‘Drapaku,’ said Shiva. ‘I don’t know if...’
‘I know, my Lord,’ interrupted Drapaku. ‘It is my destiny. I will hold them for one day. If Lord
Indra supports me, I’ll even try for two. Get us victory by then.’
Daksha suddenly interjected. ‘Wonderful. Drapaku, make preparations to leave immediately’
Drapaku saluted smartly and rushed out before any second thoughts were voiced.
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