Behold the sons of Lanka, proud scions of Ravana’s blood, who stormed the battlefield with pomp and fury. Though their youthful zeal lacked compass, it kindled anew the fiery vigor of their sire, blazing through demon ranks. Their roars matched the sky’s thunder, their bows twanged like tempests, and the host of demons shouted till it seemed both earth and heaven must shatter. Their lion-cries and sinew-strikes echoed across the ocean shores, through cavern and forest, over mountain peaks.
Thus, they descended, gazing upon the vanara host arrayed before them—monkey legions vast as thunderclouds, armed with trees and boulders, shouting triumph for Rama and mocking their fiendish foes. Against the demon lines gleaming with elephants, mahouts, chariots heavy with weapons, and steeds armoured for war, the vanaras stood undaunted.
The clamour of armies rose, each trying to out-thunder the other, disturbing the very air and shaking the dwellings of earth-bound creatures. Both sides burned with resolve, stirred by wrath and duty, eager to vanquish the other in this dread struggle. Arrows flew like rain from demon bows, while vanaras hurled trunks and stones, shattering chariots and cleaving demon ranks. The heavens reeled with the uproar.
Monkeys tore down banners, shattered shields, crushed crowns, toppled steeds, and trampled elephants. The mighty fell beneath hills and trunks; others were struck down by the fists of simian titans. Demons, too, struck with tridents and swords, their silent hatred urging them to slay without hesitation. Locked in cruel combat, both fell wounded alike, blood mingling on the crimson soil.
The field became a grotesque heap—stones, arrows, shattered swords and tridents, branches and bones soaked in gore. Monkeys and demons lay together, vast as mountains felled, the ground heaving with slain and half-living forms. Foreheads clashed like rams, blood streamed in rivers, and corpses drifted like wreckage.
Demons wrenched weapons from monkey hands, piercing their foes with sharp tridents. Yet mighty vanaras struck with palm and fist, crushing demons into pulp. No side found safety; heads were broken, shields torn asunder, strength matched by fury. Blood oozed from wounded demons like sap from stricken trees.
Stones rained upon elephants, horses, and chariots; the battlefield grew impassable with rubble and wreckage. The vanaras fought on with fervour born of faith and a cause unwavering, while demon spirits withered, crushed beneath the weight of fate and the ceaseless coming of fresh warriors. This tide the sages and celestials, gazing from the sky, beheld with joy, for evil waned in its might.
Then came Naranthaka, demon-prince, swift as the wind, mounted and armed with the divine Shakti. Into the vanara ranks he swept like a shark through waves, his blade thirsting for death, his wrath unrelenting. Vanaras fell by hundreds, rent and slain, their cries swallowed in terror. His horse surged across the field as flesh and bone clung to his path, soaked in monkey blood.
None could stop his fury; he flew, he trampled, he carved with his trident, he heaped simian corpses before strength could rise against him. The bravest vanaras faltered, unable to halt his dread course. Their cries for help rose like the wailing of storm-struck forests.
Stricken by memories of Kumbhakarna’s havoc, the vanaras fled to Sugreeva. The vanara king, seeing this dance of death, called to Angada, the lion-hearted prince. “Go,” he said, “and bring down this demon rider!”
Angada rose like the sun from the clouded army, bearing stones like gleaming mountains. Shining, he stood before Naranthaka and cried, “Why strike the innocent? Come—test thy might upon me!”
Burning with rage, Naranthaka hurled his weapon. It struck Angada, and shattered. Then Angada smote the demon’s horse with his mighty fist; the beast fell, lifeless. The demon reeled, struck Angada in turn; the prince bled but stood firm. Gathering strength, he struck Naranthaka’s chest with a blow so fierce that blood poured from the demon’s mouth and his eyes turned inward.
Before the fiend could rise, Angada trampled him to pulp. The heavens thundered in joy. Sages, seers, and celestials applauded this fall of Lanka’s promise. Angada, astonished by his triumph over the terror-incarnate Naranthaka, rejoiced in his service to Rama and Sugreeva. His zeal swelled anew, and the death of the demon-prince marked a moment of fulfilment in the eyes of gods and righteous seers.
