But then the sky was darkened, lightened, darkened.
A mighty cry rose above the sound of the flames.
"It is Garuda!" said Mara.
"Why should Vishnu come—now?"
"Garuda was stolen! Do you forget?"
The great Bird dived upon the burning city, like a titan phoenix toward its flaming nest.
Sam twisted his head upward and saw the hood suddenly fall over Garuda's eyes. The Bird fluttered his wings, then plummeted toward the gods, where they stood before the Temple.
"Red!" cried Mara. "The rider! He wears red!"
Brahma spun and turned the screaming scepter, holding it with both hands toward the head of the diving Bird.
Mara gestured, and Garuda's wings seemed to take fire.
Vayu raised both arms, and a wind like a hurricane hammered the mount of Vishnu, whose beak smashes chariots.
He cried once more, opening his wings, slowing his descent. The Rakasha then rushed about his head, urging him downward with buffets and stings. He slowed, slowed, but could not stop.
The gods scattered.
Garuda struck the ground and the ground shuddered.
From among the feathers of his back, Yama came forth, blade in hand, took three steps, and fell to the ground. Mara emerged from a ruin and struck him across the back of his neck, twice, with the edge of his hand.
Sam sprang before the second blow descended, but he did not reach the ground in time. The scepter screamed once more and everything spun about him. He fought to break his fall. He slowed.
The ground was forty feet below him—thirty—twenty . . . The ground was clouded by a blood-dimmed haze, then black.
"Lord Kalkin has finally been beaten in battle," someone said softly.
Brahma, Mara, and two demigods named Bora and Tikan were the only ones who remained to bear Sam and Yama from the dying city of Keenset by the river Vedra. The Lady Ratri walked before them, a cord looped about her neck.
They took Sam and Yama to the thunder chariot, which was even more damaged than it had been when they left it, having a great gaping hole in its right side and part of its tail assembly missing. They secured their prisoners in chains, removing the Talisman of the Binder and the crimson cloak of Death. They sent a message then to Heaven, and after a time sky gondolas came to return them to the Celestial City.
"We have won," said Brahma. "Keenset is no more."
"A costly victory, I think," said Mara.
"But we have won!"
"And the Black One stirs again."
"He sought but to test our strength."
"And what must he think of it? We lost an entire army? And even gods have died this day."
"We fought with Death, the Rakasha, Kalkin, Night and the Mother of the Glow. Nirriti will not lift up his hand against us again, not after a winning such as this."
"Mighty is Brahma," said Mara, and turned away.
The Lords of Karma were called to stand in judgment of the captives.
The Lady Ratri was banished from the City and sentenced to walk the world as a mortal, always to be incarnated into middle-aged bodies of more than usually plain appearance, bodies that could not bear the full power of her Aspect or Attributes. She was shown this mercy because she was judged an incidental accomplice only, one misled by Kubera, whom she had trusted.
When they sent after Lord Yama, to bring him to judgment, he was found to be dead in his cell. Within his turban, there had been a small metal box. This box had exploded.
The Lords of Karma performed an autopsy and conferred.
"Why did he not take poison if he wished to die?" Brahma had asked. "It would be easier to conceal a pill than that box."
"It is barely possible," said one of the Lords of Karma, "that somewhere in the world he had another body, and that he sought to transmigrate by means of a broadcast unit, which was set to destroy itself after use."
"Could this thing be done?"
"No, of course not. Transfer equipment is bulky and complicated. But Yama boasted he could do anything. He once tried to convince me that such a device could be built. But the contact between the two bodies must be direct and by means of many leads and cables. And no unit that tiny could have generated sufficient power."
"Who built you the psych-probe?" asked Brahma.
"Lord Yama."
"And Shiva, the thunder chariot? And Agni, the fire wand? Rudra, his terrible bow? The Trident? The Bright Spear?"
"Yama."
"I should like to advise you then, that at approximately the same time as that tiny box must have been operating, a great generator, as of its own accord, turned itself on within the Vasty Hall of Death. It functioned for less than five minutes, and then turned itself off again."
"Broadcast power?"
Brahma shrugged.
"It is time to sentence Sam."
This was done. And since he had died once before, without much effect, it was decided that a sentence of death was not in order.
Accordingly, he was transmigrated. Not into another body.
A radio tower was erected, Sam was placed under sedation, transfer leads were attached in the proper manner, but there was no other body. They were attached to the tower's converter.
His atman was projected upward through the opened dome, into the great magnetic cloud that circled the entire planet and was called the Bridge of the Gods.
Then he was given the unique distinction of receiving a second funeral in Heaven. Lord Yama received his first; and Brahma, watching the smoke arise from the pyres, wondered where he really was.
"The Buddha has gone to nirvana," said Brahma. "Preach it in the Temples! Sing it in the streets'. Glorious was his passing! He has reformed the old religion, and we are better now than ever before! Let all who would think otherwise remember Keenset!"
This thing was done also.
But they never found Lord Kubera.
The demons were free.
Nirriti was strong.
And elsewhere in the world there were those who remembered bifocal glasses and toilets that flushed, petroleum chemistry and internal combustion engines, and the day the sun had hidden its face from the justice of Heaven.
Vishnu was heard to say that the wilderness had come into the City at last.
VII
The world is a fire of sacrifice, the sun its fuel, sunbeams its smoke, the day its flames, the points of the compass its cinders and sparks. In this fire the gods offer faith as libation. Out of this offering King Moon is born.
Rain, oh Gautama, is the fire, the year its fuel, the clouds its smoke, the lightning its flame, cinders, sparks. In this fire the gods offer King Moon as libation. Out of this offering the rain is born.
The world, oh Gautama, is the fire, the earth its fuel, fire its smoke, the night its flame, the moon its cinders, the stars its sparks. In this fire the gods offer rain as libation. Out of this offering food is produced.
Man, oh Gautama, is the fire, his open mouth its fuel, his breath its smoke, his speech its flame, his eye its cinders, his ear its sparks. In this fire the gods offer food as libation. Out of this offering the power of generation is born.
Woman, oh Gautama, is the fire, her form its fuel, her hair its smoke, her organs its flame, her pleasures its cinders and its sparks. In this flame the gods offer the power of generation as libation. Out of this offering a man is born. He lives for so long as he is to live.
When a man dies, he is carried to be offered in the fire. The fire becomes his fire, the fuel his fuel, the smoke his smoke, the flame his flame, the cinders his cinders, the sparks his sparks. In this fire the gods offer the man as libation. Out of this offering the man emerges in radiant splendor.
Brihadaranyaka Upanishad (VI, ii, 9-14)
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."
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