It took less than an hour before the vikarma brigade was marching out of the camp. The sun was high up in the sky and practically the entire camp was awake, watching the soldiers set out on their mission. Everyone knew the terrible odds the vikarmas were going to face. They knew that it was unlikely that any of these soldiers would be seen alive again. The soldiers, though, did not exhibit the slightest hesitation or hint of fear, as they walked on. The camp stood in silent awe. One thought reverberated through all of them.

How could the vikarmas be so magnificent? They are supposed to be weak.

Drapaku was at the lead, his handsome face smeared with war paint. On top of his armour, he wore a saffron angvastram. The colour of the Parmatma. The colour worn for the final journey. He didn’t expect to return.

He stopped suddenly as Vidyunmali darted in front of him. Drapaku frowned. Before he could react, Vidyunmali had drawn his knife. Drapaku reached for his side arm. But Vidyunmali was quicker. He sliced his own thumb across the blade, and brought it up to Drapaku’s forehead. In the tradition of the great brother-warriors of yore, Vidyunmali ran his blood across Drapaku’s brow, signifying that his blood will protect him.

‘You’re a better man than me, Drapaku,’ whispered Vidyunmali.

Drapaku stood silent, astonished by Vidyunmali’s uncharacteristic behaviour.

Raising his balled fist high, Vidyunmali roared, ‘Give them hell, vikarma!’

‘Give them hell, vikarma!’ bellowed the Suryavanshis, repeating it again and again.

Drapaku and his soldiers looked around the camp, absorbing the respect that they had been denied so long. Way too long.

‘Give them hell, vikarma!’

Drapaku nodded, turned and marched on before his emotions spoiled the moment. His soldiers followed.

‘Give them hell, vikarma!’

It was an uncharacteristically warm morning for that time of the year.

The Chandravanshi detachment had been surprised to find Meluhan soldiers at the northern pass the previous night. They had immediately attacked. The vikarmas had held them through the night, buying precious time for the main Suryavanshi army. This had to be the day for the main battle. Shiva was prepared.

Sati stood resplendent, looping the aarti thali in small circles around Shiva’s face. She stopped after seven turns, took some vermilion on her thumb and smeared it up Shiva’s forehead in a long tilak. ‘Come back victorious or don’t come back at all.’

Shiva raised one eyebrow and grimaced. ‘What kind of a send off is that?!’

‘What? No, it’s just...’ stammered Sati.

‘I know, I know,’ smiled Shiva as he embraced Sati. ‘It’s the traditional Suryavanshi send off before a war, right?’

Sati looked up, her eyes moist. Her love for Shiva was overcoming decades of Suryavanshi training. ‘Just come back safe and sound.’

‘I will, my love,’ whispered Shiva. ‘You won’t get rid of me that easily.’

Sati smiled weakly. ‘I’ll be waiting.’

Sati stood on her toes and kissed Shiva lightly. Shiva kissed her back and turned quickly, before his heart would overcome his head with second thoughts. Lifting the tent curtain, he walked out. He looked up at the skies, in case there were some other omens. There were none.

Bloody good!

The distant droning of Sanskrit shlokas, accompanied by the beating of war drums in a smooth rhythmic pulse, wafted in over the dry winter breeze. Shiva had thought this particular Suryavanshi custom odd. But maybe there was something to the Brahmin ‘Call for Indra and Agni’, as this particular puja was called. The drums and the shlokas somehow grafted together to rouse a fierce warrior spirit in whoever heard them. The beats would quicken as the battle began. Shiva was eager to throw himself into the battle. He turned and strode towards Daksha’s tent.

‘Greetings, your Highness,’ said Shiva as he raised the curtain to enter the royal tent, where Parvateshwar was explaining the plans to the Emperor. ‘Namaste, Parvateshwar.’

Parvateshwar smiled and folded his hands.

‘What news of Drapaku, Parvateshwar?’ asked Shiva. The last despatch I heard is at least three hours old.’

‘The vikarma battle is on. Drapaku still leads them. He has bought us invaluable time. May Lord Ram bless him.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Shiva. ‘May Lord Ram bless him. He just has to hold on to the end of this day.’

‘My Lord,’ said Daksha, hands in a formal namaste, head bowed. ‘It is an auspicious beginning. We will have a good day. Wouldn’t you agree?’

‘Yes it does seem so,’ smiled Shiva. The news of Drapaku is very welcome. ‘But perhaps this question may be better suited for the fourth prahar, your Highness.’

‘I am sure the answer would be the same, my Lord. By the fourth prahar today, Emperor Dilipa will be standing in front of us, in chains, waiting for justice to be done.’

‘Careful, your Highness,’ said Shiva with a smile. ‘Let us not tempt fate. We still have to win the war!’

‘We will face no problems. We have the Neelkanfh with us. We just need to attack. Victory is guaranteed.’

‘I think a litde bit more than a blue throat will be required to beat the Chandravanshis, your Highness,’ said Shiva, his smile even broader. ‘We shouldn’t underestimate our enemy.’

‘I don’t underestimate them, my Lord. But I will not make the mistake of underestimating you either.’

Shiva gave up. He had learned some time back that it was impossible to win a debate against Daksha’s unquestioning conviction.

‘Perhaps I should leave, your Highness,’ said Parvateshwar. The time has come. With your permission.’

‘Of course, Parvateshwar. Vijayibhavl,’ said Daksha. Turning towards Shiva, Daksha continued, ‘My Lord, they have built a viewing platform for us on the hill at the back.’

‘Viewing platform?’ asked Shiva, perplexed.

‘Yes. Why don’t we watch the battle from there? You would also be in a better position to direct the battle from there.’

Shiva narrowed his eyes in surprise. ‘Your Highness, my position is with the soldiers. On the battlefield.’

Parvateshwar stopped in his tracks. Startled and delighted at having been proved wrong.

‘My Lord, this is a job for butchers, not the Neelkanfh,’ said a concerned Daksha. ‘You don’t need to sully your hands with Chandravanshi blood. Parvateshwar will arrest that Naga and throw him at your feet. You can extract such a terrible retribution from him that his entire tribe would dread your justice for aeons.’

‘This is not about my revenge, your Highness. It is about the vengeance of Meluha. It would be petty of me to think that an entire war is being fought just for me. This is a war between good and evil. A batde in which one has to choose a side. And fight. There are no bystanders in a dharmayudh — it is a holy war.’

Parvateshwar watched Shiva intently, his eyes blazing with admiration. These were Lord Ram’s words. There are no bystanders in a dharmayudh.

‘My Lord, we can’t afford to risk your life,’ pleaded Daksha. You are too important. I am sure that we can win this war without taking that gamble. Your presence has inspired us. There are many who are willing to shed their blood for you.’