‘The lioness will be dead soon,’ said Sati.

‘But the liger will come back,’ said Kaavas. ‘Angrier than ever. We better leave tomorrow with the villagers.’

Sati nodded.

The sun had just broken through the night.

‘You must leave. You have no choice,’ said Sati. She couldn’t believe she had to argue with the villagers about what was blatantly obvious.

It was the beginning of the second prahar. They were standing next to the pyre consuming Suryaksh’s body. Sadly, there was nobody to say prayers for his brave soul.

‘They will not come back,’ said one villager. ‘What the Headman says is right. The lions will not come back.’

‘What nonsense!’ argued Sati. ‘The liger has marked his territory. You either kill him or leave this place. There is no third option. He cannot let you have a free run in this land. He will lose control over his pride.’

A village woman stepped up to argue. ‘The spirits have been partially appeased by the blood of Suryaksh. At the most we will have to make one more sacrifice and they will leave.’

‘One more sacrifice?’ asked a flabbergasted Sati.

‘Yes,’ said the headman. ‘The village cleaner is willing to sacrifice himself and his family for the good of the rest of the village.’

Sati turned to see a thin, wiry little man, who also had the onerous task of collecting firewood and cremating the dead over the last few days. Behind him stood his equally puny wife, with a look of utter determination on her face. Holding onto her dhoti were two little children, no older than two or three, wearing nothing but torn loincloths, unaware of the fate chosen for them by their parents.

Sati turned towards the Headman, fists clenched. ‘You are sacrificing this poor man and his family because he is the most powerless! This is wrong!’

‘No, My Lady,’ said the cleaner. ‘This is my choice. My fate. I have been born low in this birth because of my past life karma. My family and I will sacrifice ourselves willingly for the good of the village. The Almighty will see our good deed and bless us in our next birth.’

‘I admire your bravery,’ said Sati. ‘But this will not stop the lions. They will not stop till all of you are either driven out or killed.’

‘Our blood will satisfy them, My Lady. The headman has told me so. I am sure of this.’

Sati stared hard at the cleaner. Blind superstition can never be won over by logic. She looked down at his children. They were poking each other and laughing uproariously. They suddenly stopped and looked up at her. Surprised. Wondering why this foreign woman was staring at them.

I can’t let this happen.

‘I will stay here. I will stay till every lion has been killed. But you will not sacrifice yourself. Or your family. Is that clear?’

The cleaner stared at Sati, confused at what to him seemed a strange suggestion. Sati turned towards Kaavas. He immediately started leading the soldiers back to the school. Some of them were arguing, clearly unhappy at this turn of events.

The spies of Parshuram, high in the trees, were watching attentively. Shiva and Bhagirath were on the deck. They appeared to be arguing. Three cutters, lowered from the ship onto the Madhumati, were bobbing gently.

Finally, Shiva made an angry gesture and started climbing down onto his cutter, which had Drapaku, Nandi, Veerbhadra and thirty soldiers. He looked at two more cutters behind them, full of soldiers. Shiva gave a signal and they started rowing towards the bank.

The ship on the other hand appeared to be preparing to pull anchor.

One spy looked at the other with a smile. ‘A hundred soldiers. Let’s go tell Lord Parshuram.’

The rich waters of the Madhumati and the fertile soil of Branga had conspired to grow a jungle of ferocious density. Shiva looked up at the sky. A little bit of sunshine pierced through the dense foliage. The direction of the rays told Shiva that the sun had already begun its downward journey.

His platoon had hacked through the almost impenetrable forest for a good eight hours, tracking the movements of the brigand. Shiva had broken for lunch two hours earlier. Though physically satiated, his soldiers were getting restless, waiting for action. Parshuram seemed to be avoiding battle even here.

Suddenly Shiva raised his hand. The platoon halted. Drapaku slipped up to Shiva and whispered, ‘What is it, My Lord?’

Shiva pointed with his eyes and whispered, ‘This territory has been marked.’

Drapaku stared, confused.

‘See the cut on this bush,’ said Shiva.

Drapaku stared harder. ‘They have passed through here. This route has been hacked.’

‘No,’ said Shiva, looking ahead, ‘This hasn’t been hacked to walk through. It has been cut from the right side to make us think they have walked through here. There is a trap straight ahead.’

‘Are you sure, My Lord?’ asked Drapaku, noticing Shiva reach slowly for his bow.

Shiva suddenly turned around, pulling an arrow simultaneously and loading it onto his bow. He fired it immediately onto the top of one of the trees. There was a loud noise as an injured man came crashing down.

‘This way!’ said Shiva, running hard to the right.

The soldiers followed, desperately keeping pace with their charging Lord. They ran hard for what must have been a few minutes. Shiva suddenly emerged onto a beach. And stopped dead.

Standing in front, at a distance of around one hundred metres, was Parshuram with his gang. There were at least one hundred men, an equal match for the Suryavanshis. Shiva’s soldiers kept running out of the jungle in a single file and started getting into formation quickly on the beach.

‘I’ll wait!’ said Parshuram sarcastically, his gaze locked onto Shiva. ‘Get your men into position.’

Shiva stared right back. Parshuram was a powerful man. Though a little shorter than Shiva, he was ridiculously muscled. His shoulders spread wide, his barrel chest heaving. In his left hand was a mighty bow, much too big for any man. But clearly, his powerful arms had enough strength to pull the string clean. On his back was a quiver full of arrows. But slung the other way was the weapon that had made him famous. The weapon he used to decapitate his hapless victims. His battleaxe. He wore a simple saffron dhoti, but no armour. In a sign of his Brahmin antecedents, Parshuram’s head was shaved clean except for a neat tuft of hair tied at the back and a janau thread tied loosely down from his left shoulder across his torso to his right. His face bore a long, mighty beard.

Shiva looked to his side, waiting for all his soldiers to get into line. He sniffed.

What is that?

It seemed like the paraffin used by the Meluhans to light their prahar lamps. He looked down. The sand was clean. His men were safe. Shiva drew his sword and bellowed. ‘Surrender now, Parshuram. And you shall get justice.’

Parshuram burst into laughter. ‘Justice?! In this wretched land?’

Shiva turned his eyes to his sides. His men were in position. Ready. ‘You can either bow your head towards justice. Or you can feel its flames bear down on you! What do you want?’

Parshuram sniggered and nodded at one of his men. The man raised an arrow, touched it to a flame, and shot the burning arrow high into the air, way beyond the range of the Suryavanshis.

What the hell?

Shiva lost sight of the arrow in the light of the sun for a moment. It landed quite some distance behind Shiva’s men, and immediately set off the paraffin lying there. The flames spread quickly, making an impenetrable border. The Suryavanshis were trapped on the beach. No retreat was possible.