Lord of Light

VII

Another name by which he is sometimes called is Maitreya, meaning Lord of Light. After his return from the Golden Cloud, he journeyed to the Palace of Kama at Khaipur, where he planned and built his strength against the Day of the Yuga. A sage once said that one never sees the Day of the Yuga, but only knows it when it is past. For it dawns like any other day and passes in the same wise, recapitulating the history of the world.

He is sometimes called Maitreya, meaning Lord of Light. . .

In a high, blue palace of slender spires and filigreed gates, where the tang of salt sea spray and the crying of sea-wights came across the bright air to season the senses with life and delight. Lord Nirriti the Black spoke with the man who had been brought to him.

“Sea captain, what is your name?” he asked.

“Olvagga, Lord,” answered the captain. “Why did you kill my crew and let me live?”

“Because I would question you, Captain Olvagga.”

“Regarding what?”

“Many things. Things such as an old sea captain might know, through his travels. How stands my control of the southern sea lanes?”

“Stronger than I thought, or you’d not have me here.”

“Many others are afraid to venture out, are they not?”

“Yes.”

Nirriti moved to a window overlooking the sea. He turned his back upon his captive. After a time, he spoke again:

“I hear there has been much scientific progress in the north since, oh, the battle of Keenset.”

“I, too, have heard this. Also, I know it to be true. I have seen a steam engine. The printing press is now a part of life. Dead slizzard legs are made to jump with galvanic currents. A better grade of steel is now being forged. The microscope and the telescope have been rediscovered.”

Nirriti turned back to him, and they studied one another.

Nirriti was a small man, with a twinkling eye, a facile smile, dark hair, restrained by a silver band, an upturned nose and eyes the color of his palace. He wore black and lacked a suntan.

“Why do the Gods of the City fail to stop this thing?”

“I feel it is because they are weakened, if that is what you want to hear, Lord. Since the disaster by the Vedra they have been somewhat afraid to squelch the progress of mechanism with violence. It has also been said that there is internal strife in the City, between the demigods and what remains of their elders. Then there is the matter of the new religion. Men no longer fear Heaven so much as they used to. They are more willing to defend themselves; and now that they are better equipped, the gods are less willing to face them.”

“Then Sam is winning. Across the years, he is beating them.”

“Yes, Renfrew. I feel this to be true.”

Nirriti glanced at the two guards who flanked Olvagga.

“Leave,” he ordered. Then, when they had gone,

“You know me?”

“Yes, chaplin. For I am Jan Olvegg, captain of the Star of India.”

“Olvegg. That seems moderately impossible.”

“True, nevertheless. I received this now ancient body the day Sam broke the Lords of Karma at Mahartha. I was there.”

“One of the First, and — yes! — a Christian!”

“Occasionally, when I run out of Hindi swear words.”

Nirriti placed a hand on his shoulder. “Then your very being must ache at this blasphemy they have wrought!”

“I’m none too fond of them — nor they of me.”

“I daresay. But of Sam — he did the same thing — compounding this plurality of heresies — burying the true Word even deeper . . .”

“A weapon, Renfrew,” said Olvegg. “Nothing more. I’m sure he didn’t want to be a god any more than you or I.”

“Perhaps. But I wish he had chosen a different weapon. If he wins their souls are still lost.”

Olvegg shrugged. “I’m no theologian, such as yourself . . .”

“But will you help me? Over the ages I have built up a mighty force. I have men and I have machines. You say our enemies are weakened. My soulless ones — born not of man or woman — they are without fear. I have sky gondolas — many. I can reach their City at the Pole. I can destroy their Temples here in the world. I think the time is at hand to cleanse the world of this abomination. The true faith must come again! Soon! It must be soon . . .”

“As I said, I’m no theologian. But I, too, would see the City fall,” said Olvegg. “I will help you, in any way I can.”

“Then we will take a few of their cities and defile their Temples, to see what action this provokes.”

Olvegg nodded.

“You will advise me. You will provide moral support,” said Nirriti, and bowed his head.

“Join me in prayer,” he ordered.

The old man stood for a long while outside the Palace of Kama in Khaipur, staring at its marble pillars. Finally, a girl took pity on him and brought him bread and milk. He ate the bread.

“Drink the milk, too, grandfather. It is nourishing and will help sustain thy flesh.”

“Damn!” said the old man. “Damn milk! And damn my flesh! My spirit, also, for that matter!”

The girl drew back. “That is hardly the proper reply upon the receipt of charity.”

“It is not your charity to which I object, wench. It is your taste in beverages. Could you not spare me a draught of the foulest wine from the kitchen? . . . That which the guests have disdained to order and the cook will not even slop over the cheapest pieces of meat? I crave the squeezings of grapes, not cows.”

“Perhaps I could bring you a menu? Depart! Before I summon a servant!”

He stared into her eyes. “Take not offense, lady, I pray. Begging comes hard to me.”

She looked into his pitch-dark eyes in the midst of a ruin of wrinkles and tan. His beard was streaked with black. The tiniest smile played about the corners of his lips.

“Well. . . follow me around to the side. I’ll take you into the kitchen and see what can be found. I don’t really know why I should, though.”

His fingers twitched as she turned, and his smile widened as he followed, watching her walk.

“Because I want you to,” he said.

Taraka of the Rakasha was uneasy. Flitting above the clouds that moved through the middle of the day, he thought upon the ways of power. He had once been mightiest. In the days before the binding there had been none who could stand against him. Then Siddhartha the Binder had come. He had known of him earlier, known of him as Kalkin and had known him to be strong. Sooner or later, he had realized, they would have to meet, that he might test the power of that Attribute which Kalkin was said to have raised up. When they had come together, on that mighty, gone day when the mountaintops had flared with their fury, on that day the Binder had won. And in their second encounter, ages afterward, he had somehow beaten him even more fully. But he had been the only one, and now he was gone from out the world. Of all creatures, only the Binder had bested the Lord of Hellwell. Then the gods had come to challenge his power. They had been puny in the early days, struggling to discipline their mutant powers with drugs, hypnosis, meditation, neurosurgery — forging them into Attributes — and across the ages, those powers had grown. Four of them had entered Hellwell, only four, and his legions had not been able to repel them. The one called Shiva was strong, but the Binder had later slain him. This was as it should be, for Taraka recognized the Binder as a peer. The woman he dismissed. She was only a woman, and she had required assistance from Yama. But Lord Agni, whose soul had been one bright, blinding flame—this one he had almost feared. He recalled the day Agni had walked into the palace at Palamaidsu, alone, and had challenged him. He could not stop that one, though he had tried, and he had seen the palace itself destroyed by the power of his fires. And nothing in Hellwell could stop him either. He had made a promise then to himself that he must test this power, as he had that of Siddhartha, to defeat it or be bound by it. But he never did. The Lord of Fires had fallen himself, before the One in Red — who had been the fourth in Hellwell — who had somehow turned his fires back upon him, that day beside the Vedra in the battle for Keenset. This meant that he was the greatest. For had not even the Binder warned him of Yama-Dharma, god of Death? Yes, the one whose eyes drink life was the mightiest yet remaining in the world. He had almost fallen to his strength within the thunder chariot. He had tested this strength once, briefly, but had relented because they were allies in that fight. It was told that Yama had died afterward, in the City. Later, it was told that he still walked the world. As Lord of the Dead it was said that he could not die himself, save by his own choosing. Taraka accepted this as a fact, knowing what this acceptance meant. It meant that he, Taraka, would return to the south, to the island of the blue palace, where the Lord of Evil, Nirriti the Black, awaited his answer. He would give his assent. Starting at Mahartha and working northward from the sea, the Rakasha would add their power to his dark own, destroying the Temples of the six largest cities of the southwest, one after another, filling the streets of those cities with the blood of their citizens and the nameless legions of the Black One — until the gods came to their defense, and so met their doom. If the gods failed to come, then their true weakness would be known. The Rakasha would then storm Heaven, and Nirriti would level the Celestial City; Milehigh Spire would fall, the dome would be shattered, the great white cats of Kaniburrha would look upon ruins, and the pavilions of the gods and the demigods would be covered with the snows of the Pole. And all of this for one reason, really — aside from relieving the boredom, aside from hastening the final days of gods and of men in the world of the Rakasha. Whenever there is great fighting and the doing of mighty deeds and bloody deeds and flaming deeds — he comes, Taraka knew — the One in Red comes from somewhere, always, for his Aspect draws him to the realm that is his. Taraka knew he would search, wait, do anything, for however long it took, until that day he stared into the black fires that burn behind the eyes of Death. . . .

Brahma stared at the map, then looked back to the screen of crystal, about which a bronze Naga twisted, tail in teeth.

“Burning, oh priest?”

“Burning, Brahma . . . the whole warehouse district!”

“Order the people to quench the fires.”

“They are already doing so, Mighty One.”

“Then why trouble me with the matter?”

“There is fear. Great One.”

“Fear? Fear of what?”

“The Black One, whose name I may not speak in your presence, whose strength has grown steadily in the south, he who controls the sea lanes, cutting off trade.”

“Why should you be afraid to speak the name of Nirriti before me? I know of the Black One. Do you feel he started the fires?”

“Yes, Great One — or rather some accursed one in his pay did it. There is much talk that he seeks to cut us off from the rest of the world, to drain our wealth, destroy our stores and weaken our spirits, because he plans—”

“To invade you, of course.”

“You have said it. Potent One.”

“It may be true, my priest. So tell me, do you feel your gods will not stand by you if the Lord of Evil attacks?”

“There has never been any doubt. Most Puissant One. We simply wanted to remind you of the possibility and renew our perpetual supplication for mercy and divine protection.”

“You have made your point, priest. Fear not.”

Brahma ended the transmission. “He will attack.”

“Of course.”

“And how strong is he, I wonder? No one really knows how strong he is, Ganesha. Do they?”

“You ask me, my Lord? Your humble policy adviser?”

“I do not see anyone else present, humble godmaker. Do you know of anyone who might have information?”

“No, Lord. I do not. Everyone avoids the foul one as though he were the real death. Generally, he is. As you are aware, the three demigods I sent south did not return.”

“They were strong, too, whatever their names, weren’t they? How long ago was that?”

“The last was a year ago, when we sent the new Agni.”

“Yes, he wasn’t very good, though — still used incendiary grenades . . . but strong.”

“Morally, perhaps. When there are fewer gods one must settle for demigods.”

“In the old days, I would have taken the thunder chariot—”

“In the old days there was no thunder chariot. Lord Yama—”

“Silence! We have a thunder chariot now. I think the tall man of smoke who wears a wide hat shall bend above Nirriti’s palace.”

“Brahma, I think Nirriti can stop the thunder chariot.”

“Why so?”

“From some firsthand reports I’ve heard, I believe that he has used guided missiles against warships sent after his brigands.”

“Why did you not tell me of this sooner?”

“They are very recent reports. This is the first chance I have had to broach the subject.”

“Then you do not feel we should attack?”

“No. Wait. Let him move first, that we may judge his strength.”

“This would involve sacrificing Mahartha, would it not?”

“So? Have you never seen a city fall? . . . How will Mahartha benefit him, by itself, and for a time? If we cannot reclaim it, then let the man of smoke nod his wide white hat — over Mahartha.”

“You are right. It will be worth it, to assess his power properly and to drain a portion of it away. In the meantime, we must prepare.”

“Yes. What will your order be?”

“Alert all the powers in the City. Recall Lord Indra from the eastern continent, at once!”

“Thy will be done.”

“And alert the other five cities of the river — Lananda, Khaipur, Kilbar—”

“Immediately.”

“Go then!”

“I am already gone.”

Time like an ocean, space like its water, Sam in the middle, standing, decided.

“God of Death,” he called out, “enumerate our strengths.”

Yama stretched and yawned, then rose from the scarlet couch upon which he had been dozing, almost invisible. He crossed the room, stared into Sam’s eyes. “Without raising Aspect, here is my Attribute.”

Sam met his gaze, held it. “This is in answer to my question?”

“Partly,” replied Yama, “but mainly it was to test your own power. It appears to be returning. You bore my death-gaze longer than any mortal could.”

“I know my power is returning. I can feel it. Many things are returning now. During the weeks we have dwelled here in Ratri’s palace I have meditated upon my past lives. They were not all failures, deathgod. I have decided this today. Though Heaven has beaten me at every turn, each victory has cost them much.”

“Yes, it would seem you are rather a man of destiny. They are actually weaker now than they were the day you challenged their power at Mahartha. They are also relatively weaker. This is because men are stronger. The gods broke Keenset, but they did not break Acceleration. Then they tried to bury Buddhism within the known teachings, but they could not. I cannot really say whether your religion helped with the plot of this tale you are writing, by encouraging Acceleration in any way whatsoever, but then none of the gods could say either. It served as a good fog, though — it diverted their attention from mischief they might have been doing, and since it did happen to take as a teaching, their efforts against it served to arouse some anti-Deicrat sentiment. You would seem inspired if you didn’t seem shrewd.”

“Thank you. Do you want my blessing?”

“No, do you want mine?”

“Perhaps, Death, later. But you did not answer my question. Please tell me what strengths lie with us.”

“Very well. Lord Kubera will arrive shortly. . .”

“Kubera? Where is he?”

“He has dwelled in hiding over the years, leaking scientific knowledge into the world.”

“Over so many years? His body must be ancient! How could he have managed?”

“Do you forget Narada?”

“My old physician from Kapil?”

“The same. When you dispersed your lancers after your battle in Mahartha, he retreated into the backlands with a service of retainers. He packed with him all the equipment you had taken from the Hall of Karma. I located him many years ago. Subsequent to Keenset, after my escape from Heaven by the Way of the Black Wheel, I brought Kubera out from his vault beneath that fallen city. He later allied himself with Narada, who now runs a bootleg body shop in the hills. They work together. We have set up several others in various places, also.”

“And Kubera comes? Good!”

“And Siddhartha is still Prince of Kapil. A call for troops from that principality would still be heard. We have sounded them out.”

“A handful, probably. But still good to know — yes.”

“And Lord Krishna.”

“Krishna? What is he doing on our side? Where is he?”

“He was here. I found him the day we arrived. He had just moved in with one of the girls. Quite pathetic.”

“How so?”

“Old. Pitifully old and weak, but still a drunken lecher. His Aspect served him still, however, periodically summoning up some of his ancient charisma and a fraction of his colossal vitality. He had been expelled from Heaven after Keenset, but because he would not fight against Kubera and myself, as did Agni. He has wandered the world for over half a century, drinking and loving and playing his pipes and growing older. Kubera and I have tried several times to locate him, but he did considerable traveling. This is generally a requirement for renegade fertility deities.”

“What good will he be to us?”

“I sent him to Narada for a new body on the day I found him. He will be riding in with Kubera. His powers always take to the transfer quickly, too.”

“But what good will he be to us?”

“Do not forget that it was he who broke the black demon Bana, whom even Indra feared to face. When he is sober he is one of the deadliest fighting men alive. Yama, Kubera, Krishna, and if you’re willing — Kalkin! We will be the new Lokapalas, and we will stand together.”

“I am willing.”

“So be it, then. Let them send a company of their trainee gods against us! I’ve been designing new weapons. It is a shame that there must be so many separate and exotic ones. It is quite a drain on my genius to make each a work of art, rather than to mass-produce a particular species of offense. But the plurality of the paranormal dictates it. Someone always has an Attribute to stand against any one weapon. Let them face, though, the Gehenna Gun and be fibrillated apart, or cross blades with the Electrosword, or stand before the Fountain Shield, with its spray of cyanide and dimethyl sulfoxide, and they will know that it is the Lokapalas they face!”

“I see now, Death, why it is that any god — even Brahma — may pass and be succeeded by another — save for yourself.”

“Thank you. Have you a plan of any sort?”

“Not yet. I will need more information as to the strength within the City. Has Heaven demonstrated its power in recent years?”

“No.”

“If there were some way of testing them without showing our hand. . . . Perhaps the Rakasha,”

“No, Sam. I do not trust them.”

“Nor I. But they can sometimes be dealt with.”

“As you dealt with them in Hellwell and Palamaidsu?”

“Well answered. Maybe you are right. I will give it more thought. I wonder about Nirriti, though. How go things with the Black One?”

“In recent years, he has come to dominate the seas. Rumor has it that his legions grow, and that he builds machines of war. I once told you, though, of my fears in this matter. Let us stay as far away from Nirriti as possible. He has but one thing in common with us — the desire to topple Heaven. Neither Accelerationist nor Deicrat, should he succeed he would set up a Dark Age worse than the one we’re beginning to come out of. Perhaps our best course of action would be to provoke a battle between Nirriti and the Gods of the City, lie low and then shoot at the winners.”

“You may be right, Yama. But how to do this?”

“We may not have to. It may happen of its own accord — soon. Mahartha crouches, cowering back from the sea it faces. You are the strategist, Sam. I’m only a tactician. We brought you back to tell us what to do. Pray think about it carefully, now that you are yourself once more.”

“You are always stressing those last words.”

“Yea, preacher. For you have not been battle-tested since your return from bliss. . . . Tell me, can you make the Buddhists fight?”

“Probably, but I might have to assume an identity I now find distasteful.”

“Well. . . perhaps not. Keep it in mind, in case we’re hard put. To be safe, though, practice every night in front of a mirror with that esthetics lecture you gave back at Ratri’s monastery.”

“I’d rather not.”

“I know, but do it anyway.”

“Better I should practice with a blade. Fetch me one and I’ll give you a lesson.”

“Ho! Fair enough! Make it a good lesson and you’ve got yourself a convert.”

“Then let us adjourn to the courtyard, where I will proceed to enlighten you.”

As, within the blue palace, Nirriti raised his arms, the rockets screamed skyward from the decks of his launch ships to arc above the city of Mahartha.

As his black breastplate was buckled into place, the rockets came down upon that city and the fires began.

As he donned his boots, his fleet entered into the harbor.

As his black cloak was clasped about his throat and his black steel helm placed upon his head, his sergeants began a soft drumbeat beneath the decks of his ships.

As his sword belt was hung about his waist, the soulless ones stirred within the holds of the vessels.

As he put on his gauntlets of leather and steel, his fleet, driven by winds fanned by the Rakasha, approached the port.

As he motioned to his young steward, Olvagga, to follow him into the courtyard, the warriors who never spoke mounted the decks of the ships and faced the burning harbor.

As the engines within the dark sky gondola rumbled and the door was opened before them, the first of his ships dropped anchor.

As they entered the gondola, the first of his troops entered Mahartha.

When they reached Mahartha, the city had fallen.

Birds sang in the high, green places of the garden. Fish, like old coins, lay at the bottom of the blue pool. The flowers in bloom were mainly red and big-petaled; but there were also occasional yellow wunlips about her jade bench. There was a white, wrought-iron back to it, upon which she rested her left hand while she regarded the flagstones across which his boots scuffed as he moved in her direction.

“Sir, this is a private garden,” she stated. He stopped before the bench and looked down at her. He was beefy, tanned, dark of eye and beard, expressionless until he smiled. He wore blue and leather.

“Guests do not come here,” she added, “but do use the gardens in the other wing of the building. Go through yon archway—”

“You were always welcome in my garden, Ratri,” he said.

“Your . . .?”

“Kubera.”

“Lord Kubera! You are not—”

“Fat. I know. New body, and it’s been working hard. Building Yama’s weapons, transporting them. . .”

“When did you arrive?”

“This minute. I brought Krishna back, along with a load of firepacks, grenades and antipersonnel mines. . .”

“Gods! It’s been so long,”

“Yes. Very. But an apology is still due you, so I have come to give it. It has bothered me these many years. I am sorry, Ratri, about that night, long ago, when I dragged you into this thing. I needed your Attribute, so I drafted you. I do not like to use people so.”

“I would have left the City soon, at any rate, Kubera. So do not feel overly guilty. I should prefer a more comely form, though, than this which I now wear. This is not essential, however.”

“I’ll get you another body, lady.”

“Another day, Kubera. Pray sit down. Here. Are you hungry? Are you thirsty?”

“Yes, and yes.”

“Here is fruit, and soma. Or would you prefer tea?”

“Soma, thank you.”

“Yama says Sam is recovered from his sainthood.”

“Good, the need for him is growing. Has he made any plans yet — for us to act upon?”

“Yama has not told me. But perhaps Sam has not told Yama.”

The branches shook violently in a nearby tree and Tak dropped to the ground, landing upon all fours. He crossed the flagstones and stood beside the bench.

“All this talk has awakened me,” he growled. “Who is this fellow, Ratri?”

“Lord Kubera, Tak.”

“It thou beest he — then oh, how changed!” said Tak.

“And the same might be said of yourself, Tak of the Archives. Why are you still an ape? Yama could transmigrate you.”

“I am more useful as an ape,” said Tak. “I am an excellent spy — far better than a dog. I am stronger than a man. And who can tell one ape from another? I will remain in this form until there is no longer any need for my special services.”

“Commendable. Has there been further news of Nirriti’s movements?”

“His vessels move nearer the large ports than was their wont in the past,” said Tak. “There appear to be more of them, also. Beyond this, nothing. It would seem the gods fear him, for they do not destroy him.”

“Yes,” said Kubera, “for now he is an unknown. I’m inclined to think of him as Ganesha’s mistake. It was he who permitted him to leave Heaven unmolested, and to take what equipment he did with him. I think Ganesha wanted someone available as an enemy of Heaven, should the need for one ever arise in a hurry. He must never have dreamed a nontechnical could have put the equipment to the uses he did, and build up the forces he now commands.”

“There is logic in what you say,” said Ratri. “Even I have heard that Ganesha often moves in such a manner. What will he do now?”

“Give Nirriti the first city he attacks, to observe his means of offense and assess his strength — if he can persuade Brahma to hold back. Then strike at Nirriti. Mahartha must fall, and we must stand near. It would be interesting even to watch.”

“But you feel we will do more than watch?” asked Tak.

“Indeed. Sam knows we must be on hand to make more pieces of the pieces, and then to pick some up. We will have to move as soon as someone else does, Tak, which may be soon.”

“At last,” said Tak. “I have always wanted to go to battle at the side of the Binder.”

“In the weeks to come, I am certain that almost as many wishes will be granted as broken.”

“More soma? More fruit?”

“Thank you, Ratri.”

“And you, Tak?”

“A banana, perhaps.”

Within the shadow of the forest, at the peak of a high hill, Brahma sat, like a statue of a god mounted upon a gargoyle, staring downward into Mahartha.

“They defile the Temple.”

“Yes,” answered Ganesha. “The Black One’s feelings have not changed over the years.”

“In a way, it is a pity. In another way, it is frightening. His troops had rifles and sidearms.”

“Yes. They are very strong. Let us return to the gondola.”

“In a moment.”

“I fear, Lord . . . they may be too strong — at this point.”

“What do you suggest?”

“They cannot sail up the river. If they would attack Lananda they must go overland.”

“True. Unless he has sufficient sky vessels.”

“And if they would attack Khaipur they must go even farther.”

“Aye! And if they would attack Kilbar they must go farther yet! Get to your point! What are you trying to say?”

“The farther they go, the greater their logistic problems, the more vulnerable they become to guerrilla tactics along the way —”

“Are you proposing I do nothing but harass them? That I let them march across the land, taking city after city? They will dig in until reinforcements come to hold what they have gained, then they will move on. Only a fool would do otherwise. If we wait—”

“Look down below!”

“What? What is it?”

“They are preparing to move out.”

“Impossible!”

“Brahma, you forget that Nirriti is a fanatic, a madman. He doesn’t want Mahartha, or Lananda or Khaipur either. He wants to destroy our Temples and ourselves. The only other things he cares about in those cities are souls, not bodies. He will move across the land destroying every symbol of our religion that he comes upon, until we choose to carry the fight to him. If we do nothing, he will probably then send in missionaries.”

“Well, we must do something!”

“Then weaken him as he moves. When he is weak enough, strike! Give him Lananda. Khaipur, too, if necessary. Even Kilbar and Hamsa. When he is weak enough, smash him. We can spare the cities. How many have we destroyed ourselves? You cannot even remember!”

“Thirty-six,” said Brahma. “Let us return to Heaven while I consider this thing. If I follow your advice and he withdraws before he becomes too weakened, then we have lost much.”

“I’m willing to gamble that he won’t.”

“The dice are not yours to cast, Ganesha, but mine. And see, he has those cursed Rakasha with him! Let us depart quickly, before they detect us.”

“Yes, quickly!”

They turned their slizzards back toward the forest.

Krishna put aside his pipes when the messenger was brought to him.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Mahartha has fallen . . .”

Krishna stood.

“And Nirriti prepares to march upon Lananda.”

“What have the gods done in defense?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“Come with me. The Lokapalas are about to confer.”

Krishna left his pipes upon the table.

That night, Sam stood upon the highest balcony of Ratri’s palace. The rains fell about him, coming like cold nails through the wind. Upon his left hand, an iron ring glowed with an emerald radiance.

The lightning fell and fell and fell, and remained.

He raised his hand and the thunders roared and roared, like the death cries of all the dragons who might ever have lived, sometime, somewhere. . . .

The night fell back as the fire elementals stood before the Palace of Kama.

Sam raised both hands together, and they climbed into the air as one and hovered high in the night.

He gestured and they moved above Khaipur, passing from one end of the city to the other.

Then they circled.

Then they split apart and danced within the storm.

He lowered his hands.

They returned and stood once more before him.

He did not move. He waited.

After a hundred heartbeats, it came and spoke to him out of the night:

“Who are you, to command the slaves of the Rakasha?”

“Bring me Taraka,” said Sam.

“I take orders from no mortal.”

“Then look upon the flames of my true being, ere I bind you to yon metal flagpole for so long as it shall stand.”

“Binder! You live!”

“Bring me Taraka,” he repeated.

“Yes, Siddhartha. Thy will be done.”

Sam clapped his hands and the elementals leapt skyward and the night was dark about him once more.

The Lord of Hellwell took upon him a manlike form and entered the room where Sam sat alone.

“The last ever I saw of you was upon the day of the Great Battle,” he stated. “Later, I heard that they had found a way of destroying you.”

“As you can see, they did not.”

“How came you into the world again?”

“Lord Yama fetched me back — the One in Red.”

“His power is indeed great.”

“It proved sufficient. How go things with the Rakasha these days?”

“Well. We continue your fight.”

“Really? In what ways?”

“We aid your old ally — the Black One, Lord Nirriti — in his campaign against the gods.”

“I suspected this. It is the reason I have contacted you.”

“You wish to ride with him?”

“I have thought it over carefully, and despite my comrades’ objections I do wish to ride with him — provided he will make an agreement with us. I want you to carry my message to him.”

“What is the message, Siddhartha?”

“The message is that the Lokapalas — these being Yama, Krishna, Kubera and myself — will ride to battle with him against the gods, bringing all our supporters, powers, and machineries to bear upon them, if he will agree not to war against the followers of either Buddhism or Hinduism as they exist in the world, for purposes of converting them to his persuasion — and further, that he will not seek to suppress Accelerationism, as the gods have done, should we prove victorious. Look upon his flames as he speaks his answer, and tell me whether he speaks it true.”

“Do you think he will agree to this, Sam?”

“I do. He knows that, if the gods were no longer present to enforce Hinduism as they do, then he would gain converts. He can see this from what I managed to do with Buddhism, despite their opposition. He feels that his way is the only right way and that it is destined to prevail in the face of competition. I think he would agree to fair competition for this reason. Take him this message and bring me his answer. All right?”

Taraka wavered. His face and left arm became smoke.

“Sam . . .”

“What?”

“Which one is the right way?”

“Huh? You’re asking me that? How should I know?”

“Mortals call you Buddha.”

“That is only because they are afflicted with language and ignorance.”

“No. I have looked upon your flames and name you Lord of Light. You bind them as you bound us, you loose them as you loosed us. Yours was the power to lay a belief upon them. You are what you claimed to be.”

“I lied. I never believed in it myself, and I still don’t. I could just as easily have chosen another way — say, Nirriti’s religion — only crucifixion hurts. I might have chosen one called Islam, only I know too well how it mixes with Hinduism. My choice was based upon calculation, not inspiration, and I am nothing.”

“You are the Lord of Light.”

“Go deliver my message now. We can discuss religion another day.”

“The Lokapalas, you say, are Yama, Krishna, Kubera and yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Then he does live. Tell me, Sam, before I go . . . could you defeat Lord Yama in battle?”

“I do not know. I don’t think so, though. I don’t think anybody could.”

“But could he defeat you?”

“Probably, in a fair fight. Whenever we met as enemies in the past, I was sometimes lucky and sometimes I managed to trick him. I’ve fenced with him recently and he is without peer. He is too versatile in the ways of destruction.”

“I see,” said Taraka, his right arm and half his chest drifting away. “Then good night upon you, Siddhartha. I take your message with me.”

“Thank you, and good night upon yourself.”

Taraka became all smoke and fled forth into the storm.

High above the world, spinning: Taraka. The storm raged about him, but he took scant notice of its fury.

The thunders fell and the rain came down and the Bridge of the Gods was invisible. But none of these things bothered him. For he was Taraka of the Rakasha, Lord of Hellwell. . .

And he had been the mightiest creature in the world, save for the Binder.

Now the Binder had told him that there was One Greater. . . and they were to fight together, as before.

How insolently he had stood in his Red and his Power! That day. Over half a century ago. By the Vedra.

To destroy Yama-Dharma, to defeat Death, would prove Taraka supreme. . . .

To prove Taraka supreme was more important than defeating the gods, who must one day pass, anyhow, for they were not of the Rakasha.

Therefore, the Binder’s message to Nirriti — to which he had said Nirriti would agree — would be spoken only to the storm, and Taraka would look upon its flames and know that it spoke true.

For the storm never lies . . . and it always says No!

The dark sergeant brought him into camp. He had been resplendent in his armor, with its bright trappings, and he had not been captured; he had walked up to him and stated that he had a message for Nirriti. For this reason, the sergeant decided against slaying him immediately. He took his weapons, conducted him into the camp — there in the wood near Lananda — and left him under guard while he consulted his leader.

Nirriti and Olvegg sat within a black tent. A map of Lananda was spread before them.

When they permitted him to bring the prisoner into the tent, Nirriti regarded him and dismissed the sergeant.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Ganesha of the City. The same who aided you in your flight from Heaven.”

Nirriti appeared to consider this.

“Well do I remember my one friend from the old days,” he said. “Why have you come to me?”

“Because the time is propitious to do so. You have finally undertaken the great crusade.”

“Yes.”

“I would hold privy counsel with you concerning it.”

“Speak then.”

“What of this fellow?”

“To speak before Jan Olvegg is to speak before me. Say what is on your mind.”

“Olvegg?”

“Yes.”

“Just so. I have come to tell you that the Gods of the City are weak. Too weak, I feel, to defeat you.”

“I had felt this to be true.”

“But they are not so weak as to be unable to hurt you immensely when they do move. Things might hang in the balance if they muster all their forces at the proper moment.”

“I came to battle with this in mind, also.”

“Better your victory be less costly. You know I am a Christian sympathizer.”

“What is it you have in mind?”

“I volunteered to lead some guerrilla fighting solely to tell you that Lananda is yours. They will not defend it. If you continue to move as you have — not consolidating your gains — and you move upon Khaipur, Brahma will not defend it either. But when you come to Kilbar, your forces weakened from the battles for the first three cities and from these, our raids along the way, then will Brahma strike with the full might of Heaven, that you may go down to defeat before the walls of Kilbar. All the powers of the Celestial City have been readied. They wait for you to dare the gates of the fourth city of the river.”

“I see. That is good to know. Then they do fear that which I bear.”

“Of course. Will you bear it as far as Kilbar?”

“Yes. And I will win in Kilbar, also. I shall send for my mightiest weapons before we attack that city. The powers which I have held back to use upon the Celestial City itself will be unleashed upon my enemies when they come to the defense of doomed Kilbar.”

“They, too, will bring mighty weapons.”

“Then, when we meet, the outcome will lie neither in their hands nor in my hands, really.”

“There is a way to tip the balance even further, Renfrew.”

“Oh? What else have you in mind?”

“Many of the demigods are dissatisfied with the situation in the City. They had wanted a prolonged campaign against Accelerationism and against the followers of Tathagatha. They were disappointed when this did not follow Keenset. Also, Lord Indra has been recalled from the eastern continent, where he was carrying the war against the witches. Indra could be made to appreciate the sentiments of the demigods — and his followers will come hot from another battlefield.”

Ganesha adjusted his cloak.

“Speak on,” said Nirriti.

“When they come to Kilbar,” said Ganesha, “it may be that they will not fight in its defense.”

“I see. What will you gain from all this, Ganesha?”

“Satisfaction.”

“Nothing more?”

“I would that you recall one day that I made this visit.”

“So be it. I shall not forget, and you shall have reward of me afterward. . . . Guard!”

The tent flap was opened, and the one who had brought Ganesha re-entered the tent.

“Escort this man wherever he wants to be taken, and release him unharmed,” Nirriti ordered.

“You would trust this one?” asked Olvegg, after he had gone.

“Yes,” said Nirriti, “but I would give him his silver afterward.”

The Lokapalas sat to counsel within Sam’s chamber at the Palace of Kama in Khaipur. Also present were Tak and Ratri.

“Taraka tells me that Nirriti will not have us on our terms,” said Sam.

“Good,” said Yama. “I half feared he would agree.”

“And in the morning they attack Lananda. Taraka feels they will take the city. It will be a little more difficult than Mahartha was, but he is certain they will win. I am too.”

“And I.”

“And I.”

“Then he will move on to this city, Khaipur. Then Kilbar, then Hamsa, then Gayatri. Somewhere along this route, he knows the gods will move against him.”

“Of course.”

“So we are in the middle and we have several choices before us. We could not make a deal with Nirriti. Do you think we could make one with Heaven?”

“No!” said Yama, slamming his fist upon the table. “Which side are you on, Sam?”

“Acceleration,” he replied. “If it can be procured through negotiation, rather than unnecessary bloodshed, so much the better.”

“I’d rather deal with Nirriti than Heaven!”

“So let us vote upon it as we did upon making the contact with Nirriti.”

“And you require only one assent to win.”

“Those were my terms upon entering the Lokapalas. You asked me to lead you, so I require the power to break a tie. Let me explain my reasoning, though, before we talk of a vote.”

“Very well — talk!”

“Heaven has, in recent years, developed a more liberal attitude toward Acceleration, as I understand it. There has been no official change of position, but no steps have been taken against Acceleration either — presumably because of the beating they took at Keenset. Am I not correct?”

“Essentially,” said Kubera.

“It seems that they have decided such actions would be too costly every time Science rears its ugly head. There were people, humans, fighting against them in that battle. Against Heaven. And people, unlike our selves, have families, have ties which weaken them — and they are bound to keep a clean karmic record if they desire rebirth. Still, they fought. Accordingly, Heaven has been moved to greater lenience in recent years. Since this is the situation as it actually exists, they have nothing to lose by acknowledging it. In fact, they could make it show to their favor, as a benign gesture of divine graciousness. I think that they would be willing to make the concessions Nirriti would not—”

“I want to see Heaven fall,” said Yama.

“Of course. So do I. But think carefully. Just with what you’ve given to humans over the past half century — can Heaven hold this world in fief much longer? Heaven fell that day at Keenset. Another generation, perhaps two, and its power over mortals will have passed. In this battle with Nirriti they will be hurt further, even in victory. Give them a few more years of decadent glory. They become more and more impotent with every season. They have reached their peak. Their decline has set in.”

Yama lit a cigarette.

“Is it that you want someone to kill Brahma for you?” asked Sam.

Yama sat silently, drew upon the cigarette, exhaled. Then, “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps that is it. I do not know. I don’t like to think about it. It is probably true, though.”

“Would you like my guarantee that Brahma will die?”

“No! If you try it, I’ll kill you!”

“You feel that you do not really know whether you want Brahma dead or alive. Perhaps it is that you love and hate simultaneously. You were old before you were young, Yama, and she was the only thing you ever cared for. Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I have no answer for you, for your own troubles, but you must separate yourself this much from the problem at hand.”

“All right, Siddhartha. I vote to stop Nirriti here at Khaipur, if Heaven will back us.”

“Does anybody have any objections to this?”

There was silence.

“Then let us journey to the Temple and commandeer its communications unit.”

Yama put out his cigarette.

“But I will not speak with Brahma,” he said.

“I’ll do the talking,” said Sam.

Ili, the fifth note of the harp, buzzed within the Garden of the Purple Lotus.

When Brahma activated the screen within his Pavilion, he saw a man who wore the blue-green turban of Urath.

“Where is the priest?” asked Brahma.

“Tied up outside. I can have him dragged in, if you’d like to hear a prayer or two. . .”

“Who are you that wears the turban of the First and goes armed in the Temple?”

“I have a strange feeling of having been through all this once before,” said the man.

“Answer my questions!”

“Do you want Nirriti stopped. Lady? Or do you want to give him all these cities along the river?”

“You try the patience of Heaven, mortal? You shall not leave the Temple alive.”

“Your threats of death mean nothing to the chief of the Lokapalas, Kali.”

“The Lokapalas are no more, and they had no chief.”

“You look upon him, Durga.”

“Yama? Is that you?”

“No, but he is here with me — as are Krishna, and Kubera.”

“Agni is dead. Every new Agni has died since. . .”

“Keenset. I know, Candi. I was not a member of the original team. Rild didn’t kill me. The phantom cat who shall remain nameless did a good job, but it wasn’t good enough. And now I’ve crossed back over the Bridge of the Gods. The Lokapalas have chosen me as their leader. We will defend Khaipur and break Nirriti, if Heaven will help us.”

“Sam . . . it couldn’t be you!”

“Then call me Kalkin, or Siddhartha, or Tathagatha, or Mahasamatman, or Binder, or Buddha, or Maitreya. It’s Sam, though. I have come to worship thee and make a bargain.”

“Name it.”

“Men have been able to live with Heaven, but Nirriti is another matter. Yama and Kubera have brought weapons into the city. We can fortify it and whip up a good defense. If Heaven will add its power to our own, Nirriti will meet his downfall at Khaipur. We will do this, if Heaven will sanction Acceleration and religious freedom, and end the reign of the Lords of Karma.”

“That’s quite a bit, Sam . . .”

“The first two merely amount to agreeing that something does exist and has a right to go on. The third will come to pass whether you like it or not, so I’m giving you a chance to be graceful about it.”

“I’ll have to think . . .”

“Take a minute. I’ll wait. If the answer is no, though, we’ll pull out and let Renfrew have this city, defile this Temple. After he’s taken a few more, you’ll have to meet him. We won’t be around then, though. We’ll wait till it’s all over. If you’re still in business then, you won’t be in any position to decide about those terms I just gave you. If you’re not, I think we’ll be able to take the Black One on and best him and what will be left of his zombies. Either way, we get what we want. This way is easier on you, though.”

“All right! I’ll muster the forces immediately. We will ride together in this last battle, Kalkin. Nirriti dies at Khaipur! Keep someone there in the comm-room, so we can stay in contact.”

“I’ll make this my headquarters.”

“Now untie the priest and bring him here. He is about to receive some divine orders, and, shortly, a divine visitation.”

“Yes, Brahma.”

“Sam, wait! After the battle, should we live, I would talk with you — concerning mutual worship.”

“You wish to become a Buddhist?”

“No, a woman again . . .”

“There is a place and a moment for all things, and this is neither.”

“When the time and the moment occur, I will be there.”

“I’ll get you your priest now. Hold the line.”

Now after the fall of Lananda, Nirriti held a service amid the ruins of that city, praying for victory over the other cities. His dark sergeants beat the drums slowly and the zombies fell to their knees. Nirriti prayed until the perspiration covered his face like a mask of glass and light, and it ran down inside his prosthetic armor, which gave him the strength of many. Then he lifted up his face to the heavens, looked upon the Bridge of the Gods and said, “Amen.”

Then he turned and headed toward Khaipur, his army rising at his back.

When Nirriti came to Khaipur, the gods were waiting.

The troops from Kilbar were waiting, as well as those of Khaipur.

And the demigods and the heroes and the nobles were waiting.

And the high-ranking Brahmins and many of the followers of Mahasamatman were waiting. These latter having come in the name of the Divine Esthetic.

Nirriti looked across the mined field that led to the walls of the city, and he saw the four horsemen who were the Lokapalas waiting by the gate, the banners of Heaven flaring beside them in the wind.

He lowered his visor and turned to Olvegg.

“You were right. I wonder if Ganesha waits within?”

“We will know soon enough.”

Nirriti continued his advance.

This was the day when the Lord of Light held the field. The minions of Nirriti never entered Khaipur. Ganesha fell beneath the blade of Olvegg, as he was attempting to backstab Brahma, who had closed with Nirriti upon a hillock. Olvegg then fell, clutching his stomach, and began crawling toward a rock.

Brahma and the Black One then faced one another on foot and Ganesha’s head rolled into a gully.

“That one told me Kilbar,” said Nirriti.

“That one wanted Kilbar,” said Brahma, “and tried to make it Kilbar. Now I know why.”

They sprang together and Nirriti’s armor fought for him with the strength of many.

Yama spurred his horse toward the rise and was enveloped in a swirling of dust and sand. He raised his cloak to his eyes and laughter rang about him.

“Where is your death-gaze now, Yama-Dharma?”

“Rakasha!” he snarled.

“Yes. It is I, Taraka!”

And Yama was suddenly drenched with gallons of water; and his horse reared, falling over backward.

He was upon his feet with his blade in his hand, when the flaming whirlwind coalesced into a manlike form.

“I’ve washed you clean of that-which-repels, deathgod. Now you shall go down to destruction at my band!”

Yama lunged forward with his blade.

He cut through his gray opponent from shoulder to thigh, but no blood came and there was no sign of the passage of his blade.

“You cannot cut me down as you would a man, oh Death! But see what I can do to you!”

Taraka leapt upon him, pinning his arms to his sides and bearing him to the ground. A fountain of sparks arose.

In the distance, Brahma had his knee upon Nirriti’s spine and was bending his head backward, against the power of the black armor. This was when Lord Indra leapt down from the back of his slizzard and raised his sword Thunderbolt against Brahma. He heard Nirriti’s neck break.

“It is your cloak that protects you!” Taraka cried out, from where he wrestled on the ground; and then he looked into the eyes of Death. . . .

Yama felt Taraka weaken sufficiently to push him away.

He sprang to his feet and raced toward Brahma without stopping to pick up his blade. There on the hill, Brahma parried Thunderbolt again and again, blood spurting from the stump of his severed left arm and streaming from wounds of the head and chest. Nirriti held his ankle in a grip of steel.

Yama cried out as he charged, drawing his dagger.

Indra drew back, out of range of Brahma’s blade, and turned to face him.

“A dagger against Thunderbolt, Red One?” he asked.

“Aye,” said Yama, striking with his right hand and dropping the blade into his left for the true strike.

The point entered Indra’s forearm.

Indra dropped Thunderbolt and struck Yama in the jaw. Yama fell, but he swept Indra’s legs out from under him, carrying him to the ground.

His Aspect possessed him completely then, and as he glared Indra seemed to wither beneath his gaze. Taraka leapt upon his back just as Indra died. Yama tried to free himself, but it felt as if a mountain lay across his shoulders.

Brahma, who lay beside Nirriti, tore off his harness, which had been soaked with demon repellant. With his right hand he cast it across the space that separated them, so that it fell beside Yama.

Taraka withdrew, and Yama turned and gazed upon him. Thunderbolt then leapt up from where it had fallen upon the ground and sped toward Yama’s breast.

Yama seized the blade with both hands, its point inches away from his heart. It began to move forward and the blood dripped from the palms of his hands and fell upon the ground.

Brahma turned a death-gaze upon the Lord of Hellwell, a gaze that drew now upon the force of life itself within him.

The point touched Yama.

Yama threw himself to the side, turning, and it gouged him from breastbone to shoulder as it passed.

Then his eyes were two spears, and the Rakasha lost his manlike form and became smoke. Brahma’s head fell upon his breast.

Taraka screamed as Siddhartha rode toward him upon a white horse, the air crackling and smelling of ozone:

“No, Binder! Hold your power! My death belongs to Yama . . .”

“Oh foolish demon!” said Sam. “It need not have been . . .”

But Taraka was no more.

Yama fell to his knees beside Brahma and tied a tourniquet about what remained of his left arm.

“Kali!” he said. “Don’t die! Talk to me. Kali!”

Brahma gasped and his eyes flickered open, but closed again.

“Too late,” mumbled Nirriti. He turned his head and looked at Yama. “Or rather, just in time. You’re Azrael, aren’t you? The Angel of Death . . .”

Yama slapped him, and the blood upon his hand was smeared across Nirriti’s face.

“‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven,’” said Nirriti. “‘Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.’”

Yama slapped him again.

“‘Blessed are they which do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled. Blessed are the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God. . . .’”

“‘And blessed are the peacemakers,’” said Yama, “‘for they shall be called the children of God.’ How do you fit into the picture. Black One? Whose child are you, to have wrought as you have done?”

Nirriti smiled and said, “‘Blessed are they who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’”

“You are mad,” said Yama, “and I will not take your life for that reason. Give it away yourself, when you are ready, which should be soon.”

He lifted Brahma then in his arms and began walking back toward the city.

“‘Blessed are ye, when men shall revile you,’” said Nirriti, “‘and persecute you, and say all manner of evil things against you falsely, for my sake. . . .’”

“Water?” asked Sam, unstoppering his canteen and raising Nirriti’s head.

Nirriti looked at him, licked his lips, nodded slightly. He trickled the water into his mouth.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Sam.”

“You? You rose again?”

“It doesn’t count,” said Sam. “I didn’t do it the hard way.”

Tears filled the Black One’s eyes. “It means you’ll win, though,” he gasped. “I can’t understand why He permitted it . . .”

“This is only one world, Renfrew. Who knows what goes on elsewhere? And that isn’t really the fight I wanted to win, anyhow. You know that. I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry about the whole thing. I agree with everything you said to Yama, and so do the followers of the one they called the Buddha. I don’t recall any longer whether I was really that one, or whether it was another. But I am gone away from that one now. I shall return to being a man, and I shall let the people keep the Buddha who is in their hearts. Whatever the source, the message was pure, believe me. That is the only reason it took root and grew.”

Renfrew swallowed another drink.

“‘Even so every good tree bringeth forth good fruit,’” he said. “It was a will greater than mine that determined I die in the arms of the Buddha, that decided upon this Way for this world. . . . Give me your blessing, oh Gautama. I die now. . .”

Sam bowed his head.

“‘The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north. It whirleth about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits. All the rivers run into the sea, yet the sea is not full. Unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again. The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be, and that which is done is that which shall be done. There is no remembrance of former things, neither shall there be any remembrance of things that are to come with those that shall come after. . . .’”

Then he covered the Black One with his cloak of white, for he had died.

Jan Olvegg was born in a litter into the town. Sam sent for Kubera and for Narada to meet him at the Hall of Karma, for it was apparent Olvegg would not be long alive in his present body.

When they entered the Hall, Kubera stumbled over the dead man who lay within the archway.

“Who . . .?” he asked.

“A Master.”

Three more wearers of the yellow wheel lay within the corridor that led to their transfer rooms. All of them bore arms.

They found another near the machinery. The thrust of a blade had caught him precisely in the center of his yellow circle, and he looked like a well-used target. His mouth was still opened for the scream he’d never screamed.

“Could the townsmen have done this?” asked Narada. “The Masters have grown more unpopular in recent years. Perhap they took advantage of the battle frenzy. . .”

“No,” said Kubera, as he raised the stained sheet that covered the body upon the operating table, looked beneath it, lowered it. “No, it wasn’t the townsmen.”

“Who, then?”

He glanced back at the table.

“That’s Brahma,” he said.

“Oh.”

“Someone must have told Yama he couldn’t use the machinery to try a transfer.”

“Then where’s Yama?”

“I have no idea. But we’d better work fast if we’re going to manage Olvegg.”

“Yes. Move!”

The tall youth strode into the Palace of Kama and asked after Lord Kubera. He bore a long, gleaming spear across his shoulder, and he paced without pause as he waited.

Kubera entered the chamber, glanced at the spear, at the youth, said one word.

“Yes, it is Tak,” replied the spearman. “New spear, new Tak. No need to remain an ape any longer, so I didn’t. The time of departure is near, so I came to say good-bye — to you and to Ratri. . .”

“Where will you go, Tak?”

“Td like to see the rest of the world, Kubera, before you manage to mechanize all the magic out of it.”

“That day is nowhere near at hand, Tak. Let me persuade you to stay a while longer. . .”

“No, Kubera. Thank you, but Captain Olvegg is anxious to get along. He and I are moving out together.”

“Where will you be going?”

“East, west. . . who knows? Whatever quarter beckons. . . . Tell me, Kubera, who owns the thunder chariot now?”

“It belonged to Shiva originally, of course. But there no longer is a Shiva. Brahma used it for a long while.”

“But there no longer is a Brahma. Heaven is without one for the first time — as Vishnu rules, preserving. So . . .”

“Yama built it. If it belongs to anyone, it belongs to him . . .”

“And he has no use for it,” finished Tak. “So I think Olvegg and I will borrow it for our journeying.”

“What mean you he has no use for it? No one has seen him these three days since the battle—”

“Hello, Ratri,” said Tak, and the goddess of Night entered the room. “‘Guard us from the she-wolf and the wolf, and guard us from the thief, oh Night, and so be good for us to pass.’”

He bowed and she touched his head.

Then he looked up into her face, and for one splendid moment the goddess filled wide space, to its depths and its heights. Her radiance drove out the dark. . . .

“I must go now,” he said. “Thank you, thank you — for your blessing.”

He turned quickly and started from the chamber. “Wait!” said Kubera. “You spoke of Yama. Where is he?”

“Seek him at the Inn of the Three-Headed Fire-Hen,” Tak said, over his shoulder, “if you must seek him, that is. Perhaps ‘twere better you wait till he seeks you, though.”

Then Tak was gone.

As Sam approached the Palace of Kama, he saw Tak hurrying down the stair.

“Tak, a good morning to you!” he called, but Tak did not answer until he was almost upon him. Then he halted abruptly and shielded his eyes, as against the sun.

“Sir! Good morning.”

“Where hurry you, Tak? Fresh from trying out your new body and off to lunch?”

Tak chuckled. “Aye, Lord Siddhartha. I’ve an appointment with adventure.”

“So I’ve heard. I spoke with Olvegg last night. . . . Fare thee well upon thy journeying.”

“I wanted to tell you,” said Tak, “that I knew you’d win. I knew you’d find the answer.”

“It wasn’t the answer, but it was an answer, and it wasn’t much, Tak. It was just a small battle. They could have done as well without me.”

“I mean,” said Tak, “everything. You figured in everything that led up to it. You had to be there.”

“I suppose I did . . . yes, I do suppose I did. . . . Something always manages to draw me near the tree that lightning is about to fall upon.”

“Destiny, sir.”

“Rather an accidental social conscience and some right mistake-making, I fear.”

“What will you do now. Lord?”

“I don’t know, Tak. I haven’t decided yet.”

“Come with Olvegg and me? Ride with us about the world? Adventure with us?”

“Thank you, no. I’m tired. Maybe I’ll ask for your old job and become Sam of the Archives.”

Tak chuckled once more.

“I doubt it. I’ll see you again. Lord. Good-bye now.”

“Good-bye. . . . There is something . . .”

“What?”

“Nothing. For a moment, something you did reminded me of someone I once knew. It was nothing. Good luck!”

He clasped him on the shoulder and walked by. Tak hurried on.

The innkeeper told Kubera that they did have a guest who fit that description, second floor, rear room, but that perhaps he should not be disturbed.

Kubera climbed to the second floor.

No one answered his knocking, so he tried the door.

It was bolted within, so he pounded upon it.

Finally, he heard Yama’s voice:

“Who is it?”

“Kubera.”

“Go away, Kubera.”

“No. Open up, or I’ll wait here till you do.”

“Bide a moment, then.”

After a time, he heard a bar lifted and the door swung several inches inward.

“No liquor on your breath, so I’d say it’s a wench,” he stated.

“No,” said Yama, looking out at him. “What do you want?”

“To find out what’s wrong. To help you, if I can.”

“You can’t, Kubera.”

“How do you know? I, too, am an artificer — of a different sort, of course.”

Yama appeared to consider this, then he opened the door and stepped aside. “Come in,” he said.

The girl sat on the floor, a heap of various objects before her. She was scarcely more than a child, and she hugged a brown and white puppy and looked at Kubera with wide, frightened eyes, until he gestured and she smiled.

“Kubera,” said Yama.

“Koo-bra,” said the girl.

“She is my daughter,” said Yama. “Her name is Murga.”

“I never knew you had a daughter.”

“She is retarded. She suffered some brain damage.”

“Congenital, or transfer effect?” asked Kubera.

“Transfer effect.”

“I see.”

“She is my daughter,” repeated Yama, “Murga.”

“Yes,” said Kubera.

Yama dropped to his knees at her side and picked up a block.

“Block,” he said.

“Block,” said the girl.

He held up a spoon. “Spoon,” he said.

“Spoon,” said the girl.

He picked up a ball and held it before her. “Ball,” he said.

“Ball,” said the girl.

He picked up the block and held it before her again. “Ball,” she repeated.

Yama dropped it.

“Help me, Kubera,” he said.

“I will, Yama. If there is a way, we will find it.”

He sat down beside him and raised his hands. The spoon came alive with spoon-ness and the ball with ball-ness and the block with block-ness, and the girl laughed. Even the puppy seemed to study the objects.

“The Lokapalas are never defeated,” said Kubera, and the girl picked up the block and stared at it for a long time before she named it.

Now it is known that Lord Varuna returned to the Celestial City after Khaipur. The promotion system within the ranks of Heaven began to break down at about this same time. The Lords of Karma were replaced by the Wardens of Transfer, and their function was divorced from the Temples. The bicycle was rediscovered. Seven Buddhist shrines were erected. Nirriti’s Palace was made into an art gallery and Kama Pavilion. The Festival of Alundil continued to be held every year, and its dancers were without equal. The purple grove still stands, tended by the faithful.

Kubera remained with Ratri in Khaipur. Tak departed with Olvegg in the thunder chariot, for an unknown destination. Vishnu ruled in Heaven.

Those who prayed to the seven Rishi thanked them for the bicycle and for the timely avatar of the Buddha, whom they named Maitreya, meaning Lord of Light, either because he could wield lightnings or because he refrained from doing so. Others continued to call him Mahasamatman and said he was a god. He still preferred to drop the Maha- and the — atman, however, and continued to call himself Sam. He never claimed to be a god. But then, of course, he never claimed not to be a god. Circumstances being what they were, neither admission could be of any benefit. Also, he did not remain with his people for a sufficient period of time to warrant much theological by-play. Several conflicting stories are told concerning the days of his passing.

The one thing that is common to all the legends is that a large red bird with a tail thrice the length of its body came to him one day at dusk as he rode upon his horse beside the river.

He departed Khaipur before sunrise the following day and was not seen again.

Now some say the occurrence of the bird was coincidental with his departure, but in no way connected with it. He departed to seek anonymous peace of a saffron robe because he had finished the task for which he had returned, they say, and he was already tired of the noise and fame of his victory. Perhaps the bird reminded him how quickly such brightness passes. Or perhaps it did not, if he had already made up his mind.

Others say that he did not take up the robe again, but that the bird was a messenger of the Powers Beyond Life, summoning him back again to the peace of Nirvana, to know forever the Great Rest, the perpetual bliss, and to hear the songs the stars sing upon the shores of the great sea. They say he has crossed beyond the Bridge of the Gods. They say he will not return.

Others say that he took upon him a new identity, and that he walks among mankind still, to guard and guide in the days of strife, to prevent the exploitation of the lower classes by those who come into power.

Still others say that the bird was a messenger, not of the next world, but of this one, and that the message it bore was not meant for him, but for the wielder of Thunderbolt, Lord Indra, who had looked into the eyes of Death. Such a bird as the red one had never been seen before, though their kind is now known to exist upon the eastern continent, where Indra had held battle against the witches. If the bird bore something like intelligence within its flaming head, it might have carried the message of some need in that far-off land. It must be remembered that the Lady Parvati, who had been either his wife, his mother, his sister, his daughter, or perhaps all of these to Sam, had fled to that place at the time the phantom cats looked upon Heaven, to dwell there with the witches, whom she counted as kin. If the bird bore such a message, the tellers of this tale do not doubt but that he departed immediately for the eastern continent, to effect her delivery from whatever peril was present.

These are the four versions of Sam and the Red Bird Which Signalled His Departure, as told variously by the moralists, the mystics, the social reformers, and the romantics. One may, I daresay, select whichever version suits his fancy. He should, however, remember that such birds definitely are not found upon the western continent, but seem to be quite prolific in the east.

Approximately a half year later, Yama-Dharma departed Khaipur. Nothing specific is known of the days of the deathgod’s going, which most people consider ample information. He left his daughter Murga in the care of Ratri and Kubera and she grew into a strikingly beautiful woman. He may have ridden into the east, possibly even crossing over the sea. For there is a legend in another place of how One in Red went up against the power of the Seven Lords of Komlat in the land of the witches. Of this, we cannot be certain, any more than we can know the real end of the Lord of Light.

But look around you . . .

Death and Light are everywhere, always, and they begin, end, strive, attend, into and upon the Dream of the Nameless that is the world, burning words within Samsara, perhaps to create a thing of beauty.

As the wearers of the saffron robe still meditate upon the Way of Light, and the girl who is named Murga visits the Temple daily, to place before her dark one in his shrine the only devotion he receives, of flowers.