The field of war blazed as with fire from heaven, roaring with the cries of wrathful hosts. Naranthaka lay fallen, stricken by valor’s hand, and at his death, the hearts of Asuras churned like stormy seas.
Trisira, his brother, burned with rage as if his soul had caught fire, while Mahodara, son of Pulastya, wept bitterly, his mighty chest heaving with sorrow’s weight. But their sorrow was not long, for grief gave birth to fury as flame to smoke.
Mahodara mounted a war-elephant vast as the thunderclouds of summer, his eyes afire, and he charged toward Angada, noble prince, roaring vengeance. Devanthaka, brother of the slain, lifted his iron mace and burst forth like a storm breaking its bounds, and Trisira, wild-eyed and hungry for war, ascended his swift chariot drawn by steeds that seemed born of wind, bearing bow, shaft, and iron mace.
In a wave of wrath, the three sons of evil surged against Angada. The prince, sensing the thunder of their coming, plucked a great tree—gnarled and vast, flaming like the bolt of Indra—and hurled it upon Devanthaka. But lo, Trisira lost his arrows and splintered the tree mid-flight.
Angada, undaunted, rose aloft into the sky and rained down boulders upon them, but again the arrows of Trisira shattered the stone to dust before it touched the earth. Then came Mahodara, wielding his bludgeon, and Trisira, with a storm of arrows, to hem the prince about. Mahodara struck Angada upon the chest with his mace, Devanthaka followed with his blow, then withdrew, awaiting retribution.
But Angada stood unmoved, as a mountain endures the lash of a storm. His valor breathed strength into the hearts of the Vanaras. Then with swift resolve, Angada leapt aloft, descended, and with the edge of his palm smote the elephant of Devanthaka upon the head. The beast did not cry, its life vanished, its limbs collapsed.
Seizing a tusk, Angada drove it through the demon’s chest. Devanthaka staggered, wounded, yet rose and struck Angada with his bludgeon. As the prince turned to ascend once more, Trisira’s arrows fell like fetters upon him, binding his limbs with pain. Then came Neela and Hanuman, leaping into the fray. Neela hurled a mountain-stone upon Trisira, who split it in the sky, yet its shattered pieces fell like falling stars and slew countless demons. Devanthaka rushed upon Hanuman.
But Hanuman, son of the wind, clenched his fist of divine fury and smote the demon’s skull. Blood burst forth, the eyes rolled from their sockets, the ears were torn, and Devanthaka fell to the dust, lifeless, voiceless. Fear spread like fire among the ranks of Lanka. But Mahodara, consumed by vengeance, rose again and mounted another elephant, raining arrows like monsoon rains upon Neela.
Though wounded and bathed in blood, Neela stood his ground. Gathering might, he seized a mountain crowned with trees and hurled it upon the foe. The blow crushed Mahodara, his elephant, his driver, and a host of demons—nothing but ruin remained beneath the fallen peak. Trisira, now ablaze with wrath, rained shafts upon Hanuman. The stones hurled in return were turned to dust by his arrows.
Then Hanuman cast trees upon him like a storm-wind. In a roar of fury, Hanuman sprang and tore asunder the horse of Trisira.
The demon, maddened, called upon the divine weapon Shakti and hurled it with dread incantation. But Hanuman, invoking his father, the wind-lord, caught the weapon and broke it into fragments, which fell upon the demons and slew many. The Vanaras roared with triumph, and the heavens seemed to answer.
Trisira, possessed with fury, rushed and drove a sword into Hanuman’s chest—blood streamed like the sacred waters of Pushkara. Yet Hanuman, unshaken, struck him upon the chest and hurled him to earth unconscious. He stood over his fallen foe like death made flesh. But Trisira, regaining strength, rose and struck once more.
Then Hanuman, seizing the demon’s sword, in one motion lopped the head from his shoulders. The head of Trisira, son of Ravana, fell among his host like a meteor from heaven, like the severed head of Vishwarupa cast down by Indra in the ancient war of the celestials. Terror gripped the demon host.
The names of the slain were as thunder in their ears: Naranthaka, Devanthaka, Mahodara, Trisira. Word came to Mahaparsva, also called Mathanika, brother of Ravana, and he entered the field like a pestilence. His mace bore the blood of gods and beasts, a weapon that once brought low the elephants of the four quarters. He tore through Vanara ranks, heads crushed, bodies broken.
But before him stood Rishabha, mighty as a mountain standing in the path of a flood. Mathanika struck him—his chest was shattered, and blood flowed like river-tide. Yet Rishabha rose, and with a fist like thunder felled the demon to the ground. Seizing the fallen mace, he roared, shaking the earth. Mathanika rose again, struck once more, but Rishabha, gathering all his might, shattered the demon’s skull.
The head was pulped, the teeth scattered, the jaw broken, the eyes dislodged—the body fell, unshapen and ruined. The demon host wept, for the young lions of Lanka lay slain. And with them fell the hope of their isle. In that hour, the world breathed balance once more. For though fate walks unseen, it shapes all things in secret symmetry.
