Chapter 12: Rakshas

He was waiting for them.

Not in the temple — outside. In the city's central plaza, the plaza that surrounded the temple like a moat of dark stone. Standing. Alone. The alone-standing being: the particular confidence of a creature who had commanded thousands and who, even without the thousands (the thousands being: dust, the dust that the Kalash's destruction had produced), stood with the posture that said: I do not need an army. I am the army.

Rakshas was: tall. Taller than any Dev — seven feet, the seven-feet that his transformation from human to magical being had produced. The transformation that had happened three thousand years ago — the human sorcerer who had discovered the Amrit Kalash, drunk from it, and been changed. The changing making him: not human, not Naag, not Pari, not Dev — something else. Something that contained elements of all and belonged to none. His skin: grey, the grey of stone, the stone-skin that millennia of dark magic had produced. His eyes: not the red of the Mrit Sena but black — the black of the obsidian pedestal, the black that absorbed light.

"Teen hazaar saal." His voice — the voice that the alliance heard for the first time, the first-time-hearing producing: the involuntary response that apex predators' voices produced in prey. The voice was: deep, calm, the calm that came from three millennia of supremacy. "Teen hazaar saal mein — kisi ne yeh nahi kiya. Kalash destroy. Mrit Sena khatam. Aur tumne kiya — kaise? Dev aur Pari saath? Yeh — yeh interesting hai."

Three thousand years. Nobody has done this. The Kalash destroyed. The army finished. And you did it — how? Dev and Pari together? Interesting.

"Interesting nahi. Inevitable," Vinaya said. Hovering before him — six inches of Pari facing seven feet of Usurper. The facing being: absurd in scale and absolute in courage. "Tune hume alag kiya — teen hazaar saal pehle. Ab hum wapas ek hain. Aur ek hone ka matlab hai — tu haar gaya."

Not interesting. Inevitable. You separated us three thousand years ago. Now we're one again. And being one means — you've lost.

"Haara?" Rakshas — the word producing: not anger but amusement. The amusement of a creature who had been challenged before and who the challenging had always ended in: the challenger's death. "Beta, Kalash meri power ka source tha — but meri power sirf Kalash se nahi aayi. Teen hazaar saal ki accumulated magic mere body mein hai. Kalash ke bina — haan, yeh decay hogi. Ek hafte mein. Do hafte mein. But abhi? Abhi main itna powerful hoon ki tum bees ko — ek haath se khatam kar doon."

Lost? Child, the Kalash was my power source — but I have three thousand years of accumulated magic in my body. Without the Kalash — yes, it decays. In a week or two. But right now? I can destroy all twenty of you with one hand.

The truth. The truth that Tharun had warned about — the residual power, the accumulated three thousand years of consumed Amrit. Rakshas without the Kalash was: diminished but not defeated. Like a fire without fuel — still burning, still hot, still dangerous. The fire would die eventually. But eventually was: one to two weeks, and one to two weeks was: an eternity in combat.

"Toh — kyun nahi kiya? Agar ek haath se khatam kar sakte ho — toh kar. Hum yahan hain." Bijli — the challenge that the storm-sister issued because the storm-sister understood: if Rakshas could have destroyed them immediately, he would have. The fact that he was talking instead of killing meant: he was calculating. And calculating meant: uncertainty. And uncertainty meant: weakness.

Then do it. If you can destroy us with one hand — do it. We're here.

Rakshas's black eyes on Bijli. The looking being: assessment. The assessment of a predator evaluating prey and finding: the prey was not behaving like prey. Prey ran. Prey hid. Prey did not: challenge.

"Tumhara naam kya hai, chhoti Pari?" What's your name, little Pari?

"Bijli." Lightning.

"Bijli. Achha naam hai. Bijli tez hoti hai — but ek baar girti hai aur khatam. Dobaara nahi girti." Good name. Lightning is fast — but strikes once and it's done. Doesn't strike twice.

"Meri girti hai." Mine does.

The exchange that was: prelude. The prelude to combat that both sides knew was: coming. The coming that the talking delayed because the talking served: purposes. Rakshas was: assessing the alliance's capabilities (combined Naag magic — he had felt it when the Kalash shattered, the feeling producing: surprise, the surprise being: the first surprise Rakshas had experienced in centuries). The alliance was: recovering energy (the Kalash destruction had drained Vinaya and Tharun; every second of conversation was: a second of recovery).

"Teen hazaar saal pehle," Rakshas said, "main insaan tha. Tum jaante ho? Insaan. Chota. Kamzor. Naag mujhse zyada powerful the — hazaar guna zyada. Unhone mujhe kuch nahi samjha. 'Chhota insaan,' unhone bola. 'Kya karega?' Maine — kiya. Maine Kalash churaaya. Maine Amrit piya. Maine apne aap ko badla. Aur phir — maine unhe toda. Ek race ko do mein toda. Kyunki — agar woh ek rehte — toh main kabhi nahi jeet paata."

Three thousand years ago, I was human. Small. Weak. The Naag were a thousand times more powerful. They dismissed me. 'What can he do?' I did it. I stole the Kalash. Drank the Amrit. Changed myself. And then I broke them. Split one race into two. Because if they stayed one — I could never have won.

"Toh tu jaanta hai. Tu jaanta hai ki ek Naag race se tu nahi jeet sakta. Aur ab — hum phir se ek hain." Vinaya — using Rakshas's own confession against him.

So you know. You know you can't beat a united Naag race. And now — we're one again.

"Bees janne se ek race nahi banti. Tum bees ho — Pari aur Dev hazaaron hain. Hazaaron jo abhi bhi alag hain. Abhi bhi nafrat karte hain. Tum bees ne combine kiya — impressive. But bees se kya hoga?" Twenty people don't make a race. There are thousands of Pari and Dev — still separate, still hating. Twenty combined — impressive. But what can twenty do?

"Tere Kalash ko todh diya. Yeh bees ne kiya." We destroyed your Kalash. Twenty did that.

Silence. The silence that followed: a point scored. The point that Rakshas could not counter because the point was: true. Twenty had destroyed the Kalash. Twenty had turned his army to dust. Twenty had entered his Dark City, killed his elite guard, shattered his artifact, and stood before him: alive.

"Theek hai." Rakshas — the two words that changed the conversation from: dialogue to combat. The two words spoken with: the finality of a creature who had decided that talking was: over.

He raised his hand. The hand-raising being: casual, the casual-gesture that three thousand years of power produced — the gesture that said: this requires no effort. Dark magic erupted from his palm — not a bolt, not a stream, but a wave. A wave of black energy spreading outward from his hand like a shockwave, the shockwave designed to: hit everything in its radius.

"DEFEND!" Vinaya — the command that was: simultaneous with the attack.

The Pari: light-barriers. Thirteen golden shields erupting in front of the alliance — the shields that Pari light-magic produced, the shields being: walls of condensed light that absorbed dark magic. The dark wave hitting the light-barriers and the hitting producing: the collision of opposing magics — dark consuming light, light resisting dark, the resistance being: temporary. The barriers held for: three seconds. Then cracked. Then shattered.

The dark wave, diminished by the barriers but not stopped, hit the alliance. The hitting producing: the sensation that dark magic delivered — cold, the cold of negation, the cold that said: your magic is nothing, your life is nothing, you are nothing. The nothing-cold that several alliance members felt as: their magic being suppressed, their light-magic or earth-magic being temporarily: silenced.

Five Pari fell. Not dead — suppressed. Their magic nullified by the dark wave's residual force. Five Pari lying on the dark stone, wings dimmed, the dimming being: the visual of magic suppression.

"PAANCH GIRE!" someone shouted. Five down. From one wave. One casual wave from one hand.

Rakshas's power, even diminished, was: overwhelming.

"Ab?" Rakshas asked. The conversational tone that the powerful used when the powerful were: demonstrating.

Now?

"Ab — BIJLI!" Vinaya — the command that activated the weapon.

Bijli. Amplified by Vinaya and Tharun's amber magic — the amber that two months of genuine wanting had strengthened, the strengthening that emotional bonds produced in magical amplification. Blue-amber lightning — not a single bolt but sustained, the sustained-burn that had destroyed fifty Undead at the banyan.

The lightning hit Rakshas. The hitting being: direct, full-power, the full-power that the amplified storm-magic delivered. The lightning wrapping around Rakshas's body — the body that was seven feet of stone-grey skin and three thousand years of accumulated power.

Rakshas did not move. The not-moving being: the response that power provided — standing in sustained lightning the way a mountain stood in rain. The lightning burning on his skin — the burning producing: not damage but: discomfort. The discomfort visible in his face — the first expression change, the change from amusement to: annoyance.

"Yeh — dard hai." The acknowledgment that the lightning was doing: something. Not enough — but something. "Interesting. Combined magic. Naag magic. Mujhe lagta tha yeh khatam ho gayi thi."

This hurts. Combined magic. I thought this was extinct.

"Extinct nahi. Chhupa hua. Aur ab — wapas." Vinaya — maintaining the amber amplification while Bijli sustained the lightning, the sustaining draining all three of them but the draining being: the cost of keeping Rakshas occupied.

Not extinct. Hidden. And now — back.

The lightning continued. Rakshas standing in it — not falling, not dying, but: weakening. The weakening visible in his posture — the posture shifting from casual confidence to: effort. The effort of resisting combined Naag magic while his power-source was: destroyed, while his accumulated power was: already beginning its slow decay.

"Yeh kaam nahi karega," Rakshas said. Through the lightning. Through the pain. "Main teen hazaar saal ki magic hoon. Tumhari lightning — dard deti hai. But marti nahi."

This won't work. I am three thousand years of magic. Your lightning hurts. But doesn't kill.

He was right. The lightning was: insufficient. Hurting but not killing. Diminishing but not destroying. The insufficient-attack that the alliance had gambled everything on and that the gambling was: losing.

"ZYADA CHAHIYE!" Vinaya screamed. More. More amber. More lightning. More wanting.

But more was: exhausting. The exhausting that magical combat produced — the three of them (Vinaya, Tharun, Bijli) depleting, the depleting being visible in their bodies (Bijli's hands shaking, Tharun's earth-connection weakening, Vinaya's wings dimming).

They could not sustain. They could not kill him. The mathematics of power said: even diminished, Rakshas outmatched twenty-two.

"Chiku." A voice. Not Vinaya's, not Bijli's, not Tharun's. Rohini's. The forest-healer speaking the child's name in the middle of combat.

"Chiku — jungle se baat kar." Chiku — talk to the forest.

"Jungle yahan nahi hai — pahaad ke andar roots nahi hain —" The forest isn't here — no roots inside the mountain —

"Roots nahi. But — Amrit. Amrit release hua — golden wave jo Kalash se nikli — woh dharti mein gayi. Dharti mein — matlab roots mein bhi. Jungle ne absorb kiya hoga. Jungle ab — Naag magic se charged hai. Agar Chiku jungle se baat kare — jungle se maange ki woh power bheje — yahan, pahaad ke andar —"

The Amrit was released. The golden wave went into the earth — into the roots. The forest absorbed it. The forest is now charged with Naag magic. If Chiku asks the forest to send power here —

"Roots pahaad ke andar nahi aate!" Roots don't extend inside the mountain!

"Abhi nahi. But Naag-charged roots? Naag magic se powered roots? Shayad — shayad ab aa sakte hain." Not now. But Naag-charged roots? Maybe now they can.

The theory. The theory of theories. The theory that said: the released Amrit — the pure Naag magical essence that had evaporated from the destroyed Kalash — had been absorbed by the earth, and the earth's roots, now charged with Naag magic, might be powerful enough to penetrate: Himalayan stone. Roots that normally could not grow through mountain-rock might now: be able to. Because the roots were: not normal roots anymore. They were Naag roots. And Naag magic had, before the Sundering, moved through stone the way water moved through soil.

"CHIKU!" Tharun — the father's voice, the voice that carried over combat. "JUNGLE SE BAAT KAR! POWER MAANG!"

TALK TO THE FOREST! ASK FOR POWER!

Chiku. Eight years old. In the middle of a battle against a three-thousand-year-old Usurper. The child placed his hands on the stone floor — the floor that was: granite, mountain, stone. The floor that connected to: the mountain, which connected to: the earth, which connected to: the forest.

He closed his eyes. He spoke. Not in words — in the language that the forest understood, the root-language that only Chiku could speak. The language that said: help. We need help. Send everything.

The forest heard.

Three hundred kilometres away — at the mountain's base — the forest heard. The forest that had absorbed the released Amrit, the forest whose roots were now: Naag-charged, the forest that had been waiting three thousand years for this moment.

The forest sent.