“I accept your blade. Lord Yama.”
“And I will raise it against any of the heavenly horde—saving only Brahma himself, whom I will not face.”
“Agreed.”
“Then permit me to serve as your charioteer.”
“I would, only I have no chariot of battle.”
“I brought one, a very special one. For a long time have I labored upon it, and it is not yet complete. But it will suffice. I must assemble it this night, however, for the battle will commence tomorrow at dawn.”
“I have felt that it might. The Rakasha have warned me as to the movement of troops near here.”
“Yes, I saw them as I passed overhead. The main attack should come from the northeast, across the plains. The gods will join in later. But there will doubtless be parties coming from all directions, including up the river.”
“We control the river. Dalissa of the Glow waits at its bottom. When the time comes, she can raise up mighty waves, making it to boil and overflow its banks.”
“I had thought the Glow extinguished!”
“Save for her, it is. She is the last.”
“I take it the Rakasha will be fighting with us?”
“Yes, and others . . .”
“What others?”
“I have accepted assistance—bodies without minds—a war party of such—from Lord Nirriti.”
Yama’s eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared.
“This is not good, Siddhartha. Sooner or later, he will have to be destroyed, and it is not good to be in the debt of such a one.”
“I know that, Yama, but I am desperate. They arrive tonight . . .”
“If we win, Siddhartha, toppling the Celestial City, breaking the old religion, freeing man for industrial progress, still will there be opposition. Nirriti, who has waited all these centuries for the passing of the gods, will then have to be fought and beaten himself. It will either be this or the same thing all over again — and at least the Gods of the City have some measure of grace in their unfair doings.”
“I think he would have come to our assistance whether invited or not.”
“Yes, but by inviting him, or accepting his offer, you owe him this thing.”
“Then I will have to deal with that situation when it arises.”
“That’s politics, I guess. But I like it not.”
Sam poured them of the sweet dark wine of Keenset. “I think Kubera would like to see you later,” he said, offering a goblet.
“What is he doing?” asked Yama, accepting it and draining it off in a single swallow.
“Drilling troops and giving classes on the internal combustion engine to all the local savants,” said Sam. “Even if we lose, some may live and go elsewhere.”
“If it is to be put to any use, they will need to know more than engine design . . .”
“He’s been talking himself hoarse for days, and the scribes are taking it all down—geology, mining, metallurgy, petroleum chemistry . . .”
“Had we more time, I would give my assistance. As it is, if ten per cent is retained it may be sufficient. Not tomorrow, or even the next day, but. . .”
Sam finished his wine, refilled the goblets. “To the morrow, charioteer!”
“To the blood. Binder, to the blood and the killing!”
“Some of the blood may be our own, deathgod. But so long as we take sufficient of the enemy with us. . .”
“I cannot die, Siddhartha, save by my own choosing.”
“How can that be, Lord Yama?”
“Let Death keep his own small secrets. Binder. For I may choose not to exercise my option in this battle.”
“As you would, Lord.”
“To your health and long life!”
“To yours.”
The day of the battle dawned pink as the fresh-bitten thigh of a maiden.
A small mist drifted in from the river. The Bridge of the Gods glistened all of gold in the east, reached back, darkening, into retreating night, divided the heavens like a burning equator.
The warriors of Keenset waited outside the city, upon the plain by the Vedra. Five thousand men, with blades and bows, pikes and slings, waited for the battle. A thousand zombies stood in the front ranks, led by the living sergeants of the Black One, who guided all their movements by the drum, scarves of black silk curling in the breeze like snakes of smoke upon their helms.