Amid the clangour of arms and cries of war, came Akampana, a figure of colossal stature, encompassed by a legion of demons in full panoply of war, their terrible aspect stirring unease among the Vanara ranks. With each approaching step, the awe turned into dread, for this host bore banners high with dire emblems—one bore the hissing serpent, another the face of Ravana himself, yet another the image of sage Visravasu, some bore the mighty elephant, others the form of a ghastly ghost, still others the mace, trident, drum, sword, and shield—each sign declaring the clan and craft of their warriors. Their standards of gold and silver shone in wealth and heritage, each bearing the gleam of patronage and pride. Among them moved warriors of rare endowments, some shape-shifters, others bearing enchanted weapons—Shakti in hand, iron maces, scimitars curved like crescent moons, pestles topped with demon heads, axes heavy and fierce, blades forked and gleaming, tridents sharp as fate, and bows strung with fire. Their display, like a storm of steel, accompanied by cries of triumph, heralded their confidence, as if victory were already theirs and celebration nigh.
Rama, the scion of righteousness, beheld their vainglorious uproar and turned, smiling, to Vibhishana. “Who is this formidable warrior that leads them so? What strength does he possess, and what station doth he hold among the sons of Lanka?” Then Spake Vibhishana, that beacon of wisdom, “This, O noble prince, is Prahastha, the chief of Ravana’s mighty host. He commands all but the royal guard of the king. A master of divine weaponry and all warcraft, he hath triumphed over devas, Gandharvas, asuras, and nagas. In Lanka’s ranks he standeth among the five pillars—Ravana, Kumbhakarna, Indrajit, Nisumbha, and himself.” At this, the Vanaras raised their cries, roaring with fervour at the sight of Prahastha’s army, their eagerness for battle visible in the stones and trees they bore. Their rage kindled like lightning in a storm, as demon soldiers charged with dreadful swiftness, answered by the furious might of monkey warriors. A terrible conflict arose, fierce and shattering, where the thirst for triumph overpowered fear. Demons and Vanaras fell alike, their forms strewn without count—limbs torn, bodies broken, voices lost in death’s silence. The demon blades sheared through flesh, the Vanaras crushed foes to formless ruin, leaving only pools of blood and heaps of mangled bone.
The battleground, dreadful beyond thought, echoed with the dying screams of demons and the battle roars of Vanaras, all drunk with the ecstasy of combat. Some demons cried like lions; others shrieked in anguish. Seeing the tide, the monkey commanders struck with ruthless aim, felling the strongest to sap the foe’s spirit. But Prahastha’s captains, Kumbhahanu, Mahanada, Samunnatha, fought lawlessly and fiercely, scorning the code of war. Dwivida hurled a mountain upon Narantaka, crushing him to dust. Durmukha shattered Samunnatha’s skull with a tree, snuffing life in an instant. Jambavan, unwavering, drove a sal trunk through Kumbhahanu’s chest, ending him. Prahastha, seeing his lieutenants slain, burst forth in rage, loosing a storm of arrows upon the Vanaras, his fury sweeping the field as ocean waves under tempest. The force of his assault slew many, and the earth was laden with corpses, as if hills had been cast to ground. The battlefield shone red as if the Palasa had bloomed in Vaisakha, the blood glinting beneath the sun like petals of war. It was a land of unmeasured death, a mountain of corpses, an ocean of grief. Severed limbs floated like fallen trees in flood, blood mingled with mud, and carrion beasts fed mid-battle unafraid, each creature lost in its pursuit.
Neela, commander of Vanaras, beheld the carnage wrought upon his kin and swore to send Prahastha to the house of Death. Like a storm wind he surged into the heart of conflict, where Prahastha wreaked his ruin. The demon, a master archer, unleashed divine astras and celestial arms upon Neela. But Neela, closing his eyes in prayer to his father Agni, was shielded by sacred grace—the weapons spent their force and vanished. Their power dissolved, Neela struck, lifting a mighty sal tree and breaking Prahastha’s steeds. Enraged, the demon cast aside his shattered bow and seized a pestle, striking Neela with savage fury. Blood flowed, yet Neela stood firm, and the two giants clashed like elephants in death duel. Like lion and tiger in primal combat, they fought, neither yielding, neither stepping back. Prahastha struck Neela’s brow, and blood poured like a stream. Neela, in riposte, wrenched a tree from earth and shattered it upon Prahastha’s crown. The demon raised his pestle again to end Neela, but the monkey lord dodged, and hurling a boulder high, brought it down with crushing might. Prahastha’s body broke beneath the weight, reduced to flesh and ruin, blood pouring like a mountain spring.
Seeing their chief fallen, the demons fled in terror toward Lanka’s gates, pursued by Vanaras in righteous wrath. Their retreat resembled a torrent rushing through a broken dam. Fleeing before the throne of their king, they fell silent in dread, speechless before Ravana’s wrathful gaze, many falling insensate from fear. Meanwhile, Rama, Lakshmana, and Sugriva rejoiced at the unmatched valour of their warriors, their hearts lifted by the chivalry displayed on the field. Thus did this terrible battle, born of chaos and vengeance, draw nearer to its fateful turn, and in the great disorder of war, the cosmos itself began to sway toward divine harmony and restored order.
