion’s help and get the Artifact
to safety with Dhwani and Jayant’s help. But the life he had left behind--
one where he would soon have a job, a routine but safe existence--it kept
calling out to him, berating him every time a new piece of information
projected another dangerous scenario.
It was not his place to look after artifacts full of ancient magic, or involve
himself into the affairs of the angels and demons. He was not like his
father.
‘Back in that secret room,’ he said, ‘when I showed you the artifacts and
the video recording. Jayant said something about the traitor among your
kind and my father’s killer being the same person. One of the two
Ancients. Who is he?’
‘His name is Tamas.’
‘The one who accidentally caused the death of innocent people, in the
1600s?’
‘Where did you learn that?’
‘From the Book of Dwij,’ Abhay jerked a thumb over his shoulder, at his
bulging backpack in the backseat. ‘The commanders of Legion have kind
of written the entire history of the ancient army in it. Tamas’s name was
mentioned, and what he did.’
He told her in broad strokes, everything he had gleaned from the Book,
including the part about the Angiris and Bheeshm’s suspicion about an
Angiri’s close association with the Asuras.
‘The Brahmāstra: did your father have to say anything about it, or any of
the three artifacts the scabbard contains?’
Abhay shook his head.
The miles were finally slipping beneath the car’s advance. The night was
growing, the dark blanket above the glare and glow of artificial lights
turning darker as they traveled further. Abhay did most of the talking but
the conversation did not stop. It helped to tell someone his story; gave him
a chance to string the events of his life together into a cohesive manner.
In Dhwani, he had found a patient listener. It intrigued her to know his
past. The more he talked, the better she understood who he was. Before
parting, Jayant had given her enough fodder for thought regarding Abhay.
“His life-force, his living Oorja is different, Mentor--different from the
rest of the Manushyas, much brighter and stronger. I sense a growing
power within him, the likes of which I have never encountered before. It is
like some dormant part of him is waking up and taking a hold of him.”
Dhwani was starting to see through Jayant’s observation. Abhay might
have gained a semblance of understanding about himself but he was still a
complete stranger to his own origins.
 Chapter 21
A Stampede in the Dark

Abhay stopped the car over an hour later, at a roadside complex full of
eateries and restaurants, branded outlets lit up bright specializing in clothes
and travel gear and some thrift shops selling everything from mobile
covers to cigarettes. The plaza was crowded with travelers, the parking
nearly full even though it was close to ten. It definitely did not look like a
place the Asuras would overtly attack. According to the Book, they were
as much sticklers to anonymity as an Angiri or a Legionnaire.
The growling beast leaping inside his empty stomach roared at the sight
of the neon hoardings for McBurger’s and Kentucky’s calling out to him.
Even Dhwani could not help but feel the stirring of hunger in the pit of
her stomach. The air was cool but dusty, bearing the enticing, exotic smell
from grilles and a headier aroma of spices; an entire range of alien odors
that she had never smelled or imagined. She picked up the scabbard and
strapped it across her bosom. At Abhay’s suggestion, she had covered the
hilts of Uttara and Dakshina by tying a spare t-shirt over them. Overall,
she looked like she was carrying some musical instrument in an ornate
wooden case.
Abhay took his own heavy backpack and Murtaza’s baton at Dhwani’s
insistence before they made their way towards the busy semicircular plaza.
They took turns to visit the facilities to wash the weariness and grime, one
of them always watching out for any sign of trouble.
The plaza was bustling with the travelers engaged in conversation and
eating, beneath garishly colored garden umbrellas or along the stairs.
Sounds of conversation thrummed through the air. Unlike how they had
expected it to be, Dhwani got a lot of stares--solely because of her
whitened complexion that made her face shine like an ominous moon
under the combined glare of the lights.
Abhay consulted Dhwani at a takeaway counter serving burgers and
wraps and specialty masala-and-cheese fries. They only had to wait for
three minutes before the woman at the counter placed two large brown
paper bags and glasses of milkshake. As Abhay had suspected, Dhwani
strictly refused to consume meat.
‘What do the Angiris usually eat, back in Swargam?’ he enquired.
‘Anything but the meat of a slaughtered animal. But it is the Somaras
that we partake of back in our homeworld. It is sweet and a thousand times
nutritional than what you all eat.’ Dhwani replied, glancing at a woman
with a wailing infant in her arms tugging beside her a three-year-old boy
waving his toy gun at the people. The gun flashed and made amplified
noises of explosions and gunfire.
They rushed to occupy a table near the fringes of the plaza the second it
was vacated. Abhay was wolfing down his burger with gusto no sooner
had they taken opposite seats to command a wide view of the parking lot
to one side. He took off the backpack to sit comfortably but Dhwani
showed no inclination to part with her burden even for a second.
She stared at her veggie-wrap for some time before she could no more
resist herself from taking the first bite of the Manushya food. She had
smelled uncountable delicacies that she found fair and foul; some that she
could even remember. But she had never eaten any of it. Unlike the fruits
and Somaras Angiris are accustomed to, Dhwani’s taste buds seemed to
explode within her mouth with flavors she had never experienced--enough
to make her head swim.
‘Is it good?’ Abhay asked, wiping his mouth with a tissue before picking
up his chicken roll.
‘The food you eat has too much taste to induce gluttony but I am not
complaining. I will remember this first taste of Manushya food till the end
of my days.’ An end that might be less than a day away--or even less, she
thought. Her smile was sad, like a sliver of sun amid dark clouds.
Abhay looked at her pale skin, at the dim twinkle of her eyes, wondering
what kind of pain she must be in. She resembled some wraith that seemed
solid but would turn into a wisp of smoke if he reached out and touched
her. Dhwani returned his gaze a number of times as she delicately peeled
off the paper wrapping to get down to the last morsel of her wrap, ensuring
that not a drop of sauce dripped down on the tray and went waste.
They had almost finished when the lights went off, all at once. A
crackling blue flash further beyond the plaza told Abhay a major fault
might have occurred in the electricity supply--a coincidence? He did not
think so. And neither did Dhwani.
‘We should leave, Abhay,’ she whispered. He complied, trusting her
instincts.
The shops equipped with power inverters saved the plaza from becoming
absolute dark. Flashlights from cell-phones started coming up everywhere,
people loudly grumbling it to be a massive power failure. The present-day
humans were not accustomed to living in the dark and a wave of
nervousness seemed to sweep through the crowd after a minute of
darkness.
 Abhay and Dhwani had gone only a few steps when the commotion
began from three different directions: chairs hurriedly dragging, stuff
falling on the ground and people calling out in alarm or warning. The
phone flashlights were all shaking this way and that.
A woman screamed, a baby began to bawl and the mob was triggered
into desperate motion.
There was a loud bang from the parking lot dead ahead. Dhwani and
Abhay began to run towards the sound regardless, driven by the single
objective of reaching their car. Dhwani fumbled over her shoulder, untying
the t-shirt tied over the twin hilts. Abhay emulated by taking out Murtaza’s
baton tucked in the waistband of his jeans.
He felt a discernible shockwave before the flashlights began to go off.
The spreading wave snuffed out more lights. Animal sounds rose in the
darkened plaza, fueling confusion to escalate into a full blown stampede.
Tables and chairs banged and toppled, kids cried and howled in fear,
separated from their parents in the mad rush. Screaming adults collided
and fell and got trampled, almost everyone trying to get to the parking lot.
Abhay shouldered through the crowd, impulsively grabbing Dhwani’s
hand.
Animals chattered and shrieked behind them, hooting like they were
laughing at the confusion.
‘What’s happening?’ He asked a man running past.
‘Fucking troop of monkeys!’ the man replied before he wrenched away.
They had almost made it out on to the wide concrete strip connecting to
the parking lot and eventually the highway. But a number of silhouettes
sprang before them out of the shadows, blocking their path. The metallic
glint of their guns distinctly visible even in the dark.
Abhay perceived a presence behind him but before he could turn
something hard pressed against his ribs. It happened with Dhwani too and
before she could react someone was breathing on her neck, digging the
cold muzzle of a pistol into her right temple.
‘Don’t move a muscle,’ a man whispered in a rasping voice, his warm
breath making the hairs on the nape of her neck rise.
People ran past the ring formed by their Manushya captors, tugging along
their families to get to their vehicles. Many more were still loitering
around in the dark, calling out to their friends and family; the children and
adults wounded in the stampede were crying in pain, calling for help as
they lay in the dark.
Abhay and Dhwani were pushed forward. To ease their movement, two
of the captors fired aerial shots, forcing out startled, panicked cries for
help. The path before them cleared.
Almost everyone was praying to their gods, ducking behind whatever
cover they could find or hastening towards their vehicles. Tires screeched
over the unpaved parking lot as the vehicles left one after another.
With no obstruction the captors were free to drag Abhay and Dhwani
towards two black vans waiting at the lip of the highway, their engines
idling. Unlike Abhay, Dhwani looked calm as placid water, waiting for
opportunity. It was Abhay’s well being that concerned her more.
‘Where are the others?’ one of the captors asked someone.
‘The monkeys got them,’ the one pushing Abhay replied. ‘Damn things
came out of nowhere. Some of us are lying wounded back there.’
‘How did they pick us up in the dark?’
‘Why don’t you go back and find out, scrotum-face?’
They were too busy looking fore and aft to glimpse the shapes sneaking
upon them along the ground. The captor to Abhay’s left whirled and fired
as three shapes rushed at him from between two cars. The gunfire revealed
more monkeys surrounding them, too many to count; slender, silver forms
of the long-tailed langurs, and the stockier, shorter red-faced breed
indigenous to the plains.
The bullets found their mark but the animals still came, like a furious
wave washing over the men. They whooped and screamed, baring their
teeth, biting and clawing at the captors, except for the two men holding
Abhay and Dhwani at gunpoint. They pummeled the captives forward
without a backward glance at their colleagues, bent upon covering the
short distance to the vans, goaded on by the drivers waving their guns and
the men screaming to their back.
Dhwani was prepared to take advantage of the momentary distraction as
her captor turned and fired a volley of shots in the dark. He barely got a
moment to register surprise before she moved, swift as lightning; twisting
his arm and disarming him in one move, throwing the gun into the face of
the other one behind Abhay.
The monkeys dashed past them, lunging for the drivers with the guns.
Abhay and Dhwani did not waste another moment. They ran for their car,
yanked their doors open and jumped into their seats.
Abhay had just keyed-in the ignition when the rear windshield shattered
and more shots thumped into the car’s frame. Three of the men had
retrieved their weapons after extricating themselves from the clutches of
the monkeys.
Abhay backed away like a madman, correcting its course and hitting the
accelerator hard. He half-ducked in his seat as more bullets rained, striking
down the side-view mirror on Abhay’s side.
The men charged at the car as it fishtailed towards escape, reloading their
guns. They raised them to fire, aiming for the rear wheels and there was a
good chance they would not have missed.
Abhay was expecting to see their muzzles flash in the rearview mirror.
Instead he saw the huge shape emerging behind the three men, moving like
a wrecking ball.
For mere seconds, he and Dhwani glimpsed the man-mountain standing
over the three unconscious men in the measly light provided by the
vehicles on the highway. He was dressed all in black and his eyes seemed
to twinkle like that of some nocturnal animal; a glimpse of thick, snow-
white beard and shoulder-length hair streaming beneath a skullcap.
The same man from the Loop-station parking lot? Abhay wondered. He
pumped the accelerator, impelled by a sudden impulse to flee.

‘Those Manushyas were agents of the Asuras, beyond any doubt,’

Dhwani spoke after they had gone for nearly fifteen minutes. ‘Although I
cannot say who that giant of a man was.’
Abhay tried to fit together the strenuous minutes of the ordeal they had
barely managed to escape from. ‘The monkeys, they were there to help us-
-like they did before. The big guy too, I guess. He might be on our side,
perhaps someone from the Legion. I might’ve glimpsed him before, on the
day my father was murdered.’
‘Till we are absolutely certain of this man’s intentions, we should
consider him as an enemy.’ Dhwani said, resting her back into the seat and
taking a deep, painful breath.
Abhay thumbed through Murtaza’s cell-phone as he drove, hoping to see
a missed call or some text. But there was none. He checked the saved
contacts for the umpteenth time since he had first switched on the phone
after its owner’s demise. There was only a single contact out of the three
saved numbers that mattered.
It was for some travel agency called Hill Queen Tours and Travels--the
so-called emergency contact from what the woman calling from the
unknown number had told Abhay. The other two numbers Abhay had
saved, were of Kant’s old friends who lived along the route Jayant and the
old man had taken.
He debated whether to call the emergency number then set the phone
aside. The emergency had passed, after all, and they were safe--for now.
They did not say much, letting their thoughts wander upon the wind
rushing through the open windows. The miles seemed to melt away. Hills
were rising up ahead, visible only because of the steady stream of vehicles
moving up and down the high paths or due to the settlements dotting the
distant slopes.
For Dhwani, every moment was a struggle to keep her eyes open. The
Halāhal was burrowing itself deeper into her body and soul, like a cold
fire burning her from within. Without her Grace, each cell of her being felt
like a workshop of misery. Abhay saw to it that she did not doze off,
making sure she was upright and awake.
He kept talking to her, the story of his life spilling from his lips--at first
he was talking because it helped Dhwani stay awake; but gradually the
words and feelings began to pour more freely, because he had not talked
about it to anyone like that--not even with Kant.
It was after one such lapse into slumber that Abhay woke her up with a
nudge and a shout. With one hand, he felt for her wrist then her forehead,
keeping his concentration on the road.
‘You’re burning, Dhwani. High fever would be an understatement to
describe it.’
Delirious and slow, Dhwani rolled down her window further. She felt
only the pain. It made her eyes water profusely, sang out of her pores with
the sweat, and screamed where she was hurt. She had lost her Grace, every
last drop of it. Her body was not anymore able to resist the rankling
advance of the Asura poison, her immunity buckling little-by-little.
It was a surprise that she was even alive.
‘Death would be a mercy,’ she muttered to herself, sticking her face out
the open window. The cool air did nothing to help her with the pain, but it
was still comforting. The moist smell of dew-covered pines, of soil and sap
and wild primroses seemed to revive her. She let her hair loose, welcoming
the wind that kissed her like an eager lover’s wet lips.
‘Why are we slowing down?’ She opened her eyes a few minutes hence,
feeling the deceleration.
‘I have to make a call to Uncle Kant’s friend, find out how he and Jayant
are doing--if they made it to the agreed milestone safely.’
He took a wide bend overlooking a valley and the ascending outlines of
the hilly terrain that stretched till beyond the national border.
It was a good vantage point to make a halt, commanding a wide view of
the foothill town and individual settlements they had passed in the last half
hour or so. The road they had earlier traversed was a winding, zigzagging
line, lit far and between by street lamps, tea shops or tiny temples.
Abhay dialed the number and got down. Dhwani dragged herself out of
the seat, wore the scabbard (or the Brahmāstra? she wondered) around her
back and walked towards the jutting gravel embankment facing the hazy
valley with its prominent pockets of habitation.
She was surveying the scenery, feeling the pain subduing by some
measure, when Abhay finished the call.
He waited till a roadways bus full of passengers had lumbered by. ‘I
didn’t get to talk to Uncle Kant,’ he told her, ‘but he arrived at his
colleague’s about nine, stayed for twenty-five minutes or so before
continuing. He left a message with his friend, saying that he’s doing fine
but hasn’t heard from Jayant in a while.’
Dhwani was unsettled by the news but she kept her veneer of composure
intact. She had to keep herself together. The next call was scheduled for
twelve, by when Kant expected to reach Kashi. Although she had full faith
in Jayant’s ingenuity and wit the next couple of hours were going to be
excruciatingly long and tense till she had heard Jayant was fine.
‘Look at that,’ Abhay broke into her absorbed reverie, pointing at the
initial stretches of the road down below, climbing up the slopes.
It took her a moment to see where Abhay was pointing at. A single
headlight, seemingly of some two-wheeler, came streaking along the
winding road. In spite of the dangers and drops offered by the terrain, the
rider was speeding well beyond the safe limit, tires screeching around the
bends, the sudden whining of its engine echoing each time he accelerated
around a curves--as if he had a death wish. Oncoming freight trucks and
passenger vehicles honked their horns angrily as the bike swished past
dangerously close; the ones it overtook did not even see the rider till the
bike slid past.
It moved without making much sound, navigating along the hairpin
bends; nothing but a dark blot visible of its rider as it passed beneath the
halogen lamps. In no time, the bike ate away the mile distance and was
eighty feet below the position of Dhwani and Abhay, passing between the
islands of the light.
Even through a haze of pain, Dhwani saw the huge figure hunched
forward on an equally bulky bike, each complementing the other in terms
of size and color; a hint of snow-white hair on his face.
‘It’s him,’ her voice shook, ‘the one who took down the last three
gunmen.’ She began to move towards the car but turned back when she
saw Abhay was standing where he was. ‘Abhay, we cannot jeopardize
everything by throwing caution to the wind. If the rider is an ally, we will
find it sooner or later. But if he is a foe…’
Abhay finally reacted to her words, rushing back to the idling car. The
bike’s peculiar roar was rising in the background.
‘Drive like your life depended on it.’ Dhwani told him.
 Chapter 22
Friend or Foe?

Dhwani kept a look-out while Abhay drove, the bike coming up behind
them. At times they lost sight of its progress and Abhay would slow down
and listen for its approach: the peculiar dr-dr-dr sound of its powerful
engine, somewhere between a roar and a low rattle--the music from an
efficient machine.
For twenty minutes he had driven fast enough to stay ahead, yet in
sufficient control to avoid a tumble down the hills. Abhay had no wish to
die when the most important journey of his life had barely begun--his
foray into the shadow world of his father.
‘He is not coming as fast as before,’ Dhwani remarked, craning her neck
out of the window. ‘Back then he seemed to be flying. Now he is keeping
a safe distance, in no hurry. Makes me wonder if the rider knows we have
seen him.’ If the Halāhal was still bothering her, she seemed to have
channeled her focus on the matter at hand, looking alert as a fox.
‘I doubt he’s seen us,’ Abhay tried to convince himself but doubt spilled
into his voice the next moment, ‘although I don’t know how he’s tracking
us. I’ll be damned if there’s some kind of tracker in the car…’ his gaze
swept over the darkened dashboard, as if expecting to find some planted
device.
He considered it: what if they had mistaken some random rider to be the
mysterious pursuer--the Big Guy? It was not as if there could not be
another man of his stature and built. And they had seen him from a good
distance, their nerves already strung taut with tension. They could be
mistaken.
The car was approaching an intersection, a T-point with two pathways
going left and right to different hill-towns, including Mandi. Dhwani did
not notice the overhanging green signboard with the directions and
distance in silver-white. Abhay took the road going left but she had no idea
he had deliberately taken a wrong turn.
For over a mile the car went up and down a narrow road snaking along
the terrain, passing through stands of tall pines shouldering the slopes. On
Dhwani’s side, lights twinkled in the valley down below, nearly lost in the
haze. Reflector strips along the metal barrier followed the car’s progress,
like fiery eyes.
‘Do you see him?’ Abhay asked, slowing down as they rounded a bend.
There was no other vehicle in either direction, neither sound nor headlight
beam of an approaching vehicle.
‘I cannot see him anymore but he must be around the bend, about three
kilometers or so behind.’ Dhwani replied.
Her forehead creased in puzzlement as Abhay steered the car off the
road. Down a concrete trail--a seven feet wide, tree-lined driveway--
leading up to an affluent dwelling some thirty yards further.
‘Why did we stop here?’ Dhwani asked. Abhay craned his neck outside
to assess their position from the main road. From where they were lying in
wait, the higher road was mostly hidden from view. The shadow beneath
the trees provided a natural hiding spot for the car, even if someone tried
to look from above.
‘I took the wrong path instead of the one that would take us to Mandi.
We will let the rider pass by, hoping he doesn’t decide to stop and look
around this way.’ Abhay replied, quickly getting out of the car. He
motioned her to follow after gathering up his stuffed backpack.
‘If he is using some sophisticated tracker affixed to the car, we’ll know
of it too. Then he’ll definitely come this way instead of going onward.’ He
said.
‘What if he finds the car, what then? We will lose the only mode of
transportation available.’ She wondered.
‘That is a chance we’ll have to take.’ Abhay tried to assure her.
‘If nothing else then we have a fighting chance,’ she agreed with some
reluctance.
They jogged up the trail, back to the main road, wary of the sounds.
Abhay led Dhwani up the overgrown embankment on the inside curve of
the road. The trees and bushes along the slope were the perfect spot to stay
hidden, offering a wide view of the road below and any vehicle passing on
it.
She was not exactly in agreement with Abhay’s daring plan but it held
considerable promise. Its success would mean getting rid of the mysterious
pursuer for the time being.
They settled down halfway up the slope, well above the winding curve of
the road. Two thick-trunked pine trees and scrub bushes hid them from
direct view, in case someone accidentally glanced up the slope. At the
junction where the driveway met the road, a street lamp cast its yellow
cone of illumination.
Two minutes went by--then five--then eight.
Except for a late-night bus and a lorry, no other vehicle passed their way;
no sound of a peculiar, powerful engine approaching from the bend to the
right.
Had somehow luck favored them and the Big Guy--if it was indeed the
same man Abhay had first seen in the parking-lot of Indraprastha terminal
and again not two hours ago--had turned around for some reason? Given
his speed, the biker could have in no way taken so much time to catch up.
He and Dhwani had expected him to arrive no sooner did they settle down
but ten minutes went by and he still did not show up.
‘What do you reckon, why hasn’t he made a pass?’ Abhay enquired,
considering a new problem that loomed before him if the rider did not act
as expected: he might be lying in wait when they retraced their path back
to the T-point.
The road map Abhay had purchased in Indraprastha, now folded inside
his overstuffed backpack, had the way to Mandi marked in blue but he had
not bothered to study it minutely, to look for alternate routes, if any existed
on their present course.
Dhwani only shrugged, straining her hearing. She was hunched close to
the ground, unmindful of the dew-drenched grass and vegetation and
insects that might be crawling in them. Unlike her, Abhay sat tensed in a
half-crouch, peering over the dense, low-hanging screen of rhododendrons.
He stiffened a good five seconds before Dhwani heard it: a constant
mechanical whirr, growing in volume. They slowly glanced over the
natural barrier, at the strip of the road down below.
It was impossible to overlook the object--a drone--floating fifteen feet
above the hardtop, level with the street lamp. It was slightly larger than the
one Jayant had caught: four propellers and a sleek body over fifteen inches
long and six wide. The device followed onward, descending into the
shadows for a distance before it wheeled back, circling about the level of
the street lamp so that it cast no shadow.
‘What the fuck is it doing?’ Abhay cursed under his breath.
The drone gracefully moved into the trees as a car went past then
resumed its probing. Abhay could only wonder if it was somehow able to
see their tracks. Was it being controlled by the Big Guy?
The matter was resolved some ten seconds later.
The drone crossed the road, moving onto the concrete ramp, towards
their car parked in the shadows. Neither he nor Dhwani saw the projectile
hit the drone till the heavy stone dropped with a loud thud. The spying
device struck the ground a few feet away. It beeped in a tizzy, before
exploding in a ball of fire and smoke.
The Big Guy appeared from the expected side, walking up to the
smoking bits of the drone at a casual, unhurried pace. His heavy boots
made faint thuds, a testament to his bulk and enormousness. For the first
time Abhay noticed him: a giant-of-a-man, close to seven feet tall and
heavy as a bull.
The streetlamp at the junction began to fluctuate and sputter before they
could get a better look. It immediately took back Abhay to the day he had
arrived at Indraprastha, how the tubes all over the underground parking
had behaved.
If the drone was being controlled by the Asuras and the Big Guy had shot
it down: what else could he be if not an ally? Considering a worst-case
scenario, he could be someone neither serving the Asuras nor the Legion; a
third-party interested in the Brahmāstra, most likely.
The Big Guy raised his face and sniffed the air, cocking his head this way
and that. He had his broad back turned towards them. Abhay felt the hair
on his arm gooseprickle beneath the sleeves of his sweatshirt, even though
the giant faced the other way.
He is trying to pick our scent! Abhay felt a fluttering within his chest--a
rising fear telling him he had underestimated the Big Guy.
His palm was sweating around Murtaza’s baton. Abhay shifted and heard
a twig snap beneath his hiking boots, the sound too loud in the nightly
silence devoid even of the chirruping circus of insects.
The Big Guy turned around before Abhay could even realize he had
given their position away.
He ducked, adrenalin juicing him into motion and to add to his woe, the
lower end of the baton cracked against the wood of the scabbard on
Dhwani’s back. She hissed in frustration as Abhay saw her hand moving to
the hilt of her sword, loosening it in its sheath. His right thumb found the
tiny lever that would release the blades in the baton’s either tip.
Before he could press it, pain erupted within his skull, driving him on all
fours, taking the wind out of his lungs. It was as if his skull was some soft
grape being crushed between a giant’s fingers.
Abhay stifled a cry till the vise-like psychic hold turned into a crown of
thorns drilling into his head from all sides. He did not realize when his lips
let go of the scream, as he grabbed his head with both hands and flopped
upon the ground. All he felt for the next uncountable seconds or minutes--
that seemed to stretch on forever--was the crown of thorns cinching
tighter.
When he regained his senses, he was lying on his back, looking up at the
gloomy shade of the foliage overhead. Dhwani was leaning over him. He
propped himself up on his elbows, feeling the weight of a headache that
blurred his thought and vision.
 ‘What happened, Abhay?’ she asked, helping him sit upright. One of the
twin blades was half-buried in the soil.
‘I don’t know. It was as if spikes were being drilled into my head,’ he
rested his forehead into his hands, feeling the thing sweat sheen along his
hairline. The headache seemed to throb against his palm rubbing the
forehead. ‘For a moment it was as if my head would explode, it got that
bad. Now this headache…feels like my skull escaped from some
nutcracker.’
He groped for the backpack, found the discarded baton alongside and the
thought hit him.
‘Where did he go, the Big Guy?’ He looked over the bushes and found
the road empty, the streetlamp steadily burning, casting its yellow circle of
light upon the concrete. Even the rock that had demolished the drone’s
wings had been removed from where it had lain in the middle of the road.
‘The man and the metal steed both went by not long ago, just as we had
hoped.’ Dhwani sheathed the blade after shaking off the dirt from its tip.
From the sound of it, she did not share the relief that coursed through
Abhay at the news.
‘You’re worried that he found us and still did nothing.’ Abhay slowly
made his way down the slope, holding on to the rough bark of the pine
trunks, massaging his left temple every few steps.
‘Does it not worry you? You were writhing in pain and screaming. He
knew we were hiding here and yet he walked away, whistling to himself
while I stood here, anticipating him to attack. When he came back with his
bike, I was again ready yet he did not even slow down. I made sure he is
gone before I came back to check on you.’
They paused to survey the charred and broken pieces of the drone littered
over the road. Abhay was still rubbing his temples when they got into the
car.
‘From how you describe it to be, it appears our new friend also possess
abilities of a gifted psychic. It was an assault against your mind that
knocked you down. Feels to me as if we were intentionally allowed a pass.
If Mandi turns out to be a trap…’
‘Stop over-thinking, Dhwani,’ Abhay could not keep the edge out of his
voice. ‘Can we not settle down for something positive, for once? He took
the bait, it’s that simple!’ He regretted the tone instantly but focused on
steering the car in reverse up the ramp, blinking through the headache with
gritted teeth.
Dhwani chose silence, hugging the scabbard close.
It took almost five minutes to safely guide the vehicle back on the main
road. Twenty minutes hence, they were back on track, past the T-junction
and headed towards Mandi.
Abhay prayed the Big Guy to have taken the bait. Although he did not
hear or see any sign of the pursuer they had just eluded, doubt kept
gnawing at the back of his mind. There was a high possibility Dhwani was
seeing the picture much better than he ever would.
Their list of potential threats had a plus one.

‘Hey, I’m sorry for earlier,’ Abhay said, hoping to break the awkward
silence. Dhwani had not spoken a word in more than forty minutes. ‘I had
no right speaking to you like that.’
Dhwani let the apology hang between them, staring out at the sleepy
settlement they were passing through.
A stray dog by the roadside barked at the car, running after them till the
outskirts. Across the hills, lightning flashed soundlessly.
Just as Abhay was beginning to expect no reply would come, she turned
to him and said: ‘I have had prior experience with Manushyas, I
understand what might have made you lose your grip. It was indeed very
humane of you, to behave the way you did.’
His headache was almost gone, except for a burning sensation in his
eyes. Luckily he was no more driving dangerously as he had while being
pursued by the Big Guy, and he prayed it remained that way. He was done
with the thrill, the fear and the adrenaline rush for one night.
Dhwani could not look past the growing foreboding: Mandi could be a
trap they were willingly walking into.
‘You must have seen so many lifetimes of us humans,’ Abhay attempted
to restore the level of comfort they had shared not long ago--like the one
between two survivors of a calamity, working together to stay alive. ‘Yet I
get the feeling you have never interacted with our kind so much, up close.
Am I right?’
‘You, are the first one to know me as I am. None of the Manushyas I
have earlier met knew my identity. For them I was another human being.’
Quickly dabbing at his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve, Abhay wondered:
how much he wanted to know about her and Swargam, of the gods that
once inhabited her world and his. He especially wanted to learn more
about the Tridevas, the three incorporeal energies who according to the
Book of Dwij existed in a well of light in Swargam, in some kind of
suspended animation. But now that he had the time to ask all that and
more, Abhay could not think of where to begin.
 ‘So, first the Devas and then it was your folks who succeeded the
Tridevas,’ Abhay asked the simplest question he could come up with, ‘you
have been visiting our world, fighting against the enemy for ages, yet no
one in the world at large ever found out about Swargam or its past and
present-day inhabitants?’
She looked at Abhay, her paleness accentuated by the dashboard lights.
‘You are forgetting something, Abhay. There have been Manushyas who
saw the Devas, and those that have seen us.
‘The Celestials continue to live through tales and faiths to this day, even
though not many Manushyas in the Age of Kali would believe in our
existence. Then there is the Legion: they are the only ones apart from the
Asuras, who are fully aware of Swargam and Celestials.’
‘And what about the times the tales and myths do not mention? There are
conspiracy theories and all kinds of stories floating on the internet: people
claiming to have witnessed angelic manifestations. Can they be true
accounts?’
For a while, Dhwani was more interested in scanning the sky for signs of
another drone. ‘Not all of it must be true, we have always been careful to
stay hidden.’ She said, retracting herself back into her seat. ‘The ones that
have seen us are mostly laughed at or scorned by the other Manushyas.
People of Prithvi at-present live with ideologies that have no place for
belief in an existence that cannot be explained by human logic. It is far
more easy, to not believe in something than to seek an explanation, you
see. Some of my people have in the past even taken measures to alter
memories of the witnesses, bury the encounter deep within their minds.’
‘Like how my father made me forget stuff?’
Dhwani nodded. A question haunting her subconscious, ever since their
conversation about Tamas, spilled from her lips. ‘What can you remember
about your mother?’
Abhay looked puzzled, wondering why she would want to know about
his mother. ‘She didn’t stay around for long, so there’s not a lot to
remember. I was barely four when she...when she left home. Even after
this memory-blocking spell has worn off, nothing much related to her has
occurred to me: no hidden memory has resurfaced. But I did manage to
remember the lullaby she used to sing to me, every word of it.’
The tune Abhay hummed, the brief verses that he clumsily sang--
mispronouncing the words of Angiri-tongue--made her heart swell with
surprise and nostalgia. She knew the song--every Angiri did.
‘Who were her parents?’
Abhay shrugged, ‘I don’t remember Dad mentioning anything about
them. I never got to ask him. My parents were exactly alike in this one
aspect, if nothing else: I never knew them well. They were too invested in
protecting me than to spend their lives with their only son.
‘They met twenty-seven years ago, fell in love and married. Then I came
along, two years later. Ma stayed with me for over three years before,’ his
voice hitched, ‘before she faked her own death and left. My father took
part in the ruse.’ He drove in silence for a minute before he continued.
‘Till last night, I was still living under a rock, believing the lie I was being
fed: that she’s been dead all this time--not lying in some sickbed,
paralyzed and mute.’
Her hand tightened around the scabbard at the last sentence. It was as if
Dhwani could see a puzzle nearing completion, with the last few pieces
missing.
‘There might still be portraits of my grandfather and great-grandfathers--
men from my father’s side--somewhere in our house. They used to hang
upon the walls in the front hall, once. Dad made me remember their
names. But I know little of them too.’
He seemed to hesitate, like he found it difficult to say the next words.
‘As for Ma, I don’t think I have ever seen any photograph of her before
she and Dad met; nothing about her childhood or growing years. If Dad’s
life is a puzzle, her life is like an unsolvable mystery.’
He handed over his wallet to her and switched on the overhead light,
bathing the car’s muted interior.
‘Go on, open it. You’ll find her photograph in the flap to the left.’
She slowly took out the photograph. When he heard Dhwani’s sharp
intake of breath, a realization crashed upon him. Her shock spoke volumes
regarding why she had been so interested in Ma, above everything else.
‘You knew her.’ Abhay braked hard, not caring that he had stopped in the
middle of the road.
Dhwani could not speak, even though her shock was being replaced by
brooding acceptance and calculation. ‘What name did she go by here?’
Abhay found the question unnerving. Was there a true name that he was
unaware of?
‘Kaya, her name was Kaya.’
Her jaws tightened. ‘I assumed she would’ve taken a different name…’
‘What is it, Dhwani? Tell me!’
She took a deep sigh. ‘Your mother, she was one of us. You were born of
an Angiri-Manushya union, Abhay.’
It was Abhay’s turn to blanch and go stiff. Life was still not done with its
ugly, frightening surprises.
 Abhay held the steering-wheel in a white-knuckled grip, like he was
trying to keep himself from being blown away into a whirling tornado.
‘Tell me everything--everything about my mother.’ He said.
In that moment Dhwani fully realized why Abhay wanted to get to the
Legion, why he had forsaken his other life and decided to accompany her
where most other Manushyas would have quailed to even embark on such
perilous undertaking. Unlike what she had believed the Brahmāstra came
nowhere in the equation; only finding the scattered bits of his origins
mattered to him.
‘Kaya, the sole bloodborn of the Angiris Jaydrath and Aitri--which makes
them your grandparents,’ Dhwani began, ‘Your mother was one of the
finest Angiris I have ever met, wise and brave, full of compassion for not
just her own people, but also for the creatures of Prithvi, especially the
Manushyas. After all, she was the only Angiri ever to be born here and it
was among the humans she spent the better part of her life--more than
eight hundred years, that is.’
She continued while Abhay went through a flurry of sentiments, being
battered by the maelstrom of emotions.
Jaydrath and Aitri were Praharis, one of the twenty stationed on the key-
world to keep a vigil against the Asuras. They raised Kaya well, gave her
the knowledge of both worlds, and trained her in skills of war, in spells
and survival. The only times she went back to Swargam was to attend her
deeksha with other Angiris her age, every five decades or so--the visits
also ensured she mingled with her people, made herself familiar with the
Swargam way-of-life and traditions.
Although there was no one among the Angiris who did not like her, one
of them felt a lot more strongly for Kaya than most.
It was Tamas, who had fallen for her the very first time Jaydrath and
Aitri took her to Swargam. His feelings simmered for a long time before
he professed his love and asked for Kaya’s hand in a lifelong union.
‘Are Angiris supposed to be…monogamous--like a single partner for
life?’ Abhay asked. His initial surprise had dissipated, replaced by rapt
attention, like he was hanging on to every word.
‘Unions between Angiris have always been rare--and a fruitful union
with a Manushya, even rarer. Till the last century, if two Angiris entered a
union, it was both out of love and the desire for procreation. Most choose
companions for life, yes, but there also have been those--especially
females with proven fertility--who had had more than one companion. For
instance, two of my own acolytes were born of the same mother.’
 ‘What did my mother do, when Tamas approached her?’
Kaya was not ready to enter a union, which would have entailed she
spent more time in Swargam beyond her deeksha. But she did not refuse
him outright. She liked and respected Tamas, perhaps also felt some
attraction towards him. She kept going back to the Angiris for her
education at stipulated intervals, spent her time getting to know Tamas
better.
Twenty-seven years ago things took a sudden turn between Kaya and
Tamas.
It was the final phase of her deeksha and she had been away from Prithvi
for a whole decade when the Praharis disappeared from the radar,
abducted by the Asuras.
Tamas was reluctant to let her leave but Kaya was adamant on finding
Jaydrath and Aitri. She left Swargam with two other Angiris and was never
heard from again. The Elders had every reason to believe she did not
survive whatever had befallen her and her two companions. Five hundred
and three Angiris died or disappeared in a span of a year.
‘But it was your mother that Tamas cared for the most,’ Dhwani slowed
down to let a moment of pain pass, ‘it was her disappearance that unhinged
him.’
‘Rest for now. You’ll exhaust yourself.’ Abhay said.
She took a deep breath and shook her head in a stubborn way. ‘You need
to know. Too long have you waited to learn about your life.’ She
continued.
Tamas left Swargam to find Kaya, not ready to accept that she could be
dead. He must have searched Prithvi far and wide, for any sign of her,
eventually falling into some trap of the Asuras. Dhwani believed it was
during his captivity that the twisted experiments and constant torture at the
hands of the enemy, broke him--the point where he might have sold his
soul to the Asuras.
When he returned to Swargam well after eighteen months in Manushya-
reckoning, he returned with no news of Kaya, but with the ten Angiris he
had supposedly rescued from captivity.
But Kaya was alive, living in hiding, on way to give birth to Abhay by
then. It must have been only after his birth that her health began to decline,
when her Grace fully left her.
‘A union between a Celestial and a Manushya, is deemed unnatural by a
majority of the Angiris. Devas were known to father gifted children in the
past. Till the early days of Dwapar-yuga, there were several of them aiding
Swargam’s cause on Prithvi. But it is not the same when it comes to us,
the Angiris.’
‘Mating with a human,’ Abhay guessed, ‘it has adverse effects on an
Angiri, doesn’t it? You lose your abilities...your Grace.’
‘It is the cost one must pay, yes, in lieu for the intimacy. Kaya paid the
price to bring you into this world…’
Dhwani stopped, suddenly overcome by another bout of pain. She leaned
her head against the window. She had told Abhay everything he needed to
know, except for one thing--the hardest part, which was definitely going to
be another shock for him.
She drank from the last ounce of her Somaras, letting its nourishing heat
spread down her throat then across her body, down to the soles of her feet.
The pain subsided, only a little, but it was still no less a blessing. She kept
her eyes closed, willing away another blackout, another spasm, fighting
the faceless opponents within her mind and body.
‘Can you think of some place where Tamas might’ve taken Ma?’ Abhay
popped up the very question she had wanted to avoid. She could already
imagine how he would react in the coming minutes.
‘He took her back, to Swargam.’ Her words made Abhay cringe and
frown.
Dhwani took a moment to break the truth. ‘I regret to tell you, Abhay.
But Kaya has gone beyond the mortal vales, perhaps she passed away on
the very same day Tamas murdered your father. How you saw her in the
video--it could be that she had already taken her last breath. Tamas took
her back and enshrined her remains in a tomb, in the same room where he
has arranged his trophies--the skulls of the vanquished.’
She told him about the warded chamber Neel had found in his brother’s
private quarters: where Kaya still resided in her painting and the
sculptures.
Abhay felt the strength leaving his limbs and arms. He stopped the car
and got out without a word, slamming the door harder than he had
intended to. They were at the midpoint of a low but wide concrete-and-
metal bridge, a seasonal stream at the zenith of its strength gushing below.
He leaned upon the bridge’s railing, staring into the murky depths of the
stream yet lost in his jumbled, sketchy past, trying to see himself as the
child of a being far ancient by Manushya-standards.
He did not have to guess why the police had failed to find his father’s
head. As for Ma, it looked as if Fate was still not done playing with her.
When she was alive, he was unaware of her existence; and now, he could
not see her even in her death because she was entombed on a faraway
world.
 He had come this far, for nothing.
Dhwani came and stood by his side, letting him gather himself while she
scanned the sky for enemy drones or watched the vehicles passing by. She
would not trust leaving the scabbard inside the car.
‘I don’t get the motive, I mean why would Tamas hurt Ma when he loved
her--was it jealousy, because she ended up with my father?’ Abhay looked
up.
She jerked her shoulders. ‘He consumes Halāhal, yes, the same
substance that is slowly killing me, even as we speak. He has lost his soul
and his mind Abhay, Tamas needs no motive. He is venting out all his
frustration and hate upon his own people, on his homeworld.
‘Then again, if you think about it, he honored Kaya in her death. That
says something about him and the feelings he harbored for her. Perhaps
she died of natural causes, she was already too frail, and Tamas, as a final
gesture of love, took her back to Swargam to grant her a final resting place
where he thought she deserved to lie till the end of days. There might still
be some good left in him.’
The wind was picking up, blowing its cold breath on the nape of Abhay’s
neck.
‘I wanted to find her, Dhwani. And now I feel as if setting out in search
of her and the Legion, it means nothing. Why should I go on, when
nothing I do can bring her back?’
Dhwani could not think of the right thing to say, something that might lift
his spirits. She could empathize with him to some extent, but not instill in
him the drive to go on--she was herself in desperate need of motivation.
Only Abhay could find his purpose.
‘Do you realize there are forces, both within us and without, that have
brought us this far?’ She allowed her feelings to control her words. ‘If not
for the Chakra we would have never met. I and Jayant would have never
known about the Mole. Mayhaps your father and Kaya would still be alive.
The world would have been a lot more different had my mentor not
handed over Uttara in my care, believing a mystical vision he saw before
my time to be a sign from the Tridevas.
‘It is up to us whether we wish to surrender and let time take its course or
we actively engage ourselves to change our fortune. In any case, I will not
hold it against you if you choose to walk away this very moment. The
Brahmāstra or whatever the trinity of artifacts within this scabbard means,
none of it is your burden.’
Abhay looked at her weak but determined face awash in the reddish glow
from the car’s tail lights. He needed no prescience to know she was not
doing so great, no matter how well she hid her pain. And yet, in spite of all
the setbacks, even after losing her Grace, she was not ready to rest till her
task was done.
He nodded to himself and mumbled to Dhwani to get back inside the car.
He joined her an instant later, chewing on his lower lip and nodding to
himself.
‘You’re right,’ he finally told her, steering the car onward, ‘either we
choose to be helpless spectators in this crazy game straight out of myths
and legends, or we can actually make a difference by getting the
Brahmāstra to safety, how Dad would want it to be.’
‘Kaya would have wanted the same.’
A signboard flashed by and they saw Mandi was no more than an hour
away if they continued at their current pace.
‘Now we get to the Legion, ensure the Artifact is safely hidden, and then
I want to know the entire history about Dad and Ma. Someone in the
Legion must know how they met, what made Ma decide on giving up her
Grace and bringing me into this world.’ He paused before he added. ‘How
do we deal with the Mole--there must be a way, to kill Tamas? If he wants
the Brahmāstra as bad it looked, he’s bound to come after us.’
It was an artless question, like that of a child wondering the shape of the
earth.
Dhwani felt a chill running up her spine when she looked into his eyes
and understood Abhay meant what he said.
 Chapter 23
Children of the Dark

Jayant was perched upon the narrow metal crossarm of a transmission

tower, a hundred and fifty feet above the ground. A starlit plain covered by
farmland and clusters of settlements and stands of trees, spread before him.
No Manushya moved in his vicinity, although there was a cornucopia of
creatures, large and small, roaming the countryside.
Far in the north, Abhay and Dhwani had just waylaid the Big Guy and
south-west from Jayant, Kant was parking his car outside a highway-side
inn, to rest and wait for Jayant--as they had agreed upon over five hours
ago.
He and Kant had not met since, with Jayant’s entire attention occupied by
the Angiris pursuing him. His people were tracking him the same way he
was tracking them: by means of Daivik trackers designed to trace Oorja-
borns with life forces stronger than that of the humans. Only because of
the deepening cover of night and the concentrated activity of the Spores, it
was impossible to know the real-time location, or their exact number, till
sunlight diffused back into the world and the trackers became efficient
enough to pick up individual life signatures of the Angiris and their exact
position.
Casually balanced at the junction-point of the tower’s peak and its wide
crossarm, drawing Oorja from the incoming high-tension cables, Jayant
summoned a holographic projection. It showed the lay of the land,
marking a faint trail of energies created by the passage of a large Angiri
cadre; more distinct in areas they had passed through most recently. Their
path was a mess of random squiggles, the course of pursuit erratically
changing directions, like a child’s playful attempt with a pen and paper. In
the projection mapped by the trackers on the other side, Jayant’s flight
path would have looked the same.
The Angiris in the cadre were reacting just as the youngling Celestial had
expected them to.
Satisfied, Jayant extracted four identical blobs of metal from the breast
pocket of his crumpled coat. His clothes smelled strongly of acrid fumes,
dust and pollutants; his skin grimy with the soot collected during his flight
over towns and cities. The quartet of metal blobs looked like large cowry
shells in his palm, till Jayant whispered a word and the shells moved.
Wings made of some gossamer material extended in a tinny flutter and
they rose into the air.
Emitting tiny jets of blue flame, the four devices--similar in working to
the Manushya made drones, but a lot faster and more sophisticated--took
to the four points of the compass, gaining speed as they went, like
meteorites refusing to bow down to gravity, until they disappeared from
Jayant’s range of perception.
He followed their onward movement on the holograph, supersonic and
stubborn, gaining miles within seconds. The squiggles began to expand
further more, outlining the irregular path the Angiris had taken since
Jayant’s last reconnaissance fifty minutes ago.
The stratagem had yielded results in his favor and that of his mentor who
must be fighting her own battle against the Halāhal and other unexpected
threats, farther north.
In Swargam all he had to do was extend his psychic reach and call for
Dhwani to make himself heard. But on Prithvi, he had no way to contact
her and she seemed a lot more distant, as if they both had been dragged by
Providence to two distant points of the Akash Ganga.
He and Dhwani were left with little over six hours before sunrise, to
accomplish the task each had undertaken. But Dhwani’s success had a lot
to do with how Jayant fared in keeping the Angiris off her trail. It would
not be a difficult task locating her and Abhay after sunrise, with the solar
Oorja having restored Angiri perception to a great degree.
He zoomed into the projection, highlighting the northern grid of the
holograph, looking for traces of the peculiar life signature he had observed
in the past many hours. It seemed to be moving north, like it should.
Jayant recalled the trackers and deactivated the holograph, preparing for
the next leg of his flight. While the devices took their time to return, he
tore a chunk of the inside lining of his coat--already torn to bits on one
side--before making a deep cut in his palm and soaking it in the blood that
gushed out of the cut. He then waited for a few seconds, directing the
Oorja to heal the wound.
He was watching the strip of blood-soaked cloth sailing towards the base
of the tower when the first tracker returned. The second and third followed
in the next five minutes. But the fourth one did not return--irrefutable
proof that it had been sighted by the Angiris; an insignificant loss for
Jayant.
He dropped down, resigning himself to the gravity for a good distance
before his wings opened, the second he was well below the high-tension
wires. He headed north, flying against the wind for a mile then turning
north-east then south, gliding low over the bigger centers of civilization
and their numerous industries and smoke-belching factories--a tactic to
confuse his trail amid the Manushya emissions.
He finally veered east after wandering for an hour, passing over the upper
Gangetic plains, following the strip of the same highway Kant had taken
some hours ago.
By the time he located the old man, it was close to midnight.

The air conditioner intermittently rattled overhead, as if something was

stuck in its vents--an uncanny background score to Kant’s bleak thoughts.
He sat on the edge of the bed, trying to avoid the dried stains on its worn
sheets, hands propped upon his knees. A cigarette wafting blue smoke in
one hand, the other loosening and tightening while he ruminated.
On the low coffee table before him, a strange device resembling a small
tripod sixteen inches tall, hummed and pulsed at a regular interval of ten
seconds. The legs of the tripod were set inside a circular tray with seven
gemstones embedded along its circumference--a power source for the
contraption, as Jayant had explained. It emitted a pulse imperceptible to
Kant. It was supposed to help Jayant find him.
It had been working for over two hours, but to no avail. Kant had no clue
as to whether Jayant was okay or his people had managed to apprehend
him.
Despondent and pensive, Kant sat at the foot of the bed, barely glancing
at the muted television showing a news bulletin concerning mob lynchings
in the name of the holy cow and the sectarian riots that had followed
across a city in the state of Madhyadesh. He was dressed in his night
clothes, watching his feet, his toes squiggling restlessly as one thought
chased another--concerning Abhay, the Angiris and his own place in the
current scheme of things.
It seemed odd but Kant had changed in the last few weeks. More so since
the day before, after having witnessed the abnormal behavior of the
Chakra. Compared to what he had experienced when Bheeshm had
showed him the artifact, his second exposure to the Chakra’s fey power
was like a brilliant display of fireworks to the fleeting sprout from a flower
pot earlier.
Kant thought the change within to be a result of some residual effect of
the energy surge that had alerted the Angiris and the Asuras. It felt as if he
had been living his life in shackles before--perhaps it was age or long
years of responsibility or the constant worries of an ageing, widowed
insomniac who smoked too much. But after last night, after breathing in
the otherworldly power of the Chakra, the shackles had fallen away. He
had not felt as alive in two decades as he had felt in the hours following
their departure from the Rajvardhan residence.
It was exactly why he had chosen to help Jayant--do whatever little he
could with his rediscovered vigour and sense of freedom. Even though he
knew the Angiri was self-sufficient he had gone ahead and offered his
assistance. It had led to a heated argument with Abhay before they had
parted ways but at that moment it had felt right, like he had lived all his
life to become a part of something much bigger than his mundane
existence.
Eight hours and over two hundred miles later, driving in a constant state
of fear and anxiety--sometimes for himself but mostly for Abhay’s safety--
the notion of true purpose and the thrill of adventure had worn off, the way
a drug’s effect wears off eventually. The delay in Jayant’s return and his
own thoughts caroming around his head in silence were giving way to
further doubt, stoking the fires of apprehension.
What was he doing? How could he--a retired professor of mathematics--
involve himself in some ancient war among beings that he barely
understood? How could he sign up to such madness where death and
brutality were norms? Why did he not once think about the daughter he
doted upon and his elder sister, before signing up for it?
An army of inhuman beings who could fly and move like the winds,
pitted against a youngling of their own and an old man who could not even
run without wheezing: the odds did not look so good. The probability of
making out in one piece became seemed even less when he considered the
Asuras in the equation.
Kant got up to stub out the cigarette in the ashtray that already contained
several twisted butts, gathered his unopened carton of Mallgolds, his
wallet and the cheap butane lighter purchased from a thrift shop on the
way. He stepped out of the room to clear his head.
The inn was silent, except for the rattling vents at work. Kant walked
through the passage towards the front lobby where he had noticed a small
square of open space, like a side lawn. The shabby walls looked shabbier
in the dim light of a single tube glowing at the end of the passage. He
reached the lawn without encountering any soul or sound of activity. He
touched the lighter flame to the tip of his cigarette and saw an outdated
payphone hanging from the nearby wall.
Kant leaned against the wall, looking at the star-spangled sky above. He
puffed on the cigarette, graciously inviting the smoke into his lungs then
releasing it slowly, steadily, letting the wispy, dancing tendrils curl and
merge with the shadows. Twice he turned around and briefly regarded the
phone.
He went for the next cigarette the moment the first one was reduced to a
stub and crushed the latter beneath the sole of his leather shoe. Kant made
a decision as he took a fresh drag.
He went to the phone and picked up the receiver off its cradle, expecting
it to be inactive.
To his surprise, an unbroken ping greeted him. Holding out the cigarette
between his lips, he laid out all the coins he had. The first coin clattered
into the slot and Kant dialed the number almost instinctively.
‘Hello?’ A brittle, aged voice of a woman answered on the fourth ring.
She sounded alarmed by the late-night call.
‘Suman, it is I, Giridhar. Did I wake you up?’ Kant said, although he
knew his elder sibling slept worse than he did.
‘Thank God! Where have you been, why is your phone switched off? Are
you alright?’ his sister was bursting with concern.
‘I am fine and dandy, Suman. I’m sorry I didn’t call before. My phone...it
broke. I’ll buy a new one first thing tomorrow, or the day after.’
‘Where are you? Tanu has been calling from Hong Kong since last
evening. We were worried sick about you.’
‘I…I decided to go on a trip, with some old colleagues...to Haridwar.
We’ll be staying here for a few days before heading to Kashi. Tell Tanu
not to worry, I’ll call her as soon as I can. I will keep you posted.’
She sighed in relief. ‘I am glad you are beginning to rediscover your
faith. An outing with friends and a holy dip in Ganga is what you need
after all the horrific things that have been happening. How is Bheeshm’s
son doing? Poor boy must be devastated.’
Kant was ready to insert a second coin even before the first warning
beep. ‘He’s doing well, trying to find his way. He’s tough, like his father,
probably even more. Listen, Suman, I have to go now. I called because I
knew you two ladies will be worried sick.’ He took a moment before he
said, ‘You taught me well, about life and everything else. I love you, sister.
Make sure you give my love to Tanu also.’
He had never articulated his affection in a manner so open and direct. His
sister sensed the difference, even though Kant had not let his emotions
seep into his voice. ‘Giridhar, what are you not telling me?’
Kant had already replaced the receiver into its cradle. He stood still,
looking at the phone, the cigarette smoldering between his fingers
forgotten for the moment. He realized what he had just said: the concocted
story about a trip with his friends. He had lied to her, and indirectly, to his
daughter. But the feelings he had expressed were true to the last word.
An image came to him unbidden: Suman and Tanu finding out he had
died, shedding tears over his shrouded body.
And what if they never got to find even that--the way Bheeshm’s head
was never found?
He smiled sadly, tapping the ashen tip of his cancer stick. If it was his
last conversation with his sister, then it had gone well. Giving his daughter
a call was out of the option--he did not have the courage to lie again.
All of a sudden, Kant felt like he was being watched.
He turned towards the lobbyside area and saw the short silhouette: some
kid, no more than ten. The overhead fixture was behind the kid, his front
profile in shadows. But Kant could make out the thin, malnourished boy in
a t-shirt and baggy shorts; the spikes of his unkempt hair, his feet bare
beneath the skinny legs and the narrow calves.
‘Hey kid, it’s late, you should be in bed. Are you lost?’ Kant asked,
taking a step forward. Struck by sudden awareness, he threw away his
cigarette into the lawn.
But the kid did not move a muscle, nor did he speak a word. Kant was
about to say something but a voice spoke behind him right then, making
him start.
‘Old man, what are you doing out here?’
Kant whirled around with an unaccustomed quickness to find Jayant
standing in the dim passage further, his face magnificently glowing with
an ethereal light he seemed to carry around wherever he went.
‘Gosh you almost gave me a heart attack, boy. I came out for a smoke,
what else--and a phone-call to my sister.’
‘Who were you talking to just now?’
Kant looked back. There was no one at the lobby end.
‘You didn’t see a kid? I guess he bolted.’
Jayant’s eyes gave off an iridescent glow as he scanned the area.‘If there
would have been someone around I would have sensed it--even if it were a
Darkborn. I can feel the presence of the Manushyas in the rooms: one man
is sleeping in his chair by the entrance; many are sleeping in their rooms;
two pairs are indulged in acts of passion.’
Kant shrugged and started walking towards the room after a cursory but
curious glance where the kid had stood. ‘I have no desire to meet a
Darkborn. It’s good to see you safe and sound, by the way. I was worried
sick. How did it go--your folks taking the bait?’
‘A majority of them have, it seems, but I cannot say with absolute
certainty whether my mentor and Abhay are have attracted attention or not.
I found two more drones sweeping the skies. They were destroyed from
afar, like the one before. There is nothing around otherwise, no sign of
Darkborns. But we should regardless remain on guard. The cover of night
inhibits my abilities and reach of the mind. Let us rest for an hour or so.
Then we leave for Kashi.’
Kant let Jayant enter the room. He looked across the shady passage,
wondering for a second why the Angiri had not sensed the kid.
‘This place is stained with amatory effusions. How will you sleep?’
Jayant scrunched his nose, indubitably able to see the old stains of semen
on the bedsheet through his enhanced vision.
Kant closed the door, laughing at Jayant’s unusual description, his mind
switching to the subject of ‘amatory effusions’ from the inconsequential
incident about the kid.

‘Why do you want to go to Kashi, when you can go to any distant spot of
the planet on those wings of yours?’ Kant asked, lying down on the
overturned mattress. He had removed the sheets aside. ‘Will it somehow
stop your people from following you, or help you hide?’
‘I have always wanted to see the sacred city. It holds a special place in
the hearts of our people.’ Jayant replied, sitting crossed-legged on the floor
in a yogi’s pose. ‘It will not help me hide or evade my folk but they would
think twice before carrying out an act of aggression or bloodshed on those
hallowed grounds.’
‘I didn’t take Angiris to be pilgrims.’
‘You misunderstand me, old man. It is one of the holiest places on
Prithvi--at least it once was--for another reason. Unlike the Manushyas
who visit Kashi to seek avenues of faith and salvation, pilgrimage is not
my objective. For us, it holds a far greater meaning because the holy city is
one of the few places left in the key-world where Oorja is still strong--at
least stronger than most places.’
‘And why is that?’ Kant propped up on his elbow, curious to know the
perspective of a Celestial.
‘Intersection of magnetic fields is the biggest reason. There is another
invisible layer besides Prithvi’s atmosphere, raised by the Devas of yore.
This protective layer serves to undo a lot of damage from space and
beyond besides keeping harmful radiation out. The demons of Narka
cannot set foot on the key-world, as long as the Suraksha Kshetra blankets
Prithvi. This kavach, this shield of spells, is powered by a number of
World Engines spread across the globe.
 ‘A number of them have broken down but many of these Engines are still
working to maintain the integrity of the Suraksha Kshetra. One such
Engine is at Kashi, built deep beneath the ground.’
‘So these World Engines, they were strategically established all over the
earth to serve as this spell-woven atmosphere?’ At Jayant’s nod he asked
another question. ‘How many World Engines are there in all?’
‘Hundreds, perhaps over a thousand,’ Jayant replied, ‘no one among the
Angiris knows their exact number, but we are aware of certain locations
where they reside. Even the Asuras were aware of a few, which they have
tried to destroy in the past--and succeeded in some cases. The Engines are
warded by spells beyond the ken of Angiris, almost impenetrable. They
were designed to be untraceable, to stay hidden.
‘There was a time when Manushyas were aware of this magnetic Oorja
grid that forms the Suraksha Kshetra. They built their sacred temples and
pantheons and places of worship on or near such pockets of intense
energies.’ He took a second to recollect what he had learned from the texts
in the Vault of Scribes. ‘The pyramid complexes in the continent you call
Africa, the Bermuda Triangle--these are all placed at points where the ley
lines intersect to form an energy vortex. Many of the holy cities are built
beneath these intersection points: Kashi, Jerusalem, the sunken city of
Dwarka, Petra and Troy, and so on.’
‘Why doesn’t anyone know now, about this Surakasha Kshetra and the
energy vortexes?’ Kant’s inquisitiveness looked barely satiated even after
what Jayant had told him. ‘I mean now we build our temples and shrines
anywhere; in this very country, with millions of deities to worship. You’ll
find them in every neighborhood, every square. And it has hardly done
anything except for invoking fanaticism and violence in the name of
religion and faith and above all, God. We have become hollow,
spiritually.’ Kant checked himself from launching into a tirade, surprised
by his own outburst.
‘Your race has forgotten much that once was, a lot of history is lost or
has become aggrandized lore and legends that you pass on from one
generation to another. And what you call a God, is but a human construct;
meant to give you hope, to make your race better, which Manushyas like
to use for their petty interests, sadly.’
‘Then there is no Supreme Power, the Omniscient, Omnipotent,
Omnipresent One?’
Jayant smiled. ‘There is Oorja and there is Andhakar, Light and
Darkness. They are the ones that create or disrupt balance. Even the forces
the humans have worshipped and deified since ages--the Trinity and their
children--are subject to the laws of decay. We are all cogs in the Kaal
Chakra, the Wheel of Time. There might be a Higher Power working the
Wheel, or perhaps there is no one.’
The Angiri closed his eyes and straightened his posture, resting his
outstretched hands on his knees, like a yogi. Kant took it as subtle
dismissal and sunk his head into the pillow, even though sleep seemed far
away from his eyes.
But he drifted off at some point of time--the best sleep he had had in a
long, long time--even though it would not have lasted for more than fifty
minutes or so.
Kant would later remember waking up for fleeting seconds in between
his sleep and seeing Jayant levitating five feet in the air. But his eyelids
were too heavy to even let him register surprise.
When Jayant woke him up later, he was ready for departure.
The Angiri had dressed himself in his Manushya clothes--a lot more
crumpled and worn from friction, even though they were taken off the
shelves not more than ten hours ago. His long, dark hair was tied at the
back in a wet bun. Kant took about ten minutes to wash and get ready.
They stepped out of the room at exactly ten minutes past two by Kant’s
watch. He had a small carry bag slung around a shoulder; Jayant was
cradling the Oorja-cannon wrapped inside the canvas sack.
The corridors were dark as before but a wind was blustering across the
passages as they made their way towards the entrance. There was no one
behind the reception counter. The folding chair where the guard had been
snoozing before was empty, the main entrance wide open and unguarded.
‘You should quit, they are doing more harm to your body than you
realize.’ Jayant commented as Kant placed the first cigarette of the day
between his lips. ‘You do not have much longer to live.’
‘Et tu, Brutus,’ he replied, mildly irritated. ‘I was told the same thing at
fifty, now I’m well above seventy. Now, please, don’t get started like my
doctor and family. I’m afraid I’m well past the age where I can mend my
ways, take up a new habit--or quit the ones already acquired.’
Jayant set down the room key upon the counter--Kant had paid cash in
advance. His lighter refused to comply when the old man frustratingly
clicked at it.
He stopped in mid-stride as Jayant held out a hand and snapped his
fingers. A yellow flame appeared inches above his index.
Kant touched the cigarette-tip to it, mystified and impressed. They had
barely crossed the threshold when Jayant held him to a halt, sniffing at the
air. Kant doubted it was the cigarette smoke that had halted the Angiri.
 ‘Do we have a cause to worry?’ he whispered as Jayant cocked his head,
listening.
Kant only heard the drone of vehicles on the road, some fifty yards to his
right. Two trucks were parked on either side of the main gate, a hundred
yards further.
Jayant held him by the shoulder, leading him towards the parked car.
‘Listen closely. There are two Darkborns and a Manushya hiding by the
opening,’ he nodded towards the entryway. ‘If you desire to live longer
then get into the car and drive away, head to Kashi. I will deal with them
and join you in a moment--they pose not much of a threat, even if they
may be armed.’
Kant was pushed into his car before he could even acknowledge the
statement. He dropped the key in a hurry and it took him a few seconds to
find it. When he turned the ignition on, the headlights came on.
There was a ragged kid standing some ten feet away from the car’s hood:
thin, malnourished, unruly hair, skinny legs and bare, grimy feet.
Now that Kant could see him well, the kid’s appearance and mannerism
haunted, outlined by some kind of savagery. He stood motionless, hands
hanging limp before they bunched into fists and the kid hunched forward.
‘I cannot feel his life force.’ Jayant said, ‘Leave old man, now!’
Kant hesitated. There was no room to maneuver around the kid.
Like a stone fired from a child’s catapult, the kid charged at the
headlights, baring its teeth. Its hair swept aside, showing eyes that were
black pits with no hint of whites.
‘I sense grave danger, old man. Leave!’ The sight and Jayant’s words
propelled Kant.
The car jerked towards the fast-approaching kid as he leapt upon the
vehicle’s hood. He had barely landed when a blur of flaming motion
carried him away.
Kant did not stop to see Jayant and the kid land in a heap. Three more
figures jumped in his way, garbed and masked in identical blacks, each
flashing a katana. Kant put pressure on the pedal, the chant of ‘Sai-ram’
rising in volume as he saw the one--likely to be human--raise a handgun.
Kant ducked, pressing upon the accelerator in abject panic. Loud reports
thundered and he felt the thumping and drumming over the chassis as the
car hit something twice. His blood was singing with the onrush of
adrenalin, his heart trip-hammering against his ribs when Kant dared to
look up, pulling a hard left as he found himself in the middle of the road,
smack in the headlights of an oncoming truck.
He escaped what could have been a fatal crash by mere inches as the
truck went past honking its horn in a frenzy, the conductor delivering a
string of expletives, leaning halfway out of the window to flip a rude hand
gesture.
Kant did not even notice the side-windows were gone and there was
broken glass all over in his lap. The backrest of the next seat had a sword
buried into the upholstery, bobbing like a tuning fork with the car’s
motion.
He did not stop.

Jayant wrestled with the thing clinging to him, clawing and biting like a
rabid hound.
It was an abomination, a Manushya vessel packaged into some new
horrific form in the workshop of the Asuras--a new breed of Darkborns, if
the obsidian eyes were any indication.
All he felt in those dark, vapid eyes was rapacious hunger and an
incomprehensible emptiness. The child-demon had no aura, not even the
grey-black haze of darkness and decay the Darkborns had. Jayant flung
him aside with difficulty.
He barely got a moment to see Kant flee in his car. The Darkborns the
car had run down were crawling towards him on broken legs and the
Manushya was gulping down something from a sleek metal cylinder.
Jayant had heard of the enemy’s tactic of creating monster soldiers out of
living Manushyas. He knew the man would attack him like a maniac gone
berserk, within moments. The midget child-demon gathered itself and
lunged at him again.
For a fleeting second, Jayant felt the odds to be fair. The darkspawn
child, the Manushya and the two Darkborns dragging themselves forward:
he could deal with them.
A sudden weight on his back bore him down the next second. He turned
to find three more Darkspawns wearing scraps of soiled garments, latched
on to his back. If not for the kavach suit, they would have torn his back
and shoulders to shreds.
His immediate response to shake them off with a spell, failed. Jayant
punched and pummeled with enough force to makes bones crack. He tried
the spell again, gaining his feet with one Darkspawn still clinging to him.
He felt a burning sensation on his cheek as long fingernails scraped a trail
of stinging pain.
The spell did not work, again.
The Manushya hit him in the solar plexus, throwing him on to the ground
with the strength of a destrier. His eyes were red, the veins on his face and
neck darkened and swollen; spittle flew from his lips. It was as if he was
possessed. Jayant reached out with his mind and hooked on to the cosmic
Oorja around him. Light burst within the cups of his palms and struck the
attacking Manushya in the chest, tossing him backwards with enough force
to crack some of his ribs.
Jayant whirled immediately as his ears picked up the next attack from
behind. He grabbed the Darkspawn pouncing upon him, swung him around
and launched it into the windshield of a car parked nearby. He dodged and
deflected, moving with an electric agility, trying spells between offense
and defense.
There were bright flashes popping up around him in maddening,
confusing bursts and he could hear Manushya voices. The fools had
gathered outside the hotel’s entrance and over the front balconies.
The Darkborns were fast, trying to trip him. But Jayant managed to
crushed their brains along with their skulls with accomplished ease. The
spell worked this time, he noticed, and the four Darkspawns were well
away from him.
He was beginning to realize what made the child-demons different: their
very presence seemed to block his connection with Oorja if they got closer
than four paces; he could fire spells once they were farther away.
He wasted no time, now that he had seen enough of the new opponents.
Kant had already escaped and it was his turn to flee. The last thing he
wanted was more Darkspawns jumping into the fray. The instant he had
gained enough distance, he leaped with a flurry of fiery wings, barely
missing the grasp of the red-eyed maniac jumping after him.
Only when he was in the air, safe to observe the ground below did Jayant
see the Manushyas gathered nearby, holding out their camera-phones to
document the clash, heedless to the danger.
The Darkspawns went for the nearest prey: a portly, heavily balding man
in dhoti and kurta, busy flashing his camera at Jayant.
He was circling twenty feet above, with no reason to tarry but he dived
for the oblivious Manushya, even though he knew it was too late to save
the man.
The four scrawny creatures took less than two seconds to bring down the
man and bite chunks off him with their abnormally sharp teeth.
Jayant reached out an arm, grabbed the man by the back of his collar,
hoping to drag him to safety. Instead he felt his wings flutter and disobey
his will. He fell atop the man he was trying to save, taken by surprise as
the Darkspawns pounced upon him with renewed vigor, their lips drenched
and dripping in crimson.
And still no Manushya came to the rescue. They were either fleeing the
scene while the man bled profusely from his neck or they continued to film
the spectacle on their phones from a safe distance.
Jayant was trying to get up, staving off the clamping jaws and ragged
claws when the first of his attackers bit into the flesh between his right
thumb and index. A burning pain engendered his fury and he hit the child-
demon with enough force to snap its neck.
Headlight beams bathed him as he fought the rest. A horn honked before
Kant’s voice was audible over the guttural animal-sounds.
‘Get in the car!’
Focusing his brute strength, Jayant punched and jabbed, his fists wet with
blood and saliva as he sprang to his feet. He lifted the drugged Manushya
attacker and threw him at the children, turning and sprinting towards the
car, just as Kant opened the passenger-side door for him.
In two seconds, he ducked inside and slammed the door. The car had
barely moved beyond the boundary hedge when the Darkspawns
clambered up the trunk and on to the roof.
Kant hit the accelerator, making the vehicle sway drunkenly as it jerked
forward. Momentum pressed Kant and Jayant into their seats, sending the
trio of Darkspawns off-balance. Two lost their grip and fell behind. The
last one on the hood--a mangy boy no more than six--held for another
couple of seconds. His coal-black eyes met Kant’s briefly and regret
flooded into his soul: it was the same kid that Jayant had failed to sense a
few hours ago.
Then his flailing legs were drawn into the spinning right wheel. The kid
shrieked--a sound that reminded Kant of some lonely creature living deep
in the bowels of the earth. A sickening crunch followed as the car jolted
over the child-demon.
The next thing Jayant knew, they were speeding on to open road and
Kant was babbling, racked with guilt and tears.
‘I killed him, I killed a child! God help me, what have I done?’
‘That was no child, old man! You saw its eyes. The child has been long
dead. It was a spawn of Andhakar and no more.’
Jayant’s words somewhat settled the becalmed waves of remorse and
self-loathing in Kant’s heart. But the Angiri could see the very action of
taking a life--even if it was of a soulless Asura spawn--would in turn
splinter Kant’s soul for what little life he was left with.
He provided the flame when Kant fumbled for a cigarette with trembling
hands. Far behind them, a whining police sirens were converging upon the
inn.
 Chapter 24
One Destination, Many Deaths

Abhay and Dhwani arrived at Mandi while Kant and Jayant were still in
the hotel room leagues away, unaware of the danger gathering outside in
the form of the small but deadly Asura strike unit.
The clock in the town square had struck one thirty and Mandi looked
devoid of life, except for a pack of stray dogs and an unconscious drunkard
lying slumped against the dumpster where the dogs scavenged for
leftovers. The shutters of the shops were down and locked, the roadside
stalls boarded and bound with tarps.
Dhwani had managed to stay awake--courtesy Abhay’s attempts and her
own will--but her condition was deteriorating. It was as if the Halāhal in
her veins could sense the night hour darkening. Pain sang a harrowing
symphony all over her being, burning her from the inside as if her innards
were being liquefied.
At her suggestion Abhay aimlessly drove through the town, scoping the
area for about five minutes before he picked up Murtaza’s phone and
dialled the number for Hill-Queen Tour and Travels: their only ray of
hope, the one place where they expected to find safety and rest and
answers; for Dhwani, it was the Brahmāstra she wanted to find more
about, while Abhay sought to learn about his parents and more on the
Legion.
The phone rang five times before a male voice answered: ‘Hill-Queen
Tours and Travels, how can I help you?’
Abhay cleared his throat. ‘Hi, my name is Abhay Rajvardhan, son of
Dwij Bheeshm Rajvardhan. I was told to…’
‘Where are you?’ the man asked, getting straight to business.
‘We are driving around Mandi. Where do we need to come, what’s your
address?’
‘Who else is with you--the Angiris?’
Abhay briefly glanced at Dhwani. ‘One of them, yes.’
The man gave them directions to a lodge in the heart of Mandi and
Abhay listened and repeated the instructions to ensure he had not missed
anything.
‘The man at the reception there knows you’re coming.’ The man said.
‘He’ll help you. Wait there and I’ll see you in another hour.’ He hung up
on Abhay.
 Fifteen minutes and a wrong turn hence, he stopped the car in the
terraced parking lot, back at the main square. An ascending road past the
lot led up to a block of commercial establishments--mostly budget
restaurants and cheap hotels and lodges. The drunkard they had passed
earlier had not budged by an inch from his place but the strays were
nowhere in the vicinity.
Dhwani and Abhay had no trouble finding the glowing yellow-and-red
signboard for the Annapurna Lodge, among the clutter of displays along
the block. They arrived at the lodge’s reception at five-minutes to two.
A sleepy, grizzled man in his fifties was already waiting for them behind
the counter. He asked no questions, demanded neither payment nor
identity proof when Abhay introduced himself and gave him the reference
of the phony travel agency. Picking up a key from the rows of numbered
hooks the proprietor ushered them to a first floor room.
‘Uh, we have limited options at this time, but is there something I can get
you two--tea or coffee?’ He asked. Abhay ordered a whole flask of coffee
and whatever was available to eat.
‘What do you think,’ Abhay said when the man was gone, ‘does it still
feel like a trap?’
There was a nagging smell of naphthalene balls hanging in the room’s
stale air and he opened the square window on the other side of the bed.
Dhwani shook her head, stepping towards the tiny bathroom. She looked
at her face in the mirror over the sink, felt her blanched, shrunken features
with shaky fingers. It was a stranger’s face she saw, a pitiful creature with
sunken eyes staring back at her. The dim bulb atop the mirror delineated
the web of dark, swollen veins spreading over her neck and hands,
reaching towards her spotless-but-sickly, milky white face.
Her jaws set in grim acceptance after the initial shock at her appearance
passed. She removed her sweatshirt and the light Ashtadhatu armor
beneath, before she began to strip off her Kavach suit. The minute strands
began to peel off and flow back from her skin like mercury, till nothing but
the pair of her gauntlets was left on her body.
Abhay tried to look away but could not. Her bare back and arms bore an
intricate nexus of poison-filled blood vessels--like they were malevolent
roots of some hellborn tree. The skin on her back was covered in a scale-
like growth of desiccated skin, unnaturally knotted and oozing pus from
the spots where the four vial-darts had punctured through. She turned to
examine her back in her mirror and Abhay tore away his gaze, moving
towards the window.
He made sure to close the bathroom door without looking when the
proprietor knocked. He set down a large steel tray with a flask of coffee
and a casserole of steaming fried-rice and a bowl of Chinese-curry. Abhay
thanked him.
‘I will call you when the man you seek arrives.’ The man indicated at the
landline on the nightstand before taking Abhay’s leave.
It was over thirty minutes after Abhay had eaten and drank more than
half of the strong coffee. Dhwani had barely touched any of it.
Abhay woke up from a dazed nap, surprised that the caffeine he had
ingested had been of no help.
The lights were off, the room nearly dark except for the square patch of
the window showing the dark of the sky and the treetops. Dhwani was
leaning against one side of the window sill. She stood stone still, except
when the pain intensified, forcing a low whimper out of her. She sensed
the movement behind her as Abhay got up.
‘You should try to rest a bit, if not sleep,’ He told her, picking up the
bottle of water and twisting its top to break the seal. ‘You said Angiris
perform tapas to replenish energy by meditation. Why don’t you try doing
that?’
Her lips became a thin, hard line. ‘The Halāhal would not let me
concentrate. I already tried that while you were asleep but could neither sit
still nor focus, for long,’ she waved in refusal when Abhay offered her the
plastic bottle of water, even though she felt thirsty. ‘The promised hour
draws to a close, perhaps you should call the number, find where the
Legionnaire is.’
The cellphone screen’s milky glow seemed unusually bright against his
eyes. ‘Let’s wait for some time, we still have about fifteen minutes left
before the hour ends.’ Abhay rested his shoulder against the window,
facing Dhwani.
Up close, her face looked white and ghostly in the scant light. She gave
off a strong, musky odor, like sweat mixed with some earthly fragrance
she must have bathed in before leaving Swargam. Her breaths were steady,
dropping to a fast, shallow dithering every time the pain spiked.
‘You were created within a Celestial’s womb from the seeds of a
Manushya,’ Abhay thought on something she had earlier said, ‘but you are
neither. Most of my people would see you as a threat, an abomination. For
the rest of the minority, you would be considered to be a bridge between
the two races. For the Asuras, you are a hidden opportunity, someone they
would try to win over by any vile means. You have to understand that you
are different than others: a being capable of decimating armies of the
Andhakar or plunging the dominion of Oorja into darkness. It can go
either way.’
His skin crawled at the recollection. There was a particular word she had
used to describe an Angiri-Manushya offspring, starting with the letter N.
She had mentioned it to be a biblical Hebrew word.
‘You didn’t tell me,’ Abhay whispered, looking out onto the lodge’s
gloomy backyard, ‘either about the…the Nephilim, or about Tamas--how
can he be killed. I am assuming he bleeds, like any of us. There must be a
way to take him down, even if it’s not easy.’
Despite the wreck she felt herself to be, Dhwani could not help but laugh.
‘You can stab him in the heart with one of your Ashtadhatu blades. But he
would sense you coming from a good distance, incinerate you with one
move. It puzzles me to even think he has managed to survive till now, with
his Grace still intact. He has been consuming the Asura poison for a long
time now.’
‘He’s become a junkie, a drug-addict. That’s what he is,’ Abhay
commented with some disappointment creeping into his voice. ‘Does
being a Nephilin give me any advantage?’
‘Being a Nephilim,’ Dhwani corrected, ‘you have an advantage, true, but
only if your abilities are fully awakened. Considering the fact that you
have been under spells that altered or blocked your memories, it will take
considerable training and long tapas or…’ she trailed off.
‘Or what, Dhwani,’ Abhay saw her eyes widen. She exclaimed
something under her breath.
‘The Chakra--that explains it! It responded to your touch, a Nephilim’s
touch. You were directly exposed to a massive Oorja surge.’
‘I’m not really getting it. Speak my language, will you?’
‘The Chakra reacted to you because of your singular origins. That is
what Jayant meant when he said he could sense a power growing within
you. Your abilities might be taking longer to manifest, but the surge did
awaken a dormant part of your mind--the Celestial side.’
Abhay absorbed her words, trying to apply his limited knowledge to the
scenario. ‘How powerful can a Nephilim get if his or her powers...they
fully manifest?’
Dhwani gave him a sidelong glance, suddenly conscious of his tone.
‘You wish to know that to defeat Tamas?’
‘No, to kill him without mercy, like he did to my father and perhaps,
even my mother.’
‘A fully-awakened Nephilim,’ Dhwani said, measuring each word, ‘from
what the Angiris have heard and encountered in the past, is capable of
destroying the entire Prithvi, unsettling the universal balance of the
energies. Three of the Nephilim born in the past tried doing just that. Two
almost succeeded.’

The Devas had promiscuous affairs with the Manushyas till the reign of
the last Indra, Dhwani explained. Sometimes they were appeased by their
penance and devotion from the humans, and granted them the boon of their
seed. Other times, it was the lust for flesh or a woman’s beauty that led to
their unions. Not every union was intended to bear fruit but those that
fructified, bore the Nephilim--also known as the Navalin, the Yaksha or the
Maha-Manava.
‘When men began to increase on the earth and daughters were born to
them, the divine beings saw how beautiful the daughters of men were and
took wives from among those that pleased them. The Lord said, My breath
shall not abide in man forever, since he too is flesh; let the days allotted
him be one hundred and twenty years. It was then, and later too, that the
Nephilim appeared on earth--when the divine beings cohabited with the
daughters of men, who bore them offsprings. They were the heroes of old,
the men of renown.’ She inhaled deeply and winced, ‘These words are not
mine. I merely quote a passage from the Book of Genesis.’
Abhay felt his head spinning. There were worlds colliding inside his
skull: Hindu deities and myths, the Book of Genesis; angels being Angiris
and him being a Nephilim.
‘Religion is a way to first seek God within, a path to turn inward and
defeat the darkness within oneself.’ His father spoke to him. ‘It can help
you understand yourself and the world around you. But it can never work
as the corrective lens we humans make it to be.’
When Dhwani resumed speaking after a pause, he listened to her with an
open mind.
The Devas and the Nephilim they begot, dissolved into the sands of Time
with the advent of the Kaliyuga. As the Angiris came to realize not long
after, their unions with the Manushyas had had an adverse effect--the
former lost their Grace. Kaya was the fifth Angiri to have contributed to a
Nephilim’s birth, more than four centuries since after the last one.
It was thereby decreed by the First Angiris--with the exception of Neel--
that such unions were unnatural.
Before Abhay’s birth twenty five years ago, there had always been signs
when a Nephilim was born: disruptions in the flow of Oorja, freak weather
patterns around their place-of-origin and even natural calamities. Only in
Abhay’s case, there was no Prahari on Prithvi to notice such disruptions.
 ‘The Nephilim before me, the three you mentioned earlier, how did they
fall for the dark side?’ Abhay asked.
Dhwani took another long pause, inclining her head towards the window.
There were dogs barking somewhere not far from the lodge.
‘No one is born evil. It is how one is raised, the environment and the
virtues inculcated that defines what we will become. With regard to these
three unfortunate Nephilim, the Asuras claimed them and raised them in
their own brutal fashion: a life full of harshness and cruelty, coercion and
manipulation.
‘They taught the Nephilim to acquire their full potential and hammered
the thought in their minds that they were meant to lord over the Creation,
that Manushyas were inferior creatures destined to be ruled. It is how
Asura-heirs have been raised in the past by Guru Shukracharya.’
Dhwani raised a palm as Abhay was about to say something. The
nocturnal commotion of the strays had gained volume and intensity. It
sounded a lot closer than before.
‘It’s okay, relax. They’re just dogs having some territorial dispute.’
Abhay said.
He checked the time by the phone: over seventy minutes since the call
and the Legionnaire had still not arrived. He opened the contacts and was
about to dial the number when the phone dropped from his hand and fell
on Dhwani’s right toe.
In a matter of seconds, Abhay was panting and whimpering, cupping his
hands over his ears. He slid down against the wall, shaking.
‘It’s him, he found us,’ cried Abhay, gripping his head.
He felt needle tips puncturing through his skull. The sounds were too
loud, as if someone had turned up the volume knob inside his head, all the
way.
Dhwani realized who he meant: the huge man on the bike. ‘Abhay focus
on a thought, a good memory, raise a wall around it. He is attempting to
breach your mind. Do not let him through!’ She almost shouted.
The furious barking of the hounds sounded less than a few blocks away.
She could hear a man’s raised voice, slurred and animated, cursing and
hollering at the dogs--or was he screaming in pain?
Then Abhay’s pangs ceased all of a sudden. He turned up his sweaty face
to Dhwani in the darkness of the room. ‘It’s gone. I felt him pull away. I
am not sure, but it seems I heard him too, the Big Guy. The voice told me
to run.’
This time they heard the dogs--a lot of them--going at it together. They
raised a ruckus loud enough to wake up every single soul for a mile.
Someone shouted in another part of the building they were in, doors
banged.
Abhay had not even stood up on his feet when he heard Dhwani draw
Uttara and Dakshina. The blades were emitting a cold blue radiance.
‘Asuras.’ She whispered.
 Chapter 25
The Big Guy

The door swung inward with a splintering crash before Abhay could
gather his wits. Three dark-uniformed masked figures thundered into the
room, bringing along a stench of decay.
One rushed at Abhay, swinging his katana while the other two went for
Dhwani, trying to push her against the wall. Dhwani’s suit lit up beneath
her Manushya clothes. She whirled around like a spinning top, skewered
one opponent and moved on to the next.
Abhay’s fingers trembled as he groped for the tiny lever on Murtaza’s
baton. He was trying to play an ugly game-of-tag with his opponent,
rolling over the bed, attempting bluffs to trip the Darkborn and steer clear
of his swinging blade. Nowhere was far enough or safe enough in the
small room and Abhay’s luck ran out within the minute.
He defended with a clumsy swipe of the baton’s blade. The Asura
dodged aside as Abhay thrust the baton and pitched onto the coffee table in
the process.
The Asura raised his blade and was about to bring it down upon Abhay
when his head parted his body. Dhwani’s kick sent the thrashing, flailing
body flying into the wall, spraying wet, dark blood. She lent Abhay her
helping hand.
He had a moment to glimpse the two bodies and severed limbs still
moving animatedly, the coal-black eyes in the unmasked faces blinking
against the pale, red skin and sharp teeth gnashing between slavering lips.
Then the light extinguished as Dhwani powered down her suit. Even after
being decapitated and dismembered, they continued to live.
‘Come, Abhay,’ she said, flinging off the blood from Uttara, while
Abhay stood frozen, blinking to acclimate his eyes to the darkness.
Abhay followed her over the body in the doorway, without realizing he
had forgotten his backpack, the cellphone and even his car-key in the
darkness. It got darker as they made their way towards the stairs. A shape
jumped at them but Dhwani saw it coming. She dispatched the Darkborn
with a stab through the forehead.
Doors banged open and close all over the lodge. The guests in the were
shouting on the upper floors. A door near the stairs opened and an irritated,
middle-aged couple switched on a flashlight in their faces. The woman
screamed when she saw the blood-stained blades Dhwani wielded. Like
mice ducking back into their holes, the couple pulled themselves inside
their room and bolted the door.
‘Call the police!’ The panicked woman screamed to her husband behind
the door that Dhwani could have easily broken.
There was no electricity--a pattern Abhay was beginning to associate
with Asura activity. He could hear people, but no one seemed to be talking
on the phone, no ringtone trilling--another baffling detail. ‘Looks like the
fuckers employ electromagnetic pulses.’ He muttered as they skipped
down the gloomy stairs, sticking to the wall.
‘Hush, Abhay!’ Dhwani said, trying to make out the new animal sounds
that had joined the barking hounds outside. The answer struck as she got to
the ground-level and they could make out the screeches and shrieks better:
the monkeys were back.
The hotel’s lobby was shadowy and uncannily quiet. They smelled the
warm, metallic tang of blood. The floor was slick with it. The proprietor
was lying by the door, his entails spilled around him in tangles. It seemed
like he had been trying to shove the ropy innards back into his torn
abdomen till his final breath.
Abhay shivered as they exited the building. The sky above Mandi was
grey and starless, spraying him with a chilly drizzle and mortal fear. The
wind blew the spray of droplets into their faces. They could sense a
disturbance radiating from their surroundings, every building along the
downward-sloping street harboring shadows and lurking dangers.
On their way down to the parking they came across some dead
Darkborns, two monkeys and a dog.
‘The monkeys couldn’t have done that,’ Abhay said, glancing at an
upended dumpster and the legs awkwardly splayed out from underneath.
The Big Guy, Abhay thought, did he do that?
They made it to the parking lot, unchallenged. The animals barked and
hooted all around the neighborhood but they saw neither a dog’s snout nor
a monkey’s tail.
‘Shit! I don’t have the car key, or the backpack. Even Murtaza’s
phone…’ Abhay swore, resisting an urge to slap himself hard.
To his surprise, Dhwani tossed something at him: it was the key.
‘We cannot risk going back. We have what is needed,’ Dhwani said,
sheathing a sword as they cut across the terraced-lot. Abhay pressed a
button and the car doors unlocked with an electronic hoot. The side-
blinkers lit up, just for a moment.
Dhwani grabbed Abhay by the arm.
They were less than four feet from the car’s fender. They had no trouble
perceiving the immobile figure spread-eagled on to the windshield, legs
wide apart in a lewd way: the drunkard, eyes frozen wide in death.
Abhay pressed the fob to light up the blinkers and noticed something
else: an eviscerated monkey and another black dog lying in a pool of blood
by the next vehicle.
The monkeys almost jumped out of nowhere, having scaled the drop at
the rear of the terraced lot. They noisily leapt over the roofs of the cars,
banging upon the hoods, setting off every single burglar alarm for the
parked cars. Blinking lights illuminated the scene, clicking in and out all at
once.
Seven of the animals advanced towards them, uttering a chorus of
screeches and howls that Dhwani took to be battle cries. But they only
feinted and made false charges aimed to intimidate. She realized they were
shooing away her and Abhay.
Then she saw a tiny red light, rapidly blinking beneath the sedan’s
fender. It reminded her of the drones. She bolted away from the car,
tugging Abhay along.
They had gone no more than ten paces when their car exploded in a ball
of heat and light, shooting shrapnel and shockwave that blew the windows
of almost every car in the lot. The monkeys behind them took the brunt of
the damage. Their fur came afire, or the shockwave tossed them hither-
thither. Abhay and Dhwani were lifted and hurled into the vehicles like rag
dolls. Her suit saved Dhwani from the worst of the damage, yet the force
of the explosion caused freshets of pain to flare across her body, drowning
her in a red-black daze. They lay there on the concrete, their ears ringing
from the bomb discharge.
When the shock subsided for Abhay and his eyes fluttered open, he
discovered the monkeys tugging at his sleeves, their cries rousing and
urgent.
For a few seconds he watched them, unblinking: the animals were
surrounded in a confusing rainbow of colors that pulsated and shifted like
a cloud. Close by, a red-faced female monkey was patting Dhwani’s
cheeks, shrieking in her ears. The rainbow around her looked significantly
dull and muted than that of the rest.
Then he blinked and his vision turned normal, the volume knob turning
down to bearable levels.
There must have been well over fifty monkeys, mostly the brown-red
Rhesuses. They had formed a wall between them and some Asura
swordsmen charging forth. The monkeys pounced upon the Darkborns,
facing their blades with a suicidal pluck--metal against tooth-and-claw. A
pack of strays dashed out of an alley, jumping into the fray with equal
intrepidity.
‘Dhwani, get up,’ Abhay shook her, ‘I need you to put in some effort,
please. I cannot do this alone.’
She slowly moved, her fingers groping for her fallen blade. Her eyes
opened as she grasped Uttara’s hilt, like strength from the sword had flown
into her body.
She nodded in acknowledgement, reaching out for Abhay’s proffered
hands. In spite of her flagging strength, she was a possessor of enormous
willpower, Abhay had to admit.
The animals were holding off the Darkborns but the street was littered
with the fallen, dogs and monkeys dead or dying. Abhay and Dhwani
made a run for the nearest alley, too stunned to feel the hurt endured in the
explosion.
It did not surprise them when three of the monkeys and a pair of dogs
detached themselves from the fray to accompany them. The dogs led, the
monkeys covered them from the rear and flanks in an astounding display
of coordination.
The bedlam sweeping across Mandi was enough to keep the residents up
and locked behind closed doors. The pious ones were on their knees,
praying. None of them were accustomed to sudden animal uprisings. The
relentless barking and animal keening was enough to make even the
stoutest hearts shiver.
Abhay and Dhwani felt far from safe but the presence of the animals
brought a scintilla of comfort. They were in a civilized town full of
humans, yet it was no less than walking through some battlefield. The
farther they got away from the lodge the more signs they found of death:
gutted monkeys and dogs strewn around in the streets and lanes; a dead,
broken Darkborn or two at random intervals, spent bullet-casings and
broken glass crunching beneath their feet, the swords dropped by the
enemy covered in the blood of the animals.
The dogs seemed to know their way, leading them into the side-streets
spread across the hill town. The gradient of their path grew steeper as they
neared the outskirts. Unlike Abhay, Dhwani’s sense of direction was better
and she could see they were going north-west.
Bells from fire trucks and police sirens were converging upon the spot of
destruction by the lodge, the location clearly discernible from the thick
pillar of smoke snaking upwards into the drizzling sky behind them. Their
legs refused to carry them, forcing them to switch between running and
walking.
 They reached a long avenue with plush cottages and rows of trees
flanking the road. The summer homes of the rich and affluent were silent,
the street lights burning undisturbed along the stretch of the road, casting
alternating patches of light and dark through the intervening canopy of
arching trees.
Abhay was beginning to slip into a false sense of security when he heard
a muffled cough from somewhere behind.
The monkey to their left yelped and rolled on its side. There was a wide
hole in its chest, gushing blood. Another cough a few steps further and the
one in the rear fell; likewise, the next shot dealt with the last monkey.
All they could see were the dim tops of the buildings some hundred feet
down the slope, with a clear line-of-sight to their position. Dhwani turned
in time to see the flash of a muzzle, bracing herself for an impact. But it
was the dogs that went down one after another instead, their blood
splattering the hard-top.
Concrete chips ricocheted against their heels as the bullets hit the ground,
forcing Abhay and Dhwani to finally run for cover behind one of the trees
lining the middle of the avenue. They heard a gruff laughter behind them.
The bark of the tree exploded the moment Dhwani risked a glance, the
bullet whining past her.
‘They are playing with us.’ Dhwani said.
‘Why would they do that?’ Abhay peeked out warily.
The sniper fired another deadly shot from his vantage-point down the
road. The ground near the tree trunk exploded. Abhay had just enough
time to glimpse the silhouettes coming towards them, trampling the dead
animals, unconcerned by the blood. Their blades glinted as they passed
beneath a street lamp.
‘Seven Darkborns, with swords,’ He whispered. Dhwani was ready with
the twin blades.
‘The gunner is providing them cover.’ She said.
Five feet away the Darkborns dashed towards them, swinging their
blades as they came, making throaty growls that might have been words.
Their feet thumped and clacked heavily, suggesting iron-shod shoes.
Dhwani tensed for an attack, Abhay held the elegant baton outstretched for
a deadly swipe, hoping he would not disappoint himself this time.
A blood-curdling scream distracted the attention on both sides.
Dhwani left her cover to meet the Darkborns head-on. Her kavach suit
blazing white all of a sudden, dazzling the leading Darkborns. She
attacked and retreated, pulling back Abhay alongside.
The scream came again--much closer.
 Before any of them could comprehend, a shape came hurtling in their
midst. It hit the ground head first with an appalling crunch and went limp:
a Darkborn, missing the entire lower half of his body.
The seven Darkborns hesitated then unexpectedly resumed their assault
instead of running away, as Abhay had hoped. He was too busy ducking
and swinging the baton to hear the silenced reports of the sniper amid the
clangor of blades and his own heartbeat booming within his skull.
The Darkborn attacking him lost its head in a shower of blood and brain.
Dhwani’s attacks intensified, she stabbed and hacked to slow down the
Darkborns. Until something heavy crashed through the foliage overhead
and landed in the shadows beyond the trees to the avenue’s left.
Dhwani distanced herself from their attackers, pulling Abhay away as the
Darkborns came to an abrupt halt. They passed furtive glances, cocking
their heads like birds to locate whatever had crashed in the gloom beyond
the trees.
There was silence for a few seconds before the canopy of leaves and
branches came alive--like there was a troop of monkeys shaking the trees.
The eaves crashed and creaked and broke, leaves and twigs began to rain
upon them.
‘There is something moving above us.’ Dhwani said, tightening her grip
around the hilts of Uttara and Dakshina. ‘We should make a run while the
Asuras are distrac--.’
The attack came before she could finish her sentence.
A Darkborn was lifted off his feet as a huge shadow dropped upside-
down from within the branches and scooped up the Asura; disappearing
into the canopy before the lifeless body landed upon another Darkborn a
few seconds later. The neck was twisted at an awkward angle.
Three of the Asuras immediately took out Uzi machine-pistols with
extra-long clips. They fired into the canopy with a blind hatred, causing
more leaves and branches to rain.
Dhwani and Abhay stood to one side like mute spectators to an incredible
hunt.
The attacker next appeared not from above but from between the trees on
the right. A gun-toting Darkborn, was thrown into a nearby tree-trunk. His
spine gave an audible crack before he could even realize what hit him.
Abhay saw him, this time: the Big Guy, moving with a speed and grace
that belied his size and bulk. His arms reached up to his knees, his face a
dense blur of white beard. He was a shadow amidst shadows, striking
down the Darkborns with his bare, slab-like hands.
‘Looks like he we didn’t fool him.’ Abhay said.
 The remaining three Darkborns, in a panicked move, came for him and
Dhwani. Her suit flamed, the twin blades a blur in her hands as she
brought down one. Abhay did not hesitate or think before he plunged his
weapon into the chest of the second one. He trembled in disgust as the
blade slid out with a wet sound, dripping the Darkborn’s tainted blood. He
had killed someone!
The last remaining Asura was already fleeing down the avenue towards
Mandi, firing in the trees along the road and into the dense overhang of the
foliage.
The Big Guy landed some fifteen feet away, right in the middle of the
path. The demon squeezed the trigger as he charged like a raging bull.
The Uzi rattled, each staccato burst illuminating the spriniting man-giant
with stark clarity. Yet not a single bullet seemed to find its mark as the
goliath feinted left and right. The machine pistol gave a series of empty
clicks before the Darkborn was dangling by its neck. The massive hand
around his throat needed to apply only an iota of pressure to snap his neck.
Roughly calculated, the attack had lasted no more than forty seconds-- a
minute, at most--from beginning to end.
‘Buggers,’ the Big Guy scoffed in a stentorian, penetrating voice, as the
Darkborn flailed and fought, ‘it’s always difficult to put down these sorry
creatures. One cannot help but wonder who they were before the Asuras
damned them.’
With a sigh, he tightened his hold till Abhay heard something crunch.
The Darkborn shuddered in his grasp and went still.
He gently laid down the body, wiping his large, broad hands on his black
dungarees. His facial features seemed to shift with the angle of incident
light from the streetlamp as he covered the gap in five big strides. He
seemed to size up Abhay and Dhwani.
‘Murtaza might’ve mentioned my name,’ he said. ‘I am Vanraj. Your
parents and I, we’re close friends.’
 Chapter 26
The Outpost

He was nearly seven feet tall, well over three hundred pounds in bulk.
Somewhere in his late-sixties or early-seventies, Dhwani guessed, exuding
an air of mystery about him. Up close she could make out a thick beard
and long white locks streaming down from beneath a skullcap. But of his
face, there was little to see except for a hazy, shifty outline--some sort of
illusion-inducing spell.
‘How can we trust you--you may be working for the enemy?’ She asked.
Vanraj nodded, as if he had been anticipating the question. ‘How can you
indeed, when all you have are my words and this little act to prove my
loyalty? Abhay might not remember it, but he has seen me more than once.
Perhaps Bheeshm decided to alter those memories too, to keep Abhay’s
doubts at bay. You don’t remember, do you, son?’
Dhwani looked at him questioningly. Abhay did not know how to
respond. He did not remember seeing Vanraj--a man possessing his size
and girth was hard to miss in a crowd of thousands, even harder to forget.
And yet there was a vibe to him that Abhay found familiar. Or was he
being delusional?
‘He seems familiar,’ he spoke the truth, ‘but I’m not sure.’
‘Listen, this is no place to stand and talk.’ Vanraj interrupted. ‘Given the
fact that the Angiri has lost her Grace, you wouldn’t know this. But a
detachment of Angiris has been on your trail. I tried to buy you two some
time to get here. But they wouldn’t be far behind. As for the Darkborns,
they have been dealt with, more or less.’
‘How many Angiris are after us?’ Dhwani blurted, feeling a weight settle
down on her heart. Had Jayant’s ruse failed?
‘Not sure, maybe fifteen or sixteen. It’s hard to see your kind with the
shields-of-invisibility on, as you would know.’ He motioned them to
follow and stalked away into the trees.
‘We were supposed to meet someone else here,’ Abhay said, watching
the broad, muscular back moving beneath high, sloping shoulders.
He stopped at the edge of the gloom beyond the street lamp and looked
over his shoulder. ‘His name is Daksh. He left to escort you and the
Brahmāstra to safety but never made it to the lodge. The animals are
looking for him even as we speak. His wife and son are waiting, you’ll
meet them shortly.’
 He disappeared into the dark. Abhay and Dhwani were reluctant to
follow him at first, but a few minutes later onto a path only the Big Guy
knew, their doubts began to settle. Dhwani did not sheathe Uttara, just in
case.
From what she had seen, Vanraj was more than capable of killing her and
Abhay within seconds. Even with the reserves of Oorja stored in her
gemstones, he would have the upper hand. In no way he could be an
ordinary Manushya.
And whoever he is, knows what I carry, what the three weapons might
combine to become.
‘I am here to aid you in any way I can,’ Vanraj spoke, padding
effortlessly along a weedy embankment. ‘The Legion would be of little
help at this instant. They are fighting on many fronts and except for the
late Dwij and a chosen group of Legionnaires, no one among them is
aware of the mighty burden you carry. Even if they did, they would not
know where to hide the Brahmāstra.’
‘But you do?’ Dhwani asked, trying to find her way in the dark, with
Abhay by her side.
Vanraj nodded his shaggy head. ‘Bheeshm and I were to personally
oversee the deed, take the Chakra and the blade to this protected sanctuary
further north. Your house was only a temporary shelter for the two key
weapons, although they are never brought together in one place. The Dwij
in the past made sure they were far apart, moving from one hiding place to
another. If it had all gone as planned…the Chakra and the blade would
have reached this predetermined spot four days ago.’
He led them away from the hill town, down soggy, uneven dirt-trails and
unmarked paths along the hills. After they came to an overflowing stream
and crossed over it into the woods beyond, the wailing sirens and sounds
of Mandi became muffled within the towering spruce and oaks. Soon, the
only sounds they could hear was the chirping of crickets, the flap of bat-
wings and owls hooting.
Abhay and Dhwani were weary to the extent that every step felt heavy
and leaden. Only in the former’s case, the weariness was accompanied by
an unusual clarity in sight, hearing and smell--something he might have
attributed to his jarred state of mind, if not for the colors that seemed to
spring into his vision every few minutes. He would blink and suddenly an
inexplicable tint would appear over everything, filling up the world he saw
with bright rainbows--the primary colors particularly sharp. It was as if he
had been granted a new pair of eyes.
He paused in his tracks, struck by another fleeting glimpse of the rainbow
lights--they were in the trees and grass; radiating from the hulking figure
of Vanraj like a halo too bright to behold. Only the rainbow glow around
Dhwani looked dull, streaked with rippling shades of grey and black--like
sickness.
Abhay dug his knuckles against his eyelids, letting the moment pass.
What was happening to him?
‘You did something to me during our first encounter, when you shot
down that drone. You were trying to get into my head, were you not?’ he
asked, catching up with the other two as they plodded along a ridge
overlooking Mandi.
Vanraj uttered a booming laughter, a sound that reminded Abhay of
hundreds of rocks striking together. ‘I only wished to talk, explain to you
that I mean no harm. But your barriers-of-the-mind held well. Whatever
you are feeling is not because of me, it has everything to do with the
dormant part of your conscious. You weren’t aware before about who you
are. Now you know. Your mind is awakening. That’s what has changed.
‘Yes, I know all about your unique origin. As I earlier said, your parents
were dear to me. We became friends a few years before you were born.’
‘Why didn’t you talk to us before then? You could have spoken to us,
told us what you’re telling now instead of using your psychic reach on
Abhay.’ Dhwani asked as she paused and leaned her weight upon Uttara to
let the flaring haze of pain subside.
Vanraj signaled for a halt. ‘Now that I look back, it sure does look like an
ill-placed decision. Many of my friends and two innocent men had to pay
the price for it--not to forget the Legionnaire who coming to escort you to
safety. I thought there would be enough time to talk and explain, once you
two reached Mandi but I was wrong. You and the Brahmāstra should have
been my first priority. The Asuras surprised me, yet again. I hadn’t
expected them to track you down this fast, after having destroyed the
drones they sent.’
‘You address Legion as if...as if you are not one of them.’ Abhay groped
for the right words.
‘You guessed right, son, I operate solo--more like an independent
mercenary you could say. Since I met your parents, I have been working
closely with the Legion and its field operatives. As for my motive, my
enmity with the Asuras goes a long way back.’
They resumed their uphill trudge a few minutes later. Tall, thick trunks of
deodars along the hillside thinned out as they clambered higher up the
slope.
Abhay watched in open-mouthed fascination as fireflies in the nearby
bushes stirred at their approach. They began to swarm about Vanraj while
he walked seemingly unaware. Several of them settled down on his
overhanging arms and shoulders and the crown of his head. For long
minutes, he was enveloped in their pulsating phosphorescence. The Big
Guy gently shook them off when they scaled to the summit. The fireflies
took flight and dispersed, as if they understood what it meant.
Dhwani finally sheathed Uttara.
The hilltop was a stony clearing strewn with boulders and rock
outcroppings, hidden amidst the treetops. Two figures waited at the centre
of the clearing: a woman as tall as Dhwani and a child no older than ten.
‘Here we are.’ Vanraj declared, walking up to meet them.
They talked in low voices before the woman and Vanraj appeared to step
down a set of stairs and into a dimly outlined opening. The child followed
them a moment later.
Abhay and Dhwani saw nothing but stone and solid ground till they were
five paces away. There were indeed stairs descending into the earth, the
entrance retrofitted with reinforced steel doors. A keen, fulfilling smell of
medicinal herbs and warm food wafted from within.
‘What do you think?’ Abhay asked Dhwani, glancing into the bunker.
‘We can trust him, I believe what he says. The only thing that does not
add up is the man himself: his strength and agility are unbelievable for
someone his age; his powerful psychic reach. And seems he can even
communicate with the animals, even with the insects. Such remarkable
being, one can only wonder why no Angiri ever met him before.’
A rustling in the trees at the periphery caught their attention. Abhay saw
burning eyes and a spotted hide of what appeared to be a spotted leopard.
He was thinking on similar grounds as Dhwani, except for disquieting bit
about Vanraj’s face.
‘I thought Angiris would be capable of communicating with the animals
and birds.’ He said, following the animal’s soundless movement.
‘To some extent we can. But I doubt even the best of us could match up
to Vanraj, the way he can muster the packs and troops to do his bidding in
such coordinated fashion.’ Dhwani replied.
The leopard stopped and fixed its glowing, nocturnal eyes upon them
before it loped out of sight.
‘I named him Bagheera.’ They turned to find the kid standing on the
topmost stair. ‘He protects us. So do the wolves, but they are looking for
Papa, Mother tells me.’ He shuffled on his feet before he added. ‘You two
are badly hurt. Vanraj told me to bring you inside so that Mother can patch
you up.’
 ‘Your father went alone to find us?’ Abhay asked.
The boy nodded. ‘Mother says he’s okay. But I know the Asuras took
him. I pray they don’t turn him, they do that, you know. Papa told me it’s
better to die than to turn into one of those Darkborns.’ He said it all in a
matter-of-fact tone, like talking about some trite incident from school.
Then he descended into the hollow with Dhwani following close behind.
Abhay checked the time. The face of his wrist-watch was cracked, the
needles frozen at forty past two.

Anupama was the wife of Daksh, the missing Legionnaire Abhay had
talked to. She was a fit, strong woman in her early thirties. With a
professional ease she cleansed their wounds and bandaged them with tape
and gauze. She did not speak a word, her eyes seemed distant--like she
was there in the twenty-by-fifteen cellar frugally illuminated by solar
lanterns upon a counter, yet a part of her was wandering in the streets of
Mandi looking for her husband and the father to their nine-year-old son.
The wiry kid Vanraj had introduced as Dhanush was sitting in a small
chair by the lanterns, a David Copperfield paperback open before him. He
kept looking towards the stairs beyond the entrance, probably praying for
his father’s safe return.
Their stoic, composed demeanor in the face of grief, infused Dhwani
with vigor. Her body was throbbing, her skin stinging and burning, the
pre-existing chorus of pain added on by a number of fresh shrapnel
wounds and bruises and concussions.
Abhay was on the high stool next to her, glancing at Vanraj while he
lightly ran his finger over one of the jagged pieces of shrapnel Anupama
had extracted from his back--they both had enough glass embedded in
their skin and scalp to make the steel tray jangle merrily as the Legionnaire
dumped them inside a metal bin.
The Big Guy sat facing the door, his back turned to them. His
domineering presence dwarfed the space. The bench he sat on was sagging
under his weight; elbows propped upon the low table that he could have
easily lifted; his thick, gnarled fingers steepled beneath the chin. For more
than twenty minutes, while Anupama and Dhanush were around he sat
motionless, humming some tune every now and then.
Then the kid went to bed obediently at his mother’s unspoken word while
Anupama busied herself in the tiny space behind the counter. Bunches and
bushels of medicinal herbs and edible roots hung above the crude counter,
bowls of fresh eucalyptus leaves and garlic lining its top. The air inside
was warm and balmy, smelling like cool mint. Anupama set down steel
mugs of steaming soup for Abhay and Dhwani before stepping outside
with a sheathed blade in one hand, a warm coat in the other.
‘Were it not for her son that woman would have set out to find her
husband alone--who I’m afraid to say, is not likely to return as he left.’
Vanraj spoke softly. He moved his left arm without turning his head and
gestured them to sit at a nearby table.
‘Let us talk. For too long have the two of you blundered in the darkness
of peril and ignorance, carrying a burden you understand little. There is
still a lot to be said and done before this crisis we are in can be averted.
You two and the Brahmāstra have ways to go still.’
Dhwani and Abhay settled side-by-side with their hot mugs filled almost
to the brim with the dark red soup; it tasted as good as it smelled. Ever
since meeting Vanraj they had not seen his face; once again, his profile
was in shadows, the lanterns behind him showing nothing but the silver-
sable mane and the beard. The rest of his face blotted out by a shifting,
hazy smoke-screen of sorts.
Dhwani placed the scabbard with the trio of key-weapons on the table
before her.
‘Do you know, what happened to my mother?’ Abhay asked.
‘She was abducted by the Angiri. That’s what I know. I have yet to-- ’
‘She’s dead, laid to rest in Dhwani’s home-world. Most likely Dad’s…
his missing head is also there, in the trophy room of his killer.’
The Big Guy’s expression was unreadable but he shifted, laying down
the flat of his palm upon the wood and taking deep, loud breaths. ‘Go on,
tell me what has been happening since the night you came back home.’
Abhay spoke slowly at first, starting with his interaction with the Chakra
and the Oorja-surge. With some help from Dhwani, he sequentially laid
out her side of the tale, right till the moment they had parted from Jayant
and Kant. When he revealed the identity of the Mole, Dhwani noticed
Vanraj’s shoulders tense at the mention of Tamas’s name.
‘Providence seems to be playing some strange, cruel game with the two
of you.’ He said when Abhay had finished some ten minutes later. He
leaned forward, fixing his eyes upon them, his head half-turned to the
light. Dhwani was not sure, but the lower half of his face seemed to have
an unusual, bulging shape beneath the spell-worked mask. ‘Your mentor’s
vision somehow led to the very eventuality that was supposed to be
avoided: the gathering of the three key-weapons.
‘But then, we can hardly control the hand of destiny. These artifacts have
a tendency to attract one another, an affinity to unite. It may be that the
pull of the Chakra can even influence the events--after all, it was blessed
by one of the Trinity, as Bheeshm told me. You’d be surprised to hear this,
Abhay, but your parents would’ve never met, if not for these key-weapons.
Obviously, back then there were only the two of them: the Chakra and the
blade, Dakshina. It is almost as if history is repeating itself. Only that this
time, the Brahmāstra is whole--all three pieces in one scabbard.’
‘Would you by chance know anything about,’ Dhwani hesitated, ‘about
the Angiris that went missing around the same time Bheeshm and Kaya
met?’
The wooden bench beneath creaked in protest as Vanraj nodded. ‘From
what little is known, none of your people survived. I wish we had more
time in our hands to go over that part of the tale at length, but I will tell
you all I can. Let us for now stick to matter of the Artifact--the
Brahmāstra. You ought to understand the object you’re protecting.’
Vanraj inhaled deeply and began to speak.
 Chapter 27
Before the Night Ends

The Astras are supernatural weapons imbued with occult power, each
invented by a Deva or the Tridevas in the creator’s image. Only by means
of an invocation--a mantra--can they be summoned for use, and even then
their desired effects rely much upon the will of the wielder, the Astradhari.
The Pashupatāstra of Shiva was one of the most powerful weapons a
mortal could wield, guided by an impetus in the form of thought, gaze,
words or powerful bows. Not even the Devas were familiar with a counter-
attack for the Pashupat. The Varunāstra could unleash torrents of water
upon the intended target area and could only be countered with an
Agneyāstra--the latter known to have enough power to evaporate the
Seven Rivers. The Vaishnavāstra of Vishnu, when launched could make
armies of the Astradhari, invincible for long hours.
The Itihasas and Puranas mention the use of Astras since as early as the
Satyuga.
Lord Ram is known to have used the Gandharvāstra against the Asura-
brothers Khar and Dushan. The Astra grants the wielder an inhuman
ability to move at a speed faster than light--giving the enemy this
perception that the Astradhari is everywhere.
Imagine this: 10,000 chariots, 18,000 elephants, a cavalry 14,000 strong
and 200,000 foot-soldiers. All of them, destroyed by two warriors, Ram
and Laxman, in a matter of minutes. Even though they were avatars of
Vishnu and Sheshnag, respectively, they were mortals. And yet they
attained victory against the enemy. That was the extent of damage an Astra
could unleash.
With Raavan’s empire growing and the Asuras becoming bolder, the
Devas sought the worthy among the Manushyas and granted them the
mantras for many of the Astras. Sage Vishwamitra was believed to have a
working knowledge of every single Astra ever created.
In Dwapar-yuga, with the birth of the new Deva bloodline, a great many
of the signature Astras were granted to the Manushya warriors and
renowned sages; sometimes to curb a threat, many times as a boon. The
sages passed on their knowledge of the Astras to their favored pupils, but
not all of them were worthy. For a while, Prithvi had more champions who
could summon one or more Astras than there were Asuras.
When there were no more Asuras to be found and destroyed, the humans
began to fight one another. It all came to a predictable end when the
Kauravas and Pandavas met in the battlefield of Kurukshetra and fought a
great battle that lasted for eighteen days and left its indelible mark upon
our world. Each side had great warriors equipped with an array of Astras at
their disposal.
The Brahmāstra was the crown jewel among all Astras, the one infallible
weapon in the Deva arsenal: a weapon to end all weapons, both ordinary
and divine.
Brahma’s purpose for its creation had been different: the invocation
initially was a means to erase a failing ecosystem and build a better one
from scratch. But for the Devas, in their peacekeeping endeavors against
Andhakar, it came to be adopted as an Astra of the last resort.
When all courage and weapon fails, when all hope dies, the Brahmāstra
would lead to victory and the enemy’s utter decimation.
The author of the Mahabharata, Veda Vyasa, has described it as a single
projectile charged with all the power in the Brahmand:
‘An incandescent column of smoke and flames, as blinding as a thousand
suns, bloomed in horrific splendor in the battlefield of Kurukshetra. It was
an Astra unknown to an ordinary warrior, near-unattainable; an iron
thunderbolt…a gigantic messenger of Death that reduced to ashes an
entire race.
The corpses were so burned as to be unrecognizable. The hair and nails
of those in the vicinity fell out, pottery broke without any apparent cause,
and the birds turned white and dropped dead from the sky in thousands.’
The earliest mention of the Brahmāstra by a Manushya in the early
Satyuga, is when Sage Vishwamitra launched it in anger against Sage
Vashishtha, not knowing that the latter possessed a staff blessed by
Brahma himself, a Brahma-dand, capable of absorbing the power of the
Brahmāstra entirely. The staff was lost after Vashishtha transcended to
Swargam as one of the Saptarishi.
Ram used it in desperation, to threaten the celestial Guardian of the Seas
when he needed to cross the waters along with his army, to rescue Sita
from Lanka; and again, to deliver the final blow against Raavan, who was
blessed with the boon of immortality after having partaken of the Amrit.
At Kurukshetra, the Brahmāstra was used again and again in the eighteen
days the battle of Mahabharata lasted. Each side had multiple warriors that
knew of its invocation: like the veterans Bheeshm Pitamah and Drona, and
the most magnificent archers in the history of the three Yugas--Arjuna and
Karna--pitted against each other.
And then there was Ashwatthama, son of Drona and a staunch
sympathizer to the Kauravas. Unlike the rest of the warriors--who gained
the Brahmāstra by fair means--Ashwatthama learned the summoning-spell
for the Brahmāstra by cajoling and manipulating his father. The one thing
Drona did not teach him though, was the retracting spell.
He was an irascible man prone to emotions of envy, greed and anger.
Ashwatthama had acquired a stone of power that endowed him with brute
strength of ten elephants. But what sets him apart from the rest was his
immortality that combined with his invincibility, allowed him to escape
when Duryodhana, the eldest and the strongest among the Kauravas, died
in an unfair clash with Bheema. Drona had already died a dishonorable
death, brought upon by misinformation and panic on hearing the news of
his son’s death.
Ashwatthama had used the Brahmāstra twice during the battle, inflicting
monumental harm on the Pandava armies. After the Kauravas’ defeat, he
absconded. For weeks he remained hidden, seeking discreetly the support
of other allies in hiding. The scars of defeat only festered when the allies
refused his plea or were apprehended and beheaded by the Pandavas.
The Pandava brothers and many of their sons and relatives were still
alive while none but the doddering old of the Kaurava clan had survived
the battle; not one among the hundred Kaurava brothers was spared.
Drona, Duryodhana and all his friends haunted Ashwatthama in his sleep
and waking hours, screaming for vengeance.
Ashwatthama arrived at Kurukshetra in the dead hours of night. The
Pandava clan was still camped by the battlefield. Millions had fallen on
both sides and the dead were being cremated even a fortnight after the
great battle. He located the tents from afar--where the five brothers would
be sleeping--before he summoned the Brahmāstra and directed his wrath
to launch the terrible weapon, channeling the Oorja into nothing but a dry
twig for a medium.
But Fate had other plans in store for Ashwatthama. The Pandavas were
not present in the camp at that time. They were returning from a
neighboring kingdom with Lord Krishna, after attending a stately funeral
for the princes who had died fighting on their side.
Arjuna and his brothers and Lord Krishna, helplessly watched it from
afar as the camps and surrounding villages were consumed by a ball of fire
and bone-melting heat. The sons of the Pandavas and many of their kin, all
beyond help.
Only Parikshit, Arjuna’s yet-to-be-born grandson would be left to carry
on their bloodline.
Ashwatthama had exacted his vengeance, even if it came at a cost of
thousands of innocent lives who had no part in the Kaurava-Pandava feud.
Driven by rage, Arjuna launched the Brahmāstra in retaliation. It would
have ended Ashwatthama then and there. But it would have also led to vast
collateral damage had the Astra made impact. For Ashwatthama had
deliberately positioned himself near a sprawling city--not because he
wanted to save himself but because he wanted to drive Arjuna over the
edge, even as he died.
It was Lord Krishna and the rest of the brothers who appealed to his
sense of Dharma and the warrior-code and convinced Arjuna in time to
retract the Brahmāstra.
It was the last time the Ultimate Weapon was ever used in recorded
history.
This incident was a tipping point for both Prithvi and Swargam. The
Devas in their homeworld--weakened by the sorrow and grief and
destruction in the key-world--could sense the days darkening, as if the taint
of Andhakar was spreading like ink in water. The Spores were multiplying
at an unprecedented rate.
The last Indra and his circle of Devas decided to close the gates on the
limitless power of the Astras. Manushyas had proved to be unworthy of
the celestial knowledge and spells, using it against each other instead of
against the agents of Andhakar.
The Devas were starting to die out; many chose to attain Samadhi and
emancipate themselves from the agonies and suffering of the mortal plane.
Indra and the last Devas had to take a critical measure, to ensure a
semblance of peace would last when they were gone.
With the aid of the Saptarishis, they mounted an expedition, a Purge. Its
dual bladed objective to not only seek and destroy the Asuras hiding on
Prithvi but also obliterate every mind or scrap of parchment bearing the
celestial wisdom--especially, the invocations for the Astras. Most of the
Manushyas who knew the mantras were already dead; the rest had their
memories altered.
An age of great despair and ignorance followed with the advent of
Kaliyuga. Civilizations crumbled into the dark ages. Five thousand years
down the line, nothing much remains of the celestial wisdom and of the
Astras.
‘But turns out, the Devas left something behind for the Angiris and the
Manushyas: a weapon of last resort.’ Vanraj said. ‘For some day, when
everything fails against the Andhakar the Brahmāstra will make all the
difference in turning the tides.’
 ‘They recreated the Brahmāstra, did they not?’ Dhwani spoke in the
silence that followed Vanraj’s exhaustive account. Her mug of soup lay
forgotten in her lap, the brew long cold.
‘They recreated it, aye, gave it a physical form.’ Vanraj said, sipping
from his own mug, which Dhwani noticed was still generously steaming.
The mug seemed to disappear back within his big palms as he set it down.
He is using a spell to keep it hot, she concluded.
‘Recreating the Brahmāstra, or even a lesser Astra, was a feat well
beyond the ken of the Seven Sages. The Devas did that, perhaps it was
Vishwakarma the Deva architect himself who designed and determined its
functioning through the three key-weapons. The original Brahmāstra
could only be summoned by a mantra and a suitable medium to channel
the Oorja, but the new one,’ with a sideways nod Vanraj gestured at the
scabbard upon the table, ‘has a physical existence. To use it, one only
requires an invocation once the three are combined. Sounds like cakewalk
but I’m sure it’s far from easy.’
Dhwani unsheathed the twin blades and placed them in parallel. Next,
she unlocked the slot within the woodwork and set the Chakra in the
middle. Her touch elicited a flickering in the disc.
The two swords differed only slightly, their gemstones in the pommel
meant to lock together--the one in Dakshina the yin to Uttara’s yang. She
brought the hilts end-to-end--as she had done before in Bheeshm’s study--
and pushed till the jade in Uttara’s pommel latched within its hollow
counterpart in Dakshina. The arrangement gave the impression of a
peculiar bow, minus a bowstring; the curving blades its elegant limbs.
A ripple of light danced along the circumference of the Chakra,
accompanied by low vibrations, as if the disc could feel the swords unite.
Dhwani studied the bow-like contraption, making a note of every
indentation and edge and curve. The crossguard of each blade was
identically curved over the joined hilts that made the bow’s handle,
extending outwards like small daggers. She found identical notches on the
inside edge of each dagger-like extension. Their purpose was not
ornamental when seen as the bow’s handle. There was more than enough
space in between the two indentations, wider than the diameter of the
Chakra.
‘What do you know about the origin of these weapons?’ she asked.
‘Only what little Bheeshm told me.’ Vanraj said. ‘Three weapons
touched by the Tridevas. The invocation Brahma gave. Vishnu gave his
favored weapon for the Oorja-source: the magnificent Chakra before you.
 ‘And to add Shiva’s essence, the Devas used two of his own fearsome
weapons: the scimitar called Chandrahās reforged into the twin blades; his
bow, Ajāgav--broken into two by Ram--provided wood and metal for their
hilts. The three key-weapons were then bound to each other by a unifying
spell.’
Abhay and Dhwani both shifted uneasily. Before them were relics of a
past long turned to dust, one that existed only in the shared myths and
fantasies of the present-day civilization. It was an unbelievable, unthought-
of situation even from an Angiri’s viewpoint.
‘If what you say is true then it means,’ Dhwani felt the engraved surface
of the Chakra, ‘it means the Chakra…it can only be Sudarshan: the disc of
auspicious visions; wielded by Lord Vishnu and his incarnations, Ram and
Krishna. No other Chakra can be powerful enough to power any Astra,
much less the Brahmāstra. This one has hundred-and-eight serrated edges,
so did the Sudarshan.’
Vanraj jerked his shoulders with uncertainty. ‘An Angiri would know
better about such technicalities. I act only as Bheeshm’s mouthpiece. He
referred to the disc as something that sounded like...Chakkrath Ishwar.’
‘Chakkrath Azhwar,’ Dhwani corrected, ‘Yes, it fits. It translates to the
circlet of god. It is the Sudarshan.’
Abhay was up on his feet, pacing around in the wide space between the
tables and the cellar’s entrance. He felt too clueless to add anything of
value to the conversation. What little he knew about the Brahmāstra, the
bow of Shiva and Vishnu’s Sudarshan Chakra, came from the tales in
books and TV shows.
Ajagav was the centerpiece in the Swayamvara of Princess Sita, where
suitors had to prove their strength and eligibility by stringing the unstrung
bow. The kings and warriors that came forth failed to string the bow--
including Raavan. Most could not even lift the heavy bow, until it was
Ram’s turn. The avatar not only lifted it, as per the Ramayana, but also
broke the artifact considered indestructible in the process of stringing it.
The Chandrahās was Shiva’s boon to a young Raavan--who despite
being an Asura was an ardent devotee of the Destroyer. He was known to
have performed long tapas and abstinence to win Shiva’s favor.
As for the Sudarshan, it was a symbol synonymous to the Preserver and
his Krishna avatar for billions of Manushyas, since long before recorded
history. No idol of the deity or his blue-skinned incarnations was complete
without the Chakra.
Abhay’s journey into lore and memory was interrupted as Dhwani spoke,
‘The Saptarishis must have passed the Chakra and Dakshina into the
Legion’s custody, leaving Uttara with my mentor--even though they never
told him its significance. Had Elder Neel known, he would never have sent
me here with the missing blade.’
‘Well, according to Bheeshm, the then commander of Legion was
entrusted only with Dakshina at first. Uttara remained in Swargam while
the Saptarishis kept the Chakra to themselves till their time in our worlds
was over.’
Dhwani lifted the Chakra with both hands. Switching it to a vertical
position she brought it within a foot of the conjoined hilts when the disc
seemed to gain weight.
It slipped out of her fingers, pulled by some weird magnetism and came
to hang between the notches in the dagger-like extensions.
The numinous glow flicked on within the metal, turning the Chakra into
a luminous shape composed of solid white light. The three-weapon setup
thrummed upon the wooden table as the luminosity spread along the length
and breadth of the hilts, then the blades.
The light blinded them. Abhay could see the clear afterimage even with
the eyes closed.
Dhwani held the Chakra’s inner edge and pulled against the magnetism
binding it in place. It was almost like tearing away a sapling with stubborn
roots deep in the soil. Halfway through her efforts the magnetism relented
and Dhwani staggered back a few paces under the sudden lack of
resistance.
Her hold over it slipped before it clattered onto the stone-floor and rolled
heavily, till it fell flat near where Abhay stood. It flashed with an
unforeseen intensity, as if it could sense the Nephilim, before the glow died
out.
Vanraj was rocking in his seat and laughing as he lightly thumped a palm
upon the table, in contrast with the speechless Abhay and Dhwani.
‘Bheeshm had warned me: the Chakra has a will of its own. Treat it as you
would treat another sentient being, he said. After all, it belongs to one of
the Tridevas.’

The rainbows blinked into his vision in response to the Chakra’s flash.
Vanraj and Dhwani became figures made of pulsing rainbow light. But
the former’s glow far outshone the shifting sickly grey-black radiance of
Dhwani. The rest of the room and the non-living objects was outlined in
thin white lines, without the pulsating, moving shades.
He looked at his own hands and found his body to be enveloped by the
rainbow-like glow, with no trace of the clothes he wore nor the skin.
But it was the Chakra that puzzled him the most. For it too had a unique
bright aura to it, seething with the primary colors--brighter than Vanraj or
his own glow, almost as if a tiny sun had appeared before him. Until
Dhwani replaced the three key-weapons into their respective slots, he
could sense the energy emitted by the Chakra. The instant the slot closed
around it, it vanished from his extrasensory perception, leaving a faint
many-hued trail in its stead.
A minute then two and still the rainbow-vision did not fade to normal, as
it had before. Was this how he would be seeing things from now on?
Abhay wondered, listening to what Vanraj was saying.
‘If Bheeshm knew the summoning mantra, he didn’t share it with me or
anyone else. The same goes for the rules or limitations that may apply to
the Brahmāstra you carry and its working. That’s all I know.’ He looked at
Abhay who stood wide-eyed and still.
‘I am guessing you have started seeing things more clearly.’ Vanraj
casually stated, ‘Your abilities are manifesting themselves, Abhay.’
It took Abhay a second to realize the Big Guy was talking to him. He
blinked and the rainbow-vision receded. The colors returned to their
normal level, lifeless and dim in comparison to how it had been the last
five minutes or so.
‘It comes and goes, I don’t know how or why it’s like that. I see glowing
figures instead of skin and clothes and hair, surrounded by some kind of
rainbow cloud. It’s like we are not flesh and blood, but made of photons,’
He shrugged and sat down with a sigh.
‘You’re seeing auras, the life forces. They are present around every
living being, even the Asuras.’ Dhwani said, feel vexed at and envious of
Abhay’s blooming abilities.
‘Perhaps you can help Abhay you know, teach him how to control his
still-blooming abilities. Who better to help a Nephilim through his
transition than a celestial from Swargam?’ Vanraj said. He would have
continued but then he straightened in his seat, titling his head to listen to
some faraway sound.
Dhwani had another ephemeral impression--of an oddly bulging face
hidden beneath the fuzzy screen of spells--before Vanraj hoisted his three-
hundred-plus mass with a sudden urgency.
The snarls and growls of furious animals reached her ears the last.
Abhay and Vanraj were already moving towards the cellar-door when
she got up to follow. Dhwani took a few steps, came back to the table and
pulled Uttara out of the scabbard before hurrying after the others.
 There was the leopard, Bagheera, and four wild dogs. They were
gathered around a shape moving on the ground some ten feet from the
cellar entrance. Anupama was standing to one side, visible only because of
her gliniting sword, the blade iridescent as a film of burning phosphorus.
Her sobbs could be heard over the din the animals made.
Abhay saw what was agitating Bagheera and the dogs as Anupama
switched on a flashlight with an unsteady hand. The beam fell upon a man
thrashing and spitting and clawing at the animals. Her knees gave away
beneath her.
He was a man--or what was left of the person he had been not long ago.
The clothes were smeared and stained with blotches of dried blood and
mud. His face was a hungry, savage mask, the long tongue darting this
way and that from between the bloody lips. He crawled towards the
flashlight on bent, broken legs, a deep growl rising from his chest as he
bared his teeth. His blood-red eyes leaked tears of thick ectoplasm from
the corners.
The light is attracting the bestial abomination, Abhay thought.
‘It’s not the torchlight,’ Vanraj whispered behind him, ‘he senses the
light within her, like an animal recognizes a familiar scent. A part of him
still remembers the woman he loved before the Asuras turned him,
poisoned his mind and body.’
‘The kid’s father,’ Abhay mouthed. He had not noticed the fact that
Vanraj had heard what he was thinking.
It was the Legionnaire, Daksh. His nine-year-old son was right to say that
death would be a mercy compared to the transformation into a demoniacal
being under the Halāhal’s rankling maleficence.
Dhwani shuffled forward as Daksh crawled closer to his wife. Anupama
was kneeling on the ground, weeping for the creeping thing that had been
her husband not long ago. The animals fell back at Anupama’s hoarse tear-
choked command, allowing the red-eyed creature to approach her freely.
The glazed, manic eyes never left her.
The Legionnaire wife mumbled and hiccuped through her tears. Twice
she raised her sword to strike and each time her hand stayed. Daksh’s
claws brushed against her legs and she could still not muster the courage.
Dhwani decided to help Anupama, seeing the woman was unable to do
what was needed.
‘Dhwani, no! It’s her cross to bear. She has to be the one to end his
misery.’ Vanraj stopped her.
‘What have they done to you, love?’ Anupama keened, letting the
abomination that she had once kissed and hugged and made love to, pull
himself closer.
Her sword thrust forward the next second, as she swung away the
flashlight beam--as if in the hope to spare herself from witnessing the
scarring act she was committing.
A soft sigh, as the blade plunged through the skull and the body fell still.
The hilltop became quiet, even the wind died for a minute. The flashlight
dropped from Anupama’s grip and she wailed.
The dogs padded away silently. But the leopard remained, observing the
woman as she mourned over her dead lover. Before melting into the
darkness beneath the trees, it stretched its front paws forward and bowed
as if in respect.
Abhay was not sure if the gesture was meant for the deceased or for the
woman who had killed her lover, or both.
He heard footsteps behind. Dhanush was standing at the cellar’s entrance,
squinting in the flashlight-beam. His hair was tousled, his nightwear
insufficient for the chilly night air. He had a naked short-sword in one
hand--a miniature version of the one his mother carried.
What the kid saw visibly shook him for a few seconds. His bewildered
innocent face spasmed between shock and grief and pain. Then he took a
deep breath and walked up to his mother, steeling himself; no hint of fear
or sorrow on his face. He kneeled beside Anupama and held her by the
shoulder.
 Chapter 28
A Mole’s Tale

The Brahmāstra was within his reach. Bheeshm’s killer could feel it as
surely as he knew he would not be able to keep up with his act before his
people.
The reserves of Halāhal had run out.
Since his descent he had been experiencing a maddening dryness in his
mouth and throat and along the length of his windpipe, extending right into
the pit of his stomach. The scar was smarting with a disorienting intensity,
his body and mind swinging between agony and torment. With his craving
for the Halāhal compounding every minute the Snake Voice seemed to be
getting louder, gaining its hold over him; the True Voice becoming more
timid and distant, each passing second--as if the hissing serpent was trying
to swallow his soul.
His state was similar to a drug-addict’s withdrawal symptoms. The only
time he had come this close to losing his sanity, was during his first year in
Swargam, right after the Second Fall.
Out of the five hundred Angiris that went missing or died on Prithvi, only
eight were fortunate enough to get back home. They were alive and more
or less in one piece but their scars from the endless torture never healed,
nor could they forget the memories and nightmares of the constant
suffering that had cracked their wills. The Mole had been one of them.
The only difference between the Mole and the remaining seven, was that
the latter were not subjected to prolonged infusions of the Halāhal. The
enemy subjected them to countless maleficent devices and acts of physical
and mental torture but never the Halāhal. Some had their memories
erased, some learned to master their fear through years of tapas; they had
moved on, one way or another since the Second Fall, come to terms with
the scars that remained.
But not the Mole. He found neither rest nor meditation to be able to
douse the fires of his inner craving. Little by little, the Asuras had pumped
so much Halāhal into his veins that he could not handle himself in the
absence of it. In the caverns beneath the Aranya, he fought a battle against
himself, his skin cracking and degenerating before his eyes as a new
creature emerged--the reason why he began to hide his appearance under a
clay mask.
Snake Voice belonged to it: the pale, hideous creature slithering about in
his mind. He saw it within his eyes each time he stood before the mirror in
the cavern.
He was around his people and yet alone with his suffering. His yearning
for the Halāhal got worse and worse. Seeking help or counsel from other
Angiris was out of the question, not because he feared how they would
react to his deformity. It was not his wraith-like appearance that troubled
him more but the horrible things one might discover if they so as even took
a quick peek into his mind.
There was blood on his hand and conscience--Angiri blood. The Asuras
had to coerce him at first then later, he had developed a taste for it--killing
his fellow prisoners and stealing their Grace. Twenty-five years later, he
still had no recollection of the exact number of Angiris that had died by his
hands. The skulls he had collected for trophies since then were to
remember each kill he had made thereafter.
In the early months of his imprisonment the Halāhal brought a world of
pain. But at some point, his body started to accept it, crave for it. In the
months prior to his rescue, the Mole had been wilfully pumping himself
with doses of the vile poison. It heightened his senses, expanded his
faculties in an unusual way that tapas could never achieve, keeping the
nightmares and pain at bay.
By the end of the first year since his rescue, the Mole had started working
on a plan. His appearance had grown further more pallid and gaunt, marred
by dark, swollen veins; his hair was shedding in clumps. It was easy to
remain under the radar with all that was going on in Swargam. The other
Angiris were too focused with what had befallen their missing kindred on
Prithvi to even consider one of them might be plotting something.
He had brought along something from Prithvi, stolen moments before his
rescue. It was a tightly-rolled sheaf of a thin, oily parchment, bearing
detailed instructions and spells to build an unspecified Deva machinery--
written in a common tongue of the Manushyas. The only issue was finding
a number of schematics referenced all over the stolen manual. The
aforementioned texts were preserved within the library hidden with the
Vault of the Devas--authored by none other than Vishwakarma himself.
The schematics for the construction of the unnamed machinery turned out
to be the designs for a Loka Portal--the very thing he needed to go back for
the Halāhal.
It stank of foul play. The Asuras had deliberately left the manual there
for him to find. They knew the Halāhal would bring him back to Prithvi.
But his craving was too great and urgent to throw caution to the wind.
Through months of craving and pain and nightmares, he pilfered and
scavenged the required parts; carrying the Oorja-generator had been the
trickiest challenge.
He maintained an active presence among his people, showing himself to
be well on the path to recovery. The rest of the time he tirelessly worked
upon the Loka Portal: a device no Angiri had ever fully understood, much
less build. Snake Voice remained his boon companion in this solitary
pursuit.
After seventeen months by Manushya reckoning following his rescue, he
arrived at Prithvi to find the Halāhal and thus began his prolonged
association with the Asuras: he abhorred them yet it was unavoidable.
They were the makers of his medicine.
At first they asked for minor favors--a regicide here, an assassination or a
bomb blast there. He would come back to Prithvi before the stock got
exhausted, kill or steal or inflict damage without regret or remorse and
finally go back with fresh refills.
Then they began to ask him for pieces of Swargam technology and
certain texts related to history and sciences of the two worlds; sometimes
books on spells and Oorja manipulation. And the Mole complied. His
conscience cursed him but Snake Voice rationalized his need and deed like
the voice of reason. He was handing over power into the hands of the
enemy but he was too far gone to help himself. He could see no way-out of
the deadlock.
The one good thing that came out of the arrangement was the spells and
mantras the Mole found in the Deva texts: the Forbidden Words. From
Shukracharya’s writings the Asuras provided him with, he acquired a
better grip on his High Oorja-speak. Although he ended up sharing several
pages of the Forbidden Word with the Asuras for the Halāhal, he had
learned them by rote.
Then, about five years ago, the sly Asura King presented his proposal:
the three pieces of the Brahmāstra, in exchange for an endless supply of
Halāhal, enough to last him for decades and decades.
Two of the pieces were in possession of the Legion; the remaining piece,
according to the Red King--who was in turn enlightened upon the matter
by the late Guru Shukracharya--was hidden somewhere in Swargam.
It was not just the prospect of a bountiful supply of the Halāhal that
convinced the Mole to give his assent to the Asura Lord’s proposal. He
signed up for it immediately because of the prospect it presented: of
ending the deadlock once and for all; he saw a chance to break free of the
accursed arrangement with the Enemy and live free till the end of his days,
with so much Halāhal…
 All he needed was the Brahmāstra, recreated as the three key-weapons.
It had been far from easy to locate the first two key-weapons the Legion
was hiding. His long, largely fruitless but persistent search ended with
Bheeshm, even if the Chakra and the blade had escaped his notice. And
now, the third piece--the last key-weapon--had by some ridiculous whim
of Fate, come into Dhwani’s possession.
The Mole saw all this as a sign that he was meant to succeed. Snake
Voice was getting louder every minute, telling him what to do. He could
feel it in his very bones, a fast-approaching closure to his journey: an end
of one phase, a beginning to another.

‘It is Bheeshm’s son, the Nephilim, beyond any doubt,’ Snake Voice
echoed within the confines of his mind. ‘We should’ve realized it long
back.’
‘It still doesn’t explain whether he has the Brahmāstra, or it is with the
Angiri the others are pursuing to the east.’ The Mole thought.
‘Ah, doesn’t it seem too simple? Our people have to just tail the Angiri’s
signatures till sunrise and once that happens, the eloper will become
traceable. Whoever it may be they chase to the east--Dhwani or Jayant--
knows there is no escaping once the night ends. The acolytes of Neel are
not so foolish.’
The Mole tried to ascertain the situation, trying to see it from the
perspectives of Dhwani and Jayant. If it was Dhwani who had survived the
situation definitely would be far from an ordinary chase, even though
Jayant possessed a potential no less to elude them. But which of them had
survived?
‘What makes us think one of them died while the other survives?’ The
Snake Voice hissed, sneering in spite of the throbbing of the scar. ‘We
heard what others are saying: one of them was hurt by the Halāhal darts
and died, hence the life-force doesn’t show up on our radar. What if this
one’s still alive?’
‘But the four Angiris, they died not long after the darts hit them…’
‘Then why have we not discovered a body? There has to be one, the
Halāhal will impede the self-destruct mechanism of the suit after all. Even
if he or she was burned, someone must have found at least the kavach suit
or even one of the gauntlets. There was nothing at Bheeshm’s dwelling
except for bloodied linen.’
The Mole thought on the evidence the other Angiris had found since their
descent. He knew for a fact that there had been other Manushyas present at
the dwelling, including the Nephilim. One of them was buried in the
backyard. Dhwani and Jayant had met the Nephilim and the other
Manushyas, fended off the Darkborns together.
Then they had all left in somewhat of a hurry, taking along with the three
pieces of the Brahmāstra in the enchanted scabbard Shukracharya’s texts
mentioned. It was why none of the Angiris could sense the Chakra outside
the dwelling.
‘Both of Neel’s acolytes might be alive,’ Snake Voice hissed. ‘The one
showing up on the trackers, is a diversion. The wounded one is
accompanying the Nephilim, no doubt seeking the Legion’s help with the
Astra.’
He recounted what else the vanguard had learned not long ago, while
following the Nephilim’s trail.
The Mole and his fourteen companions had found the roadside plaza
where he had definitely made a halt. Manushya peacekeepers and their
flaring red-and-blue strobes were all over the place, where people had been
wounded in a stampede caused by a number of gunmen and monkeys.
The Mole had intruded upon the minds of some Manushyas to seek
information while the rest of the vanguard with him had resorted to
eavesdropping and mingling with those present. They had not gathered
much, for it had been dark when the monkeys and gunmen attacked. Not
that the Mole had greatly succeeded, but the one consistent information in
the accounts of five out of the seven Manushyas’ memories he had scried
upon, was the detail about a couple the gunmen were trying to kidnap.
The couple could only be Dhwani and the Nephilim. A smile broke upon
the Mole’s lips at the assurance. He was right, about both the Angiris being
alive.
‘We are on the right course.’ Snake Voice hissed within his mind and the
True Voice chimed in the words out loud.
‘Aye, we are, brother,’ one of the Angiris flying right above the Mole
heard him. ‘The nameless Oorja-born is almost within our reach. No
matter how fast the creature runs, he cannot go far once dawn colors the
sky. If all goes well, we will find the creature before sunrise.’
If all goes well, the Other Voice hissed in malice.
Fifteen pairs of wings flapped and leapt through the pockets of hot air
between the earth and sky, gliding towards the distant hills.
And the Mole plotted. The fourteen Angiris accompanying him still
posed a formidable challenge before he went after the Brahmāstra and its
bearers.
 The vanguard reached the hill town of Mandi almost an hour later than
they had anticipated. A confusing trail of beacons and spells dotting the
foothills was the cause for delay, meant to waylay the Angiris and lead
them on a wild goose chase.
The tower clock in the town square showed it to be the ungodly hour
after three-thirty, when Manushyas were supposed to sleep. But Mandi
was in throes of agitation and commotion, the streets full of baffled
tourists, locals and policemen. Fire trucks were busy moving through the
chaos-struck town, dousing the fires set off by miscreants.
The fifteen Angiris mingled with the humans. The ones dressed as
Manushyas took to the streets in groups of twos and threes, overhearing
the conversations and stray thoughts. The others, hidden under shields-of-
invisibility, kept a watch or examined the many damages to life and
property caused a couple of hours prior to the vanguard’s arrival.
The Mole--invisible to the human eye--wasted no time in securing a cell-
phone from an oblivious policeman. Luckily it was not password
protected. He found a forlorn spot in a dark side alley after ensuring the
other Angiris were not in the immediate vicinity. He entered a number
from memory, typed a message and pressed send:
What would Shukracharya say if he were alive? [333.012]
He waited beneath the awning of a shuttered confectionary. A monkey
lay gutted a few feet away. He received a response after two minutes.
We are standing at the threshold of victory. The Age of Asuras is almost
upon us, the Day of Occultation draws near and soon the sun will set,
never to rise again. Awaken the Asura Supreme! [666.021]
It was a pre-decided response--every word and number--to establish
respective identities. Once that was done, he wrote:
How soon can we get 7 phials? Location: Mandi. We know the
Darkborns were around.
The response was immediate:
As soon as you get me the PACKAGE, 7 phials and the rest of the
consignment--like we agreed.
Unexpected requirement, needed urgently. The 3 keys are all here,
together. Very close to the package.
His fingers tapped the touchpad furiously under the compulsion of Snake
Voice, to add:
You shouldn’t have intervened. We almost had the Nephilim and what
he carries.
It is Bheeshm’s son who’s carrying the package? Who is the pale, sickly
 woman with him--an Angiri?
Yes. Injured, poisoned. Does not pose much threat, a hornet without a
sting. We can deal with them. We want the vials, now!
The seconds ticked by and there was no reply even after a minute. The
Mole could hear other Angiris calling for him via telepathy. He helplessly
looked at the screen then back at the alley’s south-facing mouth. He could
sense an Angiri approaching. Seeing him using a Manushya-made device
was bound to raise suspicion.
The message finally arrived--a long one at that.
You’re in luck, my friend. We have the vials. Get rid of your people and
the 7 vials will be yours. My servants will come find you. I have a new
batch of soldiers to field-test against your folks. They’ll help you cause
a diversion...
The Mole heard a flapping of wings, approaching his location, the Angiri
having located him by means of continuous psychic pings. He barely got a
moment to read the last line.
The tallest hill, west of the town. Get there ASAP.
He crushed the phone within his grip a fraction of a second before the
Angiri came into view, gliding sideways to accommodate his wingspan in
the narrow alley. He landed some distance from the Mole and walked up to
him, his wings folding and retracting within a few paces.
‘I could not sense you for a while there. The others are calling,’ he said.
The Mole had thrust his hand holding the broken phone inside his coat-
pocket. ‘What happened?’
‘It appears they found a trail leading away from the settlement, going
north and east. They say it is still fresh. The Nephilim cannot have gone
far.’
The Mole acknowledged with a nod, giving the Angiri a friendly pat on
the back before they soared into the sky. The poor Angiri had no idea what
was about to happen--no one in the vanguard did, except for the Mole.

The streets were littered with the dead: dogs, monkeys and decomposing
Darkborns, even cats and owls. Ambulances and municipality vans were
busy all over--with so many wounded and a lot many dead--both man and
beast.
The animal remains were not an issue but the personnel were having a
hard time with the cadavers of the men in dark uniforms. Their bodies
were in various stages of liquefaction and decomposition, the reeking
fluids seeping through the cracks and crevices along the streets. The
personnel were equipped with stretchers and body-bags but no mops or
pails.
A toothless hag limping on a cane told Ashwamedh and the other Angiris
with him in a crackling, harried tone, ‘I tell you, the Devil has marked this
town in his damned sight. The animals had all gone mad, violent, masked
men running around with swords and guns; all those explosions and
screams. The Devil has marked this town, did I tell you?’
The Angiris had found the lodge where the nameless Oorja-born had
stayed. Some guests there claimed to have witnessed a pale, mad woman
swinging two identical swords. There had also been a tall man with her, as
they gathered.
‘The description fits,’ an Angiri spoke in a hushed tone, ‘the Manushyas
saw Dhwani: long hair, skilled at swordplay, sickly and wounded. Which
means the one being pursued to the east would be Jayant.’
‘The tall Manushya with this pale woman: if it is his life-force that the
trackers sense...’ Another one said. ‘A Manushya, yet with a life force
unlike a human: what are we missing here?’
‘A Nephilim--that is what he is.’ Ashwamedh said. ‘There can be no
other explanation. Sometime after the Second Fall, an Angiri and a
Manushya mated but we never got to know about it. We have to find him,
lest the Asuras lay their filthy hands upon him--provided they have not
already.’
A psychic ping called the five Angiris to attention. All over the city,
others of the vanguard answered the call, converging upon a site located
farther north, at the edge of Mandi.
It was a sparsely populated avenue with tidy cottages and well-tended
lawns--mostly empty for the season. The local authorities had still not
discovered the carnage along the avenue.
The Darkborns were turning into sludge right before their eyes, but there
were two whose torsos were still somewhat whole, showing shattered
skulls and spines. One had the entire lower portion beneath the waist,
missing. The stretch of the road was covered in leaves and broken
branches--as if a storm had passed that way--and bullet-casings; the two
dogs and the three monkeys seemingly hidden beneath the windfall.
‘It was no tooth and claw but a being possessed of brute strength that did
this.’ Ashwamedh said, observing the broken remains.
A glint of metal caught his attention. The object levitated at his will,
dripping fat drops of the stinking bloody sludge: a bronze medallion small
enough to fit in his palm. There was a symbol painted upon the bloodied
face.
 ‘The trail disappears up ahead,’ Vikrant appeared over his shoulder as the
medallion hovered and spun before Ashwamedh. ‘Our quarry certainly
passed this way but it is hard to say whether they escaped or the Asuras
caught up to them.’
The others were returning after their aerial and ground surveys. There
was nothing to report; no scent of passage or clear footprints, not even a
bent blade of grass to mark the quarry’s path.

They decided to rest and gather their bearings on the highest hill in the
vicinity, its slopes clad in pines and sub-alpine scrub.
Most of the Angiris were meditating beneath the trees dotting the hill-
top. The others, including Dhwani’s three acolytes, stood watch along the
perimeter. Ashwamedh and Vikrant stood to one side, devising a way to
track the Nephilim and Dhwani.
They had arrived at the conclusion that perhaps the Artifact that had
brought the Angiris to Prithvi, was not in the east, with Jayant; the Grace-
less Angiri and the Nephilim seemed to be the likely candidates carrying
the Artifact.
Dhwani could not have entrusted her inexperienced acolyte with such
task. Ashwamedh and Vikrant both knew her well enough to infer she had
parted with Jayant only in a desperate bid. Elder Tamas needed to be
warned but their reach of mind was not wide enough to go that far--at least
not till after dawn. Sending word through two of the vanguard, seemed a
better choice.
‘But that would leave us two short,’ Ashwamedh was saying, ‘and even
though they would be flying high, there is no surefire guarantee no harm
will come to them. We should wait till sunrise, keep looking for the
Nephilim.’
The medallion was slowly spinning in the air between them: still
untouched, its one blood-smeared face bearing a dark, grotesque sigil.

‘You recognize this symbol, I presume?’ Ashwamedh asked.

 ‘The Asura sigil: how can I forget it?’ Vikrant replied, seemingly
mesmerized by the spinning medallion. ‘Last I saw, it had looked much
different. It resembled a bat, not some ancient demon’s skull. What
accursed creature it might be--a Nivataka, one of the Asura Trinity?’
But Ashwamedh did not respond. He stood peering into the shadows
beneath the trees to his right. Lights from Mandi twinkled through the gaps
between the trunks and intervening foliage. He could pick up the sounds
arising from Mandi, the distant droning splash-and-gurgle of the river
flowing through the settlement. But the crickets around them had ceased
their chirping blabber and night-song. An eerie silence hung over the
hillside.
Twigs snapped and Ashwamedh heard the faint movement on the slope
before the gagging odor hit him. At first he thought he was seeing animals
rushing at them, but soon he realized the creatures to be Manushya
children.
He looked into the eyes of a child as it lunged at him--the eyes were
black as pitch. The child-demons attacked from all sides.
Fire spells, hexes and flaming blades and spear-tips lit up the hilltop as
the horde--more than a hundred--attacked the Angiris from all sides.
Their attacks weakened as the circle of demon-midgets tightened, the
psychic connection between the Angiris began to get disrupted--till they
could no more work in coordination. It was as if the demon-children were
radiating inexplicable waves of some malevolence, inhibiting the flow of
Oorja to such a degree that their wings refused to open. The Angiris had so
far, fought the Darkborns on a number of occasions. But the ones attacking
them were a whole new breed, twice ferocious and suicidal as the adult
abominations.
The fifteen Angiris were flightless but not defenseless. Their sharp blades
streaked through the air even as they gathered in a defensive formation.
Helms extended from their collars, shields shaped themselves out of
gauntlets. They were able to hold their own for only a few minutes when
fighting broke out within their own ranks.
Ashwamedh turned in time to see three Angiris--the acolytes of Dhwani--
blindly turning on their own. The surprise attack broke their formation and
the damned children surged forward.
He at first thought the acolytes, under Neel’s influence, had turned upon
them. They attacked without mercy or thought.
‘They have gone insane!’ An Angiri said, before his chest was caved in
by the impact of an acolyte’s mace. The Darkborns tore into him the
moment the former fell onto the ground.
 Ashwamedh gritted his teeth, silenced the voice of his conscience as
another acolyte tried to stab him. He retaliated without remorse as spells
exploded and the demon midgets and Angiris went down around him.
Right before he plunged his sword into the acolyte’s heart, he saw the
dazed vacuum in his eyes—like he was in a trance, not even aware of
where he was, or of the sword he was swinging through the air.
‘They are bound by the vashikaran mantra!’
They were under someone’s spell but it was not Neel. The spell could
only be cast by someone within close distance.
At Ashwamedh’s instruction, an Angiri bolted away, leaping over the
midgets to gain distance and evade their Oorja-inhibiting radius. He
clambered up a tall tree with an ape’s agility and took flight, the wingspan
extending with a flap and trailing fire, bound for the plains to get word to
Tamas and the rest.
A lightning-bolt crackled to Ashwamedh’s left and zapped towards the
fleeing Angiri. His shields disintegrated the second the bolt struck him,
blowing his body into smithereens. Bits of flesh rained upon them.
‘The Vajra!’ screamed another Angiri.
‘Our apologies, brother, but you can’t be allowed to send others word.’
the hissing voice made Ashwamedh look to the Astradhari: a tall, dark
silhouette standing over dead Angiris and demon midgets. His aura had
darkened to a grey-black pall, unrecognizable from that of the Angiri he
had been pretending to be, seconds ago.
A cold realization swept over Ashwamedh like some freezing spell
enveloping him in ice. The Mole was with us all this time, while we were
busy blaming someone else, he thought.
Ashwamedh and the remaining four of the vanguard of fifteen, rushed at
him with swords poised for strike. The midgets did not venture close to the
Mole, they noticed.
The heat from the Vajra bolt had desiccated his clay-mask. It cracked as
he laughed and fell away in chunks and bits. He did not resemble the
brother-in-arms Ashwamedh had known since centuries. In all honesty, he
did not even look like an Angiri.
The Mole’s thin, chapped lips moved ever so slightly and another
lightning-bolt flickered in his right hand.
‘It was an honor knowing you all.’ Snake Voice said, swinging the Vajra
at the Angiris.

The thirteen Angiris were unrecognizable, nothing but charred hunks and
devastated, half-chewed bodies and entrails. The ones struck by the Vajra
had their molten suits clinging to the blackened, fleshless bones in globs
and webs.
Only one Angiri had survived--barely--burnt and bleeding all over,
crawling on the ground and moaning in agony. He murmured healing
spells in ragged breaths, but to no avail.
Close to seventy Darkspawns prowled the hilltop like hungry hyenas,
circling the dead Angiris and midgets. Many were limping and hobbling on
the ragged stumps of their limbs, wounded from their short clash with the
Angiris; lacking fingers, limbs or chunks of their faces--and yet feeling no
pain.
When the two adult Darkborns arrived, they parted like tamed cats, to let
them through.
Although the Mole hated the Asuras and their abominations, he felt
impressed by the stealthy killing machines they had created in the form of
the midgets without auras.
Bheeshm’s killer looked up from the Angiri crawling away from him.
The eyes of the Darkborns were dark holes between the slit of their masks,
just like that of the midgets.
‘Have you brought what I asked?’ he demanded in his hissing voice.
One of the Asuras removed his mask as they approached. The Mole
winced: where the Darkborn’s nose should have been, was a pair of
ragged, gaping holes for nostrils. Air wheezed in and out of the orifices.
The way his skin sagged indicated that the Manushya form had reached its
maximum limits to contain the demon blood.
‘You look worn-out.’ The Mole japed.
‘You look at mirror when last?’ the unmasked Asura rasped, pulling his
obsidian eyes away from the nearly-dead Angiri as he was reaching for a
sword a few feet away. ‘You look like us--only much worse.’ He
chuckled.
His partner tittered hoarsely and bobbed his head, like a half-witted fool
that finds a lame joke a stroke of hilarity.
‘Your King promised something.’ The Mole ignored the jibe and the
masked Darkborn’s brutish laughter.
The Asura glared at him for a second before patting his masked
companion’s shoulder. The latter stopped laughing. He seemed to
remember something as his companion shook him again, and slowly, he
produced a can of Bold Spice shaving-foam from inside a deep pocket of
his uniform.
The nose-less Asura took it and twisted the can’s bottom. It opened with
a pressurized hiss of escaping air. The nozzle at the top was pressed either
by accident or intentionally, spitting forth a spray of foam that fell upon
the Mole’s shoe. The masked Asura guffawed again, but the Mole was
least bothered by his laughter.
He received the can with a hungry beggar’s delight--or more accurately,
like the addict who has gone without his poison for a long time.
The top came loose in his hand. The bottom held seven circular slots
holding seven cylindrical phials. Only two contained a dark, squirming
muck the Mole desired. The rest of the phials were empty, beaded with
moisture and cold to touch--courtesy the inbuilt cooling system of the
container.
It was seeing the empty phials that incensed the Mole--a jest in bad taste,
given his current situation. ‘Where’s the rest?’
‘Only this to give,’ the Darkborn replied. He unstrapped a satellite phone
from his belt and displayed it to the Mole. ‘For more, you talk…to Red
King, I call.’
He punched a number and handed over the device to him. The Mole
clenched his teeth in anger. The other Darkborn was not laughing and that
was some relief.
‘You failed to meet your end of the bargain.’ The Mole hissed the instant
the call went through.
‘What a show that was, my friend! You continue to surprise me with
your prowess.’ A smooth male voice replied, dripping with sophistication.
‘We are no friends, Dutta, not by a long shot. Where are the remaining
five phials?’
‘Oh, but you wrote seven phials, without clarifying if they were all to
contain Halāhal. And as you can see...my soldiers, they are not exactly
bright.’
The Mole’s fists tightened, nails digging into his palm. He put a lid on
his temper as he spoke. ‘It won’t last us long, not in our present state. This
is an emergency.’
Dutta paused. ‘Ah, yes. I gather you’re wounded. It must have been the
wards in the Legion safe-house, where you murdered Bheeshm.’
The Mole had told no one about his injury yet the Red King had managed
to figure it out. How was that possible?
‘From how I see it, you don’t need long to complete this task,’ the lord of
the Asuras resumed, his tone becoming businesslike and serious. ‘The
Brahmāstra is right within your reach. By my guess you should have it by
sunset--even earlier, if we get to locate the Angiri and the Nephilim. They
are hiding somewhere in the hills for now, but they’re bound to step out of
their hole.’
‘We were right behind them. You could’ve waited instead of attacking
them,’ Snake Voice hissed. ‘If not for the fruitless meddling of your
infernal servants the Brahmāstra would be in our hands by now.’
Dutta uttered a scornful laugh. ‘Trust me, my meddling saved you a
whole world of pain, my friend. My servants took the damage but now we
have learned something vital. Legion is employing a secret weapon: this
huge brute that can control the animals. It’s because of him the Astra
bearers escaped my Darkborns. He’s something else, mind you, unlike any
Angiri or man I have ever seen: quick and powerful, a living, breathing
tank. Perhaps you should be thanking me.’
‘The brute will be out of our way and yours, permanently.’ It felt
satisfying, empowering to say it: confidence borne out of the knowledge
that the Mole had a small but effective arsenal of spells and a Daivik Astra
that could bring down even the Kraken--if there was one still alive
somewhere in the depths of the oceans.
‘We expect the rest of the phials at the time of delivery, along with the
promised consignment of Halāhal. If this condition isn’t met, there will be
either of two consequences: either the Brahmāstra will be lost forever or it
just might end up in the hands of my people, who will no doubt go on to
use its lethal power to wipe out your kind eventually. In any case, the
choice is up to you.’
‘You have grown quite the spine in the years since you were my guest.’
Dutta replied in mock appreciation. ‘We have a deal then: you bring the
Astra--all three pieces, mind you,’ he heartily chuckled, ‘the phials will be
waiting for you. And take the children along. They can do wonders for
you, as you may have seen. Taming them should not be a problem, given
your charming personality. I’ll be watching you, my friend. Look up, wave
me goodbye now.’
He surveyed the sky nervously, till he picked up the circling drone. The
Mole disconnected the phone, reining in the impulse to crush the device.
His worries and anxiety disappeared when he raised one of the phials at
eye level and studied the tar-like contents. The fluid surface moved and
squirmed like it was alive. His eyes filled with a strange lust, unaware of
the Asuras observing him.
He doffed his long coat and raised his left arm. The sleeve of his kavach
suit peeled away, revealing the raw spots on his thickly-veined, pale skin.
The plunger punched into the chin with a shocking bolt of pain, followed
by the familiar blissful warmth that seeped into his bloodstream--even
better than the Mead of Madh the Angiris brewed during festivities. A
moan escaped his lips.
His throbbing scar settled to a bearable beat, his wits sharpened within a
minute of the intake. He took a deep breath before opening his eyes. A
groan sounded behind him.
The mortally-wounded Angiri had his fingers clawed around a sword’s
hilt, a gemstone pulsing with an emerald glow cupped in the other palm.
The Mole crouched upon his haunches near the struggling figure.
‘We are so sorry it came to this, Ashwamedh, but trust our word it is
better that your path ends here. ’
Ashwamedh’s lidless eyes fluttered around in the sockets as he tried
raising his sword. The Mole flicked it aside with an eye movement before
snatching away the gemstone for himself. He touched the dying Angiri’s
forehead and willed his mind to wade into Ashwamedh’s memories,
digging deeper and deeper till he had located the core of his conscious, the
origin of his ebbing life force.
Clutching the gemstone in his fist, he muttered a complex spell. The
Asuras watched mystified as a shimmer appeared within the emerald. The
Mole channeled the energy absorbed from Ashwamedh’s living Oorja into
the stone, while the latter convulsed and lay still.
The Mole rose to face the Asuras. His pallor was still whiter than
alabaster, the blackened veins on his neck and face visible in all their
malice. But his eyes shone a venomous green, a lunatic smile played on his
lips. The nose-less Asura would have said something but he chose to keep
his cutting remark to himself.
He was right to do so, for the next moment the Mole moved in a blur of
speed. The Darkborn was splashed with the cold, thick blood of his dumb-
mute companion.
Where the masked brute stood now remained only a pair of limbs and a
tattered half of an abdomen. Then the legs crumpled on the ground with a
wet thud, right next to the blood-drenched Darkborn.
The Mole turned away, located the circling drone. He waved then, trying
to imagine the look on the Red King’s face.
 Chapter 29
The Steed of Metal

Daksh’s funeral would have been the fourth funeral in Abhay’s life. But
Vanraj insisted that he and Dhwani go back and rest in the cellar.
‘I’m afraid to say but there’s another journey for you on the cards. You
both will be in need of your strength and wits. Make rest your weapon.’ He
had said before turning away to help a grieving Anupama and Dhanush
gather woods for Daksh’s pyre.
Abhay had wanted to stay, not out of courtesy but because he felt for the
mother-son duo, especially for Dhanush. He could empathize with the kid.
Daksh was going to remain just a voice for his son, a memory--he realized
as he sat down beside Dhwani in the empty cellar.
The room was unnaturally warm after the outside chill. Even as he tried
to stay awake and talk to Dhwani, weariness began to creep over him. He
dozed off without realizing, resting his forehead upon the cradle of his
arms.
If he was exhausted then Dhwani was well beyond the stage of
exhaustion, walking the precarious edge between numb, muddled
awareness and the constant urge to sleep. But fear seemed to have gripped
her in the last few hours: the fear that if she closed her eyes, she might
never wake up.
Waves of pain surfed onto her thoughts then receded, while she bit on her
tongue or pressed her thumb against the sharp tip of the dagger-like
extension of Uttara’s crossguard. Her body and mind were screaming in
unison that it would not hurt to lie down, just for a bit. Her eyes kept
shifting between Abhay--now lightly snoring--and the bunk bed in the first
cell, visible through a gap in the worn but clean curtains.
Sleep was not an option, Dhwani reminded herself, stirring herself awake
even as her eyelids fluttered. Like the unpredictable advance of the sea
tide, her cuts and wounds beneath the bandages lanced her simultaneously,
making her squirm and grip the edge of the table.
She forced her feet to comply and started walking around the cellar,
hoping it would help her stay awake. Her head seemed to weigh a ton and
it felt like she was moving on stilts. Dhwani tried to distract herself by
examining the belongings and knick-knacks, every contraption and
comfort made by the Manushyas. When staying still for long became
cumbersome and discomforting, she unsheathed Uttara without making
much sound and began to practice; swaying and slashing at invisible
enemies. Her movements felt unusually slow, her injuries burned.
When Vanraj returned, close to an hour had passed. He found Dhwani
sprawled upon a table, her face sweaty and waxen. She had taken off her
Manushya clothing and the kavach suit made her emaciated frame stand
out. She was mumbling something, and so was Abhay but unlike the latter,
Dhwani seemed trapped in some nightmare. A part of her was resisting,
trying to awaken her but all she could manage to do was tremble and jerk
where she lay. Her voice rose, became urgent as she warded off some
imaginary foe.
Abhay jerked upright, looking around in panic till he saw Vanraj walking
up to Dhwani. There were three monkeys behind him, two of them
bloodied and wounded, their fur singed in places. Vanraj set down
something heavy upon the table but Abhay did not see it till later.
He almost watched it slack-jawed as Vanraj touched two fingers on her
forehead and seconds hence, Dhwani was sucked out of her nightmare.
Her eyes jerked open. Vanraj’s hulking presence seemed to alarm her for a
second and her hand groped for the sword before she recognized him and
settled down. Wiping the sweat off her face, she hoisted herself on her
elbows.
In the mellow glow of the lanterns the veins spreading along her temples
looked wicked and black. Her slender neck was thick with their root-like
growth.
Abhay tried to convince himself that she would be fine. But it sounded
like a lie, far from comforting. He had closely witnessed her gradual
decline, her skin losing color and vitality with each passing hour. It felt
selfish to think of it that way, but he had come to feel safer with Dhwani at
his side.
Now that Vanraj had mentioned they had another journey to make, he
pleaded to the universe to grant her strength for what lay ahead. The idea
of doing it all by himself--whatever Vanraj had in mind to save the
Brahmāstra--was all at once horrific, scary and unimaginable.
Vanraj had brought peaches and sweet-berries that grew over the hillside,
for the animals. He served the animals the fruits in bowls while Dhwani
gained her bearing. From one of the cells, he procured a first-aid kit for the
monkeys.
Dhwani volunteered to tend to their wounds. Abhay watched her
delicately caressing and crooning to one of the wounded animals, before
his eyes set upon the bag Vanraj had placed upon the table.
It was his backpack--now heavily frayed and blood-spattered--still
stuffed to capacity, the outline of the heavy Book of Dwij stretching the
fabric taut on both sides.
‘How did you find it?’ Abhay asked with a glee he had not felt in a long,
long time. The Book looked unharmed; the gauntlet untouched, its dull
metallic sheen identical to that of Uttara’s blade--he had forgotten all
about them, especially the latter.
‘Our little friends here managed to salvage them from the room at the
lodge, before the cops could find it.’ Vanraj spoke from behind the rows of
overhanging roots and garlic strung over the kitchen counter.
He was cooking something on the portable gas stove. The cellar was
filling up fast with a minty odor. He stood just on the other side of the
lanterns, yet his frame seemed no less shadowy as before--only the snowy
beard visible on his face and those huge hands that seemed to weigh as
much as the Book before him.
‘What are you waiting for? Go ahead, try it on. And take that shirt off. It
would be more comfortable that way, on bare flesh.’ His voice boomed
over the boiling hiss of whatever he was making.
Abhay raised an eyebrow even as he picked up the gauntlet, feeling its
light make and the fine lines and striations upon the Ashtadhatu, strangely
warm to touch. His gaze stuck at a series of runes on what he guessed to be
the underside.
‘Any idea what’s written here?’ Abhay tapped upon the gauntlet to
produce a gong-like vibration.
Dhwani was done attending the wounded monkeys. She took the gauntlet
to see what Abhay was talking about. It was a lost script, a language
spoken by a number of races between mid-Satyuga and early Dwapar.
‘The Gauntlets of Prachanda… belong to… Sugreev of Kish-kindha…
Lord of the Vanaras, First of His Name.’ Dhwani read jerkily.
Vanraj hummed in agreement. ‘I didn’t know the gauntlet had a name.
Bheeshm just told me to whom it originally belonged to.’
With Prachanda being the only exception, Abhay was no stranger to the
words: Sugreev, Kishkindha, Vanaras.
The Ramayana described the Vanara to be anthropoids, closer to the apes
in appearance but no less intelligent than Manushyas; in crude terms, an
evolved race of simians that could speak and think as well as humans.
A particular Vanara was even worshipped as a god to this day. Sugreev’s
brother Bali ruled their heartland kingdom of Kishkindha, till madness
took over him following a battle with the Asuras. He turned against his
brother, thereby exiling Sugreev after laying forceful claim over his wife
and kingdom. Lord Ram helped Sugreev win back his wife and the throne
of Kishkindha by slaying Bali with rather unfair means. And in return, the
newly anointed King Sugreev provided Ram with his Vanara troops in the
war against Raavan.
‘We Angiris have certainly never heard of the Gauntlets of Prachanda,
but we remember much about Sugreev’s legendary strength during the
siege of Lanka. Songs have been sung about the elephantine might of his
arms--now I know why.’ Dhwani said, stepping towards Vanraj. ‘Where is
the other gauntlet?’
‘Lost, like much of the history of the world gone by.’ He said, finally
stepping forth with a mug of the potion. The cup looked minuscule
between his thick, callused fingers. ‘Drink it. It is an Ayurvedic Rasayana.
Might not be as palatable or strengthening as the Somaras, but it should
help take off some pain.’
Vanraj sat down in his original position--his back to the lanterns so that
his face remained in the shadows--making the legs of the bench creak in
protest. Pulling out a wrinkled, folded sheet from underneath his sweater,
he urged Abhay to wear the gauntlet of Prachanda.
The cylindrical bore of the gauntlet could have fit around Vanraj’s
forearm easily but it loosely hung around the much thinner right arm of
Abhay, leaving enough space to accommodate his other forearm. He raised
his arm to make it slide down his elbow till it was resting against his bicep.
He was not so sure but it seemed as if the metal in contact with his skin
had grown warmer. How was he going to wear the outsized thing when it
would not even fit?
Abhay was about to take off the gauntlet, wondering why Vanraj had
asked him to wear it in the first place, when it did something unexpected.
The metal shrank within his fingers with an unnatural rate, clamping down
on his forearm with a hot iron grip.
He staggered backward in surprise, toppling the bench. His aural-vision
lit up without warning.
The animals jumped, sensing his panic and would have bolted for the
door if not for the thunder of Vanraj’s voice.
‘Hold still, Abhay. It won’t eat you.’
Abhay’s first reaction had been to think the gauntlet was some kind of
trap he had been asked to wear. But then he noticed the metal starting to
flow in rills and thick strands, like mercury--the way the fabric of the
kavach suit moved over Dhwani’s skin. The liquid metal tickled his arm as
it flowed up his arm, slipped over and around his fingers. Within seconds
the sookshm particles had encased his right hand from fingertips to
shoulder.
 ‘What is this thing?’ his voice came out dry in a dry rasp as he tested the
movement of his arms; he had been asking the question a lot lately, he
realized.
The Ashtadhatu had morphed into flexible joints at the elbow, wrist and
fingers. It glowed like pure silver in his aural-vision.
‘From what little I know, it’s an exquisite work of metallurgy and spells
hailing back to times when gods walked this earth.’ Vanraj said. ‘Beyond
that, I have no idea. I doubt even you can make much of it, Lady, can
you?’ Dhwani pursed her lips, shook her head. ‘But if I were you, Abhay,
I’d be careful while handling stuff or shaking hands. It multiplies the
wearer’s strength manifold.’
Abhay felt dizzy, his mind riding a rollercoaster: for him the line between
reality and myth had blurred to nothing, in a matter of days.
The gauntlet was almost-weightless yet the story behind it seemed to
endow it substance. He considered himself too unworthy to wield
Murtaza’s baton, much less a gauntlet forged by some god and worn by a
being that had fought shoulder-to-shoulder with another.
‘I’d advise you to keep it on, let your arm get used to it. You will need it
if things go south--which I hope and pray wouldn’t come to it.’ Vanraj
beckoned them closer as he unfolded a wrinkled, crushed map and spread
it on the table, rubbing his wide palm along its surface.
The full glimpse of the Big Guy’s hand took him back to the statue of
Ram in the hidden room within his father’s study: the hand impression, the
maker’s mark. Did Vanraj sculpt the masterpiece?
The oily paper became flawless and smooth as if the wrinkles and lines
had never been there. The map was hand drawn, with diligent attention to
details, showing a roads winding through a terrain of dense contours
depicting the mountains, a blue serpentine wiggle of a river. Dhwani was
already busy studying it.
‘Dhwani, you should wear this. I know nothing about fighting except
punching and kicking. You’ll make good use of it.’ Abhay said, rubbing
the knuckles of metal against his left palm. Dhwani had come to take the
particular nuance as a sign of Abhay’s preoccupation or anxiety.
‘I have my suit and its reserves of Oorja to defend me. What do you
have? The gauntlet will help you punch your way through trouble.’ She
stated the practical aspect without disengaging her gaze from the map.
Abhay relented.
Vanraj explained them the route that would bring them to their
destination--a lone banyan tree by a river bend, about six hours further in
the upper reaches of the mountain country. Abhay tried his best to
remember the details.
‘Land or sky, threat can come from anywhere and everywhere. It’s a
hard, dangerous country, the roads turn narrow and broken from this point
onward. A small town and three villages along this stretch, before you
enter the mountain pass.’
From the pocket of his baggy trousers, Vanraj produced a sliver of metal-
-a thin tube no bigger than Abhay’s index and placed it over the
destination.
‘It’s an ultrasonic whistle,’ he told them, ‘use it when you’ve reached this
spot. Someone will come to escort you the rest of the way, right till the
sanctuary deep within the mountains where the Brahmāstra can be safe
and well-protected. And also,’ he looked at Dhwani, ‘you will find
something that can counter the effect of the Halāhal, cure your pain, once
and for all. This way, we can kill two birds with one stone.’
‘What cure is it?’ she asked. Dhwani could not see his face but she
thought he was smiling.
She had resigned to her fate, stopped bothering about the poison affecting
her, killing her slowly. She had already accepted there was no escaping
death and now Vanraj was telling her there existed a way out--a possibility
that not only the Brahmāstra could be secured but she could also avoid a
visit from the Reaper of Souls; all in the same place, the sanctuary Vanraj
had mentioned.
‘You’ll know when you’ll see it, Lady Angiri. You are definitely not the
first of your ilk to be afflicted by the Halāhal. Abhay’s mother had to go
through a similar ordeal. She chose a different way to cure herself, but I
doubt you’d want to go down that path.’
Kaya’s unrecognizable, shrunken face flashed before Dhwani; her weak,
shriveled form lying at rest within her diamond sarcophagus. She took a
deep breath, deciding she had no intention to make the choice that Kaya
did.
With the movement of his head, his spell-mask shifted like the ink blots
in a Rorschach Test. The creature before her was like a living, breathing
mystery, a knower of certain lore and legends not even the Angiris knew.
How the fireflies wreathed him, she thought. There was more to Vanraj
than an old Manushya with mystic abilities of mind and fearsome strength.
Unlike Abhay, she was not surprised when Vanraj announced his
departure a few minutes later. Dhwani had already inferred he would not
be accompanying her and Jayant.
‘There is something I need to do, someplace I need to be.’ He said,
walking towards the doors of the cellar. His head almost touched the
ceiling.
‘But what could be more important than the Brahmāstra? I thought you’ll
be accompanying us till the very end.’ Abhay said. He had hoped to know
more about his parents on the road.
‘I wish that were possible, Abhay. Even I want to tell you their story at
length but the circumstances won’t permit me. The lives of several
Legionnaires in the field matter more than the Brahmāstra. Since the day
Bheeshm died the Asuras have declared open war on the Legion across the
globe. Then there is the matter of arranging for your safe passage ahead. I
cannot assure you a smooth, uneventful journey but I’ll do my best to see
nothing goes wrong. If all goes well, we shall soon meet again and talk at
length till I have told everything to you.’
Dhwani stayed back while Abhay accompanied Vanraj outside, ill at ease
with the Big Guy’s sudden departure. The world was still dark and there
was a column of smoke rising above the trees along the hillside to their
left--the pyre of Daksh. A few stars had paid a late visit, peeping in
through the clouds.
‘Keep your nose straight and don’t linger in one place for long.’ Vanraj
told him.
Abhay half-listened, rubbing his metal-sheathed knuckles against his
palm. Vanraj appeared to be a dark, broad pillar beside him, only his
snow-white beard and streaming locks of hair visible of his looming
figure. He had struck fear in Abhay’s heart before, now his shadowy
towering presence infused a sense of safety--like a shelter within the
storm. Abhay was loath to part, to lose the sense of safety.
‘You said something about Ma: that she chose another way to cure
herself. It was...it was the union between my parents, wasn’t it?’
Vanraj stopped some five feet from the cellar opening. With a deep sigh
he said, ‘You two remind me of the time I met Bheeshm and Kaya. They
were in a situation not much different from yours--as I earlier said, the
Brahmāstra had brought them together too, in a way. Kaya gave up her
Grace both out of desperation and love--she did not have the option
Dhwani has, the cure’s existence wasn’t known. I doubt she would’ve
taken such step had it been another man instead of Bheeshm.
‘Their union didn’t cure her entirely, you see. It nullified the Asura
poison to a limit, so as to keep her alive and healthy--till you were born. It
was after she became a mother and her Grace left her fully that the
Halāhal’s dormant effects manifested and attacked her immunity. It won’t
happen to Dhwani. This elixir that is her cure--the antidote against the
Asura poison--will not restore her Grace but it should cleanse her body to
the last drop of the Halāhal.’
He waved over his shoulder and set off towards the south-facing slope of
the hill. Abhay walked back into the cellar before he realized he had
forgotten to ask Vanraj about how to take off the gauntlet--and about the
statue of Ram.
He turned around, ran back up the stairs but Vanraj was gone. He called
out for him, running to the edge of trees. Only a bird twittered in response,
heralding the imminent dawn, shortly joined by more birdsongs along the
hillside.
‘Abhay?’ he heard his name and turned around. Anupama and Dhanush
had returned.
‘Vanraj was here one moment and then he just disappeared.’ He replied,
walking towards the woman and child, confused by the Big Guy’s quick
exit.
‘He has a knack for disappearing like that. You’ll get used to it, in time.’
It was the longest sentence Anupama had spoken in the three hours or so
since Abhay and Dhwani had arrived.

‘You should change into fresh clothes. You’re bound to attract attention
if you go out like this. Let me see what I can find. Dhanush, warm some
water, please.’ Anupama disappeared into one of the cells while her son
obeyed without question.
Abhay realized she was right. With their coats and jackets torn and burnt
and trousers scraped and dirty, he and Dhwani looked the part of fugitives
on the run.
‘Buddy, let me help you.’ He told Dhanush as the kid was setting up a
copper container upon the stove.
‘I’m fine, thank you,’ The kid mumbled, giving him a tired, sad smile.
Abhay could see his mother through a slight gap between the curtains.
Anupama was kneeling by an open trunk, holding a grey sweater against
her face, breathing deeply into it. He looked away, to honor the grieving
woman’s privacy.
When the kid had set down two stainless-steel basins of hot-water in the
unoccupied cells, Anupama stepped out with a thick stack of woolens for
Abhay and Dhwani. The grey sweater she had been sniffing at was at the
top.
Abhay washed and changed, noticing his face in a small rectangular
mirror hanging on the cell-wall. He felt the stubble against his fingers and
thin diagonal cut on the underside of his right jaw. Abhay was sure there
had been more cuts and singed spots all over his face not two hours ago.
There were other bruises and scrapes that he had suffered on his limbs and
shoulders that seemed to have disappeared within hours.
Snip-snip-snip: went a pair of scissors on the other side of the wall where
Dhwani was getting ready in the next cell. His clothes smelled of stale
tobacco, underlined by the musk of the sweater’s owner. He wore the grey
sweater beneath a thick corduroy coat, black and well-worn. They belong
to Daksh, Abhay thought. A pair of stiff, brown leather gloves ensured
nothing was visible of the gauntlet on his right hand.
Abhay found Dhanush at the table where Vanraj had sat. He was
sketching, his pencil-tip blunt with the furious friction against paper. It
was a vivid, appealing rendition of a wolf, its snout raised up to the sky,
possibly towards the moon the kid may or may not draw.
‘It’s beautiful.’ He commented, trying to penetrate the kid’s shell of
silence.
Dhanush acknowledged with a smile and resumed shading the wolf’s
bristling fur in confident waving motions, like he could see each strand of
hair in his mind. He was pouring all that he felt into the artwork. His
sword in its black sheath--a shorter twin of his mother’s Japanese blade--
was lying at his elbow. Abhay had no doubts the kid sported it not like
some toy, but as a weapon worthy of respect. Probably Dhanush was far
more skilled with it than Abhay would ever be with Murtaza’s weapon.
He had been inducted into a strange world, Abhay thought, where
children had swords instead of toys and Death was no stranger to a nine-
year-old.
He heard Anupama’s voice before her footsteps rang on the stairs. She
had finished a call, judging by the cell-phone in her hand and her ashen
expression.
‘You two cannot wait till after sunrise, Vanraj says you’ll have to leave
right away.’ She collected her sword and a flashlight, beckoning her son to
put on his boots. ‘The Book of Dwij is no more your concern, leave it here.
I and Dhanush will take it back to the Stronghold.’
Dhwani had undergone a drastic transformation when she entered the
hall, having heard Anupama. Her long hair was gone, clipped short to fully
reveal her slender neck.
Abhay realized she had emulated the same look his mother sported in the
photograph inside his wallet, after Dhwani had noticed her hair was
beginning to fall. The black veins on her temples had spread to her cheek,
another crawled up her chin like a cleft. She looked weak and vulnerable
without her long locks, the dark circles around her eyes more prominent
than ever.
The eastern sky was tinged with a faint pre-dawn glow when they left the
hilltop. Mother and son led the way, swords slung on the shoulders. Abhay
had the baton tucked in the small of his back while Dhwani had strapped
on the scabbard--swaddled in a shawl up to the hilt for concealment in
broad daylight.
‘Did Vanraj call you, just now?’ Abhay asked.
‘The animals found charred bodies on a hill not far away. Vanraj says a
battle took place there, between a number of Angiris and some new breed
of Darkborns--child-demons. He found the charred remains of your
people--thirteen of them, all unrecognizable. Creating soldiers out of
children: the Asuras outdid themselves this time, it would appear.’
Anupama unconsciously held her son’s hand as they proceeded down the
tree-clad slopes. ‘You will have to be extra cautious on the road, he said. I
have already alerted a few operatives en route to your current destination.
They will watch out for you, flag you down if there’s any danger.
Remember the password: Aham Brahma Asmi. Do not trust anyone till you
them say these words.’
‘Dead Angiris and Darkborns,’ Dhwani murmured as they walked, ‘it
does not bode well. My people were almost on to us and then they died. It
sounds so convenient.’
The bit about the charred remains of the Angiris was troubling her more
than anything else. The kavach suits were meant to ensure nothing
remained of the wearer but ash--a kind of self-destruct mechanism that
came into effect when the wearer died.
‘Vanraj suspects it was some advanced weaponry that smote your
people--perhaps, one of the Astras. Their kavach suits had melted from an
intense heat and there were scavenging animals prowling the scene when
Vanraj got there. He will see to it that your people are given a proper send-
off.’
Dhwani knew of no weapon that could melt the Angiri suit. Ashtadhatu
could withstand even the surface temperature of the sun. Each suit was
armored by spell-shields that could endure all weapons known to man and
Asura.
‘Unless it was a Daivik Astra…’ the words tumbled out of her lips as her
mind played the image of the Mole, wielding the lightning bolt.
Abhay gave her a questioning glance. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘The way my people died...it might be that there was a fourteenth Angiri.
I was thinking what could be hotter than the sun’s surface, to have melted
the kavach suit…’
 ‘A lightning bolt is hotter than--’ Abhay halted in his steps at the
realization. ‘The Mole killed them!’
Dhwani nodded. They resumed their trek, with Anupama and Dhanush
some ten paces ahead, talking in low voices. Abhay could hear them as
clear as the birds awakening the woods; he knew it for a fact his hearing
had not been this good till last night. For close to ten minutes they traveled
a narrow weathered trail rising and falling along the hillside.
Anupama and Dhanush stopped when they came upon an overhanging
outcrop of cumbrous boulders. Beneath their considerable shade a glint of
metal outlined curving handlebars jutting from a heavy but sleek shape of
a bike: it was Vanraj’s ride.
Vanraj had said that Anupama would find a suitable vehicle for them.
But that it would be his own bike was the last thing Abhay had expected.
‘This is Vanraj’s steed,’ Dhwani remarked, lightly running a hand along
the body, the rise and fall of its spine resembling the graceful back of some
lioness. The word Dhwani had used suited better, he realized--a steed it
was and not any ordinary bike.
Abhay examined it up close, marveling at the design and the bulk. The
paint job looked fresh--dark, like its rider’s clothes. It bore neither the
manufacturer’s logo, nor any other marking. The tires looked thicker than
that of a normal bike; a pair of rear-view mirrors reared from the
handlebars like a pair of futuristic robot eyes. He was not much into cars
or bikes, nor did he aspire to buy one in future; his driving license had
expired more than a year ago.
But for the first time in his life, he felt an urgency to hit the road on the
steed, feel its purr. Its sheer weight and sleek shape suggested a superior
aerodynamic balance: built for fast movement and efficiency and
customized to bear a rider weighing over three-hundred pounds. As a final
touch, runes and devices had been minutely engraved upon the handlebars
and the gas-tank.
Anupama handed over the key to Abhay while Dhwani helped the kid
remove two identical helmets from a large saddlebag strapped on the rear-
left.
‘It is the first time he has let anyone handle the bike, as far as I know,’
the Legionnaire said. ‘Your father--our Dwij--gifted it to Vanraj. Heavy as
its rider, and probably as fast, it was assembled and built at the Stronghold
by some of our young-bloods. I do not overstate when I say it may be one
of the fastest bikes on the planet.’
The engine purred to life with its trademark tympanic chatter, like some
predator growling. Dhwani climbed on the pillion behind Abhay, her toes
upon the ground balancing their combined weight against the heavier
metal steed.
‘We will pray for your success, Bheeshm-son and Dhwani.’ Anupama
said, nodding at each in turn with an earnest yet solemn expression. Young
Dhanush shook their hands, wishing them luck.
‘I hope to see you soon, buddy,’ Abhay smiled, patting him on the
shoulder. ‘Maybe when we meet again, you can teach me how to use a
sword.’
Abhay steered the bike on to the rocky but gradual gradient, winding past
the trees in their path. The twilight before dawn was revealing the world
like a dearly-held secret; clouds with darker underbellies hung above,
beginning to disintegrate in the morning wind.
The widow and her son became bright specks in the mirror until Abhay
took a bend and they were completely hidden from view. In the diffused
light of dawn, the path stretched hard and grey before them.
Twice, Abhay and Dhwani had managed to escape with the Brahmāstra
and with their lives. What were the odds they would escape a third time--
especially when they knew the Mole had killed the Angiris not far from
their hideout?
Dhwani was beginning to find it hard to believe her luck: that the cure
against the tormenting Halāhal was waiting for her at the end of her path;
that finally, she would be free of her burden. A moment without pain, no
weight on her shoulder--she had never looked forward to something with
such hope and desperation.
The air was cold, alive with the moist aroma of dew and petrichor and
wet leaves, a blessing upon her burning skin. The pain still stabbed her
every few minutes, like a malignant core full of spikes embedded in her
chest. But it had dulled since she had left the cellar, as if the Halāhal was
cowering deeper within her body with the coming of day.
Her thoughts went out to her acolyte who was toiling with challenges of
his own, far in the plains.
--Illustrations by the Author--
PART FOUR
 Chapter 30
At the Ghats of Kashi

Even as Abhay and Dhwani were setting out from the Legion outpost
Kant was dozing off in a chair, more than seven hundred miles away.
He was in the modest house of an old friend from his college days. The
said associate, an overweight gentleman in his late sixties, was loudly
snoring on the sofa next to Kant. Between them was a telephone on a low
stool. Kant had been waiting for a call from Abhay till he had willingly
bowed down to sleep. An ashtray on the coffee table before him was piled
high with ash and cigarette butts; the overhead fan stirred the mound,
scattering the ash all over while the two old men slept.
Jayant was breathing in the early morning air, perched atop the same
building, observing the western sky. The streets were beginning to stir
with the movement of hawkers distributing newspapers and milkmen on
bicycles. Dawn had come and gone about twenty minutes ago and the sky
over Kashi was welcoming the first rays of the sun. His tiny tracker-pods
were beginning to capture clear, real-time data, now that darkness had
escaped with its tail tucked between its hind legs. The Angiri cadre was
closing in fast from the north-west. Once they got near enough, Jayant
would need only his senses to track them from afar.

‘Rise, old man,’ someone whispered in Kant’s ears and gave his shoulder
an urgent but gentle shake. He opened his eyes, unaffected to find the
room to be empty except for himself and his slumbering colleague.
‘The sun has risen and my people are getting closer.’ Jayant whispered
close to his left.
‘Where are we going now?’ Kant asked, rubbing his eyes and yawning.
‘You are staying here. I am the one going.’
‘I thought we...’ his friend stirred and shifted on the sofa and Kant
lowered his voice, ‘I thought we were supposed to stick together!’
He went to the main door and stepped outside so as not to wake up his
host. It would not give a great impression if his friend woke up to find
Kant talking at thin air.
The door gently swung shut behind an invisible Jayant, the air shifted
before he revealed himself. The shield-of-invisibility collapsed: one
moment a shimmer in the air, the next, there stood the young Angiri with
the Oorja-cannon strapped to his back. He had removed his Manushya
clothing. His armor and form-fitting suit glinted dully along the chest and
the bulge of his shoulder and arms. His youthful-yet-scholarly mien looked
clouded with doubts.
‘There is nowhere to run,’ he said. ‘With the sun’s energy shining upon
the world, there is nothing that can stop my folks from finding me. It is
time I faced them, tried resolvings things in a peaceful manner. It is a risky
proposition but I should be able to make them see reason and reveal to
them the true traitor. I would not have awakened you, but I owe you a
farewell, for all that we have gone through, together. So I came.’
‘All this is, so sudden.’ Kant ran a hand over his bald pate, ruffling the
few vagrant locks. ‘Even Abhay hasn’t called yet, it worries me.’
‘I have been unable to detect him for some time. I will go after him and
Dhwani as soon as I can, once my people have been placated and the Mole
is unmasked.’ The sweeps from the tracker pods in the pre-dawn hours had
yielded no sign of either the unknown life form to the north--which Jayant
knew for a fact, was Abhay--or the detachment of Angiris tailing him and
Dhwani. As for dealing with his people and convincing them of Tamas’s
treachery--it was far easier said than done.
‘Where will you be facing them, if I may ask?’ Kant asked, attempting to
fill the uncomfortable silence of their abrupt farewell.
‘I will be waiting by the riverside. I cannot say about the Mole but others
would not want unnecessary bloodshed and violence while they are upon
the hallowed grounds. Perhaps I hope too much, but it is worth a shot.’
The ghats of Kashi were some two hundred meters away, east of the
neighborhood they were in.
Kant extended his right hand. Jayant took it after a second and they
shook warmly.
‘Good luck, boy. I will wait here, in case Abhay calls.’
‘If fortune favors we shall meet again, old man, in better circumstances.’
Jayant could see the flickering uncertainty in Kant’s aura. The Manushya
was reluctant to part, perhaps still wanting to accompany him. Jayant’s
eyes lingered upon the malignance pulsing within Kant--like dark
splotches of red-black ink along the inside lining of his lungs.
‘Life is a blessing, my friend. Do not add poison into your body any
further, if you can. Give up on those smoke sticks, go see a healer
before...before it gets worse. Your lungs need attention.’
He turned, stepped away from the porch. Before Kant could ask for
clarification, Jayant vanished with a spurt of blazing wings and a flash. A
blast of warm air struck the old man in the face.
 Your lungs need attention. Jayant had said it with an admonishing
certainty, like he knew for a fact something was wrong.
Kant stood looking at the limited view of the sky visible overhead
between the encroaching rooftops and tall apartments awash with the soft
yellow of the sunrays. He could hear people up and about in the
neighborhood, getting ready to start the day: a devotional song playing
from a loudspeaker, radios burbling in a nearby household, the tinkering
and clattering of kitchen utensils, flushing toilets--another day of a safe,
routine existence that involved no devastating weapons and creatures of
heaven and hell.
Kant’s weary seventy-year-old body wholeheartedly agreed to the idea of
such existence, longed to go back to it after the horrors of the previous
day.
But his heart told him otherwise. The safe, routine life he had been living
till two weeks ago paled in comparison to the things he had experienced
since the last conversation with Bheeshm. The Chakra, the twin blades, the
Angiris and Asuras: these were not the kind of things one could witness
and then go on to rejoin the drab reality of everyday life--eating, sleeping,
shitting, paying bills, taxes and insurance. Moreover, Kant had taken a
strange liking to the young Angiri. He realized the irony only then: he had
been addressing him as a boy, all this time.
Kant tiptoed back into the living room. He picked up his wallet and after
some hesitation, his near-empty carton of cigarettes--three more and then
I’m done for good this time, Kant resolved. He wore his shoes and stepped
back out as quickly, leaving his sleeping friend inside.
He should stay back, wait for Abhay’s call, Kant’s rational voice chided
him for losing his grip on his actions. He paid no heed to it as he pushed
open the chest-high gate and stepped onto the street.
He started walking towards the ghats. All Kant knew was it felt right,
better than sitting on his saggy rump and doing nothing.

Jayant soaked in the sunrays, soaring high above the monsoon-rich holy
river that had been a cradle for civilizations since the Dawn Age.
He had expected to feel strong vibrations of the World Engine beneath
the city. It was still running but the frequency of the energy vibrations was
unexpectedly low. He had read volumes of the brilliance of Oorja that
emanated from River Ganga, from the very stone and brick of the city,
diffused the air above Kashi with soothing vibes. But instead he smelled
taint; the flow of Oorja only slightly stronger than the settlements Jayant
had passed through since the descent.
The rivers will froth and boil with the sins of Manushyas, the air will turn
sour with their greed. And the Engines will fail, one by one...weakening
the Oorja. The dearest creation of the Tridevas will themselves wield the
axe that would destroy their world and Swargam.
Sage Kashyap, one of the Saptarishis from the Dwapar-yuga had
presaged the events of Kaliyuga more than seven thousand years ago--and
accurately so.
It was as if the Manushyas had reduced Ganga to a mere slave to their
need and greed--a muddy, desecrated reflection of her celebrated past; a
carrier of the filth and waste generated by the teeming millions that
populated its shores.
The first worshippers and early risers for the day were already taking
holy dips. Local temple priests stood waist-deep in the water, chanting
mantras to the rising sun and the many gods they believed in. From a few
ghats rose smoke from the first pyres of the day. The eighty and eight
ghats along the riverfront of Kashi, with long flights of stone steps leading
to the banks were astir with activity and the tolling of bells. Migratory
cormorants lent their cries to the air, wheeling and swooping over the river
currents.
Jayant was troubled and aghast as he flew circuits of the riverfront,
disturbed by the reckless negligence of mankind. Did no one see the
pollution they had released into the waters? He wondered as he lowered
himself, gliding over the river. He could pick up abundant signs of life
beneath the surface but their auras felt faint and sickly.
Still airborne, he released the three tracker pods: one towards the Angiris’
last direction of approach, two northbound. The former detected his
kindred less than twenty minutes away as the eagle flies. The northbound
pods tracked Abhay’s life force not long after. But there was no sign of the
detachment.
Abhay is alive, a relieved smile formed on his lips. He had no means to
detect whether Dhwani was still with him, but he clung on to the hope that
she was--alive, if not well.
The cluster of blips marking the Angiri presence was moving a lot slower
than expected. Perhaps they anticipated a trap, surprised to discover that
Jayant, their quarry had stopped running.
He was hovering well above the Manushyas about the ghats when Jayant
felt a tingle of recognition among the strangers. He floated to a halt mid-
air, shaking his head in disapproval yet relieved to see Kant strolling
about.
 He did not have to read the Manushya’s thoughts to know Kant was
looking for him.

‘Keep walking, old man,’ the voice startled Kant, the earthen glass he
was sipping from jerking away from his lips, dribbling hot tea down his
chin. A priest passing by frowned at him but Kant continued, hiding his
embarrassment with an awkward smile, wiping his chin with a
handkerchief.
Jayant showed himself when they were on to the lower steps of an empty
ghat. Platforms of stone jutting above the waters hid them on both sides.
Sunlight was beginning to kiss the crests of the rushing currents, making
the surface shimmer with transient pinpricks of molten gold.
‘Why did you follow me?’ he asked Kant. Jayant was frowning but there
was an amused smile on his lips. The sunrays imbued his young,
unblemished skin with a youthful glow. The fabric of his suit shifted
smoothly, the sookshm particles rippling along his skin to absorb the sun’s
energy.
‘I couldn’t stay back. You might need my help, like before.’ Kant said,
sitting down on a stair by the water. He doubted he had done anything
significant in their journey till Kashi but he spoke with conviction.
‘You treat me as if I am a Manushya youngling,’ Jayant could not help
but laugh, even though he was touched by the gesture.
‘You only said it: you’re young by Angiri standards.’ Kant stirred the
dregs of his cup to mix well before he downed the last of the tepid tea.
‘You would only be putting yourself in harm’s way by being here. This is
not your struggle.’ When Kant remained unfazed, Jayant added, almost as
an afterthought. ‘You have loved ones waiting for you, think about them.’
Kant’s determination, his newly-discovered enthusiasm, dissolved like
cigarette smoke blown away by the breeze. For a second, he felt anger at
the Angiri for poking in his weak spot. The faces of his daughter and sister
swam before his eyes.
‘Fine, you win. Let me stay for a bit, then I will run to save my hide
when your people are close.’
Jayant checked the hologram projected by his gauntlet’s controls. The
Angiris were fanning out, still approaching at a cautious pace. Kant had
little over ten minutes--half that if the beat of their wings quickened. He
climbed up to Kant and sat down on the step beneath him.
‘I was able to pick up Abhay’s life force. He seems fine.’ He broke the
news and wished he could say the same for his mentor.
 Kant’s eyes behind his glasses crinkled at the corners as he gave a tired
but open smile.
They watched the gurgling river, its brownish waters laden with rotten
garlands of marigolds and roses, plastic waste and all kinds of filth. The
strengthening daylight made the tarnished color of the water hard-to-miss.
‘These waters were known to have astonishing healing powers, once
upon a time. Ganga was a mother to both Manushyas and the denizens of
Swargam, and she was treated with great respect.’ Jayant muttered
wistfully.
Kant uttered a dry, humorless chuckle. ‘I cannot say about you folks, but
we still address the holy river as Mother, and as a lifeline. But the word
has lost both its reverence and meaning for us humans.
‘Our ancient forefathers might have written great things about her
healing properties. But at present, the only thing we talk and write about is
how impure Maa Ganga has become. Healing powers and magical
cleansing--that was a long time ago, boy. Now we have already washed so
much of our sins in her waters…at times we remember her, take vows and
conduct public drives and campaigns to clean her filth, but in the end it
never comes to fruition--probably because of the corruption and
negligence of the powers that be, or because the people don’t believe she
can ever be clean as before. It’s the same everywhere: rivers, lakes, the
ocean, or even the jungles, nothing remains untouched by the disease
known as humans.’
Jayant took a deep sigh. ‘The World Engines, like the one beneath this
city, are losing their power. If your race does not do something and mend
their ways, your world will fall--it already is heading towards doom. No
wonder the Oorja has weakened so much.’ He gave Kant a sidelong
glance.
The old man was fidgeting with a cigarette. Sensing his gaze, he closed
his fist around the cancer-stick.
‘Those things have traces of Halāhal mixed in them. I have smelled it in
the smoke you keep inhaling.’ Jayant faced away, hiding his disapproval
and ignoring Kant’s shock. ‘It is highly possible the Asuras are
manufacturing their poison for indirect consumption--cigarettes, edibles,
even the bottles of water you buy.’ The idea that humans had to purchase
even clean water intrigued as well as disquieted him. It seemed they had
put a price on everything, whether natural or artificial.
‘You’re kidding me!’ Kant pocketed the cigarette.
‘I do not exaggerate. Till three decades ago, while my people lived in
your midst, they kept us abreast of everything the Asuras did. They have
been mixing their poison in food and water since before your Industrial
Revolution.
‘The more you consume the poisoned items, the more vulnerable you
become to Andhakar: more violent, lazy, prone to anger and gluttony. You
are a prime example of how a Manushya can be made to embrace vices.
This way they have no need to turn every single Manushya into a fell
Darkborn, for they have willing servants.’
Jayant sat up straight, his sensory inputs coming into play as he felt
something. The hologram showed the Angiris approaching along the river,
spread into three distinct units. They were close enough for Jayant to guess
their exact number.
‘You need to be moving. It is time.’ He declared, before Kant could
enquire the reason for Jayant’s agitation. They climbed up the stairs to the
flat thoroughfare, with passages wide and narrow leading into the walled
warren of cluttered, colorful buildings much older than Jayant.
Kant bent over panting from the steep climb. His face had gotten sweaty
and red within minutes. His knees throbbed heavily, like lumps of lead
instead of bone.
They walked till the nearest lane, Jayant in full view of a group of
children and a woman returning home with a pail full of washed clothes.
The Oorja-cannon on his back attracted as much attention as his
outlandish suit and the radiant young face--he even walks with a proud gait
of some god, Kant mused. They shook hands a final time and Kant had
gone only a few steps when Jayant stopped him.
Indecision showed on his face before he took a few steps forward and
placed his palm upon Kant’s chest. The old man looked between the point-
of-contact and the Angiri’s face, with utmost bewilderment.
‘What are--’ Kant could not speak.
Heat bloomed where Jayant touched him, pervading through his shirt and
vest, through his skin. He backed off instinctively but Jayant held him by
the other shoulder, muttering an incantation with eyes closed and a
deepening frown. He concentrated the energy upon the malignant growth
spreading through Kant’s lungs.
The old man moaned, feeling his insides curl and contort under the effect
of the heat. Somewhere inside him something seemed to burn and boil,
changing him.
Jayant’s hand fell away, as suddenly as it had risen, leaving Kant short-
of-breath but surprisingly strengthened. The throb in his knees was gone,
along with his tiredness.
‘What did you just do?’
 ‘I tried to heal you to some extent. Perhaps you now have a few more
years to see than what you were destined for--provided you do not start
smoking again.’ Jayant stepped away with a satisfied smile.
‘Thank you.’ Kant felt too choked to utter more than a whisper as Jayant
walked away, becoming a shimmer just as two men entered the alley.

What he had done for Kant was borne out of pure instinct--or perhaps,
affection. He could have healed the malignance within the old man’s
lungs, entirely. But he needed to conserve his strength for what was
coming. Jayant hoped the Manushya would understand his reason behind
the gesture and never touch the cancer-sticks.
There would be enough time to heal what remains, Jayant reminded
himself, once the crisis has passed.
He no more required the aid of Swargam technology, to sense the
approaching Angiris. He only had to look downriver, to feel their presence.
Their life forces pulsed with an invigorated beat, fueled by solar radiation.
In his aural-vision, the Angiris resembled a trio of firefly swarms--only
these glowed brilliant and distinct even in the sunlight.
Another minute and he could count each of the auras, their corporeal
forms cloaked under shields. The Manushyas on the ghats remained
unaware, nothing changed on the ground. Only the birds and a mangy cur
barking at thin air sensed their presence. The former changed their flight
paths at close proximity; the crows cawed at the hovering figures,
announcing their presence to heedless Manushyas.
Potent waves of psychic energy issued forth from the two hundred
Celestials, permeating the feeble barriers of over seventy Manushya minds
along the ghats about Jayant’s position. A glimmering bubble of Oorja
appeared over the area as the Manushyas came to a standstill for many
breaths.
They started walking away the second the lull broke, sudden chores and
businesses guiding them away from the dome of energy spanning the six
ghats. The shimmering dome elongated as the Angiris spread, surrounding
Jayant from above.
They powered down the shields-of-invisibility till Jayant could see them,
even though the Manushyas could not. He could see each face looking
down at him. They were angry, their eyes dripping outrage and angst--
from their vantage point, a natural reaction, Jayant reminded himself.
Even though he could sympathize with them, it was disconcerting to stand
beneath their combined gaze. He was so accustomed to friendliness and
warmth on those faces that the hatred and mistrust they expressed looked
disturbingly alien.
‘If truth be told, I was expecting to find Dhwani and not her youngling
acolyte.’ Tamas descended ten feet away from Jayant, followed by others.
Only the Angiris forming a circular perimeter around the six ghats
remained in the air, their psychic suggestions distracting any Manushya
that got near. ‘So it was Dhwani the Halāhal has poisoned. It must not
have been an easy death, was it, Jayant?’
Jayant only responded with silence, the muzzle of the Oorja-cannon
facing the ground. It was a one-of-a-kind occasion, when he and Tamas
were getting to have a one-on-one conversation. He had greeted the
Ancient innumerable times in the past--as courtesy dictated--but each time,
he had gone unnoticed by Tamas. It was a response reserved solely for the
disciples of Neel.
‘It was an impressive stratagem you resorted to back there, confusing
your trail by taking advantage of the dark. Impressive indeed, for someone
so young and that too on his maiden visit to Prithvi,’ Tamas offered a wry
smile, hoping to elicit a reaction. ‘Or perhaps, you have been here before
in the past years, without anyone’s knowledge. We are all intrigued to
know what made you surrender.’
‘Time is of the essence for all of us, Elder. I must ask you some pertinent
questions. The answer would decide how our exchange continues.’ Under
Tamas’s knowing, piercing gaze, his tongue seemed to refuse to cooperate.
He was beginning to regret his decision to stop running and facing the fire.
‘You dear youngling, are in no position to bargain.’
‘I seek only the truth--about some of your privy practices.’ Jayant said,
mustering courage that he did not know he still had.
‘Where is the Artifact?’ Tamas took an impatient step before Jayant
raised the Oorja-cannon and brought him to a halt.
‘I do not have the Artifact, but I do know where it is. I will tell you all I
know, only if you talk.’ His gaze was level and discerning. His grip on the
Oorja-cannon tightened.
Tamas’s eyes showed no emotion for a beat, before he nodded and said,
‘What do you wish to know?’

Kant had almost made it out of the warren of narrow lanes. It was
beginning to get crowded, with the morning commuters and shopkeepers
and stalls starting their business for the day; cycle-rickshaws and two-
wheelers on the move.
 A fusillade of gunshots from somewhere close turned the morning chaos
into a pandemonium, instilling instantaneous fear among the humans, Kant
included. People began to scream and bolt for their homes and safety,
shutters of the shops slammed down within seconds. The few stall owners
reluctant to leave their wares, followed suit as more gunfire erupted.
Was it the Asuras? Kant wondered, switching between a hurried walk
and running, shouldering past the people. He felt unusually calm, unlike
the others around him, having seen things worse than violent men with
guns and bombs--nothing would surprise him after the child-demons from
last night.
Doors bolted shut, shutters rattled and fell; small children were crying,
both on the streets and behind the safety of locked doors and walls.
Rickshaws and bicycles were left as they were; a few vehicles collided in
the drivers’ mad rush to flee. All it had taken was mere minutes to empty
the bustling lanes and bylanes. Only the muffled voices Kant heard behind
closed doors remained for company.
Don’t let it be the Asuras, Kant prayed.
Lost in thought he was turning a corner, hurrying towards the
undisturbed city noises beyond the warren when a man blundered into him,
the two kids he had been taking to school shrieking with fear.
‘Don’t go that way!’ the man warned as he ran away with his children.
It was a good thing Kant paid heed to his warning. He ducked into a
narrow, smelly passage between two buildings just as four rag-tag men
materialized up ahead.
Unlike their shabby appearances, each carried an AK-47. They had their
backs to him and one of them was talking on his cellphone. The four men,
Kant saw, were the only obstacle between him and the access to the open
street some five meters further. Kant was thinking of taking another route
when a truck backed into the alley from the street end. It was the kind of
trucks used by cold-storage facilities.
‘Calm down, it’s just a wrong-place, wrong-time situation.’ Kant
muttered to himself, trying to settle down his tripping heartbeat.
One of the gunmen was unlocking the door into truck’s rear hold. Even
as his inner voice told Kant to run while he still had the chance, the man
removed the bolt and stepped away in a hurry. His fellow gunmen did the
same, making room for whatever waited behind the door.
The door is going to open and more men with guns will step out. Kant
prayed, watching one of the men raise a bright object to his lips.
He exchanged a nervous glance with his cronies before he blew into the
whistle--Kant thought he heard another whistle blowing somewhere else.
 The rear-doors flew open at the shrill sound. Kant’s worst fears were
realized when he saw the small, semi-naked figures pounce upon the four
men. The gunmen tried to flee in fear, wide-eyed from the horror radiated
by the dead, black eyes of the child-demons.
Kant ran in the opposite direction, just as the gunfire and screams started
behind him. He did not have to look around to know the four men were
being ripped apart by the little monsters.
It took him a single wrong turn before Kant was lost in the maze of alleys
spanning the warren.

‘I am the traitor, indeed.’ Tamas took a step forward, ignoring the

humming muzzle of the Oorja-cannon trained upon him. ‘This is the
second time this allegation has been thrown at me by one who was himself
caught committing treason. I am the Mole, for Neel and for you and your
mentor because I stand in your vile way of desecrating Swargam’s name
on behalf of your allies.’
‘Any of you can scrutinize my veracity, there is undeniable proof.’ Jayant
directed his response at the Angiris surrounding him. ‘If he is not the
Mole, why does he have vats of Ksheer-clay in his quarters? And why has
the plant life in his backyard withered and decayed? Who possesses the
mantra to summon a Vajra except him and Elder Neel? I, Elder Neel and
my mentor followed his Portal’s past signatures and found the cavern. We
were trying to get to Prithvi when we were found, but our objective was
only to hide the Artifact; let no other soul find it and use its power.’
Tamas laughed, shaking his head as his eyes met with the Angiris. ‘I do
not deem it necessary to prove my loyalty to someone who himself stands
under scrutiny. Each one of you knows I would rather die fighting to keep
you and our home-world safe than stoop to betraying your trust and the
sanctity of Swargam.’
‘Perhaps you can start by explaining your youthful appearance then.’
Jayant cut in. ‘Pray enlighten us why have age and decay forgotten you in
the last centuries. There must be an explanation behind your exceptionally
slow ageing when even your brother could not escape the travails of time.
Care to explain, Elder?’
A barrage of distant gunfire and screams of Manushyas interrupted the
conversation. It was coming from the heart of the settlements crammed
alongside the ghats. On expanding their psychic reach, the Angiris sensed
no tell-tale signatures of Dark Energy: only tens of thousands of
Manushyas, birds and stray animals. It seemed logical to conclude there
was some violent altercation going on between the humans--nothing that
was new for the Angiris.
‘If any of you had witnessed the horrors the Asuras are capable of... I saw
what they did then, during my stay on Prithvi in the latter days of the
Second Fall.’ Tamas turned back to Jayant, even though his words were
directed to the other Angiris. ‘The books written by the Devas have been
gathering dust all this time, while the enemy is rapidly evolving, getting
stronger by the day.
‘I did probe into the texts, in an attempt to decipher the knowledge of the
Devas. I even succeeded in demystifying a great many spells that can turn
battles in our favor, even though most were decreed to be dangerous by the
Saptarishis, prohibited from use. It took me long years and great
persistence but I did manage to learn much. Then the Praharis disappeared
and my search brought me to the key-world. The Forbidden Words had
much to do with my survival and the eventual rescue of the ten of our
kinsfolk the enemy had imprisoned. Still it was not enough...there were
many more I could have rescued--there were hundreds of them under the
Enemy’s lock-and-key.’
More gunfire prompted Tamas to pause. The fire in his blue-eyes had
dimmed, like some memory had pulled him back into his past and frozen
him in some tormenting moment. His haughty veneer crumbled, to be
replaced by rumination and even regret.
‘What happened then, Elder?’ Jayant asked, oblivious that he had
lowered the Oorja-cannon.
His mind was screaming to not let his guard down, but his heart wanted
to believe Tamas’s expression of genuine pain and anguish. The Elder’s
aura was swirling with deep hues perfectly in harmony with his emotions--
a sign that he was not lying.
Tamas stared at the ground a little longer before he raised a trembling
hand to cover the right half of his face. He began to murmur a spell and the
clay-mask began to crack and peel in brittle chunks.
Gasps of surprise emerged from the lips of the Angiris present as the clay
sloughed off beneath Tamas’s palm. He removed his hand slowly, loathed
to show his deformity to the Angiris.
He was missing an entire half of his face, the skin burned and corroded
from jaw to hairline; a mess of red-black gristle and muscles, still leaking
pus from the cracks. His lidless eye seemed to bulge out of its socket,
roving jerkily. He faced his people, the deformed halve twitching
involuntarily.
Hands grasped at the hilts and hafts of weapons instinctively. For the fair
and beautiful Angiris, the idea of hideous faces and ravaged features was
solely ascribed to the infernal servants of Andhakar. For moments, they
were convinced of Jayant’s version of truth: Tamas was the Mole.
‘Vanity is my sin, young Jayant. But I am not a traitor. The Ksheer clay,
the forbidden spells: they have only been an accessory to hide this scarred
side of mine. The venom of an Asura abomination took away my face
while I was trying to free the Angiris and left me to grapple with not just
my deformity but also a life of agony.
‘Ordinary spells are ineffective against my never-healing wounds, or the
pain that I have been living through; only a specific spell that derives
Oorja from the living, has helped mitigate the excruciating pain all these
years. The ten Angiris that returned with me to Swargam, have known of
my affliction all along, but I made them take a blood-oath that they would
never say a word of it. This is my truth and you all are free to judge, if it
makes me a traitor. I am ready to lay down my arms and armor and submit
to your unanimous decision.’
‘There is a Manushya coming towards us.’ An Angiri hovering over the
buildings alerted them. His head whipped towards Jayant as he added: ‘He
calls your name, frightened of something. There seem to be…animals
running after him…I cannot make out their auras. By Shiva’s Third Eye!
They are no animals…’
The voice traveled to Jayant’s ears just as he realized Kant was in
trouble.
‘Ready your weapons. They must be the Darkspawns, child-demons
created by the Asuras. Their very presence in our vicinity can inhibit our
abilities.’
The Angiris had barely digested the information when a rushing noise
exploded in the alleys opening to the ghats. The small, lithe figures issued
forth from the alley mouths, leaping and running on all fours.
Kant appeared from a different alley than the one he had earlier taken, a
Darkspawn firmly latched onto his back, its unnaturally jagged fangs
buried into the old man’s shoulder as he struggled.
He fell down, finally enervated and exhausted, three feet from the mouth
of the alley. A wave of Darkspawns washed over him.
Jayant raised the cannon and fired, just as the Angiris on the ground took
to the sky.

Kant shrieked as sharp pain punctured through his neck, drenching him
in his own warm blood. He barely had a glimpse of Jayant standing all by
himself before the Darkspawns ran him over, too many to count. He fought
and struggled but their combined weight kept him pinned to the ground,
running feet trampling over his legs. The faces of his daughter and sister
hurtled past his sinking vision, his entire life ran before his eyes.
He would have surrendered, if not for the loud explosions. The weight
disappeared from his back and chest, the creatures screeched in animal
fury and scattered away. Someone grabbed him by the scruff of his collar
and dragged him aside like he weighed nothing, the cannon booming
above his head.
‘I dearly hope you can swim, my friend. Do not give in to the pain, fight
for Tridevas’ sake.’ Jayant shouted over the cannon blasts, trying to keep
the Darkspawn away from himself and Kant.
The old man could swim as much as a sandbag; he had never even been
in knee-deep water. He tried to mutter a negative response but by then the
Angiri had flung him into the air with a defiant cry. Kant sailed over the
ground, flailing in surprise as flew along the long flight of stairs and
landed headfirst into the cold water less than five feet from the bottommost
stair.
His breath left the lungs as he plunged into the brownish depths. His
clothes clung to him like bonds, his shoes became heavy as he struggled to
rise and realized he was still sinking. To save him from an ugly death,
Jayant had thrown him into the maw of another less-painful but certain
death.

Many Angiris rushed to Jayant’s aid, unmindful of his warnings to stay

clear. The ones that got near enough lost altitude immediately, their
furious attempts to cast spells produced not even a flicker of Oorja as the
Darkborn lunged at them.
The other Angiris halted as they realized what was happening. Like
helpless spectators, they could only watch Jayant and six Angiris fighting
on the ground. The Oorja-cannon vaporized flesh and bone but there was
no stopping the Darkspawns.
Jayant had nearly managed to make some room for maneuverability,
when a child-demon attached itself to the cannon’s muzzle, moments
before Jayant fire.
The cannon blew asunder within the youngling Angiri’s grip before he
realized it, the intense blast of heat hurling him backward into a nearby
building; the Angiris locked in battle around him were likewise tossed into
the air, along with several Darkspawns.
 Jayant was covered in burns and blisters, his suit nearly demolished. But
the worst was the bleeding stump where his right arm had been gripping
the cannon.
The ghat was littered with the dead and their dismembered body parts,
tiny and fragile, still clad in burnt, tattered pieces of clothing; severed
hands squirmed and moved upon the ground. Some bravehearts among the
Angiris swooped in to save Jayant but the remaining Darkspawns
converged upon him like a relentless swarm, tearing into him like feral
dogs.
It was probably a relief--both for the ones buried under a living blanket
of the Darkspawn, and for the Angiris watching them die--when Jayant
invoked the kill switch of his kavach suit. The other six Angiris struggling
beneath the fangs and claws shredding them saw what he did. They
followed suit a fraction of a second later.
Giant flashes blossomed in a sequence, where the seven figures fought
for their lives. Balls of white heat expanded and merged, engulfing nearly
the entire Darkspawn army within seconds before the momentous roar of
their unified detonation brought the city of Kashi to a grinding halt.

Kant jolted to wakefulness, coughing and spitting out the water in his
lungs.
There was an evil taste on his tongue, sand particles sticking to his gums
and palate. He was on solid ground but had no recollection of ever making
it out of the water--only the sensation when he had breathed in the water,
his lungs were burning, screaming for air; shafts of sunlight penetrating the
water, as if to ease him at the end.
How was he still alive?
He turned on his side, wheezing and retching and spitting the awful
water. His body hurt in many places, his shirt was torn and red from the
bleeding wounds of the bite marks; he could feel it where the Darkspawns
seemed to have chomped off a pound of flesh from the neck and the meaty
part of his shoulder.
When he had gained a semblance of sense, he looked around to discover
the semi-transparent figures standing over him. Without his glasses, it was
difficult to make out all the faces, but each shone like a moon. There were
shades moving about the ghat, setting fire to the twitching bodies of the
Darkspawn, incinerating every trace of their tainted blood. A majority of
them wore armor and suits like that of Jayant and Dhwani; others had
coats, jackets and trousers on. Seen through the silhouettes, the ghats
looked desolate; even the funeral pyres were smoking unattended in the
distance.
Kant did not have to guess why he could see no other Manushya in the
vicinity. The scorched buildings at the top of the ghat and the scattered
fingers and chunks of flesh said more than he wanted to know. It had all
happened while he was underwater, drowning.
The smooth surface of the ghat was strewn with smoking corpses in four
distinct craters three feet deep and twice wide, the ground black and
charred all over. The explosion had been strong enough to blow apart the
windows and develop long, spidery cracks upon the walls of the closest
buildings.
‘Jayant…where is Jayant?’ Kant tried to get up.
A tall Angiri with half of his face burnt and scarred, held him back. ‘Quit
moving, Manushya. Your wounds require attention.’
A familiar sensation of warmth flowed into him as the Angiri pressed a
palm upon his chest, flushing into spots of red-hot heat where the
Darkspawns had bitten him.
The healing-spell stemmed the bleeding before tissue began to
regenerate, making Kant sigh and moan in pain and relief at the same time.
His swimming vision assumed clarity before the hand was pulled back.
‘Where is Jayant?’ Kant reiterated, looking up at Tamas with bloodshot
eyes both expectant and fearful.
‘He died bravely, not long after he saved you.’ Tamas’s tone was grim
but his gaze seemed curious and amused.
Kant swayed, feeling his strength forsaking him. Surprise and grief
overtook him before tears blurred his vision and slipped down his cheek.
Jayant had died to save him--him, an old geezer who had no right to live.
And not once, but twice did Jayant save him--a concession he did not
deserve.
‘It was no random chance that bound you two, together. Perhaps you can
tell us what you know, make sure Jayant’s death was not in vain.’ Tamas
said. He could feel the eyes of the Angiris trained on his every move and
word.
Jayant had fomented doubt in their minds and in spite of all that Tamas
had said, it had not gone away.
‘What do I have to do?’ Kant asked, too shell-shocked to consider what
he was doing.
‘Allow me access into your memories. You will barely feel anything, if
you willingly let me in. I can learn what happened without wasting any
time. We are here to help you.’
 Kant responded with a blank nod before Tamas leaned closer and held
his fingertips to the Manushya’s temples.
He slipped into the mortal’s weak mind without difficulty, zeroing-in on
his most recent memories. It took him less than a minute to sift through the
relevant events and conversations Kant had been a part of: from the
interaction of the younger Manushya named Abhay--he looked familiar,
even though Tamas had never seen him before--with a Chakra, right till
the last words Kant had exchanged with Jayant.
It was not until Tamas came across a particular name that he lost his
calm--what the three key-weapons, the twin blades and the Chakra,
together formed. He extricated himself from Kant’s mind, breaking the
physical contact simultaneously, like he had been burned.
‘No…it cannot be it, not the Brahmāstra,’ he whispered.
‘Elder, what is the matter?’ An Angiri enquired, watching Tamas as the
scarred half of the face twitched.
‘Dhwani is alive--at least she was the last time this Manushya saw her.
She set out North, with another...Manushya. The artifact that brought us
here is a Chakra--one of the three key-weapons that together create the
Ultimate Weapon. It seems there is a lot more the Saptarishis hid from us
than random artifacts.’ Tamas turned back to Kant.
The old man sat cross-legged, shoulders slumped in defeat and hollow
eyes scanning the blackened, cratered ghat and the burning remains of the
Darkspawn--nothing had survived of the seven Angiris. In his sodden,
torn-and-bloodied clothes, the remnants of his hair clinging to his shiny
pate, he looked like the true personification of pity.
Tamas wondered what made the old-man so special that Jayant had
risked his own life to save him--and they had met only recently, he
thought.
‘What are we going to do with him, Elder?’ Someone asked.
As it had been for the past minutes since Tamas broke the news of
Jayant’s death, the Manushya barely seemed to register the conversation--
not that he would have understood the Angiri-tongue even if he were
attentive.
‘I leave that decision unto you and the rest, Bhoomi. There must be a
good reason you asked me this.’ Tamas got up on his feet, causing Kant’s
attention to finally snap back. ‘He is not a corrupted soul, at least nothing
like the others of his kind who revel in violence and suffering. But he has
seen and learned enough; he is bound to talk to someone. Even if no one
believes him, in the wrong hands, the information can do much damage.’
Bhoomi briskly nodded, advancing upon Kant. The Manushya flinched
away when she reached out. ‘Wait, what are you doing?’
‘I am easing your burden. There will be no pain, I give you my word.’
‘You wish to look into my mind? Will each of you peep into my head
one-by-one, now?’ Kant was not sure what she meant by ‘easing his
burden’. But he assented after a moment of consideration and let her
establish contact as Tamas had done before.
An almost imperceptible brush against his temples--or perhaps
somewhere deep within his skull--and Kant felt the Angiri’s presence
trickling into his mind like cool water. But unlike Tamas, she had different
plans besides merely reading his memories.
There was no pain, like she promised, but he sensed her intention at the
last moment. Kant tried to resist against her probing but his aged,
untrained senses were no match for an Angiri.
The police found the old man in an unconscious state some ten minutes
later. The authorities were puzzled by the fact that his clothes were torn
and bloodstained but there was not even a scratch on him.
Dr. Giridhar Kant of Indraprastha had no recollection as to what he was
doing so far from home--not even the faintest memory of what had
transpired at the ghats of Kashi. His disorientation had even affected his
sense of time.
The hands of the authorities were full with far worse concerns like dead
children, hacked to pieces and burned in broad daylight and multiple
explosions no expert could explain the origins of. No one had time or the
imagination to make connections between the old timer and the horrific
massacres in and around the ghats.
 Chapter 31
So Near Yet So Far

High above the mountain terrain the wind was a loud shriek in the Mole’s
ears. His wings beat in fierce protest to the air resistance, barely visible in
the glare of the sun.
Down below and about a mile behind him, the Darkspawn horde was a
fast-moving, dark blemish galloping across a ridge well away from the
settlements and the roads. They ran in a close arrow formation, like a
stampeding herd of animals, led by the ones at the front--the latter
controlled by the Mole.
He was invisible to the Darkspawn or any Manushya that chanced to look
at the sky. And his prey was in sight, seemingly crawling along the road
through the mountains.
The Nephilim had showed up on his radar not long after sunrise. And he
was not alone. Dhwani rode the pillion of the oversized bike, huddled
behind him.
His powers bloom in leaps and bounds, Snake Voice remarked,
observing his aura and that of Dhwani. Hers was a sickly grey mantle
pulsing with strong crimson hues of pain--weak and dull to an extent that
her life-force looked no better than that of a terminally ill Manushya.
No wonder the tracker pods failed to detect her presence every time,
hissed the dominant voice of reason, while she was trailing Bheeshm’s and
Kaya’s son every step of the way like his shadow.
‘Why don’t we see it on her? Why can we not sense the Chakra when
they’re so close?’ The True Voice squeaked like a feeble rodent.
The Halāhal’s effect had worn off within a few hours after he had
injected the dose. The Mole felt as if he had never consumed it in the first
place. The two phials--along with the five empty ones--the Darkborns had
given to him, the grisly episode at the hilltop where he had slain the
Angiris, it all felt like a dream. He involuntarily patted the bulge of the last
remaining phial of Halāhal to convince himself it had all happened for
real.
The scar across his chest seared through his core, its throbbing more
pronounced; its red-hot brand of pain inhibited his thoughts, limited his
speed if he tried to work his wings too hard.
‘She still has the three key-weapons,’ Snake Voice snapped in irritation.
‘Dhwani would not let go of them till her task is done and the Brahmāstra
secured, even if Prithvi reversed its spin and the sun rose from the west.
As for the Chakra, the scabbard greatly contains its energy--the reason
why its Oorja signatures have remained untraceable, so far.’
His gaze centered upon the saddlebag suspended from the huge bike’s
rear, beneath Dhwani’s left leg. The Brahmāstra was undoubtedly inside
the bag. She was no fool to carry it on her back in broad daylight.
‘She has lost her Grace, her body cannot withstand the Halāhal’s fury. It
must be a misery, each breath that she takes.’ The True Voice remarked,
studying her dim aura. ‘Come midnight, she will not be able to even stand
on her feet.’
‘Then why wait for midnight when we can end her misery this very
moment?’ Snake Voice sneered. ‘In any case, there is no way to acquire
the Brahmāstra without killing her. She won’t let us take it as long as she
can draw even a single breath.’
The moment was ripe. The Brahmāstra was waiting to be taken. The
Nephilim and Dhwani were vulnerable and alone--no sign of anyone from
the Legion, or the big bad brute Bhairav Dutta had spoken of. And the
Mole still had a dose of Halāhal left. He pictured himself swimming in the
intoxication it would bring, when he would be at ease and the three key-
weapons along with the scabbard, in his possession: a blissful way to
reward himself later.
His wingspan angled for descent, the Mole surveyed the meandering
road, looking for a spot to carry out his next mischief that would slow
down the traffic, single out his quarry.
He landed upon the edge of a cliff with a steep gradient. The barren,
uneven surface was mostly rocks and boulders held together by loose soil
moist from the recent rains. Placing a palm upon the ground, the Mole
spelled a few choice words in Oorja-speak.
The ground began to vibrate, the tremors spreading along a wide radius.
Boulders and rocks shifted, the loose packing of soil gave way before the
unstable earth slipped beneath his feet. He took off with a spurt of flames
as the rockfall crashed and cascaded down the slope, the landslide
gathering force as the debris tumbled towards the road. The Mole saw a
car with three Manushyas inside, being swatted aside like a child’s toy,
swept off the road and into a ravine fifty feet deep. The few buses and
smaller vehicles on either side of the rubble skidded to a halt.
Quick as that, he was on his way.
He caused another landslide a kilometer further and was about to go after
the oversized bike and its two riders oblivious of his presence. Then it
happened again--as sudden as the last time his powers refused to cooperate
in-flight, back in Swargam.
His wings collapsed and winked out and his vision dimmed. He hurtled
towards the earth, flailing; the scar blazing anew.
‘No, no, no,’ the voices seemed to shout as one.
He chanted spells to recall his wings of fire or cushion his fall. But
nothing worked against the pull of gravity as the ground rushed to meet
him. The last time he had fallen down a long staircase, this time it was a
vertical drop of over two hundred feet.
His vision went dark even before he smacked onto the ground.

‘They are getting away, getting away from us!’ Snake Voice spoke to
him, echoing in the darkness with no end. But the Mole could not
recognize it. It sounded like the hiss of some giant serpent--a basilisk;
disembodied and alien, not a voice that was part of him.
The basilisk was coming for him, slithering forward in the shadows--
sometimes behind him, other times to his right or left.
The Mole--or what was left of him--found himself running in the blind
dark, away from the basilisk, away from the fear--fear that he would lose
himself if the creature ate him.
He could hear the scuffle of his running feet, his huffing, desperate
breaths as the lungs worked like a blacksmith’s bellows. He heard it as
clear as the rattling scales on the slithering, hungry basilisk.
‘Lose the chance this time and the Brahmāstra will slip beyond our
reach, never to be found again. Wake up before it’s too late!’ the shadowy
creature was closing in fast.
With no sense of direction, no end in sight, the Mole ran for what felt like
forever.
‘Let us in, let us embrace as one,’ The basilisk was right behind him, its
slithering advance drowning the scuffle of his feet. ‘Rise, rise!’
Even though the Mole could see nothing, he could feel the reptilian maw
of the basilisk widening on him, hot reeking breath like a wind on his
back. Its long, forked tongue seeking him, coiling around his body even as
he tried to flee and scream.
He was pulled within the basilisk’s maw with a jerk...
...And his eyes flew open...the darkness swallowed by the sun
approaching its zenith. The scream he had carried over from the nightmare
died down on his lips as he slowly reacquired his bearings.
He jerked upright to a sitting position, surprised to find himself
surrounded by hundreds of hungry, gaunt faces and obsidian eyes. The
Darkspawns flinched and backed off as his gaze met theirs, talking in
throaty clicks.
His body felt like a wreck, shuddering to the volatile throbbing of his
scar. He was drained of energy and the weakness made his head swim. His
mouth was dry as a desert. The suit had saved him from the worst of the
damage but when he moved his sword-arm, fresh pain erupted from the
wrist and elbow: broken, along with three of his ribs.
‘We should thank our stars…’ the True Voice meekly groaned. A
Manushya body would have spattered upon the ground like a ripe
watermelon after falling from such great heights.
‘They are getting away!’ Snake Voice cut in, assessing the surroundings.
On the cliff face right above him, the Mole could see where his body had
made the first impact; the boulder had deep cracks to show.
How much time had elapsed since he fell unconscious? How far did the
Nephilim and Dhwani get? Why was his strength flagging unannounced?
Questions assailed his mind, his thoughts in a tizzy.
‘The Halāhal!’ He hissed, the realization prompting him to reach inside
the breast pocket of his burnt, tattered Manushya coat.
The phial was not there.
‘No, no, NOOOOO!’ the voices cried together. Patting himself all over,
the Mole got up. As if the scar had sensed his perplexity and panic, it
throbbed with a renewed rage, making him flit about and dance. The
Darkspawns scattered as the Mole rushed about, searching for his poison.
He found the phial about ten feet away, lying among the rocks, the glass
container within the metal casing, cracked from the impact. The Halāhal
had seeped out of it, spread over stone and soil in a blackish congealed
pool.
‘Think, think, it’s not the end of the road, only a setback.’ The Other
Voice said.
There was no crying over spilled milk. Without the Halāhal, it would be
harder to focus on his spells. The pain would be a constant enemy. But
there was no other alternative--the Brahmāstra was getting away.
‘And what if our powers fail us again?’ The Mole had no trouble
ignoring the tinny, weak voice.
Summoning his strength and unfurling his wings took more effort and
focus than usual. Once he was airborne, his eyes began to search for viable
options to help him replenish his drained strength and numb his pain.
There was nothing that could fulfill him the way the Halāhal did. But
living Oorja would be a close substitute for the time being: it might not
numb the pain as well as the Halāhal, but he needed the strength to fly and
fight.
There was little vegetation in his immediate vicinity and no tree large
enough for miles. But his need was great and time was of the essence.
There was an alternative though--one that was far better than leeching the
life-force out of a tree.
A lone car was headed north and west, the same way as his quarry.
The Mole landed before the vehicle, right in the middle of the road. The
driver braked hard.
It was a family of three--a youngish couple and a year old girl-child
swaddled and strapped in a baby-seat at the back.
With particular care, he leeched the man and woman while they could do
nothing but sit frozen and wide-eyed as life was sucked out of them.
Within minutes the hale and hearty couple was reduced to shrunken
corpses in the front seat, as if they had lain dead in their seats for days.
The baby cried in the backseat but her parents would not turn around.
Her aura was brighter than that of the adults combined, concentrated in a
tiny radius.
‘Spare the child, we should,’ said the feebler voice.
‘Should we?’ the Other Voice hissed, looking into the round eyes so full
of fear and innocence. ‘Life will be harsh for her without her parents.
We’ll be saving her from a hard existence.’
‘The two adults served us well. There is no need--’
‘The scar would draw in on our strength and in time, we would need
more Oorja from somewhere else--or someone. With her additional life
force, we can go on for long. The more energy we have, the less painful it
would be...less chances of our strength failing abruptly.’
Twice, he had lost his abilities mid-flight. If the same thing happened
during a battle...
That decided it. He opened the car’s rear door and touched the child’s
temple with his good arm.
He did not look into the child’s eyes as he drew on her life-force.
His injuries healed, the pain numbed to some degree and the Mole
continued on his way without a backward glance. He paused to duck
through the window on the driver’s side and take the dead man’s
sunglasses--to ward off the sun’s uncomfortable glare.
From the angle of the sun and the current location of his quarry, he could
make out that close to an hour had elapsed since he fell out of the sky. Far
behind him, to the east, the tracker pods reported movement: the Angiri
cadre led by Tamas was on its way.
In spite of the setbacks, the window of opportunity had not closed on
him. It would take the Angiri cadre a while to catch up. And he was
determined to finish his job before that happened. Providence was testing
him; the Brahmāstra had slipped from him twice--but not again.
Third time’s the charm, the Snake Voice, the basilisk, resolved.
 Chapter 32
Vakra

Almost a day and a series of near-death brushes later, Abhay and Dhwani
had become inseparable in an unusual way. Yet they could not discount
the feeling that they were two pieces moving on a grand chessboard.
Vanraj’s bike was talking to the winds, swallowing the miles without
effort. Its excellent suspension absorbed the hurdles posed by the bumps
and breakers and it responded to Abhay’s slightest touch.
‘Give two sentient beings enough motivation and a purpose to chase, and
they will unite in remarkable ways to perform impossible feats.’ Dhwani
remembered something Neel had told her many years ago.
It was a miracle for her--as much as it was for Abhay--that they had
managed to travel so far. That too when one was mortally sick and
enfeebled, while the other was still coming to terms with the forces of
Andhakar and Oorja and his own strange and unbelievable origins--still a
fish out of water.
With each challenge Dhwani had felt herself grow weaker, each obstacle
and encounter threatening to take her down. The Brahmāstra she was
protecting had almost seemed to slip into the enemy’s hands a little more,
every time. Her strength was ebbing, even if the pain had somewhat
subsided with the rising of the sun. Did she have enough strength left to
stand up to the next challenge--the Mole or Asura hordes, or both?
Then there was the Angiri cadre to be considered. She had no way to find
how Jayant was faring.
The temperature gradually dipped below ten, the cold wind whipping
against her face to provide some relief against her fever and pain. They
were nearing the snowline and the vegetation kept getting sparser as they
advanced. Except for small clumps of subalpine flora, stands of hardy
pines and spruce and small meadows and pastures, the rest of the terrain
was no less than a cold wasteland: an arid paradise of jagged peaks and
looming cliffs of soil and stones; beautiful yet bleak.
Dhwani nervously glanced around at the blue sky but her vision was too
far gone to make out anything beyond the light spectrum perceived by
Manushya eyes.
‘Can you perchance sense anything unusual, Abhay?’ With some effort,
she raised her voice to make herself audible. ‘Have you experienced
anything lately?’
 Abhay slowed down a little before he raised the helmet’s visor and
replied. ‘If by anything you mean the rainbows then no, I haven’t seen
them since after the Chakra acted weirdly in the cellar. Sometimes my
hearing gets sharper, the volume gets turned up all of a sudden, but that’s
it--no flash of colors.’
‘Flash of auras.’ Dhwani corrected.
‘Yeah, whatever,’ he surveyed his surroundings, keeping the major
chunk of his attention on the road winding through the mountainous
terrain. ‘Is it possible,’ he asked after a long pause, ‘that for some reason
my Angiri-side might never fully manifest? There must be a way I can
curb this…this awakening, if I want to?’
‘I do not understand why you would want to do that, but indeed there is a
possibility a Nephilim’s power can be curbed. Alienate yourself from this
world and every challenge that life throws at you, wall yourself from every
interaction and it just might come to pass. Your powers would not readily
evolve in isolation. Can you do that?’ Dhwani’s chin was digging into
Abhay’s shoulder blade.
He had learned enough about Angiris to know they were incapable of
sarcasm. Dhwani was asking an earnest question.
Abhay only shrugged. He highly doubted his life would ever take such
turn--even if he found a place safe enough to hide away from the rest of
the world. He had always been a loner but never a recluse.
‘Knowing that you possess abilities no other Manushya is capable of,’
Dhwani said, ‘it might seem overwhelming. But a day will come when you
will see them as valuable gifts from Mother Nature and the Oorja--
probably when you have acquired a better understanding of who you are,
learned to control your gifts.’
‘It wish it happens soon, Dhwani.’ Laughing in private mirth, Abhay
accelerated the bike. ‘I will know my abilities to be gifts if somehow, I am
able to plunge a sword through Tamas’s heart, avenge my father and
mother.’
He accelerated and the sudden momentum pulled Dhwani backward--she
had little doubt she was ever going to get accustomed to riding the
Manushya-made vehicles--and she held Abhay’s shoulder for support.
The action was purely instinctive for her, but Abhay held it in a much
higher significance, feeling the intimacy in her tight grip that loosened but
did not disappear. He could not imagine coming this far by himself; he
could not have survived any of it, if at first Murtaza then Dhwani had not
been with him.
He pulled down the visor against the wind carrying the breaths of the
frigid snow-caps looming up ahead.
I will not let you down, Dhwani, he told himself.
Even though his lips did not move, Dhwani heard something--more like,
she felt the strong emotion directed her way. She realized he had managed
to use his psychic reach without meaning to.

Dhwani’s pain seemed to have burrowed deep into her being but the
wounds still smarted and stung at random intervals--with enough intensity
and abruptness to make her reel. The sun approaching the zenith had made
the journey slightly bearable. But there would be no absolute relief.
She could have still managed to deal with it, if not for the waves of
exhaustion the sneaking, stabbing twinges brought along. Once again, her
tussle with sleep began. She unconsciously slipped her hands around
Abhay’s waist, to hold herself in place.
‘Dhwani, don’t fall asleep,’ she heard his muffled voice through the
helmet’s visor.
‘I am not sleeping.’
Abhay adjusted the mirror to his right till he could see her well. He
thought her complexion seemed less pale, and the swollen, black veins
seemed to have retreated from her face--although he could still glimpse a
hint of the poisoned capillaries between the scarf around her neck and her
jawline.
They were passing through a long mountain pass, about an hour from
their destination, when Abhay felt Dhwani’s chin bouncing on his
shoulder. Her grip around his waist slackened before he felt her mass
shifting. A lorry a few meters behind honked past in anger as Abhay pulled
hard on to the left.
Dhwani tumbled off the pillion like an insensate object before the bike
had even stopped. She fell on her left side, raising a cloud of dust.
Abhay parked in a hurry and rushed to pick her up.
‘Dhwani, wake up, you can’t fall asleep,’ He patted her cheek, brushing
the dust off her face and clothes after removing her helmet. ‘You cannot
give up god damn it, not when we are so close.’ He alternated between
shaking her and holding her close, but Dhwani seemed to register none of
it.
The fact that worried Abhay more was that she seemed peacefully asleep,
like her resolve had inevitably broken under constant travails and she had
had no other alternative but to close her eyes. There was some traffic going
in either direction meters away from them but no driver gave them more
than a passing glance.
He tried some more to awaken her, shake her out of the sleep that had
brought along some soul-crushing nightmare. Helpless, he continued to
kneel in the dirt, cradling Dhwani, both shielded by the bulk of Vanraj’s
bike.
He did not hear the jeep stop mere five feet away from the bike until the
doors opened and slammed shut. The two patrolmen in identical khaki
uniforms appeared, frowning at him and Dhwani. While the younger cop
stood ogling at the sleek, formidable bike, his older, heavyset partner with
a fast-receding hairline and thinning grey hair had his attention on the two
figures sitting in the dirt.
‘She doesn’t look so well. What happened to her, young man?’ He asked
Abhay in a voice roughened with age and use. In one quick motion he took
out a handkerchief and held it against his nose and mouth as a passing
truck raised dust in its wake. His eyes showed concern beneath the
furrowed forehead.
Abhay could not form an excuse till he saw his frown deepening. ‘It’s
nothing, officer. She’ll be fine. It’s just exhaustion.’ He said, hoping it
would be enough, even though the patrolman was intently examining
Dhwani’s complexion.
‘Seems to me it’s a lot more than exhaustion, son. She needs a doctor.
You two look beat-up. Did you get into some accident?’ The patrolman
beckoned to his partner, who would otherwise have not looked away from
the bike. Finding no sign of damage on the bike, the two cops returned to
stand over them.
Abhay was still framing his next words when the older cop fired another
question, catching him off-guard. ‘I presume you have a license?’
With a heart tripping like that of a cornered culprit Abhay fumbled for
his wallet in the inner pocket of his coat, holding on to Dhwani with the
other hand. He took out his permit that was well beyond its expiry date.
‘We are coming from Indraprastha. We decided to take a road-trip to the
Spiti Valley, you see. But then my friend here got down with the flu.’ He
filled the silence to distract the cop but a brief rise and fall of the veteran’s
eyebrows was enough indication that he was far from convinced.
The younger patrolman had taken out a pad and was noting down the
number on the bike’s license plate. It was only a matter of time before one
of them decided to check the worn, olive saddlebag and its contents.
‘I am surprised you weren’t already flagged off. This permit expired
more than a year ago, Mr. Abhay.’ The cop squinted to read the faded
characters on the plastic card. ‘I am surprised what made you decide to
take a road-trip when you don’t even have a valid driving license. Do you
have another ID?’
Abhay shook his head and lowered his gaze, his face flushed with more
embarrassment than worry. He had expected the Angiris and Asuras to
hinder their progress but had never thought the quest for the Brahmāstra
might fail because he did not have a valid licence.
Gravel crunched under the scuffed boots of the two cops as they stepped
aside and conversed in a low voice. Abhay strained to hear. The younger
man peered at Abhay over his partner’s shoulder before drugs were
mentioned. Then the heavyset man proposed checking the saddlebag.
Abhay felt like a deer caught in the headlights of a speeding car as the
cops turned towards the bike. Dhwani moaned as if to underscore his
helpless before spasms took over her, making her writhe and jerk as if she
was possessed by an evil spirit.
The nightmare, Abhay realized as he tried to contain her movements, she
is having the nightmare.
Or perhaps she had been having them for a while but only now she was
beginning to fight back. The very eventuality she had been trying to avoid
by staying awake had pulled her under, once again. Abhay found himself
to be clueless, both with regard to Dhwani and the policemen.
Perhaps it was this panic that caused the onset of his aural vision.
Rainbows rushed into Abhay’s vision as he blinked, surprising and
confusing him at the same time.
Against the swirling, healthy hues around his own body, Dhwani’s aura
seemed dull and feeble. Like iron dust, the darker shades surrounded her--
a shroud that was weaving itself into prominence around her body with
every heartbeat. The red of pain pulsated through her shifting grey-black
mantle of life, like lightning flashing amid thunderheads.
Only this time, Abhay could feel a bit more of Dhwani: an pulsating
essence deep within her skull, glowing like a faded halo beneath the sickly
shroud that was her aura. Abhay did nothing yet he perceived some
presence brushing against him, like he was touching a warm body on the
other side of a thin membrane. He felt a slight tingle against his forehead--
or was it somewhere deeper where he felt the strange contact?
Abhay wondered, pushing against the membrane by accident. There was
little resistance before the barriers of her mind gave in under Abhay’s
probing reach.
And immediately, a train of images and emotions hurtled into his mind.
Dhwani was there in most of them, with Jayant and a white-haired lanky
old fellow and another Angiri who looked like his younger twin. There
were obnoxious flashes and glimpses of memories that made Abhay’s
blood curdle--her nightmares. For what seemed like hours, he could do
nothing against the oncoming train of images.
Abhay did not realize when it became too much to bear--the pain, the
nightmarish sights of death and destruction and gigantic, many-headed
creatures from some hellish world; a world where fire burned in thousands
of mile-wide circular pits all over its dark, sterile surface. He was a crow
gliding over the world of fire and screams, where millions of haggard
creatures were undergoing a thousand agonizing torture under the tools
and devices of their overlords--the latter all giant-sized abominations that
looked like hybrids of creatures known and unknown. The bird whose
body Abhay was inhabiting was drawn into a cavern of vast proportions,
where the light burned ghostly and cold and bones piled the floor like a
dismal treasures within a dragon’s lair.
Only that there was something much worse and baleful and alien waiting
for him inside the cavern.
Impulse drove him to pull away, shut the eyes of his mind to the three
horrific entities: the Dark Trinity. It happened all in a blur, a brief glimpse
was what he only got: the largest of the three, seated or hovering between
the other two; he was hundreds of meters tall, the only one with a vague
humanoid outline, yet far from a human. It had a head like an octopus, the
face a mass of feelers, the body covered in scales and rubbery as tentacles.
The psychic connection snapped after a momentary struggle and Abhay
found himself kneeling on the ground, his face beaded in sweat droplets.
Dhwani’s spasms had worsened and her moans were tight-lipped wails.
Abhay had no idea if he had done something to exacerbate her inner strife.
‘Brother, easy there, easy,’ the younger patrolman asked, startled to see
him jerk away from the sick, pale woman as if he had been electrocuted.
The auras did not fade away but his world assumed focus when he looked
up at the cop and his surroundings. The sounds hit him all at once. He
might have derived bliss had he been in a forest far from human
interference. But out here, on a dusty strip through the bleak mountain pass
the picture looked bleak even with the rainbow glow of the auras around
him, the sun a flaring ball of light overhead.
The nightmares playing within Dhwani’s mind seemed to have last for
hours but Abhay suspected he could not have zoned out for more than a
minute.
He followed the vibrations of the voices to the car where the heavyset
cop was calling for an ambulance on the radio. His aura was duller than
that of his junior, but both the humans and those that passed them on the
road, were afflicted by a sickness; the iron-dust shroud around them in
various stages of darkening. He could see the trails of exhaust mixing into
the dust-filled air as clearly as he could hear the honking of horns. A truck
blared past in a rush and it felt like it had passed an inch away from him.
He squinted hard to concentrate and the sounds became distinct and
coherent. Another layer of perception cropped up into his vision. There
was more to the air besides dust motes: fine gray particles that seemed to
fly helter-skelter, as if each had its own will even if the wind stirred them
in predictable ways.
The Spores of Dushan? He wondered.
Stunned, Abhay watched as the two cops breathed in the particles--he
could think of nothing else but the dark-particles described in his father’s
writings. He was inhaling and exhaling them as well, but some kind of air-
column kept repelling them off Dhwani.
‘The ambulance is on its way,’ the aged cop told his partner in almost a
whisper, but Abhay heard it crystal clear.
‘He is acting weird. Stares at everything like a fool, doesn’t even blink so
much. I tell you, sir, he’s high on something potent. And from what I see,
that woman is sick because of an overdose.’ The younger cop started
unclasping the saddle-bag.
‘Officers, maybe we can settle this matter another way.’ Abhay shook off
his confusion and surprise as he got up, the auras and the dark-particles
overloading his senses with too much of information.
The cops did not find any drugs inside the saddle-bag but the heavy,
oblong package wrapped in a dirty cloth piqued their attention. The
younger cop had not even placed it on the car’s hood for unwrapping when
Abhay sensed the glowing aura of a man as a bike screeching to a halt
behind the car, missing its tail by mere inches.
The startled patrolman whirled around, instinct and training driving their
hands to the butts of the service revolvers strapped to their waist.

Abhay blinked, no less startled as he reached out for the baton securely
tucked in the waistband of his jeans. Set off by some unknown trigger the
rainbow lights went out of focus as he blinked and his normal vision
returned as abruptly as it had receded.
The world started to look a lot less disturbing without the glowing auras
and the suspended particles, even though he knew the Spores were still
finding their way into his body with each breath he took.
‘Sorry, I got held up to the party,’ said the newcomer, raising his hands to
show he came in peace. ‘There have been a couple of freak incidents back
on the road--landslides and what not.’ He jerked his gloved hand over his
shoulder.
The biker was a man in his late fifties, with not much to show of his face
except a gray beard that hung till his chest; what little was visible looked
badly sunburned. He was layered in leather and Kevlar, worn and dusty; a
helmet over a pair of a heavy, odd-looking pair of goggles that resembled
something used by the military in covert operations.
‘Are you with these two?’ The older cop glanced between Abhay and the
bearded rider, his fingertips still in contact with his holstered gun. ‘He
didn’t tell me someone was riding along.’
‘Relax, officer, you too, my friend.’ The rider waved casually at the cops.
Their hands dropped from their weapons and hung at their sides in
rhythm, twitching. Their puzzled frowns told Abhay the cops were not in
control of their actions.
‘I suggest you get back to your car and drive away. Go back to where the
landslides occurred. You’ll be of more use there.’ The two men stiffened at
his words, turned around together, and started walking away. The veteran
cop gave a confused glance at them before he opened the jeep’s door.
They drove away, even as Abhay tried to fathom what had just happened.
He had the baton ready to spring out its blades. ‘Who are you?’
‘Name’s Vakra. Aham Brahma Asmi.’ the rider repeated the catchphrase,
already kneeling beside Dhwani’s prone figure. Her spasms had ceased but
she had again descended into the arms of sleep, twitching every few
moments. ‘Anupama informed you two were going this way, and you have
something that needs protection. I shall be your guide for now.’
He took off his right glove to examine Dhwani before touching her right
temple with his bare fingertips. Abhay noticed the bow-and-arrow emblem
tattooed on the back of his palm: the mark of a Legionnaire.
‘Can you revive her?’ Abhay asked, crouching opposite Vakra.
The Legionnaire closed his eyes and seemed to concentrate upon
something, his fingers moving along her forehead till the pads were
pressed against her skin between the eyes. At first he frowned then his
jaws clenched. His fingers remained fast stuck to her for almost two
minutes, his face lost its color, till he could go no further.
Vakra broke contact and bent forward to lean down on his hands, assailed
by a sudden weariness.
Dhwani slowly opened her eyes, blinking around in dull surprise. Abhay
helped her sit upright. Her sweat smelled sharp and pungent, like brine
stink. Her complexion had turned back to ice-white from the night before--
almost like some skin disorder when one saw her neck webbed with dark
capillaries.
‘I presume you played some tricks with your mind, didn’t you?’ Abhay
asked Vakra.
The old rider straightened beside them. ‘It wasn’t easy, she had gone too
far. But I just managed to call her back from whatever dark chamber of
bad memories and nightmares she had slipped into. I was born a modest
psychic by the grace of Oorja. We’ll have to keep her awake from now. I
might not be able to revive her a second time.’
He presented a hip-flask from his bike’s saddlebag, checking the time on
his watch. ‘We need to hurry. There is a satellite bound our way in the
next ten minutes. We’ll have to find cover before it passes overhead.
Here,’ he extended the decanter to Dhwani, ‘this is no ambrosia you churn
in your world but it should help you ease your pain, regain some much-
needed energy. You too should drink some too, Bheeshm-son. We still
have some distance to cover.’
Dhwani took three mouthfuls of the flask’s contents before she passed it
to Abhay. It tasted of port wine, heavily laced with spices. Sweet warmth
flowed down his throat and seemed to gather in the pit of his stomach. He
felt his exhaustion lift after two swigs.
 Chapter 33
Eyes In the Sky

They barely made it across the mountain-pass before the ten-minute-

window was up.
Vakra led them to a cluster of modest roadside establishments selling
items of bare necessities and the simple comforts of food and a hot drink.
They parked their vehicles and sat down at the table beneath one of the
gaudily branded garden-umbrellas that would hide them from view.
Dhwani had her back to the road while Abhay and Vakra sat in the
opposite seat, facing the road. The three pieces of the Brahmāstra inside
the scabbard in the seat beside her, wrapped in the dirty blanket. Abhay
noticed it when Vakra set the timer for fifteen minutes on in his wrist-
watch.
‘Ten minutes should do before the eye-in-the-sky--the satellite--has
passed this area, fifteen to be on the safe side.’ He explained.
He had removed his helmet to reveal a prominent skull crowned by dense
hair as grey as his beard, cropped short to show his scalp. But the round,
heavy pair of his dark tinted goggles still occluded the view of his eyes and
half of the darker eyebrows.
‘You have my gratitude, Vakra,’ Dhwani abruptly spoke, her gaze
reflecting her words.
‘And it is my honor to behold a Celestial from the homeworld of the
Tridevas, my lady, although I admit I would’ve preferred to meet you in
your better health.’ Vakra replied, toggling with a small keypad above his
ear. Abhay and Dhwani heard a beep from the goggles as he surveyed their
surroundings.
The stopwatch had exceeded beyond the two minute mark when Abhay
said, ‘I thought you to be the party Vanraj mentioned would meet us when
we got to this banyan-tree. You know him, right--the Big Guy who loaned
us this ride?’ Abhay pointed at the bike. ‘But then you say that Anupama
sent you after us.’
‘Every Legionnaire knows him, every single soul residing at our
Stronghold in the mountains, whether man, woman or child knows and
loves the kindly giant. He wasn’t referring to me, of course, but I think I
know the party you’re supposed to meet. That would be at the end of the
road. Did he tell you about them?’
Abhay exchanged a confirmatory glance with Dhwani but even she could
not remember Vanraj specifying who would be their interceptor. He dug
into the pocket of his denim trousers and placed the thin, silver whistle on
the table.
‘He gave us this.’ He told Vakra as a knowing smile crept upon the
Legionnaire’s lips.
‘Aha! It’s an ultrasonic whistle. Interesting, I cannot wait to see your
reaction when this party of interceptors arrives.’ Vakra said, toggling with
the goggles, alert as he studied the people around. Except for a couple
seated close to the counter and the young boy serving them, there were not
many people in their immediate vicinity.
Abhay pondered on Vakra’s words as five minutes passed, even as
Dhwani stumbled on to the ghost of a realization. One of the many
advantages of having lived for centuries was that she knew of every
creature of Oorja and Andhakar that walked under the sun--and even many
of those that lived in hiding from the Manushyas. The ultrasonic whistle
was meant to attract someone’s attention--someone with a hearing unlike
the Manushyas.
A bus full of college students on a tour had stopped before the coffee-
shop. A number of girls and boys arrived to take up other tables at the
coffee-shop and suddenly the air was ringing with their chatter and
laughter.
Perhaps it was Dhwani’s complexion, showing beneath the hood of the
scarf she had tied to cover her face and neck, or it was Vakra’s odd pair of
goggles, but a number of the young students noticed them.
‘What does this eyewear enable you to see, if may ask?’ Dhwani asked,
attempting to suppress a grimace but failing.
She had been pulled out of her nightmarish sleep but the physical pain
had returned to torment her waking moments, Abhay guessed, studying her
pained, porcelain face.
Adjusting the goggles, Vakra turned back from his surveillance. ‘Funny
you ask that. It has a number of modes that enable the wearer to see the
unseen Oorja spectra. For instance: those occupied by dark energies and
the stronger signatures of living Oorja. Neither the Darkborn nor an Angiri
can escape my sight. Then there are the usual features of a tactical
eyewear: night-vision and heat-vision. Sounds almost as if I have the
visual perception of you Celestials, doesn’t it?’ He looked at Dhwani for
approval.
She nodded, unable to understand how the Legion had achieved such
level of innovation?
Vakra continued, anticipating the question forming in her mind. ‘After
all, it was an Angiri that helped us design the first prototype for these
goggles--now carried by almost every Legionnaire in the field.’ His insect-
like gaze shifted towards Abhay with a slight head-movement.
‘I’m talking about your mother, Abhay.’
His posture barely registered any reaction. But in Abhay’s mind and
heart, volcanoes of emotions seemed to erupt at the mention of her name--
another reminder of how little he knew about his parents.
‘How well did you know my parents?’ He picked up the plastic salt-
shaker in his gloved right hand.
‘I got to fight beside the late Dwij on three occasions in my forty years as
a field operative. Your father was a brave, empathetic man; the greatest
leaders the Legion has had in more than a century, from what the elders
say.’ Vakra replied, checking his heavy watch, ‘As for your mother, we
knew and respected her but her interactions with most of the Legion were
few and formal. She stayed at the Stronghold for more than a year before
you were born and her health began to decline. Dwij took her away soon
after that. The entire Stronghold celebrated the day you were born.’
It was no less than a shock for Abhay to imagine it. He had never asked
his father about the place he was born in, always imagining it to be some
hospital ward or an obstetrician’s private clinic. He did not realize when
his fingers clenched hard around the salt-shaker.
The thing crunched within his grip, spilling its contents in his lap and on
the table. Some of the college students at a nearby table noticed and
laughed. Abhay brushed the salt grains off his clothes in embarrassment.
He felt the metal sheath around his arm only when he focused on the slight
warm brush of the gauntlet over the skin and hair on his right arm.
‘Relax, Bheeshm-son.’ Vakra patted his arm and felt the hard, unyielding
metal beneath his sleeve instead of flesh and bone. ‘I am beginning to get
why you two are being chased by emissaries of light and darkness. An
Angiri, a Nephilim and this mysterious package you carry,’ he indicated at
the oblong package beside Dhwani, ‘no wonder this region has become
abuzz with activity: surveillance drones and Angiri tracker pods. Even an
Angiri gone rogue, from what Anupama told me.’
‘Has anyone seen him lately?’ Abhay asked, leaning forward.
Whoops and laughter broke out on a table to their front. He felt a stab of
envy at the carefree mirth of the college students.
‘Two operatives reported when he passed their way, not long ago,’ he
tapped upon the goggles, ‘but it was humanly not possible to keep a
constant tab on his movement. There have been signs of his meddling:
mishaps back on the road you covered, along a six mile stretch: two
landslides and a puzzling incident where a family of three was found dead
and decayed in their car.’
‘He is trying to cut us off…’ Dhwani impulsively pulled the wrapped
bundle closer before setting it across her lap.
‘Looks that way, but these accidents he has caused, they might also be a
diversion. One of our agents mentioned seeing a horde of creatures--apes,
as he described--clambering along a ridge less than an hour ago.’
Vakra’s phone gave a muffled but audible buzz inside the pocket of his
padded trousers. He plugged a wireless earbud and excused himself,
stepping away from the surrounding noise.
When he returned a few minutes later he seemed worried. ‘I have good
news and bad news, I’m afraid.’ He gently ran his hand through his beard
for a second, debating which news to tell first. ‘Good news is: a contingent
of Legionnaires is on its way, to meet you two. The bad news is why they
are coming. It appears there has been heavy enemy movement in a private
airfield some five clicks to our southwest.
‘Our spies reported seeing industrial containers and military-grade
choppers with mounted guns, along with a battalion of Darkborns and
mercenaries. Till they make a move, we won’t know the reason for this
gathering: whether it is because of you two and what you carry, or because
they have somehow located our Stronghold and are amassing to attack us.’
He paused to let another peal of laughter and excitement on the nearby
table, subside.
‘Whatever happens--for better or worse--we need to stay focused on
covering the last miles to our destination. There is enough threat to look
out for with the rogue and whatever horde of dark ape-creatures he
commands--not to forget the drones and tracker pods we might come
across. Once you two are under the protection of this other party, you’ll be
in the safest company possible. Let us be on our way, shall we?’ He
displayed his watch to show: eighteen minutes had elapsed.
They gathered their minimal belongings and were passing a table
surrounded by a circle of youngsters glued to a single smartphone like ants
on a sweet crumb.
‘Hold on,’ Abhay retreated a few steps to stand by the college kids--three
boys and four girls, no older than Murtaza. They did not even sense his
presence till he cleared his throat and tapped the shoulder of one of the
guys.
‘You mind I take a look at the video?’
The boy took the unspoken consent of his friends before he shifted to
make space for Abhay. Dhwani and Vakra stood puzzled. They leaned
closer to Abhay before they heard the news anchor’s voice.
‘…some kind of otherworldly occurrences, each involving certain
disturbing deaths of children and sightings of what the witnesses claim to
be the Angels of Heaven--that too in India, a land where Hinduism, Islam
and Sikhism are the common faiths,’ the anchor’s words were enough to
make Dhwani’s heartbeat race.
‘Step aside, kids. Let the adults watch for a bit.’ Vakra nonchalantly
waved at them.
Like the cops, the seven students followed suit with a wide-eyed, puzzled
obedience.
The phone’s display was showing events that had taken place in two
different places within the country over the last twelve hours. One was the
recording of a night-time struggle--bangs and flashes of energy and
flaming wings; a fast-moving man-shape fighting four children. It was
accompanied by another window playing a long-shot clipping of the ghats
of Kashi. They could clearly make out flashes of spell attacks and plasma
beams, hundreds of tiny figures scurrying about. None of them could make
out the blurred figures, even with maximum-zoom.
Massive flashes of explosion at the end of the second video of the ghats
made Dhwani uncomfortable--Jayant had been headed to Kashi.
She followed Vakra and Abhay towards the bike, leaving the youngsters
scratching their heads before they returned to the news-bulletin.
‘What will happen now, when the entire world gets to know of the
existence of Angiris and Asuras and the battle between Oorja and
Andhakar?’ Abhay wondered aloud.
‘That day might not come to pass yet. It isn’t the first time a Celestial has
been caught on camera, you see,’ Vakra said, setting the helmet upon his
head. ‘Generally, the excitement around these captured events dies down
for want of sufficient proof and the lack of our capacity to embrace to the
uncanny. The videos will be eventually labeled as a hoax, become a topic
of conversation for the conspiracy theorists and such.’
‘And what if the talk and speculations don’t die down? If more sightings
are seen and recorded in the days to come, by more people?’
Vakra swung into the Ducati’s seat, considering the possibility. Before he
turned the key in ignition, he replied, ‘In that case, we would be witnessing
a whole new world order dawn upon us, Bheeshm-son. The priorities of
the eight billion humans would have to change in light of the new
knowledge.
‘What else do you expect when they learn that they were never alone in
this Brahmand, that we have had visitors from beyond--many of whom are
worshipped and feared as gods and demons, to this day?’

Vakra once again took the lead, watching out for danger in the sky and
on land. He kept checking on Dhwani to make sure she was awake and
taking small sips from the flask.
The winds brushing past Abhay’s exposed face were like sharp blades
cutting into his skin. The tip of his nose was numb with cold, yet he could
feel the hot gaze of the sun approaching its zenith. Vakra had mentioned
something about the climate in those parts: close to four-thousand meters
above the mean sea level, one could get frostbite and sunburn at the same
time, if exposed to the elements for too long.
Dhwani seemed to cling on to his back, awkwardly shifting her hold
between his shoulder and waist.
They found no hurdle but it hardly did anything to mitigate their unease.
They were moving through a barren terrain with neither cover nor escape
route to be had on the thin strip of the road for miles. There was little
traffic on the road as a result of the landslides.
‘I have known these mountains like the back of my hand, just as I know
the inhabitants of these parts,’ Vakra said at one point, as they waited by a
narrow bend to let a roadways bus make the turn first. ‘Never before have
I felt this uneasy as I feel now. Perhaps it’s the prospect of encountering an
Angiri...never thought I might have to fight one.’
‘If I may be so bold, how do you plan to fight him, should the moment
arise?’ Dhwani asked out of curiosity. She had tied her wrapped burden
across her back, adjusting the folds enough so that she could unsheathe
Uttara and Dakshina in one quick movement.
Vakra’s eyes behind the tinted glasses were inscrutable but his smile
seemed confident and reassuring. ‘I have a modest arsenal, my lady.’
The one relief for Abhay and Dhwani, in spite of their unease, was the
vistas opening up before and around them. The raw beauty of the valley
was appealing and uplifting; every time they turned a bend a new sight
greeted them; the rugged expanse earth merging into the sky where the
mountains loomed. Craggy slopes and jagged peaks hugged the clouds; the
shadows cast by the fluffy travelers of the sky scuttling along the mountain
slopes, making the sunlight dapple and shift.
Sparse settlements dotted the valley--tiny explosions of buildings amidst
fertile greens and yellows of winter harvest in the valley. The road led
through many of these communities with their slate roofs and barns and
tiny tea-shops, like islands of color in the middle of desolation. Gamboling
kids raced after them, following in an attempt to outrun the cool bikes.
Leaving the main thoroughfare a mile further, they entered a countryside
less traveled; the road broken and overflowing in places with runoff from
the last night’s snow in places.
Another breathtaking landscape emerged before them out of nowhere as
they rode out of a short tunnel and into the glare of the sun.
Their serviceable path descended with the land’s downward gradient,
cutting across a wide river valley locked within the grey and brown
mountains. The sight would have appeared bleak and harsh if not for the
glittering ribbon of water wending its way through the valley; it appeared
as if they were to cross into a labyrinth of snow-clad peaks that seemed
closer than the actual distance. A metal-and-concrete causeway, long but
too narrow for a vehicle bigger than a van, spanned over the gushing
waters of Sutlej; attached streamers of Tibetan prayer flags fluttered and
waved in the wind, sending out the energy of their inscribed invocations
into the universe.
‘Our destination lies on the other side of that mountain,’ Vakra said,
pointing a finger where the road and the river disappeared around the foot
of the slope on the opposite side of the valley.
Abhay and Dhwani did not feel the relief that accompanies when the end
of the journey is within reach. Beneath the endless sky, the stubborn peaks
towered over like sentinels hiding some secret within their ranks. It made
them feel dwarfed and exposed, as if the hills and mountains had eyes and
they were all watching them. Their instincts tingled with constant danger.
Jouncing along the cracked and potholed asphalt they were approaching
the pennant-covered bridge when Vakra picked up a number of flying
specks through the goggles.
Dhwani craned around, squinting at the four airborne shapes: three birds
surrounding a smaller bird, yet maintaining a safe distance from the latter.
An eagle’s screech reverberated through the air, the mountains echoed it
back.
‘The fourth one’s no bird,’ Vakra shouted over his shoulder, ‘but an
enemy drone. Come, we need to find cover.’ He calmly signaled Abhay to
hurry along, gathering speed.
They made it to the bridge without giving another glance, a step away
from panic. Overhead and on either side, streamers of the prayer flags
rippled and flapped in servitude to the wind; worn shades of red, yellow,
white and green, appearing to whisper and flutter in warning.
Without giving any explanation, Vakra stopped halfway beneath a
fluttering mesh of crisscrossing flags. He stepped off the bike, urging
Abhay to park abreast while he unclasped his saddle-bag and dug out a
folded sheet of some flimsy, silvery material.
‘Ashtadhatu,’ Dhwani’s whisper answered Abhay’s doubts.
The eagles and the drone were almost upon them when Vakra unfolded
the sheet and flung it over their heads, leaving only their feet and the rear
end of Vanraj’s bike, exposed.
‘Flatten yourself as best as you can,’ Vakra sounded untroubled, like it
was all a minor inconvenience, ‘and do not move a muscle. The drone’s
camouflage is sensitive to movement.’ A pause, before Vakra added.
‘Some timing this is! Hold on, someone’s coming the other way.’
They heard the noisy approach of a vehicle no sooner had they settled
down, coming from the other end of the bridge.
‘Try not to move, the drone’s almost upon us. I’ll handle this.’
Abhay felt the vibrations as the vehicle rolled closer and stopped, its
engine idling. He heard Vakra talking to the driver, engaging him with
small talk before he suggested him to sleep. Dhwani was breathing hard
behind him, her arms locked around Abhay’s waist to keep herself still. He
felt like comforting her, tell her everything was going to be alright. But he
picked up the mechanical whirring even as his lips formed the words.
The drone was upon them, hovering somewhere above the bridge. With
the camouflage blanket it was difficult to locate its exact position. For
what seemed like a long time Abhay and Dhwani waited with bated breath
while the drone circled around before moving on.
Vakra told them to relax when it had moved away to a safe enough
distance. He removed the silvery blanket only when the drone had
disappeared around the mountainside. An eagle’s cry bounced off the
slopes, like it was signaling them that the coast was clear.
‘It’s gone. Damned bots have been quite a nuisance lately,’ Vakra said,
folding the blanket with Abhay’s help and stowing it in his bag, ‘ever since
the acquisition of Aerobia last year. It is believed the company has been
making spying devices that look like small animals: lizards, rats, even
flies!’ His face was red and sweaty with the strain it had taken to put the
two men in the lorry to sleep.
‘They are the largest manufacturers and suppliers of state-of-the-art
drones and surveillance equipment in the world--apparently owned by the
Asuras.’ Abhay told Dhwani.
‘Yeah, the bastards now run God knows how many of such companies
like Aerobia--just like they run the military and most other institutions
serving the billions of our subcontinent. It’s like they are suddenly
everywhere.’ Like the sun flitting through the moving clouds above,
Vakra’s moment of frustration passed. ‘Personally, I would’ve liked to
shoot down that one. But it might’ve made the surveilling party
suspicious.’
The two men in the lorry woke up at his snap of fingers with no
recollection of the last five minutes.
They continued on the last leg of their journey at a steady speed, keeping
a look-out for the eyes in the sky--and as before, the Mole.
A stabbing fear had taken a hold over Dhwani when she and Abhay were
hiding from the drone: she had not expressed her misgivings but for those
few minutes she had been convinced Tamas would choose the moment to
strike. She studied the horizon fore and aft with her limited vision of a
mortal. It made no difference, even if they were being followed.
The road turned a bend along the mountainside and followed the river.
Vakra was driving without his helmet, letting his beard stream freely,
much akin to the prayer-flags in motion.
‘What about the eagles?’ Dhwani said.
‘Those weren’t the birds from our Stronghold. Had it been the case they
would have struck down the drone in no time--they are well-trained and
equipped with mini EMP generators to disable the drones. These were
born and bred in the wild.’
‘Vanraj,’ Abhay spoke through his open visor. No one else could have
sent the three eagles.
 Chapter 34
Unmasked

The road through the gorge brought them to the lush acres of greenery
that covered the riverside: a sight for sore eyes in the middle of the cold,
stony terrain.
When Vanraj had said they would find a huge banyan tree at a river bend,
Dhwani had imagined it to be a solitary entity instead of the dense stand of
trees that opened before them.
In spite of it being well past noon and the sun rays warming the world
without interruption from even a wisp of cloud, there was no getting rid of
her affliction; the waves of pain pounded her insides like relentless
invaders trying to ram down the walls of her sanity and consciousness. But
the greenery lifted her spirit as the path continued along the verdant
expanse. Even before Vakra gestured Abhay to stop the bike, she knew
they had arrived at their destination.
They parked the bikes where the ravine’s gradient became gentler,
speckled with stones and sizeable boulders to allow them for an easy
descent. Vakra opened his saddlebag and spread on the ground a folded
bundle of fire-resistant canvas to reveal his stash of weapons: three
handguns, an six-chambered revolver, a machete and a military knife,
some grenades and a twin-barrel, sawed-off shotgun with a bandolier of
shells.
‘You can take your pick, Bheeshm-son. You too, M’lady--although I am
aware your kind has little love for man-made firearms.’ The Legionnaire
chose the shotgun and a Glock pistol for himself, adding the grenades as
an afterthought.
While Dhwani was content with Uttara and Dakshina, Abhay un-strapped
the revolver to go along Murtaza’s baton. It was a bulky, deadly thing of
steel with a dark brown wood grip. Glyphs and runes in Oorja-speak
covered the muzzle and its elegant wooden grip. Although he did not have
even a scintilla of skill to use either of the two weapons he had, their
combined weight on his person felt reassuring.
‘I’d advise you take one of the Glocks. That one has a powerful
kickback,’ Vakra said.
‘My father,’ he said, ‘what weapon did he carry?’
Even before Vakra replied, a vague memory flashed before his eyes: his
father hurriedly wrapping up some metallic object in a cloth and stowing it
in a desk drawer as Abhay entered the study unannounced; his look of
irritation and mild embarrassment.
It was a gun, Abhay realized, beyond any doubt. And like all other details
of his first ten years, he had been made to forget the incident.
‘Your father was a gunslinger all the way,’ Vakra said. ‘Had a revolver
slightly bigger than the one you hold--eight chambers and with a
devastating firepower. If my memory serves well, he forged it all on his
own in our Stronghold, soon after he was sworn in as a Legionnaire. Our
best spellmasters contributed with enchantments laid upon it. It could kill
all kinds of dark creatures, including the Asuras.’
Abhay replaced the revolver and picked up a Glock in its stead. Vakra
slipped on the bandolier of bright red shotgun shells after packing up his
reduced arsenal, motioning them to follow.
Abhay stood immovable, considering the facts about his father. Perhaps
somewhere deep within, he had always suspected his father’s discreet
involvements in some dangerous, shadow business. Each individual detail
he had learned or remembered, seemed to make his father seem more and
more like a stranger.
Dhwani brought him back from the memory lane before he followed her
and the Legionnaire down the ravine and into the shade of the Great
Banyan.
A revered leader, devoted to his cause, who carried an enchanted
revolver meant to kill things that till two days ago had only been figments
of myth and imagination. That was the real Bheeshm Rajvardhan: the
father Abhay had barely known.

It was a single tree, with aerial roots and offshoots extending to form a
jungle of its own; hundreds of secondary trunks surrounding the principal
trunk, the latter hidden out of sight within its thriving extensions. A soft,
green glow prevailed beneath the dense foliage of the banyan, penetrated
by a few near-vertical shafts of sunlight. The ground was carpeted in moist
leaves and acorns. The air unexpectedly warm and humid. Some thirty
paces further in the shade, Abhay began to feel the dampness in his
armpits and upon his brow.
Birds of several kinds and colors fluttered and cried all around in the
upper reaches: flightless fowls and pheasants and monals with flamboyant
wings and crests; grey-black squirrels with furry tails played in the trees,
twittering among each other; marmots, with thick coffee-colored coats
scurried about on the ground.
 Abhay was surprised to find a drove of sparrows fluttering about in the
branches.
‘They were known to have gone extinct in the plains. Haven’t seen one in
years,’ he said.
What amazed him more than anything else was that the banyan had
survived the extreme climes for what seemed like hundreds of years, with
nearly seven to eight hours of sunlight received on a clear day. Given its
proximity to the snowline, the area saw record snowfall during winters.
And yet, the Great Banyan continued to thrive like it were growing in the
much warmer plains and not at an altitude of four thousand meters above
sea-level.
He thought he could feel a low vibration reverberating beneath the
canopy, mostly stifled by humdrum of bird and animal sounds.
‘This is one of the oldest trees that still stand in the known world.’ Vakra
said, watching the look of wonder on Abhay’s face, ‘Over four centuries
old, it has been a hotbed of celestial activity ever since.’ He glanced at
Dhwani. ‘Something tells me it is your first time on Prithvi, M’lady. I was
hoping you’d know more about how this elder tree ended up getting
planted here.’
‘I am more or less a stranger to these parts, my friend, even though I have
seen and visited the other five continents on several occasions. As for the
reason why Angiris have been frequently visiting this spot,’ she paused to
close her eyes and listen for a long beat. ‘The Oorja-vibrations are strong
here, this is hallowed ground; mystical lines intersect above us to create an
Oorja vortex. It would be an ideal site for my people to perform their
rituals under the sun and moonlight.’
‘What rituals?’ Abhay asked as they resumed moving through the
overhang of aerial roots.
‘During the late hours of a full-moon night, the atmosphere of Prithvi
becomes unusually charged, owing to the moon’s gravitation.’ Dhwani
replied. ‘At such times during the past lunar cycles the Praharis sought
natural spots like this Great Banyan by the river, to perform our sacred
rituals of replenishment--a union with the five elements. The rituals purify
us, restore our strength to unprecedented levels. Similar rituals can be
performed during the days of the solar equinox.’
‘It is only a matter of time before someone comes up with an excuse to
cut down this entire ecosystem. I am surprised it has managed to stay
untouched for so long--that too with a road running right past it.’ Vakra
commented. ‘The Legion would not let it come to harm, I hope.’
Abhay held up the sleek metallic whistle dangling on its key-chain. ‘Is it
time to blow this?’
‘Not yet,’ The Legionnaire gestured up ahead, where they could make
out a gap through the trees, overlooking the pebble strewn shore along the
river bend.
The banyan offshoots stopped growing five meters further, their advance
meticulously restricted to form a semicircular patch of brown earth.
A tear-shaped boulder about eight feet high, with a broad, bulging base
stood beyond the canopy, like a deliberately-placed centerpiece. As they
stepped onto the bare ground and approached the rock, a quartet of parrots
shot out of the oval hollow in the boulders base.
‘Check the other face of the rock, there are engravings on it that might
interest you, fair lady,’ Vakra urged Dhwani before he turned to Abhay.
‘This is where you blow the whistle, Bheeshm-son, inside that hollow.’
He added, seeing Abhay’s brow furrowing, ‘Might look like a piece of
rock, that one, but there’s more to it than meets the eye. The hollow, it is
like a shortcut to a sanctuary hidden deep within the uppermost ranges: a
divya dwar, Portal as the Celestials like to call it.’
On peering inside from an arm’s distance, the hollow was a darkened
oval of empty space, large enough to hide a four-year-old child.
But on leaning closer, Abhay felt perceptible currents of warm air
ruffling his hair from within the hollow; seconds later he heard a sound
getting louder--a flapping of wings.
He ducked sideways barely in time before the sparrows emerged, taken
aback by Abhay’s proximity, dispersing in a chorus of disapproving cries
and a chaos of wings.
‘I forgot to tell you to watch out for the birds, didn’t I?’ Vakra said,
grinning.
Abhay leaned into the hollow with care, holding the ultrasonic whistle to
his lips.

‘What does it say?’ Vakra asked, standing beside Dhwani while she
examined the flat surface of the boulder. ‘We have known of this place’s
existence for a long time, but no one has managed to decipher these
writings, except for a few words here and there. The Angiri-tongue
remains beyond our ken.’
The rock face bore two sections of runes: a long paragraph at the top,
written in deep indentations like those made by a superhot, blunt tool; and
below it, was a long list of names carved with a fine-tipped implement to
make the most of the available space. Dhwani felt the sting of tears as she
skimmed over each name.
‘A seed was sowed here, in the presence of the sun and the sky and the
waters, by the Praharis Jaydrath and Aitri, in memory of the great battle
fought in these mountains some seven hundred years ago.’ Dhwani read
the paragraph for Vakra. ‘Hereon, every fallen Prahari shall be
remembered; a reminder to those that follow in their footsteps. Till the last
flicker of Maa Oorja, till our last breath, we will not give up hope. There
will always be light for those that seek its presence. Till our vigil ends...’
She sighed, a sad smile wavering on her colorless lips. ‘These are the
names, three hundred and ten in all. With the exception of the twenty
Praharis stationed on Prithvi during the Second Fall...there was no one left
to etch their names in remembrance.’
She took a silent vow to add those twenty missing names in their rightful
place, if she lived to see another day. Perhaps she could write the names of
every Angiri lost to them in the Second Fall.
‘I have been blowing the whistle for over five minutes now,’ Abhay
called from the other side of the boulder.
‘Then it’s enough…’ Vakra trailed off in mid-sentence as an animal roar
rang out of the hollow. It was as if some slumbering beast had awakened
from its hibernation, enraged by the intrusive whistling.
Abhay stepped away from the hollow with a panicked agility, frightened
yet awestruck. His gaze leveled at Vakra and he nearly shouted, ‘W-what
did I wake up?’
‘You overdid it most likely, angered the mighty creatures with the
ultrasonic racket.’ Vakra laughed, holding up a palm in assurance that did
little to satisfy Abhay. ‘You announced your presence, now we wait till
our interceptors show up.’
Even Dhwani could not hold back from smiling. The Legionnaire was
determined to surprise Abhay. The roar she had heard had solidified her
guess: their interceptors, whose identity Vakra was withholding from
Abhay were beings well-known in Swargam, dating back to the times
before the dawn of Manushyas. The Himalayas had been their home for
more than forty thousand years.
She showed Abhay the engravings on the rock-face and read the first half
of the lithograph. Just as she had expected, his next words were: ‘It should
also have my mother’s name then. She was one of the Praharis, after all.’
His fingers trailed downward, following the indentations with a searching
expression.
‘Your mother and the last of the Praharis, their names are not written
here. No one made it alive through the Second Fall--except Kaya, of
course. The Angiri-pair that wrote all this, and planted the acorn for this
giant elder tree--Jaydrath and Aitri, they also deserve their place here, right
above their daughter.’
‘My grandparents...they planted this tree.’ He said, rubbing his right fist
into the palm of his left in that typical way of his. He felt the thin whistle
crunch within his metal-sheathed fist before he realized it had bent out of
shape.
Vakra had stepped aside while they were talking. He was smoking a
chillum, sitting on a low rock near the river. The aromatic smell of burning
herb seemed to hang around him in a wide radius, the wind almost non-
existent in the noontime glare.
Abhay went to stand a few feet away from him, temporarily withdrawn in
his own shell; eyes following the glimmering river current while his mind
raced after thoughts and memories.
Dhwani remained by the boulder, remembering each face as she again
went through the names--every face she had known and respected and
loved like a brother or sister, all lifelong friends.
‘I don’t mean to intrude but there’s something you should know
beforehand, Abhay.’ She heard Vakra say, ‘You will soon be meeting the
top brass of our organisation. There will already be wide speculations and
great expectations from their side, that Bheeshm Rajvardhan’s son will
take up his father’s mantle, speak the Legionnaire’s Oath.’
Abhay replied after a pause, ‘I haven’t planned much beyond this day.
Taking up Dad’s mantle, slipping into his shoes, words and oaths: that’s
not my cup of tea. I only want to know my parents better. And if I’ve
learned anything in the last few days, I doubt I am of any use to the
Legion. Dhwani is responsible for keeping me alive this far, otherwise…’
‘You underestimate your mettle then.’ Vakra said, taking a final drag
before he upended the ash in the chillum. ‘Let me be direct. It isn’t only
about taking your father’s mantle, or carrying his torch. It’s got everything
to do with who you are, what makes you more than a Manushya…’
‘Go on, I’m listening.’
‘In light of what happened to the Nephilim borne of the earlier
Manushya-Angiri unions, you will be seen by many at the Stronghold as a
living, breathing bomb waiting to explode. Not everyone is going to
welcome you with open arms because they’ll see you as a threat, at first.
Frankly, you don’t have the option to turn away from the Legion, even if
your memories were to be completely wiped. The Asuras might brainwash
you and turn you into a weapon against Oorja.’
Abhay understood every word he said. He could feel an invisible weight
pressing upon him--very much akin to what Dhwani felt with the
Brahmāstra on her back.
He began to say something when a prickling sensation at the base of his
neck told him to turn. Dhwani was already unsheathing her sword, peering
into the dim canopy.
They did not see anything, but knew from the animal and bird cries
swelling in volume and chorus that trouble had found them yet again.
Does this ever get over? Abhay wondered.
The birds took flight in screeching droves; the squirrels and wild hares
spilled out of the trees en masse. At first Abhay thought the animals and
birds were heading for the open shore, but they instead went for the
immediate escape-route: the Portal in the hollow of the boulder; jostling
for entry, their furry, panicking bodies and frenetic wings nearly choking
the mouth of the orifice.
The agents of chaos appeared from the trees, hunched over the ground,
stopping just shy of where the banyan stopped growing.
What Dhwani had taken to be animals, given the growling and the
postures they assumed, transformed into nightmares walking under
daylight as she regarded the child-demons: hollow, hungry faces and the
empty, tar-black eyes; the naked, sexless bodies taut as bowstrings, as if
they were waiting to charge at them.
‘Anupama was right, the bastards are making soldiers out of children!’
Abhay whispered beside her, the gun in his hand swinging left and right as
the Darkspawn bared their lips, revealing unnaturally sharp teeth with long
canines meant to rip and tear.
‘Don’t let that weaken your attack.’ Vakra said, undaunted by the sight
and sound, his primary and secondary weapons ready to raise hell. ‘Show
no mercy, for they won’t. I doubt they can even feel any other emotion,
except mindless hunger and bloodlust.’
‘Come on, let’s get over with it.’ He mumbled when the attack did not
come even after many seconds, uneasy and impatient. ‘Something’s
wrong, they aren’t attacking us.’
As if in response Abhay felt the familiar tingling, alerting him of danger.
A shadow fell upon him and Dhwani and they both turned around.
‘They won’t attack till we say so, that’s why.’ Hissed the figure darkly
silhouetted against the glare of the sun, floating fifty feet above the gentle
rush of the river. ‘I know you must be dying with curiosity to face us,
weren’t you, Dhwani and Abhay? Well, your prayers just got answered.’
With a downward motion of his hand the Mole made an effortless
descent, landing upon the pebbles near the water’s edge.
 Over his kavach suit he wore a grey long-coat, tattered and burnt on the
right side. Dhwani could not make out his face beneath the hood, except
for jutting chin with a cleft and a hooked nose; he had the skin of a
diseased albino, marred by flaking skin and oozing pustules. Her attention
then went to the visible scar across his chest, discharging runnels of pus
and blood; the liquid metal of his suit had fused with the tissue around the
long scar.
Even as he removed his hood Dhwani realized how wrong she, Neel and
Jayant had been regarding the Mole’s identity.
‘You see how Providence played its part to bring the three weapons
together, don’t you?’ the Mole said, taking off the hood and the
sunglasses.
Without the clay-mask, he did not look like a Celestial but more like a
creature from Narka. His face was gaunt and translucent, webbed with the
dark veins--telltale signs of the Halāhal’s presence. His hair was missing
in patches. Even his voice had changed.
Only the green-blue eyes staring from the hollow sockets remained the
same.
Dhwani had looked into them from close proximity throughout her life.
They belonged to her arch-rival, the one Angiri who had always been her
most formidable opponent in the practice arena and tournaments before the
Second Fall, no less skilled with weapons and spells. She could have
recognized those eyes anywhere, the unmitigated, unchanged loathing they
had always expressed for her. Theirs was an inherited rivalry, borne out of
the fact that they were the acolytes of Tamas and Neel.
‘Vikrant,’ she said, cursing herself for not seeing the obvious before. ‘We
were so occupied with the Mentor’s complicity that in his mighty shadow
his turncloak acolyte went completely unnoticed. Do you even realize
what the Asura-poison has turned you into? The demons have swindled
you…’
Vikrant raised his hand and her grip around the hilts of Uttara and
Dakshina slipped, as if she was wrestling against some unseen giant. The
next monumental tug would have snatched the swords from her but Vakra
opened fire. Abhay followed suit, feeling the smacking recoil at the press
of the trigger.
‘Let’s play hide-and-seek,’ Vakra removed the pin of two grenades using
his teeth and tossed them on the ground, one by one. ‘Stall him, help
shouldn’t be far.’
The grenades on the ground began to release a pressurized jet of thick red
smoke that began to engulf them.
 The Mole, Vikrant, had little trouble dodging the deadly projectile of the
bullets, given that he was brimming with energy. But his eyes began to
sting and water as the smoke-screen spread, blocking his senses as the
heavy red clouds thickened in the absence of wind.
‘You merely delay the inevitable, fools.’ Snake Voice seemed to bounce
around in the shifting red fog. He could just feel the trio moving around
him. Once, he heard someone cough.
‘Give up the Brahmāstra, Dhwani. We promise to grant you a swift,
painless death--my gesture of mercy and good faith.’ The taunting, leering
hiss was deliberately meant to give away his position.
The Legionnaire came at him from the front, discharging both his
weapons at once. Dhwani charged from the right even as Vikrant leapt and
twisted to dodge the Ashtadhatu slugs. At the very last moment before her
sword clashed against Vikrant’s short-sword, her suit blazed with light, its
glow seeping out of her sleeves and collar. The Nephilim flung himself at
Vikrant simultaneously, with every intention to impale him with the thin
blade of his weapon.
Vikrant’s body and mind were screaming for the soothing high of the
Halāhal; the scar like toothed worms wriggling on his chest, burning as he
blocked and dodged. But he retaliated with brutal force and a snakelike
speed, wounding Dhwani on the arm and hitting Abhay with enough force
to cripple him for life.
The Nephilim was only momentarily knocked down before he and
Dhwani retreated into the smoke. Vakra’s timed cover attack came from
another direction, the guns going off less than four feet from Vikrant.
He missed the handgun bullet, but a few pellets from the shotgun spray
tore into Vikrant’s left thigh as he sprang away.
Another canister clattered to a stop beside him before he could get up,
ejecting a jet of indigo smoke.
The Legionnaire was beginning to annoy him.

‘Just like that, you left your other three acolytes in Swargam. Never
bothering to even tell them of your affairs. Poor sods had to bear the brunt
of your doings.’ Vikrant’s hiss echoed in the smoke as it darkened with the
merging of the indigo and red.
‘It is a ruse to incite me.’ Dhwani whispered as the three of them
gathered on the other side of the boulder, six feet from the snarling
Darkspawns in the trees.
 ‘They are dead, by the way. We bound them under the vashikaran
mantra, to attack the rest of our vanguard. Too bad you didn’t get to speak
your final words.’
Dhwani still made no move, her expressions unreadable.
Vikrant could have unleashed his pets upon them and the smoke would
have proven to be ineffective against the hordes of the Darkspawn. His
Oorja-wings with their wide wingspan could have dispersed the smoke
within a few beats. It was a good thing he was gladly participating in the
game of hide-and-seek.
‘Alone, we don’t pose much challenge,’ Vakra rolled a fresh smoke
canister towards the enemy, reloaded his weapons with an ingrained flurry
of motion. ‘But together, we might have a chance. The smoke wouldn’t
last long, the wind is rising and that was the last of the smoke grenades.’
He pointed at the last canister strapped to his belt and succinctly outlined
his strategy in whispers.

‘You wouldn’t understand how it feels; what the Halāhal makes you see
once you get accustomed to it--no one would get it, not even our dear
Mentor who has been dabbling with the dark arts for over a thousand
years. He lost half of his face, too.’ Vikrant spoke as he moved along the
edge of the smoke-screen. The sun was a bright, glowing silver coin
through the swirling heavy smoke.
‘Problem is: we believe every word of the edicts the Saptarishis laid out
for us on behalf of the Devas. We were told the Halāhal is the enemy’s
most lethal poison and we believed in blind faith, not even trying to
understand this supposed poison’s true nature.’
‘You are only a stooge of the Asuras, Vikrant. You might think you are
the one in control, but all you are is a pawn, under the thrall of the Halāhal
and its providers.’ Dhwani shot back.
An eagle screeched beyond the radius of smoke. He could feel her and
the rest moving about him but could not be certain of their exact position
due to the smoke stifling his senses.
‘You wouldn’t understand, Dhwani, no one would. It was we who was
their prisoner, we who were subjected to endless torture and probings
while they pumped Halāhal little by little into our blood, till it became an
addiction. Most of us chose to die by suicide, others tried to fight the
craving. We chose the middle path--of survival. None of the Angiris lasted
as long as we did.’
He controlled his flaring temper, making his way towards the boulder
that the smoke momentarily revealed. Dhwani was sly enough to refrain
from a hurried, open attack.
He shifted his attention to the Nephilim--the most vulnerable opponent
among the three of them, despite his origins. He was prepared to let the
smoke dissipate, even though he was aware of the Angiris led by his
Mentor closing in fast from the south-east, taking full advantage of the
daylight.
‘You must be aware of the meaning of your name, son of Kaya and
Bheeshm. Abhay, the one without fear. You can become the most
powerful being in the universe, a god among the humans. But only if you
understand yourself better and learn to control your abilities. We are ready
to offer our guidance and help, to teach you Oorja-speak and train you in
the ways of weapons and potent spells. All you have to do is surrender.’
A dangerously aimed stone came flying at him from the right, hitting the
protective force-field around Vikrant with a dull bonk and a flash. He
could not help but grin at the childish attempt.
At his command several pebbles rose up in the air and shot into the
smoke like speeding bullets.
He heard them impact against the intended targets hidden in the churning
smoke. For a moment, Vikrant saw the subdued white glow of Dhwani’s
suit but he chose to wait and derive the thrill from the game his opponents
were playing.
‘It was raining heavily that day, when your parents’ lives came to an
abrupt end at our hands, although we didn’t wish it for Kaya. Even in his
last moments, Bheeshm was confident that no harm would ever come to
his son. But look, we have at last found you, contrary to your father’s
hopes. You don’t have to die like Bheeshm did, Abhay.’
More pebbles flew into the lifting smoke at his command.
The pebbles hit the air inches away from Abhay’s face and chest,
fleetingly flashing against the force-field the gauntlet was generating--a
thin, translucent shell protecting most of his torso. But he barely flinched,
staring into the thinning smoke with a tense concentration; the days-old
stubble highlighted the clenching and unclenching of his jaw.
‘He is provoking you, Abhay,’ Vakra spoke from the corner of his lips.
‘…We always had huge respect for Bheeshm: a brave, wise leader even
though he was a shitty father. But your mother,’ Vikrant scoffed, ‘Kaya
was an all-out whore. First she fucked my mentor, then your father.’
Abhay shot forward like a bolt from a crossbow the second Vikrant
finished speaking and sent a fresh assault of pebbles at them. Even as
Dhwani shielded Vakra, she saw him charge--oblivious of the stones
thudding harmlessly against his force-field shell.
She heard the clash of weapons beneath Abhay’s furious yelling and
grunts, before a kick from Vikrant sent him skidding over the ground.
Vakra removed the pin of his last grenade and threw it in the general
direction of the Mole. He and Dhwani ducked and flattened themselves on
the ground.

Vikrant had enough time to get away from the canister that clattered to a
stop by his right foot. He was expecting it to release another jet of smoke,
like the ones the Legionnaire had used before.
But it exploded in a blast of heat, shockwave and shrapnel.
Had it been a Manushya he would have lost both his limbs but Vikrant
was protected from the worst of the detonation. The shockwave slammed
him into the boulder with enough force to have shattered an ordinary
creature’s spine.
The smoke lifted and the three of them charged at the Mole. He was
uninjured, but disoriented and vulnerable.
Vikrant’s delayed reaction cost him a stab in the shoulder and a cross-cut
on his chest from Dhwani’s blades. But the fresh pain cleared his head and
galvanized, he reared in fury just as the Legionnaire was about to fire the
shotgun in his face.
Chips of stones and clods of dirt flew from the ground preceding the loud
report.
Vakra barely got enough time to realize Vikrant was already beside him,
reeking of disease and decay. The Legionnaire still tried, lashing out with
his long knife--but not fast enough. Almost as if it was a game, Vikrant
answered each diagonal slash Vakra made in the hopes of hurting him, the
former’s short-sword stabbing the latter six times before the Manushya
staggered. His knees gave way beneath him just as the stab wounds began
to openly bleed. Panting, Vakra broke into a bloody smile, like he had won
the bout and not the other way around.
‘Fool of an Angiri,’ he spat and raised his Ashtadhatu knife as Vikrant
swung his own blade. He lopped off the head of the Legionnaire a second
too late before the knife dug into his feet, cutting through the Ashtadhatu.
The eagles swooped down from the sky in one majestic motion before
Vikrant could even sense their shadows, as if they had been waiting for an
opportunity. Talons and hooked beaks tore into his face as he wildly
swung his short-sword. He was sprayed with the eagles’ blood, blinded for
an instant when Abhay punched him with all his might.
 Vikrant heard his ribs crack as the gauntleted fist connected. Drawing
from his rage, he cast a torpefying spell. His suit flashed to release a
shockwave that hoisted and flung aside Abhay and Dhwani like twigs in a
storm.
He was upon her in a blink. She put up little restraint when he wrested
the two swords from her grip and roughly removed the scabbard by its
strap. A pebble guided by telekinesis hit Abhay in the temple as he tried to
get up a few feet away, knocking him unconscious.
With hands trembling in excitement and a head giddy with victory,
Vikrant sheathed Uttara and Dakshina. The polished wood of the scabbard
looked smooth and unblemished despite the rough journey it had made
since its arrival at Prithvi. And it was unusually heavier than the combined
weight of the swords--a sign that the Chakra was hidden somewhere in the
woodwork.
‘You can still come back…before you are too far gone, Vikrant.’ Dhwani
struggled to rise against the agony appearing to erupt from every cell of
her being. ‘The Brahmāstra…the Asuras will destroy the world.’
‘We cannot turn back--we wouldn’t do it even if there was a way.’
Vikrant kicked, forcing Dhwani on her back. He pulled out his short-sword
dug into the ground. ‘As for the Brahmāstra, we never said we plan to
hand it over to the Asuras. It is a pity you wouldn’t be alive to see what
happens.’
He raised the short-sword for the beheading strike, working an
enchantment that turned the blade red-hot.
The ground beneath his feet shook as something large and heavy landed
behind him.
Vikrant whirled around to face the new opponent: an enormous, furry
creature with a fierce, ursine face bellowed in his face and before he knew,
he was dangling upside down. As if he was some puny doll, the creature
started to repeatedly smash Vikrant into the ground.
Try as he might to cinch its strap, the scabbard was torn from his hand as
Vikrant’s vision darkened.
 Chapter 35
The Coven

He felt himself being shaken, his eyelids fluttered weakly. Abhay

smelled a strong musky odor--like incense mixed with an animal’s scent--
and sensed a towering presence over him. He felt its hot breath in the face
and opened his eyes.
A brief glimpse into the face of the white, immense beast--that looked
like a cross between a monkey and a bear--and impulse drove him to recoil
in panic. He retreated, kicking back for a few feet as the snow-giant reared
to his full-height, observing Abhay with its small, deep-set eyes that
twinkled with intelligence.
It was like an oversized gorilla, albeit white as the snow owing to its
thick coat of rippling fur and facial hair; over eight feet tall and eight-
hundred pounds heavy, with long arms like iron-girders hanging below his
knees; a triangular shock of thick pubic hair dangled between the snow-
giant’s sinewy legs thick as tree trunks.
It grunted at him and walked away in a bored, uninterested way. Only
when Abhay realized the snow-giant bore no harm did he study his
surroundings.
The riverside had become a strangely bloodless battlefield along the
riverside, a uniform carpet of heads and limbs, the bodies crushed and
broken without spilling much blood. The child-demons lay dead all over.
Dhwani was crouched about fifteen yards away, examining something on
the ground while she spoke to a second snow-giant hunched beside her,
dwarfing even the first one. His fur was silvery, with a number of deep
scars on his face and chest. A golden eagle was perched atop his one
shoulder, cocking its head this way and that.
The scabbard was secured around Dhwani’s back. Abhay breathed a little
more easily.
Even as he was getting up, unable to pull away his gaze from the two
majestic creatures before him, two more came crashing through the trees,
huffing and puffing like fuming bulls. They regarded Abhay with a
thoughtful yet amused expression as he walked towards Dhwani, pausing
to pick up the baton. Where the pebble had hit him in the temple there was
a knot of flaring heat.
She acknowledged him with a nod and said, ‘I am relieved to see you
suffered no serious wound.’ Unlike Abhay, she had received significant
damage from Vikrant’s sword-attacks. In spite of having tied three
tourniquets made from the lining of her coat’s insides, she was bleeding
from the wounds on her left arm and thigh.
‘What are these beasts?’ Abhay asked.
The older snow-giant beside her uttered a low growl of displeasure,
fixing his amber eyes on Abhay with such intensity that he backed off a
few paces.
‘Careful with your words, Abhay,’ Dhwani raised her palm in warning.
‘You are offending them by calling them as beasts. Our friends here are
proud creatures who have guarded the Himalayas and its secrets since the
Satyuga--older than Angiris or the Manushyas. King Himwan and his ilk
are the last of their kind.’
Abhay nodded and lowered his gaze in apology. Even though Dhwani
had still not revealed what the four creatures were called, Abhay was
beginning to piece the information together: the conspiracy theories and
witnesses’ accounts that flooded the internet, a highly debated myth. ‘It’s
all true then, the Abominable Snowman exists. They can only be the
Yetis.’
She nodded as she got up, brushing dirt off her hands. ‘The Manushya-
kind has come in close contact with them on a number of occasions and
stumbled upon their traces but they are wrong to think the Yetis to be
abominable--unless it is a creature born of Andhakar they are dealing with.
Their race aided the Devas during several crises, but since then they have
mostly avoided and evaded the Angiris.’
Dhwani skirted around the small pool of dark, congealed blood she had
been observing, watching Himwan as he began to make a series of hand
movements. It took Abhay a few seconds to understand the intelligent,
uncannily-human gestures.
‘He is communicating in sign language!’ Abhay said, every bit
fascinated. Dhwani responded to the Yeti’s gestures with a succinct reply
Abhay did not understand. ‘What is he saying?’ He asked her.
‘King Himwan wishes to set out on his return journey to their dwelling in
the mountains. The birds bring them word of the Angiris closing in and a
fleet of huge metal birds--manmade aircraft--heading our way.’
‘And we are to accompany them--how do we..?’ Abhay’s question hung
in the air as it struck him. Dhwani gave a pained grin. The Yeti performed
a quick combination of signs which she simultaneously translated.
‘His sons have volunteered…to let us ride…on their backs.’
Abhay could not contain his disbelief and dread as he imagined it. He
had not even ridden a pony in his life.
 She looked to one side among the dead Darkspawns as the Yeti King
moved away, summoning his sons by uttering a thunderous growl. The
eagle on his shoulder took its cue and flew away.
‘Vakra dearly wished to see your reaction when you met the Yetis.’
It was then Abhay really looked at the grisly, half-devoured mess the
Darkspawn had made of the headless Legionnaire. In the excitement
around the Yetis he had forgotten Vakra.
‘He died because of me.’ The words emerged from Abhay’s lips
automatically.
‘Blaming yourself will not bring him back, Abhay. But you can still
honor him by keeping your calm the next time you are fighting beside
someone.’ Dhwani let Abhay simmer with his guilt before she gestured
downriver.
‘Vikrant flew that way while the Yetis and I were busy confronting the
tide of the Darkspawn. The children that managed to get away vanished
into the mountains after him. Coward! He is not going to bother us as long
as we are under the aegis of the Yetis.’
Himwan returned, flanked by his sons. Two of them had employed the
aerial roots of the Great Banyan to create a pair of crude but strong saddles
that they wore around their backs.
Abhay took a deep breath, his knees slightly trembling. ‘Well, now that
we aren’t traveling by conventional means--any suggestions before we
begin?’
Dhwani translated the question for Himwan. The creature thumped his
knuckles and uttered a sound between a whoop and hoarse laugh, his
sloped shoulders rising and falling. His sons seemed as much amused as
their father. The Yeti-king’s advice consisted of a short hand-movement.
‘King Himwan’s advice is simple: hold tight.’ Dhwani told Abhay.

The Angiris led by Tamas blazed through the rarer altitudes above the
mountain-tops. Their quarry was within their keen sight, moving at an
unusual speed in spite of the treacherous terrain, the Nephilim’s life-force
pulsing like a beacon. Telepathic conversation buzzed freely on account of
the four Yetis racing across the slopes.
Less than two hours ago they had chanced upon the charred remains of
the vanguard, at the mercy of vultures, all unrecognizable. Their suits had
melted and fused with what remained of their bodies--their self-destruct
mechanism disabled by a complete damage to the kavach.
Try as they might, the sight of the fallen would not leave their mind. But
more than grief it was rage they felt; a thirst for vengeance against the
perpetrator that performed the heinous massacre at the hilltop. They had no
more doubt the Mole had been a part of the vanguard. He was the one to
have manipulated the circumstances that led others to believe Elder Neel
was the traitor--just as Neel, Jayant and Dhwani had suspected Elder
Tamas.
Which of the fifteen could be a traitor? Speculations and guesses ran
abundant through the psychic chatter. But the eldest among the cadre were
having a closed discussion of their own and Tamas could overhear them in
bits and pieces without alerting their attention.
‘…he trusted him blindly, granted too much knowledge to one acolyte…’
‘…and now the whole of the Swargam will have to pay the cost of Elder
Tamas’s ill-placed faith…’
‘…supposed to be the wisest of our race, never realized he was blessing a
serpent with poisonous fangs…oh pity!’
‘…he proclaims the Saptarishis to be selfish because they hid weapons
and wisdom of the higher mystic-arts. And all this time, he was himself
doing exactly the opposite of what he preaches…’
‘…outright hypocrisy on Elder Tamas’s part, indeed…what insanity
drove him to divulge the mantra to summon the Vajra, of all the heavenly
secrets?’
Even though he blocked their exchange Tamas could still feel their
combined accusatory gaze burning into his back. Unlike them, he had
inferred Vikrant’s involvement even before they had found the charred
corpses. Neel’s words had sowed the first seed of doubt--which Tamas had
so blatantly overlooked because of his blind hatred for his brother. His
exchange with Jayant in Kashi, moments before the attack from the
Darkspawn had inflamed Tamas’s fear: his own dear acolyte had been
broken by the enemy.
The discovery of the Angiris killed by the Vajra had confirmed that fear.
The indignation, the destructive outrage Tamas had felt would not abate--
not till he restored his dignity.
Because of Vikrant’s treachery, he would be losing respect and
credibility among his people--above all, the support of the rest of the
Angiri Council. They had already seen his deformed face; even though
they did not express their shock and horror openly, there was a look to
their eyes, as if he was a freak among them. The appearance and vitality he
had been trying to restore by using the Ksheer-clay and the Forbidden
Spells, respectively, had all been undone.
All because Vikrant chose to yield to the enemy, to the Asura-poison that
tainted him, rather than dying with some honor: the thought came
unbidden.
Tamas had thanked the Providence when he had successfully rescued
Vikrant; now he was desperately wishing he had never found his broken,
battered acolyte, begging to be taken home.
His rage had a bad aftertaste: of embarrassment and defeat, of feeling
alienated by the very people he had dearly loved--none of which he had
ever experienced before in a life spanning over four millennia.
He would have to deliver the punishment himself; behead the traitor with
his long-sword, in front of the Angiris. He might have made an error by
trusting Vikrant with his knowledge but he was fully capable of amending
the mistake.
‘A battle seems to have taken place down here, Elder.’ A scout’s relay
alerted the cadre.
Leaving the others, Tamas flew down to where the three Angiri scouts
were hovering above an elder vat-vriksha. One of them indicated at the
carnage spread between the tree’s edge and the river bend.
Tamas counted close to a hundred of the Darkspawn, their corpses
beginning to turn flaccid and translucent--the first sign of decay. A
Manushya’s half-eaten remains stood out in their midst.
‘Allow us a moment for closer inspection, Elder.’ The Angiri appealed.
‘We may have glimpsed a Darkspawn darting into the canopy.’
‘No need, Angad. Our priorities lie ahead, wherever the Nephilim and
Dhwani are taking the Brahmāstra. The traitor would be going nowhere
else but after the creature and the Artifact, sooner or later.’ Tamas said,
reaching out with his mind to scan the foliage.
Like he had been unable to sense the malevolent presence of the
Darkborn-children in Kashi, this time was no different.
‘Burn the corpses, set fire to every drop of the blood, lest the tainted
blood defile the soil and water.’ Tamas looked up to find the cadre--a
shimmering swarm of lights against the backdrop of the sky and the
mountains.
They disappeared around a peak even as the three scouts and Tamas
skimmed over the dead, conjuring fire that enveloped the child-demons in
no time. The four of them streaked away a few minutes later, leaving
behind the burning corpses and plumes of dark smoke.
Things would have ended on a very different note for Tamas, Abhay and
Dhwani had the four Angiris known the traitor was hiding deep within the
Great Banyan’s canopy, wounded and weakened.
 Vikrant was in two places at once, his mind and body in detached
animation.
He lay bleeding among the roots of the Great Banyan’s principal trunk,
eyes closed in meditation. Yet he was also present over a thousand feet
away from his corporeal form, controlling the mind of a Darkspawn,
watching Tamas and the scouts fly away from the burning riverside.
Through the eyes of the child-demon Vikrant saw the world in a
perspective wholly different than what his Angiri-vision was accustomed
to--almost like seeing through a negative film. The four specks that were
Tamas and the scouts, disappeared within the endless embrace of the
mountains before he pulled away from the Darkspawn’s primitive mind
that only understood the insatiable craving for warm blood and violence.
For a second he felt relief, to be free of its vile conscious. No sooner did
he fully return into his physical form its mortal suffering enveloped him
within a fiery, barbed-wire net of agony; the scar across his chest strangely
throbbed cold, like ice shafts digging into his very soul. Bheeshm’s face
swam in his darkened vision before Vikrant slowly opened his eyes.
The foliage above him was at its densest, allowing little sunlight to reach
the forest floor. Vikrant saw the dim, hunched shapes crowding about him.
One of the Darkspawns was sniffing at the seeping wound in his thigh,
undoubtedly considering biting a chunk of him.
The abominations retreated in fear at the first sign of movement from
Vikrant. The sniffing child-demon was not so fortunate. It did not even
feel when the point of the short-sword entered and exited his skull.
‘Who else wants to take a bite?’ Vikrant got up, wincing at the trembling
protestations of his legs. His head started to spin and he was compelled to
reach out for support against the rough bark of the parent trunk.
The Darkspawns only shuffled restlessly about him, keeping their
distance, watching him without blinking. It was true he could control their
actions, courtesy the effect of Halāhal, to a considerable extent. Yet he had
no way to put a leash on their inbred instincts and cravings, their lust for
blood--he doubted even the pure-blood Asuras could fully rein in their
acquired viciousness.
‘It was in our hands...w-we had it!’ Vikrant hissed while he examined the
damage he had taken from the trio of his opponents and the Yetis--more
from the latter.
‘We cannot risk another open encounter. This time, we will be heavily
outnumbered.’ He took a moment to extract the shotgun pellets with a
telekinetic pull, grunting in effort and exhaustion yet wary of the
Darkspawns; one of the pellets had severed his femoral artery.
Using the Oorja stored in the gemstones powering his kavach suit,
Vikrant had to raise an additional shield around him--just in case some
child-demon made a dirty move while he was distracted. Only then did he
risk turning his back on the abominations and focus on his immediate
priority: restoring his strength, healing himself as best as he could.
For which he needed an abundant source of living energy: this time more
than the combined life-forces of three Manushyas.
Vikrant rested either palm upon the thick roots of the Great Banyan’s
parent trunk, leaning his weight forward as he kneeled. A whispered chant
emerged from his lips.
The Darkspawns had meanwhile gained access into the branches and
loftier offshoots of the banyan. The birds and animals had temporarily
abandoned the tree but there still remained enough nests with bird-eggs.
The air rang with the crunch of eggshells and the wet splat of fluids.
They sensed no change for a while. Then, all at once the Great Banyan
began to shudder and shake, the branches creaked like pistol-shots and the
windfall of leaves started, as if autumn had descended within a matter of
seconds. The Darkborns bolted in alarm, shrieking and screeching as they
scrambled over the roots and one other in their rush.
And Vikrant continued to chant--at the heart of the pandemonium--
drawing the rich life-force from the ancient tree while it shuddered in
death throes, the rampant desiccation spreading as the tree withered. The
brooding keeper of Time, the elder banyan that had stood firm by the river
bend for centuries, died within minutes; even as Vikrant’s wounds healed--
with the exception of the scar--and his cells became oversaturated with
Oorja. His vision became focused, his breath regular.
When he was done, the acres of lush foliage had turned into a ruin of
naked, limp branches and lackluster barks. Dry leaves crackled beneath his
feet. He chuckled to find the Darkspawns had made themselves scarce.
They were scattered well beyond the edge of the decayed forest, waiting
for him.
Vikrant perceived the vibrations to the east while he was gathering his
abominable troops in one place.
A fleet of rotorcrafts--twenty in all--each bearing an external load of a
shipment container suspended from its underbelly--soundlessly appeared
over the peaks a few miles west, headed in the general direction as the
Angiris and the Brahmāstra.
A smile crept over Vikrant’s chapped lips. He could sense the host
Manushyas and Darkborns in the helicopters from afar, although he could
not make out what weapon or creature the lead-lined containers carried. It
took him little imagination to foretell what would happen when the Asuras
crossed paths with the Angiris and the Yetis.
‘Let us pray the battle would still be going on when we join them,’ he
spoke to thin air while the Darkspawns forded the river a hundred feet
below and sprinted after their handler.
There was only the Snake Voice now--the True Voice was no more but
Vikrant did not even miss it.

Abhay felt like a child piggybacking on the creature; nestled between the
Yeti’s shoulders, wearing hoops of the thick, ropy saddle around his arms
and legs--not that he or Dhwani were in any danger of falling off, courtesy
the nimble smooth movements of their bearers. The Yetis, in spite of their
unstoppable advance through the uncharted domain of snow and stone and
howling winds, seemed as uninhibited and natural as children running
about in a playground on a fair evening.
Their thick-soled feet--so much like a human yet wider with elongated
toes meant for easy grab and hold--made inches deep indentations in the
snow, but never sank enough to hold them down; considering that each of
them weighed well over five hundred kilos. On sheer cliffs slippery with
frost, they found purchase over the slightest bump--scaling to the tops that
would have taken professional climbers more than two hours, within a few
minutes. Wide chasms over thirty-feet-wide they leapt over without
hesitation--even though it brought Abhay’s heart leaping into his throat
every single time. The minutes flew by faster than the Himalayan Wind.
The Yetis jumped down lofty, vertical drops that meant only death for
any another being, and yet their limbs and callused hands seemed to
absorb all the shock. Their thick, snow-white coat of fur and the rock hard
powerhouse of flesh and blood beneath radiated soothing body heat
mingled with the musky odour.
For the four juggernauts the mountains where few humans had ever dared
to set foot, were home. They seemed to know every inch of the ground,
ever crack and ledge.
For a better part of their journey, Abhay did not pay much heed when the
landscape abruptly shifted--his face was buried against the fur most of the
time, the one and only source of warmth saving his nose and ears from
frostbite.
Then he noticed the landscape changing in a few blinks--a dark tunnel
ended abruptly out on a sunlit slope, as if a curtain had been raised. It
happened again a few minutes later and this time Abhay saw it as clearly
as he felt the sudden shift in temperature, their momentary passage through
a pocket of hot air. At one point of time he raised his head to find the Yeti
King storming at the front, going straight for a precipice beyond which he
could see nothing but empty space. Himwan jumped, followed by the
Yetis carrying Abhay and Dhwani.
He almost screamed on discovering the Yeti had plummeted into a
vertical drop of more than three hundred feet. But then Himwan
disappeared, swallowed by the shimmering air twenty feet ahead. Abhay
and his bearer passed through the warm air pocket for over three seconds
before the world shifted.
They landed on a snow-clad slope, in the shadow of the sun when
seconds ago it was shining to their right and above.
‘Did we pass through a Portal?’ he called Dhwani. She was more
concerned with keeping herself warm than look where they were going.
‘Indeed,’ she barely lifted her head into the wind, ‘seven doorways we
have passed so far. It appears to be some secret pathway from the age of
the Devas. I highly doubt anyone has used this path through the Portals
since the beginning of Kaliyuga, except for the Yetis.’
They passed through four more Portals in the next twenty minutes that
were mostly a blur for Abhay and Dhwani. The view kept taking drastic
turns each time, along with the angle of the sun. Through the eleventh
Portal they went, and the pace of the Yetis slowed down to a smooth trot
as they emerged onto a broad perch shaded from above.
Ten feet further the path narrowed to form a natural bridge about seventy
meters long, with no handhold and a fathomless drop on either side. There
was barely enough space for the Yetis to plant both feet together, a layer of
powdered snow adding to their difficulty.
Eyelids squeezed shut, his face buried in the smooth fur of his bearer,
Abhay tried to hold back nausea. The bottomless depths on his either side
held the terrible promise of an ugly end, enough to strike a passing spell of
acrophobia. But like agile funambulists they crossed the bridge even
before Abhay was halfway through the Hanuman Chalisa.
The breath he had been holding came out in a gasp as the Yeti made it to
the other side. He was finally able to see where they were. The narrow
bridge had given way to a vast, flat platform swathed in a consistent layer
of snow, broken only by the overlapping footprints of the four Yetis.
At the extreme end the mountainside rose sheer for many a hundred feet,
the peak above hidden in the clouds. Thirteen cave mouths pockmarked
the slope--like thirteen ravenous maws with overhanging ice fangs, waiting
to swallow anyone that entered.
Abhay glanced at the bridge falling away behind them then back at the
cave mouths. It all looked natural, shaped by wind and Time, yet there was
an intelligent design. Someone had taken great pains to ensure the place
remained inaccessible to unwelcome visitors. The heavy cloud cover was
not random for there were other loftier peaks within sight that were devoid
of the clouds.
Himwan led them into one of the caves and for the next few minutes,
Abhay felt as if he was an insignificant mass hurtling through vacuum.

‘Where did they go?’ The younger Angiri named Angad asked as their
quarry disappeared up ahead for a third time, only to pop up miles to the
northwest.
‘The Yetis are traveling through the divya dwar.’ Tamas said. ‘It appears
the Devas created a path through the mountains to allow the Guardians
free movement.’
A few minutes hence the Nephilim’s pulsing life-force vanished to
reappear in an entirely different direction.
Keeping the Yetis within sight became difficult as they traveled through
more Portals. Tamas was compelled to divide his troops to cover the four
directions to prevent their quarry from slipping away in case the Portal
transported them beyond perceptiple range. High above the jagged peaks,
like the teeth of some forgotten colossal monster, the Angiris continued to
track the Nephilim.
The aerial division to the west noticed the aberration first. Tamas was
immediately notified and he arrived alongside them in a hurry.
‘What could that be, Elder?’ A warrior pointed among the mountains
further northwest.
At first Tamas did not see anything but clouds and the snowy peaks.
Then he realized it was merged so well among the white, lens shaped
clouds and hidden amidst the taller peaks that it could not be easily seen:
the mountainside appeared blue beneath the incredible crown of clouds.
He reduced his altitude till he could make out the features beneath--
thirteen cave mouths.
‘Could it be the Niladri, one of the four seats of Lord Rudra during the
Satyuga? The entire feature seems to be thrumming with Oorja and the
Saptarishis described it to possess a distinct blue color, like Rudra’s skin.’
Tamas did not reply as he switched his attention between the pulsating
presence of the Nephilim and the blue mountain ensconced within the
crude ring of peaks.
‘It is the Niladri indeed. That is exactly where the Yetis are taking
Dhwani and the Nephilim.’
And rightly so, after passing through the ninth Portal their quarry was
transported to the foot of a cliff directly beneath them. The next Portal
took them closer to the Blue Mountain, one of the four blessed seats from
where Shiva’s greatest, fiercest avatar had presided over the affairs of
earth and heaven till the end of Dwapar-yuga.
At Tamas’s command the cadre began to converge upon Niladri the
second the Yetis disappeared into the cave mouth.
 Chapter 36
The Sanctuary

Kill two birds with one stone, Vanraj had said.

Abhay and Dhwani had arrived at the sanctuary where not only the three
enchanted weapons along with the scabbard would find a secure home, but
there also existed a cure for the Halāhal.
The home to the Yetis was a world unto itself, breathtaking and awe-
inspiring in every possible way. The Great Banyan at the river-bend had
only been a foreshadowing to the sight that welcomed them deep within
the Niladri.
The heavily wooded sanctuary seemed to have been built near the
mountain-top: an immense, funnel shaped cavern as commodious as a
cricket stadium--or probably two, it was hard to judge; its steep walls
sloping upward before culminating into a round orifice five hundred feet
above the cavern floor. Spiral stalagmites over seventy meters high jutted
amidst the trees like green hillocks .
The chamber could not have received more than three hours of direct
sunlight each day. And it sat at a height of about seven thousand meters
above mean sea-level where the bone-chilling winds carrying the cold
breaths of glaciers never ceased--conditions far more extreme than the
environs the Great Banyan had survived through the centuries. And yet
again, Mother Nature--in close conjunction with another power--seemed to
have made an exception to the rules that dictated life.
To compensate for the lack of sunlight, a strategic arrangement of
polished mirrors had been installed by the higher beings; each about ten
feet across, embedded into the rock at predetermined positions and angles
along the sloping walls right up till the rim of the orifice where the highest
mirror was mounted. A thick, continuous shaft from the westering sun
bounced from one mirror surface to another as it zigzagged downward
towards the cavern floor, eventually disappearing in the trees at the other
extreme of the sanctuary.
The abode of the Yetis was a riot of colors, smells and sounds, pulsating
with life and abundance; a sub-alpine forest that covered the length and
breadth of the pillar-less chamber. A multitude of birds and small animals
inhabited alongside the Yeti coven--many of them common to those that
had lived in the Great Banyan; perhaps they were the same ones that had
escaped through the miniature Portal after the Darkspawns showed up.
 The deeper the Yetis took them into the dimness beneath the spires of
cedars and pines, the scabbard seemed to gain an unseen weight. In
absence of direct ultraviolet radiations, her pain was becoming more
pronounced; every injuring singeing and smarting in a painful chorus, a
constant reminder of her failing strength. Grinding her teeth, she tried to
distract herself by searching the dense tree-and-scrub jungle on her either
side. They were on a wide stone path beaten flat by mighty feet of
generations of the Yetis. Upon a carpet of perennial grass covered with
pine needles and leaves and deadwood, there grew a variety of plants--
sage, juniper, honeysuckle and flowering species of herbs and bushes of
great medicinal value, some that even Dhwani could not name.
It seemed unlikely they could be used to concoct a cure for the Halāhal.
Since the stirring of the Prakashkoopam, Dhwani had witnessed and
discovered, learned and unlearned much that not many Angiris got to see.
And each time she had felt her race knew next to nothing about the Oorja
and Her mysterious ways.
They were about halfway across when a vibration from the scabbard
rattled Dhwani’s spine. The strap tightened across her bosom, as if she was
carrying a boulder, in turn affecting the pace of the Yeti carrying her. He
was panting within minutes, his speed slackening to a struggled canter
unlike his companions sprinting ahead. The Yeti King turned and looked at
his son with those small, beady eyes full of concern and knowing,
signaling his other two sons to slow down.
‘What’s the matter, Dhwani?’ Abhay asked.
‘The scabbard,’ she replied, ‘it seems to be getting heavier with each
step.’
‘I don’t think it is the scabbard that is getting heavier. It must be the
Chakra.’ He contemplated for seconds before he added, ‘Perhaps it is
reluctant to go where we are taking it....I mean for something that can
break through restraints, send a ripple of energy across time and space and
glow and float in the air when desired--it’s not too far-fetched a notion, is
it?’
‘You are right,’ Dhwani’s tone bespoke of the unquestionable confidence
in Abhay.
He had caused it all, the one who was at the epicenter of the Oorja surge
that had brought her to Prithvi. His instincts, on account of his interaction
with the Chakra, were bound to be accurate.
‘What do you think lies on the other side of the woods?’ she asked,
hoping he might be able to sense something.
Abhay shrugged. ‘Whatever it is, I wish it to get the job done. Once the
Brahmāstra is safe and you have received the cure I would like to seek the
Legion and visit their Stronghold. You should come with me...if you want.
The Legion accepted my mother into their midst, they will gladly accept
you too.’
‘I have not given it a thought beyond getting rid of this burden and
finding the cure. Honestly, I would like to lie down in the soft grass here
and sleep for the next few days.’ Dhwani did not see the mild
disappointment cross Abhay’s face. It barely lasted for a second before the
Yetis brought them to the edge of the forest.
‘What the…’ he could only marvel at the sight beyond the stand of trees.
They were at the cusp of a bowl-shaped depression, with smooth sides
made of stone, about three hundred yards across and thrice wide, filled
with a uniform layer of thick, glowing ground mist. A forbidding statue of
some giant--carved out of a darker stone--sat in the middle of the
depression, surrounded by a maze of thick granite columns. It all appeared
to float above the ground mist that emanated from near the base of the
fifty-feet-tall monolith--the source of the golden-ochre glow in the mist. A
concentrated cloud of nomadic Oorja motes floated above the source of
the glow and ground mist, hidden within a ring of standing stones.
‘Any idea about who this gentleman giant could be?’ Abhay indicated at
the statue as he dismounted. ‘And that glowing thing inside the
Stonehenge-like thing: could it be another artifact?’
‘Look closely,’ Dhwani said, slipping off the Yeti’s back and staggering
under the weight of the scabbard and her own wobbly feet. ‘You know
who that is. As for the glow, I am as clueless as you are. It reminds me of
the Prakashkoopam but unlike the essence of the Tridevas, this glow is
constant. It is no living thing, nor is it any hallowed artifact, that is for
certain.’
Abhay took a moment.
The statue was that of a gaunt yogi lost in meditation, wearing a meager
loincloth; dark colored stone covered in moss, it seemed like an animate
thing. Long dreadlocks that fell below his chest and shoulders, a stray lock
curving in an unnatural way near the high, right cheekbone; a matted, stiff
beard beneath below a thick, twirling moustache. The yogi’s forehead was
puckered in the middle, between thin eyebrows curved like swords that
outlined his long-lidded eyelids and thin, sharp nose: features that seemed
soft and feminine, contrary to the rest of his appearance. His posture was
ramrod straight, hands resting upon the folded knees in the typical pose of
Dhyana. Garlands of Rudraksha beads dangled over his broad chest
hidden by the beard, more of them tied around his biceps and forearms.
 Then he noticed the details he had twice overlooked. Highlighted by
mysterious glow directly beneath the statue, the unnatural curling lock of
hair rising near the cheekbone was not what it had appeared to be; nor was
the puckered bump on the forehead Abhay had assumed to be a scar or a
tilak.
The former was the raised hood of a king cobra coiled around the yogi’s
neck. The latter bump was the closed lid of a third eye.
The spartan appearance of an ascetic, the Rudraksha-beads, combined
with the coiled cobra and the third-eye. He was accustomed to seeing a
grander image of the deity.
‘Shiva,’ he uttered the holy name in stupefied wonder, as billions and
billions of Manushyas have remembered Him in devotion and crises, since
before the beginning of civilization.

All Dhwani could see was the glow welling inside a circle of standing
stones within the maze of granite columns. Abhay and the Yetis, the sights
and sounds around her had ceased to exist. Dhwani did not know when her
feet began to move.
She climbed down the crude staircase--as if in a daze--into the pit
blanketed by the ground mist. The glow seemed to draw her in like a
magnet, the weight of the scabbard on her back tried to resist her advance.
The Chakra vibrated in open protest but the promise of hope up ahead in
the glow guided her will. With every step she could feel her suffering
alleviating, as if the mould of pain and weakness was shedding like old
skin--the radiation emanating from between the standing stones of the ring
breathing a new life into her cells.
The mesmerizing spell binding her broke as something blocked her view
and gently pushed her back: a warning. She would have stumbled but
regained balance if not for the additional weight of the scabbard; it
welcomed gravity like a lost lover. She found herself spread-eagled in the
stirring mist when her mind and body re-established their natural
coordination.
‘You okay?’ Abhay offered his hand and Dhwani took it. ‘You started
running all of a sudden towards the ring of stones, and it sort of agitated
the Yetis. There are females in King Himwan’s coven, as you can see.’
There were three Yetis standing between them and the stone ring. Unlike
Himwan and his sons, their built was leaner and feline, with prominent
bosoms and broad hips.
Without an explanation, the Yeti King extended his slab-like palm before
Dhwani. She gave a confused look between Himwan’s intelligent eyes and
the deep lines of his rugged palm. Realizing what he was asking for, she
nodded and hefted the scabbard by its strap, passing it over to the Yeti.
The Chakra within responded to the exchange, as if it sensed Himwan
even before his fingers touched the wood of the scabbard. The scabbard
shrank away from Himwan, like a pendulum refusing to swing back in
motion, making his hands shake with its desperate spasms as if it was a
chained bird flapping its wings to escape. The Yeti King turned and
walked away towards the stone-circle, the scabbard struggling within his
tight embrace. The females stepped aside to let him pass then closed the
gap, continuing to observe Dhwani and Abhay with an expression of
mistrust.
‘The Chakra doesn’t like being in the Yeti King’s possession. What’s
inside that Stonehenge--the ring, I mean?’ Abhay asked.
‘The Chakra doesn’t like its proximity to the Oorja within the stone
circle.’ Dhwani ended with a deep sigh as a tired smile crept upon her lips.
She sank on her knees in relief, a monumental task successfully
accomplished. Her blanched complexion seemed to have attained some
color--or perhaps the glowing ground-mist was creating the impression.
The dark veins were retreating from her face and those visible on her neck
looked thinner, only a shadow of their previous malignance.
‘That glow within, it is what Vanraj meant when he said we would not
only find the safest place for the Brahmāstra here, but also the cure to my
illness.’
‘What is it?’
Dhwani’s smile widened. ‘It is the only antidote against the Halāhal
known to the Angiris--a precious Elixir coveted by all mortals, whether
born of Oorja or Andhakar; wars have been waged over its acquisition
between Swargam and Narka.’
Abhay could see she wanted him to infer the rest. ‘I might’ve figured out
a little about the sanctuary and its connection to Lord Shiva. But as for the
glow…does it have something to do with this thriving ecosystem?’
‘It has everything to do with the existence of the trees, the creatures and
the climate in here--everything to do with life, with resurrection even.
Manushyas loosely use the Elixir’s name as a metaphor for water.’
Forty feet ahead, Himwan stepped through the space between two
standing stones and was hidden from view. A metaphor for water--what
could it be, the Elixir she spoke of? Then it struck him like a thunderbolt.
‘It is...it’s the Amrit,’ he remembered. He peeked around the she-Yeti in
disbelief.
 ‘Amrit: the Elixir of Immortality, the quintessence; the unfulfilled,
unrealized dream of countless alchemists--from various ages and cultures--
who sought to find it or recreate it. As the water absorbs the gases from the
environment, the Amrit is said to have a great affinity for Oorja: the reason
behind Vanraj’s intention of bringing the Brahmāstra here. The Chakra
would remain dormant while the scabbard remains immersed within the
Elixir.’
Abhay heard little of what she said, stupefied by the latest discovery, the
glow behind the she-Yetis binding him. A prickling between his shoulder
blades alerted him.
‘Not now, not when the job’s done!’ Abhay vented his outrage. Even the
Yetis were becoming tense, furtively glancing at the round patch of sky
high above the pit.
At first he heard a whining noise somewhere outside. A few seconds
later, the hollow summit of Niladri was rocked by a number of explosions,
like battering rams of hellish proportions crashing into the mountainside.
Dhwani knew they were under serious attack when she saw the Yeti King
storm out of the stone circle, carrying the scabbard. Barking instructions to
his coven, he thrust the burden back into her arms and communicated in
quick motions.
You will have to carry the burden till a while longer. Your task is not
over, yet. Unsheathe those swords.

The Nephilim, Dhwani and the Yetis were somewhere inside the
mountain, along with the Brahmāstra. The Angiri cadre would have gone
ahead after their quarry straightaway.
But the arrival of the fleet of aircrafts from the south turned the
expectation of minimal opposition to dust. The fleet was a couple of miles
away and the Celestials could sense the Asuras and Manushyas in the
rotor-crafts. Lead-lined metal boxes dangling from their bellies, they
dotted the sky like a swarm of black wasps, growing in size as the mellow
sun glinted off their rotors and wings. For a fleet so big the flying
machines made little noise.
‘What horror do they bring in those metal boxes?’ the Angiri beside
Tamas prayed under her breath.
‘More of those child-demons,’ he replied, ‘or something much worse, it
could be either or both. I am going after the Nephilim and Dhwani. At this
point, securing the Brahmāstra and returning to Swargam should be our
priority. You will have to hold the front on my behalf, Bhoomi, keep the
Asuras away from entering the mountain while I am gone. Try to bring
them down while they are still airborne and in no way underestimate them
or their weapons.’
Leaving the rest of the Angiris to defend the cloud-swaddled Niladri,
Tamas entered the cave mouth. He retracted his wings and continued on
foot, for the extending tunnel was wide enough for the Yetis to move in a
single file but not enough to accommodate his wingspan. His keen vision
allowed him to rush deeper into Niladri’s heart. The Yetis had taken five
minutes to traverse along the length of the pitch dark passage. Tamas took
less than half of that time before he emerged into the light.
There was green grass beneath his feet and a blessed forest before him.
The explosions hit the mountain as he unfurled his wings and ascended
above the lofty tops of the cedars and pines. The birds and animals that
resided within the trees cried in fear and alarm as the cavern’s interior
shook again and again.
There was a strong glow of Oorja beyond the trees, where a huge statue
of Adiyogi Rudra sat directly beneath the thirty-feet-wide opening in the
vaulted ceiling. The ground and walls were covered in ferns, creepers and
all kinds of lithophytes.
He put on a fresh spurt of speed, fearing for a moment that the Nephilim
or Dhwani was attempting to arm the Brahmāstra. The glow beyond the
forest was static--no pulse or vibration of life or sentience, yet radiating a
massive energy signature. Tamas and the Angiris had felt nothing from the
outside.
Another impact jarred the mountain, dislodging loose stones to rain down
from the sloping walls and ceiling. Tamas dodged the falling debris the
last fifty feet before he broke through the trees and looked into the deep pit
filled with the incandescent ground-mist and a complex maze of granite
columns etched with arcane spells.
The largest of the Yetis roared at Tamas, displeased by the intrusion. The
Nephilim and Dhwani stood in their midst, their weapons drawn. It was the
first time Tamas felt a twinge of empathy for Neel’s acolyte--doing her
Mentor’s bidding even as her life hung by a thread.
His gaze momentarily lingered upon the twin blades in her hand; the
scabbard on her back emitting perceptible vibrations.
The Chakra, Tamas drew the explanation from Kant’s memories, the
cardinal key-weapon that powers the Brahmāstra.
But more than the relief and elation at finding the Brahmāstra, he was
taken by the misty radiance protected within a warded ring of standing
stones. Tamas had never even come close to finding a trace of Amrit,
although he had searched the probable sites and lost ruins around Prithvi
for thousands of years. And when he had long lost the hope of finding the
Quintessence, Fate had guided him to its rich reserve--a belated reward for
his past toils.
He and Dhwani shared one common aspect with regard to the Amrit: they
both needed it. It was a cure for Dhwani, while for Tamas it was a healing
salve to restore the face he had had to hide and suffer from since the
Second Fall.
Even before he lowered himself upon the ground to face Dhwani, his
heart was fluttering with anticipation. He had come to Prithvi seeking an
Oorja-source--that turned out to be the Ultimate Astra--but he would be
going back not only with the Brahmāstra but also an intact face--which
meant no more pain, no further dabbling in the dark arts to alleviate his
suffering. Two simultaneous victories.
The sanctuary trembled with another explosion and Tamas took his cue.
‘End this madness right away, Dhwani. Your stubbornness has brought
nothing but loss and destruction, so far. The enemy has found this
sanctuary and they will stop at nothing to gain access. The Brahmāstra
cannot stay here any longer.’
‘It will not be safe even in Swargam, Elder--especially not in your
hands.’
‘Do not speak to me like that, youngling. I am not the Mole.’
‘But you were the one who gave the bee its sting: the forbidden
knowledge and the tools of destruction--even the invocation to the Vajra.
So embroiled you were, wallowing in your hatred for Neel and everything
he stands for that not once did you consider your own acolyte might have
turned into the Asuras’ plaything.’
Tamas endured the accusation with a straight face but on the inside, he
could not help but feel envy towards Neel--the one who had it all, whom
Providence had always favored; he had the blind trust of the Saptarishis,
respect and love of his people who would never have exiled him if not for
Tamas; and above all, he had ardent acolytes--something Tamas did not, at
least not anymore. One had given his life to save a Manushya while the
other was ready to fight for her truth and duty towards her mentor, as long
as she had the strength. The Amrit was within her reach, yet she seemed
least concerned with saving her life.
‘Where is Jayant?’ Dhwani asked the very question Tamas had been
dreading. ‘There was a violent confrontation earlier this morning, on the
banks of Kashi. I know you were there, so was Jayant.’
‘There might also have been an old man…’ the Nephilim added.
 Tamas took a moment to break the news. ‘Jayant died while saving the
old man.’
She tried her best to hold her composure but a teardrop spilled from her
left eye, running down her sunken alabaster cheek.
‘And where is Elder Neel?’
‘Alive and well, back in Swargam,’ Tamas withheld the bit about Neel
being imprisoned in the dungeons beneath Meru.
He needed Dhwani to cooperate. His keen ears were picking up sounds of
a raging battle outside. From what little he could glean from the chatter on
the psychic channel--heavily dampened by the solid layers of rock and
heavy spell-work in between--the Angiri cadre was taking heavy damage.
‘You and I, we need to come to an agreement, Dhwani. Our people are
risking their lives to defend this place. We cannot let the Asuras lay their
maligned hands upon the Astra--or the Amrit. Jayant and the others would
have died for nothing.’ Tamas took a few tentative steps forward and the
Yetis issued a warning growl.
Dhwani’s slouched shoulders straightened in jerks: an indication to the
struggle it took her to shrug aside her emotions for the sake of duty.
‘Perhaps you are right and the Brahmāstra can be saved. But what about
the Elixir--the Amrit is not something you can fill into a decanter and fly
away to Swargam.’
‘They would get nothing if I destroyed the Quintessence--we take what is
needed of the Amrit to heal us both first.’
Dhwani snorted. ‘It sounds so easy for you, to destroy things you cannot
have without even once considering the implications it would have on
others. You are talking about destroying the very power source that
nourishes this magical haven.’ She tilted her head towards Himwan. ‘They
will not let you destroy their home.’
Tamas looked up, cocking his head to one side and listening: constant
thunder of high-caliber gunfire and explosions in the tunnel. The Angiri
defenses were collapsing.
The winged figures rose above the trees moments later--about thirty of
them, led by Bhoomi. She was bleeding from a forehead gash and her hair
and face on one side looked singed. The Angiri blades were dark and
greasy with Asura blood.
‘We cannot hold them for long, Elder. Their firepower has highly
evolved since the last time we faced them. They even have Oorja-cannons
of their own make, not as destructive as those the Devas created but
powerful enough to bring down our airborne warriors. And the metal-
containers: they brought the Darkspawns, over a thousand of them,
equipped with scythes and metal claws for arms.’
‘And dark mages, too, Elder--I counted four spellcasters.’ Angad added.
Tamas glanced at Dhwani, his eyes telling her that she was responsible
for the Asuras gaining an upper hand, before he turned back to Bhoomi, ‘It
appears we have no other alternative but to stand and fight. Tell the others
to pull back and gather here. The Brahmāstra is not the only object under
threat.’
 Chapter 37
The Battle of Niladri

The wards and hexes placed by the Devas in and about Niladri had
outlived them by more than five millennia. For the Angiris, it was a
wonder to find the impressions of the higher celestials on Prithvi. And that
the arcane designs were still active was a miracle, given their current
situation. The tide of Kaliyuga had robbed much of the age-old potency of
the defensive measures, but they held the enemy at bay for the precious
minutes it took the Angiris to retreat and regroup in the sanctuary.
Himwan and his sons, along with over a hundred Angiris positioned
themselves before the wide archway entrance to the cavern. The Yetis
stood like a solid wall between the woods and the archway; the Angiris,
hovering in a static formation above, their palms trained upon the tunnel-
mouth to unleash fire and destruction.
The hooting, howling and crashing of the enemy advance got closer. And
then the ruckus abruptly stopped. It became eerily quiet for almost ten
seconds before the defenders saw movement. Instead of the enemy, a
bleeding, stumbling Angiri with a torn face appeared, mumbling for help.
He walked a few paces before falling flat on his face, his blood darkening
the lush grass near the entrance.
The Asuras knew the psychological effect it would have on the Angiris to
see their mutilated brethren. They had caught the winged celestials and the
Yetis off-guard.
Six metal spheres were immediately thrown at the defenders the moment
the dying Angiri struck the ground. Even before the spheres rolled to a
standstill, each began to emit a high-pitched frequency that compelled the
Yetis and the Angiris alike to cover their ears.
The enemy host spilled into the sanctuary like teeming insects,
unaffected by the sound frequency. By the time the Yetis managed to
crush three of the metal spheres, hundreds of Darkspawns and Darkborns
had already spilled into the sanctuary.
For every ten child-demons there was an adult brute and a human toting
heavy machine-guns--or in the case of fourteen humans, four Oorja-
cannons and their less-powerful, bulkier variants. A number of spell-
casters, distinguishable because of the staffs they carried, protected by the
gunners against the spell-attacks from the Angiris.
The Darkspawns spread like wildfire; each had deadly metal claws and
scythes grafted onto their limbs; the rows of their razor sharp teeth coated
in steel, meant to tear and maul.
The Angiris launched a bevy of elemental attacks from above. The snowy
juggernauts were fighting multiple opponents at one time.
But there was no stopping the enemy hordes as they broke through the
line of defense and rampaged around in the woods, heading like breakers
of a stormy sea towards the circular pit on the other side.
Himwan and his sons were fighting on two fronts: chasing the Asuras
who had gotten through while facing the oncoming wave. Even though
they caused far greater damage than the Angiris, within minutes their
snowy fur turned red with blood of their enemies and their own. Leaving
more than half of the cadre to stem the advance of the enemy troops,
Tamas directed the remaining strength upon the gunners and the mages.
The air was splintered with battle cries from both sides; the Oorja-
cannons and machine guns echoing off the cavern walls. Bullets whined,
thick beams of heat and light and concussive force shot through the air in a
blind profusion. The human mercenaries with the lesser cannons were in
every sense having a blast. Unlike the four Deva cannons, their weapons
did not mortally hurt an Angiri. But they did an excellent job shooting
them down for the barbarian horde of Darkspawns to do the rest with their
claws, scythes and teeth of metal. Most Angiris chose the path of self-
immolation and quick death, hoping to destroy as many of the Darkspawn
as possible.
It was impossible to say which side was winning, for the battle had
spread in pockets across the sanctuary.
The enemy troops were relentlessly pouring in through the archway to
assist their kind. It was a matter of time before they reached the last line of
defense in the pit: the three she-Yetis, Dhwani and Abhay.

There was nowhere to run--even if Abhay were to act in the interest of

self-preservation and avoid the present situation--and nowhere to hide. In
his current state of paralyzing self-doubt, the one tiny spark of optimism
he had was that the Angiris and the Yetis would thwart the attack before it
even reached the pit. That he was in the company of Dhwani and the three
she-Yetis did little to boost his morale. If the fighting reached the pit, they
would be too occupied to fend for themselves against the hordes, much
less protect his skin.
For a while the battle continued somewhere beyond his field of vision: a
constant bedlam that shook the trees, brought the tall trunks crashing
down; there was smoke rising from within the jungle, scaring away the
birds and beasts. Beneath the roaring reports of the guns and cannons,
Abhay could just hear the screams of Angiris, the Darkspawn wailing like
banshees.
‘Any moment now,’ Dhwani murmured to his left, spinning Uttara and
Dakshina in a brandishing arc as she shuffled on her feet, restless to swing
the blades for a strike. ‘They are getting closer.’
Her face was set in frozen ice, her gaze calm and cool. The tautness in
her jaw seemed the only indication of tension. She looked far from strong
but her eyes burned with fire. Perhaps it was because of her proximity to
the Oorja radiating from within the stone-circle six feet behind them; or
maybe it was the assurance of wielding the swords that had infused her
with courage and resolve.
The Chakra rattled within the scabbard on her back.
The she-Yetis thumped upon the ground with their stony fists and uttered
a challenging roar that made Abhay’s ears ring.
‘You must be cursing your decision to accompany me, now more than
ever,’ Dhwani said, even as the bestial howling and crashing of advancing
hordes made the hair on Abhay’s neck and forearms rise in unity. ‘You
should have stayed behind at the outpost, with Anupama and her son.’
‘I am right where I should be,’ he replied, sensing the moving shapes in
the trees beyond the rim of the pit. ‘After all we’ve been through…letting
you carry on all alone seemed wrong--not that I have been of much use
this far.’
‘We both know, that is not true,’ the howling got louder, suppressing
other sounds and she moved close enough to rub shoulders with Abhay.
‘And for being there with me all the way, I swear my lifelong friendship to
you, Abhay.’
The oncoming danger seemed to vanish as he looked into her determined
gaze. There was conviction in her eyes, her voice: an intimate vow made
of a few plain words.
‘If we get to survive this, you have mine.’ It was the best Abhay could
manage to say. Just by looking into her deep green eyes he derived a sense
of safety and belonging--like home.
But she broke the eye contact as the first wave of Darkspawns emerged
from the trees. The ward triggered into action as the first of them struck an
invisible barrier along the rim of the pit, with a bang and a blinding flash.
Abhay’s vision was inundated by the auras and he saw the huge,
transparent bubble of solid light materializing above the pit. He felt no
relief, for something told him the bubble would not hold off against the
enemy hordes forever.

One after another with a mindless rage, the Darkspawns threw

themselves at the translucent shield bubble. The impact burned them but
they were oblivious of anything, the deadly appendages grafted to their
limbs raising an ear-splitting din as they clashed. Three dark mages
wielding long staffs with fist-sized gemstones shining at their tips, chased
blazing symbols in thin air that emitted spells as pulses of energy, causing
bright ripples along the shield.
Himwan and two of his sons were bleeding from a hundred wounds,
jostling with the child-demons clinging to them like bloodsucking slugs.
The two younger she-Yetis would have dashed ahead to aid their kindred
but their mother held them back.
Together with Tamas and some forty Angiris the males might have
succeeded in defending the perimeter, but the fifty or so gunners kept their
muzzles almost entirely trained upon the lumbering, smashing snow-giants
and the airborne Angiris. Himwan tried to wade through the Darkspawns
and enter the pit but the constant barrage of gunfire and plasma beams did
not let him come very close.
‘Abhay, what can you make out?’ Dhwani asked.
‘The shield,’ he replied without blinking, ‘it seems to be getting...thinner,
kind of cracking in places. Apart from that it’s like before: I can see the
auras of the Angiris, of the humans and the trees, a grey-black dust around
the Darkborns. But the children...why do they look like moving shadows--
they don’t have auras?’
Dhwani shrugged on the matter. ‘The wards generating the shield are
losing strength and each impact, no matter how small, is only going to
compromise the force-field’s integrity further.’
Bullets from a chain-gun left a diagonal slash of dotted impact points that
glowed upon the shield.
It was as if her tongue had been jinxed. Dhwani saw only a quick flash of
energy shooting out through the trees to her left and hit the shield like a
giant battering ram. The impact of the spell blast spread along the bubble’s
surface, revealing its protective expanse before it fluctuated and entirely
collapsed.
The child-demons encountered zero resistance as they leapt into the pit
and charged.
‘The gauntlet of Sugreev,’ she said, ‘Use it to your advantage, Abhay.
You are not as defenseless as you think. And watch out for any suspicious
auras--the energy blast responsible for the breach was not from some
Oorja-cannon. Someone deliberately defused the wards to let the enemy
in.’
The obsidian-eyed horde of the Darkspawns entered the maze of granite
columns. But there were more wards etched upon the stone sentinels. The
child-demons burst into spontaneous combustion. Yet even as the flames
consumed them, the fire seemed to do nothing to stop their advance.
The she-Yetis behind Abhay roared in defiance against the keening howl
of the Darkspawn. The sookshm particles of Dhwani’s suit, latched on to
the reserves of Oorja in her gemstones, lighting up to serve her, one last
time.
She swung as the first burning child-demon entered her blades’ radius.
Abhay started yelling beside her without being aware of it, as he punched
and battered with his right hand, wielding half the legendary strength of
the Vanara King Sugreev.

Until moments ago, before the force-field around the pit collapsed,
Tamas was still clinging to the belief that they would eventually succeed in
vanquishing the enemy. Even though the Angiri cadre had been exactly
reduced to a quarter of its original strength, they at least had a slim chance
of seeing the battle through as long as they kept themselves well above the
reach of the Darkspawns.
But then out of nowhere the spell blast had hit the pit’s defenses and
shifted the battle further in favor of the Asura troops.
Do not hold back or let despair drag your spirits down into the gloom of
defeat. He relayed to the Angiris about him, barrel-rolling in the air to
dodge the bullets and cannon beams.
Tamas flew over the squirming, unstoppable ranks of the enemy,
unleashing his anger and desperation in the form of a blue fire--the Cold
Fury of Agni. It engulfed and consumed the creature it touched within
seconds--whether it were the ones with Asura blood in their veins or the
Manushya mercenaries. Other Angiris mimicked the maneuver, spreading
carnage and confusion along the edge of the pit. The Yeti King and his
remaining sons took immediate advantage of the aerial attack, stampeding
through the Darkspawns and the gunners scrambling for cover in the trees.
The sanctuary was filling up with smoke from the burning trees, the
conflagration spreading from within the heart of the woods. To his left, the
pit was being overrun. One of the mages was trying to clear a path through
the granite columns, ordering the mercenaries to topple the complex
arrangement and disrupt the wards that set the children on fire.
A ball of blue heat hurled by Tamas landed in the midst of the
mercenaries before they could bring down another pillar. The seven of
them, including the dark mage, were set ablaze, enveloped by the blue fire.
Tamas circled about the white streak of motion and energy that Dhwani
had become. Courtesy her suit and the twin blades, she was doing an
excellent work at stopping the unrelenting, burning Darkspawns and their
tooth-and-claw of metal.
The Nephilim--with his nascent abilities--stuck to her like a shadow,
smashing his right fist into the abominations lunging at him. He fought
like a man flailing to stay afloat in a sea, driven by instincts he barely
understood. Owing to the three she-Yetis, a rudimentary wall of burning
Darkspawn corpses was piling up high.
Tamas landed beside Dhwani. His sword moved with lightning speed,
entering and exiting the skulls of the three Darkborns about to attack
Dhwani and the Nephilim while they were distracted by other opponents.
‘If you have changed your mind by now,’ Tamas said, making it a point
to show Dhwani he had saved her, ‘the Brahmāstra can still be ferried
away to safety, if not to Swargam then some other place of your choosing.
If we fail…’
‘We are not failing, Elder.’ Dhwani glowered at him, dispatching a
Darkspawn Abhay had punched to the ground. ‘And I am not letting go of
even a single key-weapon--unless you are willing to strike me down and
take it over my dead body.’
She danced away after a bunch of Darkspawns trying to clamber over the
smoking wall of the corpses. Tamas let loose Agni’s Cold Fury upon the
hordes to clear the area around the wall of the dead. It gave him enough
time to figure out a way to enter the stone-circle without the she-Yetis’
knowledge: the structure was vulnerable from above.
He took off into the air, goaded on by the Amrit’s glow. He might have
gone ahead but for the cry of alarm that went up among the Angiris.
Grinding his teeth with impatience and disappointment, Tamas turned
away from the stone circle to glimpse the new opponents that had entered
the arena: ten bull-sized Darkborns wearing Ashtadhatu armor from head-
to-toe, each wielding a one-fifty-kilo Gatling chain-gun that made a
deafening buzz in the bass-register. The Angiris were struck down like ripe
fruits before Tamas could move.
He rushed towards the armored hulks, not once seeing the shimmer of the
near-invisible presence in the air behind him. With a gentle beat of wings
the shape glided away in reverse, towards the stone circle and the Amrit.
 The adrenaline high that had been keeping Abhay going without
adequate rest, was finally wearing off. He could feel his tired body
creaking with every movement, his muscles groaning under the strain of
battle. He thought little, focusing more on keeping the fire-wreathed
Darkspawns away than to kill them--a feat made possible only because of
Sugreev’s gauntlet.
He parried and punched like a madman, bringing up his shield in defense
each time a scythe or a metal-claw got too close. His awkward blows made
an explosive impact each time they connected with the rallying Asuras,
flinging them into the air. The inside of the Ashtadhatu gauntlet was
beginning to warm up--the way an exhaust pipe acquires heat with the
engine’s activity. So far not a single enemy had died by his gauntleted
hand; they were just too agile for someone as inexperienced in combat as
Abhay.
A Darkspawn jumped at him from the left--on the blindside to the
gauntlet’s effective protection--and Abhay reacted a second too late. Its
scythe-arm slashed across his left shoulder, cutting through cloth and skin
with a surprising ease. Abhay stumbled and doubled over. His sixth sense
was in overdrive as other Darkspawns closed in to rip him apart.
Once again he was saved because of the timely intervention from a she-
Yeti and Dhwani.
‘There must be well over a thousand of these little monsters,’ he said,
helped by Dhwani to his feet. ‘They keep coming, even after you and the
Yetis have piled heaps and heaps of their dead. At this rate, they can go on
till they have exhausted us to the point of unconsciousness.’
‘Then we fight better. Let me show you something. At my word, strike
the ground with your fist--as hard as you can.’
Her suit brightened and dimmed in turn like a flashing beacon before
Abhay could understand what she planned to achieve. It immediately
caught the attention of the child-demons attuned to sense and snuff out
every bright thing around them. Even those charging at the Yetis altered
their course and turned towards Abhay and Dhwani instead: over twenty
flaming figures, their metal appendages shimmering with the same fire that
consumed them.
‘Strike, now!’ Dhwani said, retreating further behind and leaving Abhay
at the forefront.
He seemed to move as if on jellied limbs, feeling something akin to a
stage fright, yet far worse. Abhay marshaled will and strength, drawing his
fist as he leapt. He drove his right arm forward as he landed, expecting to
feel every ounce of his fist’s impact with the solid ground.
It was like hitting a hard mattress, in spite of the fact that his knuckles
were covered in metal.
The ground cracked where his fist struck and a shockwave radiated in
every direction, like a storm-front hitting the Darkspawns. The ground
mist and the enemy within ten feet radius were thrown pell-mell; some of
the granite columns shook and fell, crushing the abominations.
Abhay stood bewildered for a second at the strength he had come to
possess. Grinning, he looked behind for Dhwani’s reaction.
He did not see her appreciative, encouraging smile but a winged shape
dropping upon her from above--visible as clear as daylight in Abhay’s
enhanced vision.
‘Look up, Dhwani!’ Abhay waved her to duck.
Like a bird of prey the Mole descended. In one blink he drove his short-
sword through Dhwani’s chest, right up to its hilt; in the next second,
Uttara and Dakshina, along with their scabbard containing the Chakra,
were in his possession.
He winked and smiled at Abhay before lifting off into the air, heading
straight for the opening high above--towards a certain freedom.

An intense tremor of emotions ran through Vikrant--part victory, part

lust. The scabbard with the three key-weapons, the Brahmāstra, was his,
the Halāhal promised by the Asura King in return a definite prospect on
the near-horizon. The orifice in the ceiling got larger with every beat of his
wings: the pale sky beyond waiting to embrace him.
He glanced at the tiny reserve of the liquid amber of the Amrit down
below, emanating radiations that had for some reason scalded him in close
proximity, even with the suit on--like a flame being held too close to the
skin. Its effect on him puzzled Vikrant, even as he flew farther from the
small basin within the stone circle.
The bright figure slammed into him out of the blue, jarring Vikrant out of
his short-lived elation at having retrieved the Brahmāstra without hassle.
Blows rained upon him, driving him into the curving rock wall swathed
with lithophytes and flowering creepers.
‘Hoping for a quiet exit, are we?’ Tamas hit with a maniacal fury, using
his bare hands. ‘I was eagerly looking forward to this reunion, wondering
when I would see this hideous face of the serpent I have raised.’ His each
blow was backed by rage and resentment that knew no bounds.
Startled by the suddenness of the attack, Vikrant endured them helplessly
before pain and the taste of his own blood motivated him to retaliate.
They circled and struck one another four hundred feet above the pit. The
humming beat of their wings blew the rising smoke asunder.
‘You have failed me, Vikrant.’
‘We did what was necessary, Mentor. You taught us that--to survive.’
Tamas winced as he deflected Vikrant’s attack. ‘Do not dare address me
that way, serpent! I did not teach you to be a turncloak and our enemy’s
weapon. That blame is solely yours to bear,’ his strikes intensified, his fury
redoubled--the sound of his fists like booming thunder. ‘You are not taking
the Brahmāstra anywhere, especially not to the new lords you have sold
your soul to.’
‘This was precisely why we wished to avoid this tryst, Mentor.’ Vikrant
pulled himself away, shooting one hex after another to break out of
Tamas’s reach. ‘It can only end one way, when one of us is dead. And it
surely won’t be us. Aindryastram Awahanam…’
The crackling bolt of lightning appeared within his outstretched arm.
‘Ah, you think you can best me. Dream on, traitor, while you still can.’
Tamas held out his hand to conjure a Vajra of his own as he flew at his
acolyte.
The bolts of thunder clashed with a resounding crash that threatened to
bring down the mountain--teacher and disciple, embroiled in a battle till
death.

He had never been so tender and caring and yet so frightened in his life,
as he was while pulling the short-sword Vikrant had left buried in
Dhwani’s chest. Her blood moved in to fill the vacated slit, welled and
spurted out of the entry and exit points. Abhay tried to press down upon
them, as if it would somehow stanch the warm, crimson profusion that
soiled his arms and clothes within seconds.
‘I’m sorry, Dhwani, so sorry…’ he kept repeating the words as she
regarded him with her intent gaze, her chest heaving, laboriously holding
on to life.
The pit was overrun, the granite columns of the maze either fallen or
reclining. All that remained between the stone circle and the surging
hordes of Darkspawns was the wall of corpses and the four members of the
Yeti-coven--burnt and bleeding from a hundred places, yet fastidious to
their duty towards the Amrit. Abhay and Dhwani were just in the shadow
of a bellowing Yeti King, a few feet away from the stone circle.
She held onto Abhay, trembling and convulsing with the rapid loss of her
blood. Her eyelids fluttered as life seeped out of her.
‘Someone help her!’ Tears came unbidden in Abhay’s eyes. ‘Don’t sleep,
don’t sleep, talk to me.’
There was something about Dhwani dying that stabbed into his heart a lot
more viciously than it did when he had lost his parents or even Murtaza.
His cry for succor went unheard by the Yetis and the twenty or so Angiris
zooming overhead; throttled by the sounds of the fierce aerial battle a
hundred feet above.
Her hand clasped around Abhay’s wrist loosened. Her pupils contracted,
became hazy. Abhay acted, unable to contain himself.
He scooped her up in his arms, and with a glance at the distracted Yetis
carried her towards the stone circle. She seemed to weigh nothing more
than a bag of bones--or maybe it was because of the gauntlet he did not
feel it. Her face was acquiring a serenity and acceptance Abhay had not
seen before. The glow from the Amrit infused her with a beauty capable of
melting Abhay’s heart and all his fear.
The backs of the Yetis were still turned as he stepped through the gap
between the two standing stones.
The Amrit glowed and smoked ropy vapors of the ground mist at the
ring’s centre, within a small basin set upon a granite pedestal as tall as
Abhay. Suspended twinkles of the Oorja-motes hung about the circle like
thousands of stars, the shockwaves released from the mid-air conflict
stirring them into intense activity.
‘Hold on, stay with me, Dhwani.’ He set her down, making her lean
against the smooth stone.
The ground shook as something landed behind him, cutting off the chaste
glow. The instant Abhay turned around the Yeti King’s slab-like hand
crushed him against the ground. Himwan roared into his face, drops of
spittle spraying Abhay’s cheek along with his hot breath.
‘I don’t want it for myself.’ Abhay croaked in pleading, waving an arm
towards Dhwani’s limp, half-supine form, her glazed eyes gazing into the
vacuum. That Himwan did not understand the words did not occur to
Abhay. ‘It’s for her, I promise. Let me…help her, please! She’s dying,
she’s fought so desperately…she deserves a chance…I’m not asking you
to make her immortal, King Himwan. Just to heal her.’
The Yeti’s tiny, sparkling yellow-black eyes seemed to delve deep into
Abhay’s honest, imploring blue ones. The latter were communicating
through the universal language of emotions--that required no language for
expression.
The choke-hold around his chest did not disappear, and Abhay resigned
himself to his fate. On seeing Himwan pulling back a massive, hairy fist
dripping with the Yeti’s own blood, he was left with no doubt Himwan
was about to dole out punishment for trespassing. The towering creature
looked up, issued an echoing bellow that made Abhay’s teeth chatter.
In a blink, the Yeti let go of Abhay and smashed at the Darkspawns
vying to leap through the gap between the standing stones. The remainder
of his coven, aided by the Angiris, closed the breach within seconds.
Himwan then did something Abhay had never expected. He stepped over
to the basin and bent over in the cloud of vapors and motes whirling about.
When he straightened, he was holding a steaming, leaf-shaped stone-bowl-
-minuscule within the cusp of his huge palm.
Abhay saw the rich, sloshing contents of the bowl as Himwan kneeled
beside Dhwani: a couple of ounces of the glowing, steaming Amrit. It
looked too little to heal her.
Himwan looked hesitant, his gaze telling Abhay something he could not
understand. Was it because Dhwani was already dead, beyond any hope of
being saved?
‘No, no, it’s supposed to work, bring her back from…from…’
Back from the dead--but he could not say the rest. ‘She is slipping,
please. We cannot waste a second.’ Abhay held Dhwani’s cold, inactive
form against his chest.
Himwan handed over the bowl into his outstretched palm, like he wanted
no part in a fruitless endeavor.

Tamas and Vikrant were like titans locked in a ferocious dance-till-death

with seemingly no end in sight. Each one appeared to exactly know the
others’ Achilles’ heel and the chinks-in-the-armor, striking and countering,
shooting hexes and counter hexes in a flurry of brilliant motion. Their
kavach suits glowing, trying to outshine each other as they collided in a
glare of heat and shockwave, like two comets bent upon decimating one
other.
But in spite of how invincible they both seemed from a distance, things
were not going so well for the Mole.
Compared to Tamas, Vikrant was getting weaker with every strike and
spell inwardly, even if he managed to hide his weakness beneath the
veneer of outward aggression. The scar across his chest flared inordinately,
draining his energy reserves--all the Oorja gained from the Great Banyan’s
life-force, trickling out of him. Retracting back his Vajra might have
minimized the energy loss, but it also meant sure defeat--and death. The
unusual burden of the Chakra within the scabbard was slowing him down.
Vikrant knew the rules of engagement would have to be changed. He did
not have the time or the luxury to fight for long. And also, his priorities lay
elsewhere now that he had acquired the Brahmāstra.
‘You blame us for Kaya’s death, but not once have you considered the
fact that she had died a long time ago,’ he hissed as he struck, ‘perhaps the
very instant the Manushyas forced her to copulate with one of their own.’
‘Do not dare bring her name to your treacherous lips, Vikrant,’ Tamas
responded with a swipe of his thunderbolt-sword, anger coloring the intact
half of his face. The Mole parried with his own Vajra, feeling the strain it
took to withstand his Mentor.
‘Her death liberated her from the sufferings of a mortal, diseased body.
We brought her back to Swargam to honor her memory. What we
wouldn’t have given up to bring her to you, alive and well…’
The mention of such a possibility--no less than a utopia for Tamas’s
yearning heart of a lover--tugged at his inner strings. It made him pause
and Vikrant lost no moment in hexing him with one of the Forbidden
Spells--a dirty trick the Mole had learned from the Asuras.
Tamas tried to move but it was as if invisible bonds had shackled him.
Vikrant swung around his Vajra for what could have been the killing blow.
But Tamas surprised him.
He emancipated himself with a counter-hex the Asuras had claimed did
not exist. Next, he cast a curse he had never taught Vikrant: a hail of
arrows made of solid Oorja flew at him, chasing him doggedly as he tried
to dodge around, before hitting him one after another.
His vision blurred with pain and his wings refused to do his bidding.
Vikrant plunged towards the ground but Tamas caught him.
‘Open your eyes, vermin!’ His mentor delivered a backhanded slap. ‘I
want you look your Death in the eyes.’
A bloodied and tired Vikrant opened his bloodshot eyes; his gaze
unfocused, his body incapable of any further movement in his defense. His
deformed face elicited pity and capitulation.
‘Kaya died…’ the thin slit of his lips moved.
‘And I hold you responsible for that, even if you did not intend it to
happen.’
‘…but a part of her…continues to live, in her son.’ Vikrant spat the next
words along with blood. ‘The Nephilim…is K-Kaya’s unnatural p-
progeny, Mentor. He has her eyes and face, if you’ll l-look closely.’
Tamas gazed down below, where another Yeti had fallen--one of the
younger females--and the Darkspawn had pushed the coven inside the
stone circle. Abhay seemed ignorant of the battle around him, cradling a
blood-drenched Dhwani in his arms. He was calling out to her, patting and
caressing her cheeks to revive her when even from a distance Tamas could
make out she was breathing no more. Her aura had vanished, her soul had
departed her body.
‘A Nephilim is an abomination, a liability waiting to become a threat.’
Vikrant weakly quoted what Tamas had hammered in the minds of his
acolytes, word-by-word--without fumbling. ‘It is only wise to nip the evil
in the bud, before the creature blooms to full power.’ The choke-hold
around Vikrant’s neck tightened. ‘Can you…neutralize Kaya’s son…
Mentor?’
Tamas did not realize his acolyte had diverted his attention, not until he
heard him whisper the mantra.
The Vajra crackled within Vikrant’s grasp, just as his mentor’s attention
snapped around. The lightning bolt extended from his arm, passing
through shield, suit, skin and bone and exiting from Tamas’s back--all
within a fraction of a second.
‘Go merge with the Eternal Flame in peace, Mentor. You will be
remembered as a martyr. Death is not so bad, after all.’ Vikrant stared into
his eyes, paying no heed to the humming fly that alighted upon the burnt,
grisly half of Tamas’s face.
‘Do not…the Brahmas--…the Asuras-can-never-have--’ Tamas’s arched
back slumped, the wings retracted as Vikrant withdrew the Vajra. The fly
was moving on the bridge of his nose.
‘And they will not have it, we give our word.’ For someone incapable of
remorse at killing his own lifelong teacher, Vikrant expressed genuine
assurance.
He let go of Tamas, watching him crash in the midst of the Darkspawns.
They pounced upon him, heady with the scent of warm blood.
A ball of white light and heat exploded a few seconds hence, consuming
Tamas’s body and every one of the child-demons within a seven meter
radius.
Vikrant escaped before the surviving Angiris could attack--more so,
because he could hear the muffled sound of conch-shells blowing through
the tunnel leading into the sanctuary. He knew what was coming.

The younger she-Yeti was lying dead, blocking the gap between the
standing stones with her enormous bulk. Abhay had seen her take her last
breath, the way her aura had shrunk to a flame and escaped through her
parted lips. Through his aural vision Abhay could make out the change
even as her body lost the warmth of life, turning as lifeless as the stones in
his vicinity--as lifeless as Dhwani.
He had not seen Dhwani’s soul leave her body--if the flame he had seen
escaping earlier was indeed the she-Yeti’s soul. A part of him screamed to
convince him that Dhwani was still alive, still fighting somehow; the
Amrit had saved her and she would open her eyes any moment.
His rational side told otherwise: that he had missed seeing her soul part
from Dhwani; she was already too far gone when he had poured the Amrit
down her throat. Bleary with tears, he kept on waiting for even a tiny
scintilla of a miraculous recovery--for his new reality had shown him
miracles in abundance.
Detached from time and place he was, so that he did not even realize the
battle was ending, nor did he hear the resonating trumpets of conch shells
that caused panic within the Darkspawns and Darkborns alike. The
thundering guns and the wails of the Asuras were background noises.
He and Dhwani had failed after everything they had to go through, to
bring the Brahmāstra to Niladri.
His parents’ deaths, the family union that never happened, losing
Murtaza, Jayant and above all, Dhwani: it had all been for nothing, in the
end.
 EPILOGUE
All Hail the Red King!

The Hind Tower was a grand affair in the middle of the metropolis’s
commercial district: a towering seventy floor building fronted by glass
facades on all sides. In recent years, the city of Bangalore had transformed
into a Mecca for the IT industry. In that sense the Hind Tower was its
Sacred Mosque--worshipped by the high and mighty, where the major
software and technology giants of the world had set up their plush
corporate offices.
It was close to nine but even at this late hour of evening, a bevy of
activity was underway inside the building: thousands of Manushyas
hunched upon their computers, working or moving about every floor--like
drones in a hive. The glare of electricity across the Tower could have
easily powered a small village for a week.
Only the three topmost levels looked dark and uninhabited, rendered
invisible by the dazzle below.
On the dark terrace at the top were four figures waiting: three Manushyas
in identical dark uniforms standing about the fourth figure seated on a
foldable chair that seemed too small for his bulk--an Asura pureblood
dressed in a finely-fitted suit that did wonders to highlight his build and
the beefy arms of a heavyweight wrestler.
The pureblood switched on his phone screen to check the time. Urged
both by impatience and the lack of comfort he lifted his bulk from the
chair, lit up a cigarette and walked up to the ledge--waist-high for an
average heighted man but just above the knee-level for the Asura.
Taking a long drag, he leaned his arms upon the ledge and looked down
onto the sea of city-lights before him, smudged by the haze of pollution. A
light, cool breeze carried the exhaled smoke away.
Minutes passed. The Asura was taking a last puff when a sudden torrent
stirred behind him, driving him off-balance before he could turn. He
toppled, about to flip over the low ledge when the pale hand grabbed him
by his crimson tie. His savior pulled him back on his feet.
It was the Angiri.
Vikrant had restored his skin’s unblemished appearance by a fresh
application of some Ksheer clay he always kept on his person. He was
dressed in a jogging suit a size too big, zipped up till his collar to hide the
kavach suit and the scar beneath--the clothes still bore the faint scent of its
wearer whom Vikrant had made to undress before sucking off his life-
force.
‘That was entirely unintentional.’ His smile said otherwise--that Vikrant
had deliberately startled the Asura.
‘You are awfully late for the appointment. The sun set three hours ago.’
The pureblood had a heavy, boorish accent. He straightened his tie,
signaling the other three men to lower their guns. With some reluctance,
they holstered their weapons.
‘As they say, better late than never. Where are the phials your Red King
promised?’
‘Where is the Astra?’
‘We have an understanding with the Red King and him only. We’re not
answerable to his subordinates.’
The pureblood went quiet, seething with anger before he said, ‘This way,
please.’ He motioned Vikrant to follow. They took the service elevator,
along with the three mercenaries.
The light was bright enough inside the elevator-car to make Vikrant
squint. He looked at himself in the mirrored wall to his right as they
descended. Except for his bloodshot eyes and the dark veins on his hands,
his appearance gave away nothing; no outward trace of the torment
burning and clawing at him beneath the clay-mask.
He had been going without a drop of Halāhal for over seven hours now.
His throat felt raw, his senses dulled and his insides seemed uncomfortably
knotted. The confrontation with Tamas had drained him to an extent that
even after having fed on the living Oorja of three humans recently, he felt
no less different than when he had started from Niladri. The scar continued
to throb and burn across his chest, every twitch producing bright spots in
his vision.
The elevator bumped to a halt on the sixty-eighth level and the doors
dinged open on to a marble foyer. The ceiling lights here burned a dim
shade of crimson and the air pumped out by the overhead vents was chilly
enough to make the mercenaries shiver. On the other side was a wide,
polished double-doors flanked by a number of gun-wielding Darkborns.
The skin on their faces was dry but still taut, suggesting they had been
turned only recently.
Only the pureblood and Vikrant stepped through the doors. The red light
fixtures remained consistent as they continued through an exquisite living
area with a pool table and a sleek, hundred-inch LCD screen on the wall,
snug divans and couches and Persian rugs. Abstract paintings and portraits
of men and women and animals looked upon Vikrant from the high walls.
The utter silence was only disturbed by a faint rattle of the overhead vents
pumping the cold, fresh air into the luxurious abode.
Vikrant sensed no other presence on the entire floor but he remained
wary of the shadows behind the heavy brocade curtains, nonetheless. He
understood why he was unable to perceive anyone else when the
pureblood stopped and opened a door to the left that seemed no different
than the rest.
A deafening babble of noise struck Vikrant through the open door.
Through the opening he sensed the eight Asuras--all purebloods--inside
the commodious room. Bhairav Dutta was in there. Vikrant could not see
any of them for they were seated in high-backed chairs, gathered around a
U-shaped oakwood table large enough to seat thirty.
The Asuras were facing a wall-sized screen. It showed an aerial footage
of the Battle of Niladri--a visual spectacle in all senses, captured most
likely by a hovering drone.
Vikrant entered. The pureblood closed the door behind him. The room
smelled strongly of fresh paint and varnish and the overlapping scents of
eight purebloods. He recognized only the Red King’s scent.
The eight Asuras did not even acknowledge him as Vikrant advanced, the
sound of his footsteps on the polished black marble floor drowned by the
gunfire and explosions on-screen.
An additional screen adorned each of the two walls of the conference
room. The left one was frozen upon a close-up view of Abhay and Dhwani
from the battle; the right had a muted news-bulletin on.
A flashing ticker kept reiterating in bold right below the news anchor:
Angel Sightings in the Land of Ram and Krishna--Hoax or Reality?
Vikrant stopped a few feet from the edge of the conference table and
cleared his throat before the single chair at the head-end nearest to the
screen, moved. Bhairav Dutta swiveled around and a beaming smile broke
upon his face when his eyes met Vikrant’s. The video was remotely muted.
His fine, chiseled looks radiated handsomeness, charisma and danger in
equal measure. His jet-black long hair oiled to shine and swept back upon
a broad forehead; probing vulpine eyes beneath sharp eyebrows; a long
hooked nose, like a hawk’s beak. The tip of his French beard was skewed
to one side. The crimson of his open-collared silk-shirt seemed to make up
for the absence of the red overhead lights outside the hall. Through the
half-unbuttoned shirt Vikrant could make out thick horizontal scars upon
his hairless, muscular chest: reminders from the days of the Second Fall.
‘Children, look who has finally graced us with his august presence.’
Bhairav Dutta announced, prompting the other occupants in the seven
chairs to his either side, turn about.
The seven young Asuras, ageing between ten to early twenties, were all
dressed in smart formals; three girls, who were the youngest of the lot, and
one of them had a twin brother. As is the remarkable trait of the Asura
gene, each of the seven shared a striking resemblance to their father.
‘I give you all the man of the hour, the brightest jewel among the Angiris
and my old friend: Vikrant.’ Vikrant did not bother to correct that he was
neither a man nor a friend to their father. ‘And these seven here are my
jewels, Vikrant: the most special ones among my children. They lead the
rest.’
‘How many children have you fathered so far?’ Vikrant asked.
Dutta affected an embarrassment. ‘Well, to be honest, I’ll be at par with
the Kaurava King Dhrithrashtra soon. My hundredth progeny is due next
month. Now don’t give me that look, it is no sin to have more children.
Look what the Manushyas have done: the current world population stands
over seven billion today! The Celestials of Swargam have no issues with
the human population exploding.’
Vikrant would have loved to add that his children were Asuras and more
of them meant more trouble in the future. They were nothing but fatal
aberrations in the natural order, but he kept his counsel to himself.
‘We wish you good luck if you plan to beat the Kaurava King’s record.
Shall we get down to business then?’
The giant screen behind Bhairav Dutta was panning closer to the ongoing
exothermic exchange between Vikrant and Tamas. But not one of the
children seemed anymore interested. Their brooding yet curious gaze
measured Vikrant from head-to-toe. The twins whispered under their
breaths.
‘Looks like an albino with a skin condition.’ Vikrant heard the girl
saying.
‘Our business, yes,’ Bhairav Dutta rubbed his palms, bunched them
together as his smile was supplanted by a stern, calculating demeanor, ‘the
consignment of Halāhal as promised, in return for the Brahmāstra: the
three weapons and the scabbard.’
‘You are forgetting the five phials that cost you a soldier’s life.’
‘I was coming to that,’ he raised a palm and the boy sitting to his right--
the eldest of the seven--bent to his side and retrieved a polished
sandalwood box. He opened it for Vikrant’s scrutiny.
The five phials were lying on a bed of red velvet, alongside a compact
plunger.
An army of ants seemed to raid his tongue, crawl down the lining of his
throat. He wanted to snatch at them and pump the Halāhal into his veins.
But he did not let go of his wits. ‘Pass it over to us.’
‘Ah, come on Vikrant, you have such a lowly opinion of me. That’s pure
Halāhal in those phials, not some adulterated crap.’ Bhairav Dutta uttered
a disappointed groan, gesturing to his eldest son who passed it over to his
younger siblings down the table till the last one--a bespectacled boy of ten-
-slid it forward without getting up.
Vikrant stepped forward gingerly. He felt the cold glass-and-metal tubes,
raised each to eye-level to examine their contents. The ants dug their sharp
mandibles into his tongue and throat, telling him to push the phial into the
plunger and drive the needle into his arm.
He whispered a monosyllabic word in the Oorja-speak and a ward
around his body lifted, revealing the scabbard with the gem-studded hilts
poking over the shoulder.
He slung off the strap, raised it to display the Artifact and was about to
put it down on the table when Bhairav Dutta prompted.
‘Not there. Kritya will take it.’
At first he thought Kritya was the name of one of his daughters. Then he
sensed movement over his right shoulder: there was someone standing
behind him and Vikrant had failed to perceive either the creature’s life-
force or its approach.
He whipped around to face a terrible leer perpetually frozen upon a
metallic countenance. He sized up the thing: an android resembling a
shapely woman; a marvel of utmost perfection yet frightening to behold,
each part, every nut and bolt shaped from Ashtadhatu alloys. Its eyes were
fashioned to look like a human’s, with powerful lenses for pupils burning a
pale red. Thick, flexible appendages squirmed like serpents in place of
hair. Like Medusa, Vikrant thought.
He handed over the scabbard into her beckoning hands. She carried it
over to Bhairav who unsheathed the twin blades one-by-one. He needed no
help in figuring out a way to open the slot for the Chakra. The disc showed
not even a hint of activity as he closely examined its dull, gilded surface
and the ornate scrollwork of runes and glyphs and concentric circular
devices.
Kritya produced before Vikrant three keys when Dutta signaled, satisfied
with the key-weapons. Each key was attached to a plastic card whereupon
was mentioned a location: one at the capital, one in the city of Kolkata and
the last one somewhere within Bangalore itself.
‘Those are keys to storage facilities where you will find your caches of
supply.’ Bhairav returned the three pieces of the Brahmāstra to their
rightful places and only then did he look up at Vikrant. ‘I would like to
thank you on behalf of my people, Vikrant. You have been a valuable ally
and my doors are always open to you, if you ever wish to join us. From
what I can see, your people will not exactly welcome you with open arms
after…you know.’ He jerked a thumb at the screen behind him.
In the video, the drone was positioned a few feet above Tamas while he
held Vikrant by the throat. Tamas’s gaze shifted the other way when
Vikrant’s lips moved to produce a blinding flash of light; the recording
drone seemed to malfunction against the intense energy of the Vajra
before the image acquired consistency. The camera moved closer only
when the on-screen Vikrant retracted the weapon.
For the one watching the recording, it was disquieting to see his own
deed: faking surrender and distracting Tamas to play his dirty trick upon
his mentor.
‘We won’t be seeing each other again.’ Vikrant said, tearing away his
gaze. He had no inclination to relive his mentor’s final moments.
‘Not even when your supply of the Halāhal gets over?’
Vikrant chose not to reply. His twitching fingers had already inserted a
vial into the plunger. His craving had taken over and it outstripped even
the sense of danger. He took one shot, paused to feel its immediate effect
as the room took on a sharp, colorful tint.
‘We hope you will give us no reason to come back, regarding the quality
and quantity of the consignment in the three locations.’
‘Once again, you think so little of me, Vikrant.’ Bhairav Dutta left his
seat and walked around the table, ‘You fulfilled your end of the bargain. I
have no reason to keep you away from your well-earned reward. I
guarantee you will find nothing amiss. Else you are free to kill as many of
my soldiers as you deem fit.’
‘We’ll come after you this time, Bhairav Dutta, not your minions. Be
assured of that.’ Vikrant ignored him when the Red King offered his hand
to shake.
Instead, he pumped another phial into his arm and stowed the remaining
on his person before walking away without a backward glance.
‘If I were you I’d go easy on the Halāhal.’ The Red King’s voice was
silenced by the noise of the battle as someone un-muted the video.
Vikrant turned the doorknob as the speakers blared to life. It did not
open. Behind him Tamas’s dying words rang inside the room, followed by
another raspy, hissing voice Vikrant at first could not recognize as his
own. He twisted the knob harder, seized by an inexplicable panic. For
some reason he found himself unable to channel the strength it required to
break the lock--or even the door--as if his body was resisting his mind.
The words in the Angiri-tongue began to play in a loop in his
background. He felt a numbness crawling up his body, the spell he chanted
came out in a thin, ludicrous drawl.
There was more within the phials than the Halāhal, Vikrant realized.
A shadow crept upon him from behind and he turned as if in a daze.
Kritya’s cold metal hands clasped around his throat and threw him on an
even colder marble floor. The speaker volume was turned down at the Red
King’s behest.
‘Spiking the Halāhal with the potent barbiturate was my son, Azazel’s
idea.’ Bhairav Dutta spoke over the muted video-in-loop, showing Vikrant
a close-up view of his own face. ‘Each vial you shot into your arm had
enough of the Nindra potion to stop a rhino’s heart. It should keep you
down while we have our little chat. Because naturally, our business isn’t
over yet.’
Vikrant tried to get up but Kritya’s metal foot pinned him down and
claws dug into the small of his back. He felt sluggish--like he was moving
underwater; his cry of pain a distant dismal moan. His desperate attempt to
cast a fire-spell upon the android produced only a bright flicker of Oorja
from his palms. His tongue refused to move.
Bhairav Dutta’s children had gathered around their father. Behind them,
Vikrant’s real, diseased visage filled the screen, his eyes staring at the
camera as he spoke the words again and again: his final promise to Tamas,
expressing his intention to never let the Asuras take the Brahmāstra.
‘My children have become fluent in the Angiri-tongue, all thanks to you.’
The Red King hunkered down beside Vikrant. ‘Your surprise is natural:
you might not remember it but you taught us a lot during your
incarceration. Your voice was different then, normal.
‘My Magnificent Seven had placed bets among themselves long before
you arrived here. Except for the twins, the rest of children believed you
would honestly fulfill your end of the bargain--even I had thought the
same. Turns out, the twins predicted your latest ploy correctly. Instead of
the Brahmāstra, you’ve given us a fine imitation of the twin blades and the
Chakra. You thought the Asuras would never be able to make out fake
from the original.’
Vikrant made a sudden grab for Bhairav but miscalculated his own
agility and reach. The Red King easily stepped away, laughing at his lame
attempt.
‘You forgot that I once had the Chakra in my possession--about the same
time we nabbed you and the others. I know exactly how it would have
reacted to my touch, to my Asura-blood.’
‘Kill us, and you will never find its trace…’ the words seemed to take
forever to come out of Vikrant’s lips, fumbling and lisping--but it was an
improvement. His healing ability was beginning to take control,
dampening the effect of the Nindra. He needed a few more minutes to
recuperate.
‘Sorry to disappoint you Vikrant, but I already know where you might
have hidden it. Your entire flight path, every movement between the Blue
Mountain and here, was mapped by our bug. You were delayed for a
reason and now we know what it is.’
A shudder of fear passed through Vikrant. How, by the Seven Plagues,
did he find out?
A low hum behind his right ear presented the explanation. The fly
spiraled into his vision: the very same insect that had landed on Tamas in
his dying moments. Vikrant had missed it before but now he understood it
was not a living object but an ingenious instrument designed by the
enemy.
The images on the screens blinked out before switching on to a live-feed,
as seen from the compound eyes of the fly, watching Vikrant as it hovered
above the Red King.
‘Even as I speak, my soldiers are scouring the sites where you stopped--
either to replenish your strength, or to hide the Brahmāstra. The scar has
been taking a great toll on your powers, right?’
Having regained a semblance of focus, galvanized by the imminent threat
to his person, Vikrant reacted in an instant. Kritya went crashing headfirst
into the door, like a cannonball, splintering apart the sturdy double-doors.
At his command the Vajra crackled to life.
He was seconds away from smiting the Red King along with his
progenies when the piano chords poured from the overhead speakers.
The screens continued with the live-feed and Vikrant saw himself go stiff
under the influence of the ascending music. His eyes widened in both
surprise and recognition, his mind immediately responding to the heavy,
somnolent chords.
Vikrant had heard it before--but where?
His memory failed to serve as the Vajra fizzled out within his grasp. His
instincts drove him to cup his hands over the ears to muffle the sounds, his
face contorted in pain.
‘Stop it, stop! It hurts us, IT HURTS!’ Vikrant forced shut his eyes, as if it
would somehow work to subdue the despondent tune.
Kritya reasserted her grip around his shoulders, driving him to his knees.
The music seemed to resonate through his very bones, long needles
penetrated into his eardrums.
He could picture himself through a hazy lens of pain: shackled and
spreadeagled on a dank floor of a prison cell, eyes pried open with a pair
of clips; the same music playing from surrounding speakers while a
television screen affixed to the ceiling, played images of abject horror and
ultraviolence. He was being injected with the Halāhal from an intravenous
drip.
‘It wasn’t us…it couldn’t be us...’ Vikrant had no idea if he spoke or
heard the thought in his head.
‘Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata,’ Bhairav Dutta spoke, ‘that piece of
music has pain and depression written all over it. It hurts because even
though your memory might have gone fuzzy, your mind can associate it
with the suffering you experienced--your gradual decline into the darkness,
while you were my guest for a whole year. We made you and the rest hear
it non-stop, twenty-four by seven for months, while little-by-little the
Halāhal changed you from the inside-out.’
Vikrant remembered nothing--just like he could not recollect when he
had spilled the knowledge of the Oorja-speak letters. What more had he
told the Asuras in his drugged, defenseless state?
Kritya had her arms cinched tight around him, even though he had
stopped struggling under the music’s spell. She pushed him to a kneeling
position while Bhairav Dutta’s eldest son stabbed a hypodermic needle
into Vikrant’s neck, injecting a purplish serum into his bloodstream: the
heavy pall of torpor descended upon Vikrant--the barbiturate called
Nindra.
‘The sense of being free, being a master of your thoughts and actions,’
Bhairav Dutta said, signaling his children to gather around, ‘that was a
mere illusion. You did everything I asked, like a humble servant, except
this one bit--giving us an imitation of the Brahmāstra while keeping the
original Artifact for yourself. You thought you could get away with it and
the Halāhal! I will let my children punish you for this transgression, on my
behalf.’
The Red King stepped back, hands clasped behind, grinning with a
malevolent glee and pride as the seven children unsheathed their weapons:
seven identical daggers of Ashtadhatu with carved hilts of ivory and metal.
‘Who wants to take the first stab?’ Bhairav Dutta asked.
The hands of the twins shot up into the air before anyone else. The girl
and the boy briefly glanced at each other.
The music had turned Vikrant’s hands and legs into mush. His struggle
did not translate beyond squirming. He could see himself upon the screen
at the far end--helpless and dazed, held down by the Metal Medusa, the
daggers the twins held, rising together.
We are insects, we’re all insects--the Devas, the Angiris, the Manushyas
and the Asuras--all insignificant and inconsequential beneath the thumb of
Fate. The faces of the dead swam before his eyes, the ghosts of every
single soul he had ever taken, speaking in one voice. The daggers pierced
him and his entire life hurtled before his eyes: eight centuries worth of
memories flashing within seconds.
He watched himself dying on the screen as the other children took turns
to wet their daggers: seven stabs like the octaves of pain, before they
repeated it all over again, tearing into his chest and torso but never
touching his face with clay-mask still intact. His eyes remained open for a
long time, till he could not even feel the blade rending him to shreds.
Vikrant soon passed out.
By that time the seven children were half-drenched in the Mole’s blood,
their daggers and hands dripping red. Beethoven had been replaced by the
silence of the speakers. Kritya’s grip did not slacken a bit even though
Vikrant had gone limp, his head drooping onto his chest.
The eldest son pulled back Vikrant by the hair to lift up his face but the
strands snapped within his fist, the Asura’s tug uprooting the hair from the
scalp before Vikrant’s head dropped back. The twins tittered. Their big
brother held him by the chin to display Vikrant’s unmarked clayface to the
others. He checked the pulse.
‘He’s still alive--but barely.’ The young man raised the dagger to finish
the job.
‘Wait!’ the bespectacled Asura named Azazel interrupted, ‘Father, allow
me to examine him. I would like to see when the heart stops beating, study
his anatomy, his brain and understand what makes Angiris different. I
might not get this chance again.’
Bhairav Dutta looked between his youngest and eldest sons, surprised but
fascinated by the strange request.
‘Well, I always reward and appreciate my children when they take
initiative. Go on then, see what you can learn. Kritya and your big brother
will guard you when you open him up.’ The Red King beckoned Azazel
closer and patted his shoulder.
He bid his children to leave and they went away quietly, along with the
android carrying an almost dead Vikrant. The Mole’s blood stank to high
heaven: a proof of the decay he had been willingly embracing over the last
two decades.
 Alone, surrounded by the wall-sized screens, a wistful smile playing on
his lips. He stood within the inner radius of the U-shaped conference table
staring at the images on the screen. The one in the middle had resumed
playing the Battle of Niladri in mute.
‘I’m a step closer to my goal, Gurudev.’ He spoke, looking up at the
ceiling. ‘I have acquired the Brahmāstra, and much more. We still have
more than eighteen months to go before the fateful day of Occultation. The
sun will set soon, never to rise again and I will usher in the Dawn of the
Asuras.’
A knock came on the door before he heard it opening.
‘Your Majesty, I just received word. They found the Artifact. We lost a
number of Grunts to entrapments and spells laid over the cave, but the
remaining few have already started securing it for transport.’
Bhairav Dutta nodded without turning around and said, ‘Tell them to
bring it to Seabase One, not here. I’ll be leaving before the first light.’

END OF BOOK ONE