Behold, the host of simian warriors, once bowed by serpent-bonds of black enchantment, now rise in jubilant uproar. For Garutmanta, the eagle divine, hath loosed Rama and Lakshmana from Indrajit’s wicked snare. Strength renewed, spirits alight, their feet march with thunderous purpose, eyes bright with the fire of battle. Ravana, seated in his lofty palace, heard the roars that shook the firmament and questioned his ministers, “Why do these Vanaras exult like storm clouds bursting in monsoon skies? What tide of fate hath turned so swift? Surely some mighty event hath unsettled the balance.”
The sea itself seemed to echo the Vanaras’ victory cry, leaping with joy, tides dancing with thunder. “Were not Rama and Lakshmana bound by the Naga-weapon?” he asked, suspicion sharpening his voice. “Their stride now is that of heroes freed, as though great elephants loosed from fetters.”
Perplexed and uneasy, Ravana’s council gathered. “Now should be their hour of grief, yet they roar with glee,” he murmured. At his command, they ascended the ramparts and beheld Sugreeva with Rama and Lakshmana, whole and mighty, their bonds dissolved, their vigor undiminished. Fear gripped the demon lords. Dread of Rama’s vengeance choked their speech, yet they dared not withhold the truth from Ravana. They fled to him, faces pale, and spoke of Rama and Lakshmana walking as if never ensnared—unscathed, like kings among beasts, as if the serpent-arrows were but dreams.
At their words, Ravana trembled, face contorted with wrath, teeth grinding, hissing like a serpent awakened. He cried aloud, “All the craft of Indrajit! All his stealth, his magic, his boons! Have they turned to dust?” In fury he summoned Dhumraksha, the demon of terror. “Take forth the army and crush the Vanaras—yea, slay even Rama and Lakshmana!” The monstrous commander obeyed, swift to the muster of war.
Armies assembled like blackened clouds before a tempest. Weapons gleamed in their hands—iron clubs, hooked axes, piercing javelins, double-bladed swords, tridents, and bows adorned with dark enchantments. Shields flashed, banners waved on high poles, chariots rumbled, drawn by ghostly steeds, donkeys, and elephants with golden bridles. Yet omens turned grim: a giant eagle alighted upon the general’s chariot, vultures tore at the flagpole, and a bloodied trunk fell before them. Earth quaked faintly, skies dimmed to twilight, and the air shrieked with unnatural winds. Dhumraksha, once unshaken, now walked as if beneath shadowed fate. His legions, faltering, followed to doom.
Then surged the Vanaras, emboldened by Rama and Lakshmana’s gaze, eager to rend asunder the demon host. With trunks of trees and stones from the mountain’s breast, they rushed forth. Demons lost volleys of arrows; the air sang with deadly sound. But the Vanaras did not yield, shouting names, roaring their lineages, they met weapons with brute force. The battle thundered: one side with forged arms, the other with the forest’s wrath. The Vanaras clawed and bit, tore and threw, flinging demon bodies into ghastly heaps. Flagpoles became cudgels, hills turned to missiles, crushing chariots and beasts. Some simians rent demon faces, sowing terror among foes. Though the demons struck with fury, many fell before they could raise arms.
Dhumraksha, raging at the falter of his troops, struck down mighty Vanaras, yet many rose again. Stones, spears, axes, tridents whirled in the air, mingled with drumbeats, chariot cries, hoof-beats, and sword-clangs in a grim symphony. Vanaras withdrew to trees and cliffs, waiting for the moment to strike.
Then Hanuman, mighty son of the wind, angered by the slaughter, seized a boulder vast as a hill and hurled it at Dhumraksha’s chariot. The demon leapt down, but his charioteer, steeds, and car were shattered to ruin. Hanuman, wild with the wrath of the righteous, broke many demons with a tree trunk, then pursued Dhumraksha, who wielded a thorned iron mace. Yet no weapon could save him. Hanuman brought the mountain-stone down upon his head—bones crushed, flesh torn, life fled. Demon ranks broke and fled to Lanka in terror.
When word reached Ravana, his fury shook his citadel. Like a mountain in tremor, he hissed and sighed, then called for Vajradamstra, a demon of cunning and blackest art. “Go forth,” he cried, “slay the son of Dasaratha, and the monkey-king Sugreeva, brother of Vali!” Vajradamstra, master of dark craft and deceitful war, assembled a mighty host. Shielded, armed with bow, he rode forth, his soldiers bearing tridents, javelins, double blades, and swords like serpents’ tongues. They emerged from the southern gate, where Prince Angada stood watch.
Even as they marched, signs of doom followed. Fireballs fell like stars from the heavens, foxes howled with flames from their mouths, and beasts reeled in madness. The army’s heart grew heavy, but bound by duty, they advanced. The Vanaras met them, roaring like lions, mocking and daring the demons to engage.
A clash thundered across Lanka’s plains—terrible and wild. Vanaras fought without fear, despite the demon’s sharp-edged arms. Their battle cries echoed across the land, shaking towers and rattling the hearts of demons. Blades sang, conches blared, bugles and drums rolled like distant storms. Some demons cast aside weapons and brawled with brute hands, but many met their end beneath the Vanaras’ wrath. Vajradamstra, fierce as Yama himself, stood at the center, his bow deadly, his face grim. But Angada, lion-hearted prince, charged with fury, mace and fist, tearing through the enemy ranks. Warriors fell like trees under the axe, and soon the battlefield was strewn with broken chariots, slain horses, shattered elephants, and crumpled banners.
Gleaming armor, golden bridles, and the torn garments of demons shimmered like moonlight upon a field of ruin. The demon army quaked beneath Angada’s fury. Gain turned to loss, strength to weakness, hope to despair. Thus raged the war between beast and fiend in the blood-drenched fields of Lanka.
