"And I will raise it against any of the heavenly horde-saving only Brahma himself, whom I will not face."
"Agreed."
"Then permit me to serve as your charioteer."
"I would, only I have no chariot of battle."
"I brought one, a very special one. For a long time have I labored upon it, and it is not yet complete. But it will suffice. I must assemble it this night, however, for the battle will commence tomorrow at dawn."
"I have felt that it might. The Rakasha have warned me as to the movement of troops near here."
"Yes, I saw them as I passed overhead. The main attack should come from the northeast, across the plains. The gods will join in later. But there will doubtless be parties coming from all directions, including up the river."
"We control the river. Dalissa of the Glow waits at its bottom. When the time comes, she can raise up mighty waves, making it to boil and overflow its banks."
"I had thought the Glow extinguished!"
"Save for her, it is. She is the last."
"I take it the Rakasha will be fighting with us?"
"Yes, and others . . ."
"What others?"
"I have accepted assistance-bodies without minds-a war party of such-from Lord Nirriti."
Yama's eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.
"This is not good, Siddhartha. Sooner or later, he will have to be destroyed, and it is not good to be in the debt of such a one."
"I know that, Yama, but I am desperate. They arrive tonight . . ."
"If we win, Siddhartha, toppling the Celestial City, breaking the old religion, freeing man for industrial progress, still will there be opposition. Nirriti, who has waited all these centuries for the passing of the gods, will then have to be fought and beaten himself. It will either be this or the same thing all over again - and at least the Gods of the City have some measure of grace in their unfair doings."
"I think he would have come to our assistance whether invited or not."
"Yes, but by inviting him, or accepting his offer, you owe him this thing."
"Then I will have to deal with that situation when it arises."
"That's politics, I guess. But I like it not."
Sam poured them of the sweet dark wine of Keenset. "I think Kubera would like to see you later," he said, offering a goblet.
"What is he doing?" asked Yama, accepting it and draining it off in a single swallow.
"Drilling troops and giving classes on the internal combustion engine to all the local savants," said Sam. "Even if we lose, some may live and go elsewhere."
"If it is to be put to any use, they will need to know more than engine design . . ."
"He's been talking himself hoarse for days, and the scribes are taking it all down-geology, mining, metallurgy, petroleum chemistry . . ."
"Had we more time, I would give my assistance. As it is, if ten per cent is retained it may be sufficient. Not tomorrow, or even the next day, but. . ."
Sam finished his wine, refilled the goblets. "To the morrow, charioteer!"
"To the blood. Binder, to the blood and the killing!"
"Some of the blood may be our own, deathgod. But so long as we take sufficient of the enemy with us. . ."
"I cannot die, Siddhartha, save by my own choosing."
"How can that be, Lord Yama?"
"Let Death keep his own small secrets. Binder. For I may choose not to exercise my option in this battle."
"As you would, Lord."
"To your health and long life!"
"To yours."
The day of the battle dawned pink as the fresh-bitten thigh of a maiden.
A small mist drifted in from the river. The Bridge of the Gods glistened all of gold in the east, reached back, darkening, into retreating night, divided the heavens like a burning equator.
The warriors of Keenset waited outside the city, upon the plain by the Vedra. Five thousand men, with blades and bows, pikes and slings, waited for the battle. A thousand zombies stood in the front ranks, led by the living sergeants of the Black One, who guided all their movements by the drum, scarves of black silk curling in the breeze like snakes of smoke upon their helms.
Five hundred lancers were held to the rear. The silver cyclones that were the Rakasha hung in the middle air. Across the half-lit world the occasional growl of a jungle beast could be heard. Fire elementals glowed upon tree limb, lance and pennon pole.
There were no clouds in the heavens. The grasses of the plain were still moist and sparkling. The air was cool, the ground still soft enough to gather footprints readily. Gray and green and yellow were the colors that smote the eye beneath the heavens; and the Vedra swirled within its banks, gathering leaves from its escort of trees. It is said that each day recapitulates the history of the world, coming up out of darkness and cold into confused light and beginning warmth, consciousness blinking its eyes somewhere in midmorning, awakening thoughts a jumble of illogic and unattached emotion, and all speeding together toward the order of noontide, the slow, poignant decline of dusk, the mystical vision of twilight, the end of entropy that is night once more.
The day began.
A dark line was visible at the far end of the field. A trumpet note cut the air and that line advanced.
Sam stood in his battle chariot at the head of the formation, wearing burnished armor and holding a long, gray lance of death. He heard the words of Death, who wore red and was his charioteer:
"Their first wave is of slizzard cavalry."
Sam squinted at the distant line.
"It is," said his charioteer.
"Very well."
He gestured with his lance, and the Rakasha moved forward like a tidal wave of white light. The zombies began their advance.
When the white wave and the dark line came together there was a confusion of voices, hisses and the rattle of arms.
The dark line halted, great gouts of dust fuming above it.
Then came the sounds of the aroused jungle as the gathered beasts of prey were driven upon the flank of the enemy.
The zombies marched to a slow, steady drumbeat, and the fire elementals flowed on before them and the grasses withered where they passed.
Sam nodded to Death, and his chariot moved slowly forward, riding upon its cushion of air. At his back, the army of Keenset stirred. Lord Kubera slept, drugged to the sleep that is like unto death, in a hidden vault beneath the city. The Lady Ratri mounted a black mare at the rear of the lancers' formation.
"Their charge has been broken," said Death.
"Yes."
"All their cavalry was cast down and the beasts still rage among them. They have not yet reformed their ranks. The Rakasha hurl avalanches like rain from the heavens down upon their heads. Now there comes the flow of fire."
"Yes."
"We will destroy them. Even now they see the mindless minions of Nirriti coming upon them as a single man, all in step and without fear, their drums keeping time, perfect and agonizing, and nothing behind their eyes, nothing at all. Looking above their heads then, they see us here as within a thundercloud, and they see that Death drives your chariot. Within their hearts there comes a quickening and there is a coldness upon their biceps and their thighs. See how the beasts pass among them?"
"Yes."
"Let there be no bugles within our ranks, Siddhartha. For this is not battle, but slaughter."
"Yes."
The zombies slew everything they passed, and when they fell they went down without a word, for it was all the same with them, and words mean nothing to the unliving.
They swept the field, and fresh waves of warriors came at them. But the cavalry had been broken. The foot soldiers could not stand before the lancers and the Rakasha, the zombies and the infantry of Keenset.
The razor-edged battle chariot driven by Death cut through the enemy like a flame through a field. Missiles and hurled spears turned in mid-flight to speed off at right angles before they could touch upon the chariot or its occupants. Dark fires danced within the eyes of Death as he gripped the twin rings with which he directed the course of the vehicle. Again and again, he drove down without mercy upon the enemy, and Sam's lance darted like the tongue of a serpent as they passed through the ranks.
From somewhere, the notes of a retreat were sounded. But there were very few who answered the call.
"Wipe your eyes, Siddhartha," said Death, "and call a new formation. The time has come to press the attack. Manjusri of the Sword must order a charge."
"Yes, Death, I know."
"We hold the field, but not the day. The gods are watching, judging our strength."
Sam raised his lance in signal and there was fresh movement among the troops. Then a new stillness hung about them. Suddenly, there was no wind, no sound. The sky was blue. The ground was a gray-green trampled thing. Dust, like a specter hedge, hovered in the distance.
Sam surveyed the ranks, moved his lance forward. At that moment, there came a clap of thunder.
"The gods will enter the field," said Death, looking upward.
The thunder chariot passed overhead. No rain of destruction descended, however.
"Why are we still alive?" asked Sam.
"I believe they would rather our defeat be more ignominious. Also, they may be afraid to attempt to use the thunder chariot against its creator-justly afraid."
"In that case . . ." said Sam, and he gave the signal for the troops to charge.